In the center of the sizable area was a table, much like that of a draftsman, and seated by it on a high stool was a tall man of advanced years. He was peering with a hand glass at a gleaming object that I estimated was four feet in length and at least two and a half feet wide. The basement chamber was brightly lit and the tablet, for such it was, glistened. Its reflected light was that which, through the centuries, has driven men to prodigious efforts and to deeds that promote a shudder. It was the yellow gleam of gold that has fired the furnaces of greed throughout history. But the tablet, whose worth in rare metal must have been enormous, seemed of no concern to the man at the table. He was studying the inscriptions that covered it and referring to a number of photographs spread out on the table along with several lithographs.
"Memory Max," whispered Holmes. "Possibly it was his name that led me down the wrong trail. I recalled his fame as one of those rare photographic-memory types and did not consider relevant that he was also a master forger."
Holmes's words would not have been audible five feet from where we were standing. Perhaps it was a subconscious recognition of the fact that his name had been used that caused the man at the table in the basement to suddenly raise his head, and then, to my horror, he turned and was looking straight at us. The light of the large room penetrated through the half-open door that was our observation post, and I saw Memory Max suddenly spring to his feet in alarm, his mouth opening to sound a warning.
Holmes closed the door quickly, seizing me by the arm and propelling me back along the corridor that we had traversed.
"We were spotted, Watson, worse luck. But all is not lost. Let us strategically make ourselves known of our own volition."
We were rushing towards the front of the building. Then it dawned on me what Holmes intended to do.
"Good Lord, you are not just going to brazenly burst in on Chu, are you? Let us take to our heels, Holmes."
"We're outnumbered and surrounded, ol' fellow. When all is lost, attack! A theory that you used quite effectively in your adventure with Loo Chan, if you will recall."
Holmes had me there. I had blundered in on the Chinese lawyer and created enough surprise and consternation to bluff myself out of a messy corner. Possibly it would work again, though I sensed that Holmes was motivated by another and deeper purpose.
We were in a wide hall now that seemed to run the length of the building, and through open doors several men registered on our pell-mell rush past them. I did not take time to note their appearance or nationality.
Then we were in the main room of what had to have once been a government building. It was two stories in height and seemed too imposing for a common jail, but perhaps that was a function assumed by the edifice later in its varied history. It was brightly lit. The tall windows that stretched along the front wall of the building were all cunningly covered by a felt-like material that provided an effective blackout. In direct contrast to the building's abandoned appearance, this place seemed as populated as St. Pancreas or Waterloo Station. The whole busy scene was dominated by a huge chair on an upraised section of the floor in which sat the bewhiskered Chu San Fu.
"Well," I thought, "he's come as close to a throne as he could. Or would," was my second thought, for I was betting on Sherlock Holmes.
Our sudden entrance caused a universal cessation of activity, and this core of Chu's criminal conspiracy became as silent as a pharaoh's ancient tomb.
"We are delighted to drop in on you again, Chu San Fu," said Holmes in his most casual manner.
As he advanced towards the several steps leading up to the Chinaman's elevated position, I could do naught but follow and hope that I seemed as unconcerned as my friend did.
The Oriental's amber eyes shifted quickly to the door through which we had come.
"Where are your guards?" said Chu San Fu. There was a flicker of worry in his eyes.
"Disposed of, but let's not dwell on that. We had to come face to face. That was your intent all along so that you could inform me that, at the last cast of the dice, it was you who had scored the winning point. Well, I am the bearer of sad tidings. It is all over. It's not going to work at all."
I am sure that better than half the men in the room didn't understand a word Holmes was saying and the rest couldn't divine what he was getting at. But such was the conviction of his manner, so bright was the triumphant light in his commanding eyes, that they remained motionless, transfixed, as was I for that matter. A room populated by the dregs of the underworlds of half a dozen nations was suddenly dominated by two personalities. The rest of us might as well have been pieces of furniture. The resolution of this monstrous matter now rested in the clash of two minds, and every man jack of us knew it. The whole affair was reduced to its basic elements. The evil genius of the crime czar, Chu San Fu, and the brilliance of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.
Chu's frail and aged form seemed to have shrunk within the ornamental Chinese robe that he wore, but this was but the reaction of a moment. Then his lips twisted in an evil smile as he realized again his position of strength.
"You speak bold words, Holmes, for a man in the clutches of his sworn enemy."
"You know me well enough to realize they are not idle ones. I'll give you high marks, Chu, for not fearing the devil himself. Had I, some time back, outlined your plan and its scope, I would have been laughed out of Whitehall and Scotland Yard as well. The very grandiosity of your scheme lent it a protective cover, for it savored of the dreams of a madman."
"There have been other so-called madmen," replied the Oriental stroking his long white chin whiskers, separated into two strands as was his custom. Holmes dismissed his words with an imperious wave of his hand.
"Spare us the recitation of conquerors like Genghis Khan and Napoleon, for that monologue has been oft-used. You are making ready for your revelation at the Mosque of al-Ashar."
I had been waiting for it and rejoiced in the viewing. It came as I knew it would. That sudden stab of fear in the closely guarded eyes of the Oriental.
"You know of that?" he asked, and there was a quaver in his voice.
"I know of it all. The tomb is now covered, and the entrance to the Valley of the Kings is guarded by an army detachment."
Chu San Fu sprang to his feet instinctively and then sank back into his imposing chair, steeling himself to recover his control and his dignity. Holmes had often said that the grip of a criminal on his underlings was in large part psychological, and the Chinaman was aware of this as well.
"How did you find the tomb?" he asked in a flat tone.
"Followed the trail that led you to it," was Holmes's glib response. "No difficulty there, but I will admit that the golden tablets and the great store you placed in them threw me off a bit. However, a remark by my associate, Watson, brought me back on target."
"How much do you actually know?" Chu's query was delivered without any show of emotion. Centuries of Oriental stoicism had taken charge, and his face was now as impassive as a sheet of burnished bronze. I also suspected that for the first time he was actually considering the possibility of defeat.
"I don't know," said Holmes, "how long you have nurtured this scheme, nor is it important. You took a series of facts and had the imagination to fuse them into a unity—your plan being to rewrite history. Events dealt you a nice set of cards. First, you had a basic truth. This Nile Valley is the origin of recorded history, and no one will deny it. There are myths and folklore about other civilizations, but they left no mark of their passage nor monuments of their greatness that can predate this birthplace of civilization. All that comes from ancient Egypt is marked first in the book of man. That was the base of the power pyramid that you strove to create."