That he had taken my point was evident for his penetrating glance was fixed on Morticott’s features and he immediately questioned the man on his movements and impressions on the night the Curator had seen the strange apparition in the Museum.
The giant answered Pons in monosyllables, shifting his feet awkwardly to and fro as he looked first at Pons and then at the small group composed of myself and the museum officials. Evidently feeling that more was called for he spoke his first connected sentence.
“Mr. Biggs told me about the intruder, sir. I immediately ran through the second floor galleries and roused the staff.” He flushed slightly and gave Pons a sharp look.
“Oh, yes, sir, in spite of my disability I am quite light on my feet and can move fast when I have a mind to.”
“I have no doubt,” said Pons cheerfully. “You found nothing, of course, as Mr. Biggs has already told us.”
“No, sir. There are several staircases you see, so the man could have gone anywhere.”
Biggs cleared his throat warningly.
“I did not specify the nature of the intruder,” he told my companion sotto voce.
“Of course, Mr. Biggs,” said Pons smoothly. He turned back to the giant attendant, taking his unlit pipe from his pocket and turning it over in his slender, artistic hands.
“Where were you when the vase fell this afternoon?”
The dark eyes of the giant had a sullen look in them now. “I was in one of the first-floor galleries. I ran to the balcony. The crash was tremendous and echoed through the building.”
Pons nodded absently.
“Have you any theory to account for such an accident?” The big man looked incredulous.
“Hardly an accident, sir.”
Pons smiled faintly.
“What makes you say that?”
I must have looked as bewildered as the Curator as I stared at Pons.
The giant shuffled his feet, the strange contortion of his features giving him a weird aspect in the low lighting of the corridor. He opened his mouth to reply when we were interrupted by rapid footsteps from behind us. The Curator turned, beckoned to two more attendants, who approached us curiously.
“Scott and Prendergast, Mr. Pons. If you have any more questions, now would be a good time to ask them.”
Pons nodded. He lit his pipe and puffed at it gently, the flames from the bowl making little stipples of rosy light on his lean, ascetic features. Scott was a small, almost weedy man with a defeated face in which a ragged moustache was the greatest distinguishing feature. His companion, Prendergast, was much more prepossessing; a tall, broad-shouldered man with an alert, intelligent expression.
“This is Mr. Solar Pons, the distinguished private consulting detective,” said Biggs pompously.
A fleeting expression of annoyance passed across my companion’s mobile features as he blew out a plume of fragrant blue smoke.
“Just a few simple questions. You yourself saw nothing of this intruder of which Mr. Biggs speaks?”
The question was addressed collectively to the two men but it was the largest who was obviously the spokesman.
Prendergast shook his head vigorously.
“No, sir. And if I may make so bold as to speak for all the night-staff — with Mr. Morticott’s permission”—here he inclined his head toward the giant who made no visible sign that I could see—”no-one but Mr. Biggs did see it that evening.”
“I see. And where were you both when the vase fell?”
It was the little man’s turn now.
“I was sweeping the corridor to the Mummy Room on the ground floor, Mr. Pons, and I hurried in to find Mr. Biggs considerably shaken.”
Pons nodded, a frown on his clear-minted face.
“I was in one of the store-rooms on this floor, sir,” said Prendergast. “It is some considerable way from the main entrance hall, as you can see. I heard nothing of the incident until later.”
Pons nodded, screwing up his eyes through the smoke. “Neither of you have any opinions on these incidents — private or otherwise?”
The two men, so diverse in their physique and characters, exchanged glances. Scott shook his head. The big man shrugged.
“It’s just a guess, sir, but might it be connected with the priceless treasures Mr. Biggs brought back from Egypt?”
Pons stared moodily at the toe-caps of his brightly polished shoes.
“It might, Prendergast, it might,” he said softly. “Thank you. You have both been of great help.”
He rubbed his hands and turned briskly to me.
“I think we might as well direct our attention to your office and the strong-room, Mr. Biggs.”
“By all means, Mr. Pons.”
The Curator led the group back the way we had come, marching importantly down the stairs at the head of our small procession. His office was a large panelled chamber with a polished oak floor, thick carpeting and a massive desk. The walls were hung with heavy oil paintings in gilt frames, a number of them rather good eighteenth-century studies of the museum building itself. The bookcases Biggs had spoken of were over on the right-hand wall and Pons strode swiftly across, making a detailed examination of the area. He paused, taking out a section of books from the shelving.
“This is where you saw the apparition, Mr. Biggs?”
We were alone now except for Castleton and the Curator himself, the remaining members of the staff having gone about their various duties, and Biggs nodded, bustling over to Pons’ side.
“Just a little farther along, here.”
“I see. What does that suggest to you, Parker?”
I frowned at the sight of Pons’ head framed in the empty space of the shelving. He was standing in the aisle at the other side of the bookcase and I immediately gained a picture of the sinister sight that must have greeted the Curator on glimpsing the horrific mummy face in the dim recess where my companion now stood. Pons is a tall man but only the upper part of his face and the eyes were visible over the top of the shelf.
“Why, that the intruder must have been a very tall man, Pons.”
“Excellent, Parker!”
Solar Pons rubbed his hands briskly together, put the books back with a bang, raising a small cloud of dust to the Curator’s mortification, and rejoined me. He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.
“Exactly. He would needs have been more than six feet tall for Mr. Biggs to have seen his entire face over the top of that shelf. Which narrows the field considerably.”
I had a sudden vision of the giant Morticott and was about to draw Pons’ attention to the matter, when I was arrested by the expression in his eyes. He smiled faintly and turned to the Curator.
“I would like to see the Museum staff records, if you please.” Biggs’ surprise was evident in his eyes but he waved his hand toward his desk.
“Certainly, Mr. Pons, if you so wish. I am not au fait with them myself. My private secretary, Miss Pilkington, deals with all that. They are in the filing cabinets in the corner there and the lady herself is on call in her own office next door.”
He bustled out, leaving Pons and myself alone with the Assistant Curator.
Pons was wandering restlessly round the room, as though he could not relax for a moment.
“This is the original strong-room Mr. Biggs spoke of?”
He indicated a massive metal door set in the far corner of the room. There were wooden crates here, with small dusty red-clay pots and vessels set about on the top of a rough wooden bench.
“That is so, Mr. Pons. I am afraid we shall have to wait until Mr. Biggs returns before we can set foot inside. The Curator holds the only keys, apart from a duplicate set in the strongbox at the bank.”
“I see.”
Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his deep-set eyes stabbing glances about the big, shadowy room. I had the impression, not for the first time, that he could see many things that were hidden from me. Castleton watched my companion with interest and then excused himself.