"Andrade being the one man who can translate them," I added as Holmes fell into a silence.
"Do not forget Memory Max, ol' fellow. I pictured this tool of Chu San Fu as capable of deciphering them, and I may still be right about that. Now don't laugh at me, but I did entertain the thought that these secret writings, until now undecipherable, might contain the key to some unknown power that would provide an explanation for the colossal monuments created by ancient Egypt, the construction of which we cannot as yet explain."
"Good Heavens, Holmes, you feared that some age-old force or process, possibly astronomical in source, might fall into the hands of a criminal madman?"
"It does sound like the awesome villainy from some transpontine piece, does it not? But the idea did occur, perhaps inspired by the unexplained mysteries on every hand in this strange land. I'm much relieved to be proved wrong."
"But how do you deduce that you are?"
"The tomb we found was unopened. Were Chu San Fu in pursuit of an ancient force, would he not have forced the door to that crypt in hopes of finding one or more additional golden tablets in the unpillaged tomb?"
Unable to detect a flaw in this reasoning, I nodded. "So we must return to basics. Chu San Fu is here in Egypt to incite the Moslems to a religious crusade, another rising of the Crescent. Of that I am sure. His possession of the Sacred Sword is enough to gain, nay command, the attention of Mohammedans throughout the world. It is the Chinaman's ticket to the show, as 'twere. What have the golden tablets to do with his plan? In keeping with the parlance of those lurid American novels that you read, what is his secret weapon?"
"Well, Holmes—"
"And why would he, clued by Puzza's cipher, discover the tomb, dig to the very entrance, and then abandon the project? That makes no sense at all."
"Hmm. You did mention American stories. This entire matter of tombs is rather reminiscent of Western folklore relative to lost mines."
Holmes had been gazing out of the window of our car and suddenly turned to me. "In what way?"
"There's the matter of the Lost Dutchman mine in Arizona, you know. The prospector who discovered it is said to have brought in ore of an amazingly high grade. But he died or disappeared, and the mine has never been found. They are still looking for it, by the way. Then there's the Lost Englishman's mine. Rather the same story. A remittance man supposedly found the mother lode but then, at the death of his brother, was called back to his homeland to assume the family title and never returned."
"That I find unbelievable," said Holmes.
"And a bit too close to the Dutchman story. Personally, I think both tales were inspired by some glib confidence man in hopes of doing a salting job."
"Can we go over that last part again, Watson?"
A memory caused me to chuckle, and then I was prodded by the finger of guilt.
"See here, Holmes, the Empire faces a crisis, and I'm relating tall tales that may have no basis in truth."
"But stories have a root source, good chap, and sometimes it is of interest. Do inform me as to this 'salting' that you refer to."
"Well, it is a swindle scheme, pure and simple. An attempt to sell a worthless mine at an inflated price, though it backfired on one rascal. Happened in Colorado, you see. Chap called Tabor was an unsuccessful proprietor of a general store who grubstaked two miners."
"Grubstaked? You have picked up a most colorful vocabulary."
"Supplied two prospectors with goods for a share in their findings."
"Oh."
"Well, the two men that he extended credit to discovered the 'Little Pittsburgh' mine, which was the richest find in Colorado up to that point. Within a short time, Tabor bought out his partners and became a multimillionaire. But his sudden affluence did not increase his business acumen. He would buy anything, and soon became known as an easy mark."
"A what?"
"To put it bluntly, Holmes, a sucker. Some fellow in a far-off place called Leadville had a mine that had proved worthless, so he planted valuable ore in it, a process known as 'salting,' and then took Tabor to view the premises."
"Making sure that he found the 'salted' ore, I take it."
"Exactly. Tabor fell for the bait and purchased the mine. Paid better than one hundred thousand dollars for it, as I recall."
"I noted that this story promoted some humor in you, but it seems a sad tale of chicanery to me."
"It's not over, Holmes," I said somewhat smugly. "Tabor put a crew to work on the mine, and his foreman reported back to the tycoon that they had been had, that the mine was worthless. But Tabor was undaunted. 'Dig some more,' he said. 'I've a great name for it: the Matchless.'"
"Ever hopeful, I see."
"Possibly inspired. They dug ten feet down and discovered a vein that made the 'Little Pittsburgh' seem pale by comparison. The 'Matchless Mine' financed H. A. W. Tabor's honeymoon to Europe, during which he is rumored to have spent ten million dollars!"
Holmes's jaw actually dropped. "My dear Watson, the sum you mention is mind-boggling. I wonder what the man who salted the mine . . ."
He was in the process of lighting a cigarette and held the match for a long moment, its flickering light reflected in his keen eyes. Then he completed the operation slowly.
"Salted the mine. By godfrey, Watson, that's it! At the risk of being repetitious, may I say again that you do possess the innate ability to say the right thing at the right time. Now, I must think."
I could not get another word from him during our return trip to Cairo. He was in such a deep study that I did not dare try.
Chapter Seventeen
Holmes Seems Irrational
Following our active adventure in the Valley of the Kings, a long trip by rail was no antidote for my aches and pains, and the moment that Holmes and I returned to the welcome surroundings of our hotel, I found myself incapable of seriously thinking about the matter at hand, as critical as it was. A quick bath and I was between sheets and sunk in deep sleep. Night had fallen when I finally arose, considerably refreshed though stiff as a board. When I dressed and made my way to the sitting room of our suite, I was unprepared for the scene that greeted me.
Only Holmes was in evidence. Since he is tireless when on a case, I had not expected the sleuth to indulge in a siesta but rather a room crowded with colonial officialdom, discussing the next step in this most peculiar situation, which had strong overtones of international complications. There were evidences that Holmes had conferred with many, but to find him deserted when at the critical point of an investigation did bring me up short. I wondered if some new and unanticipated piece had been introduced to the complex chessboard that faced the great detective.
Holmes's pipe was going, emitting clouds of acrid smoke that served as evidence that his superb mind was toying with facts in search of a realistic pattern and a solution to the problems the pattern presented.