“But nevertheless, my duties, in addition to deciphering hieroglyphs, also extend to manuscripts, ancient and modern; inscribed tablets and tomb-writings; and modern documentation relating to the contents of the Museum. So, if I am able to help you, Mr. Pons, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”
Pons gave him a brief bow.
“I shall remember it, Professor. In the meantime I should like a brief word with you, Jamison.”
“I am at your disposal, Mr. Pons.”
The Scotland Yard man withdrew with my companion to the other end of the concourse and they remained in earnest conversation for several minutes. When they returned it may have been my imagination but I thought that Jamison’s features were even more choleric than before but his manner seemed amiable enough.
“Now, Mr. Biggs, I would like to see the scenes of these extraordinary events for myself. This is where the vase fell, I presume?”
My companion strode forward to where a section of the marble floor was railed off and covered with canvas.
“Certainly, Mr. Pons. As you can see the vase came straight from the balustrade overhead.”
Solar Pons looked keenly up at the shadowy stairway and then strode over to the enclosure. He carefully removed the canvas and I was able to see the tremendous impact the thing had made on hitting the floor. Several of the smooth marble tiles were completely shattered, revealing the cement beneath. Pons remained on his knees in silence for a moment and then rose, dusting the knees of his trousers.
“Have you the fragments of the vase?”
“Of course, Mr. Pons.”
It was Castleton, the Assistant Curator, who had spoken. “Restoration is a speciality of my department. We are up on the third floor if you would care to see.”
“By all means.”
The whole party, including Inspector Jamison, ascended the great central staircase, a brass lantern in the shape of an ancient Egyptian oil-burning vessel, containing electric light bulbs, effectively illuminating the whole of the stairwell. It was an impressive place and shadowy figures of ancient gods stood in glass cases in niches at the side of the staircase, swinging eerily past us as we mounted higher. My knowledge of Egyptology is not great but I recognised Anubis, the black, jackal-like dog couchant upon a pylon in one of the cases while, even more sinister, a carved wooden image of Bast, the cat-headed god, ornamented with gilt and gold paint stood near the top of the stairs.
Pons paused in the corridor at the stair head and we then commenced to re-ascend, the Curator leading the way. A silence had fallen on the party and the only sounds in the vast place were the muted echoes of our feet on the staircase and muffled noises and an occasional cough from the galleries beyond, presumably as the night-guards went their rounds.
On the second floor we stopped again while Pons looked searchingly at an empty plinth indicated by Biggs. He went to the balustrade and looked over into the stairwell below. He next turned his attention to a massive ochre vase which stood on another plinth a little farther along.
“The vase was this size, Mr. Biggs?”
“Almost identical, Mr. Pons, except that the one which fell was even larger.”
“Indeed.”
Solar Pons stared at the far vase, pulling absently at the lobe of his right ear.
“You were right on a number of counts, Mr. Biggs. The vase could not have fallen by accident. And if size be any indication the person who lifted it must possess giant strength.”
After a moment or two he passed on.
“I think we will first take a look at these fragments, Parker, and then I should like to question the night-guards before inspecting the Museum in general.”
“By all means, Pons.”
In silence we again ascended flights of stairs in the hushed silence of the great museum. Through massive porticoes we glimpsed other galleries beyond and then Castle-ton took the lead, opening the door to a shabby corridor with plain, white-painted walls. We passed several storerooms flanking the passage and then the Assistant Curator had opened another door leading on to a large series of rooms; bare electric bulbs burned at the ends of their flexes and I had the impression of rough wooden racks; benches; sheeted masonry and complicated fragments of paving laid out on what looked like easels, for all the world as though they were gigantic jigsaw puzzles.
Castleton led the way with firm, purposeful steps to a wooden framework set under a powerful light at the far end of the restoration department. Here, in an elaborate metal clamp the fragments of a huge red earthenware vase were being re-assembled. I marvelled at the delicacy of the work; with a powerful glue-like substance the Assistant Curator and his staff had begun their task so skilfully that only the faintest, hair-like cracks were visible on the surface of the pottery.
“Of course, Mr. Pons,” Castleton said casually, “some of the material has been destroyed beyond repair and we shall have to fill those sections with a special hardening paste of my own invention.”
The light of enthusiasm was in my companion’s eyes.
“Admirable, Mr. Castleton, admirable,” he murmured as he took out his powerful pocket lens and busied himself with examining the partly reconstructed vase and the masses of fragments scattered about the bench, some of which I noticed had already been numbered on their reverse sides. He straightened up eventually.
“I can see you are an artist, Mr. Castleton, as well as an archaeologist.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pons,” said the official, a faint flush visible on his cheeks above the beard. “I may say the same in respect to your own professional activities.”
Solar Pons acknowledged the returned compliment with a slight inclination of the head.
“What does it tell you, Pons?” I asked.
My companion shook his head.
“Nothing, Parker,” he said succinctly. “Except for the somewhat obvious fact that the Egyptian Museum and through that organisation, the nation’s Egyptology interests are in good hands.”
Mr. Biggs smiled faintly.
Pons was already striding toward the entrance of the department. He beckoned the Curator to his side.
“That is the staircase of which you spoke, Mr. Biggs?”
The little man nodded, indicating the small spiral structure which wound downwards into the dusk at the end of the corridor.
“There are no less than three of these, Mr. Pons, which made it quite impossible to trace the person who was responsible for the attempt upon my life. But you wanted to see the night-staff. Here is my head man, Morticott now.”
A gigantic shadow etched itself upon the white wall of the dimly-lit corridor and a faint swishing noise was heard. The Curator lowered his voice.
“Morticott has a somewhat unusual appearance, Mr. Pons, in addition to suffering from a lame foot. He was very badly wounded in the last war but his services have been invaluable here.”
“just so,” my companion murmured.
I was prepared for a somewhat unusual sight after Biggs’ words but was completely thrown off balance by the appearance of the apparition which presently came into view at the end of the corridor.
-6-
To say that he was gigantic would be an understatement. He was at least seven feet tall and the smart blue uniform he wore seemed only to emphasise his lop-sided appearance as he shuffled along the corridor toward us, dragging his lame left foot. His enormous hands dangled limply and the sardonic face looked particularly sinister because of a partial paralysis of one side, which pulled the muscles down; no doubt the result of his wound. Yet the entire impression of this giant was one of enormous power and I shot a swift glance at Pons.