“Mr. Biggs is the Curator of one of London’s foremost museums. It therefore follows that he is an academic. He is of Welsh extraction, as you correctly deduced from his accent. And he has been under some pressure as you shall learn in a moment.”
“Can you tell anything else, Pons? Something that I have overlooked, perhaps?”
“There may be one or two things still to read, Parker,” said my companion slowly.
“For example, he is a member of the Coronel Club, a bachelor, a keen enthusiast for the cinema, widely travelled, has recently returned from Egypt and is devoted to the music of Bach.”
Mr. Biggs blinked at Pons in astonishment. He rose to his feet again.
“This is absolutely incredible, Mr. Pons. It is more like magic than anything else!”
Solar Pons shook his head, smiling.
“It is hardly that, Mr. Biggs. It is elementary to the trained mind.”
“You will have to explain, Pons.”
“I intend to, Parker. As to the Coronel Club it is simplicity itself for Mr. Biggs is wearing the distinctive striped tie of that esoteric organisation. He is a bachelor because, though well-dressed he is, if he will forgive me for saying so, untidy and his collar, though spotless, is heavily crumpled and his shoes need cleaning.”
The museum Curator blinked and give Pons an apologetic smile at this point.
My friend went on imperturbably as though he were alone.
“I could not imagine any conscientious wife letting a man so important as the curator of a major museum out with his collar and shoes in that state. Therefore he is a bachelor.”
“Again correct, Mr. Pons,” said Biggs, with a rueful glance at his shoes.
“And the cinema, Pons?”
“When Mr. Biggs took out his handkerchief just now, a number of cinema ticket stubs fell unnoticed to the carpet. They are there still. There are more than a dozen of them and I notice they are for The Everyman, the Cameo, the Astor and the Rialto. The colour of the tickets tells me they were issued this year. It is only the beginning of April, which means that Mr. Biggs must go at least twice a week for he has been abroad for something like two months.”
“Oh, come, Pons!” I expostulated. ‘That is a little farfetched.”
Mr. Biggs shook his head.
“Mr. Pons is quite right, Dr. Parker, though how he does it I cannot imagine.”
I stared at my companion open-mouthed.
“Let us commence with Bach.”
“He has no less than three publications devoted to Bach on the chair yonder. They all bear a newsagent’s scribble with Mr. Biggs’ name.”
Our visitor almost laughed at this point.
“That is so, Mr. Pons. I always like to read something on the Tube.”
I managed to convey my scepticism by clearing my throat pointedly. Pons smiled faintly.
“You have not let me finish, Parker. Further indications can be read into the musical publications. Those issues are for February, March and April of this year. Therefore, it is no very great flight of imagination to surmise that they have just been collected. The issues cover three months, though the April number is obviously published in advance, as is the custom.
“Therefore I conclude that Mr. Biggs has been away on a long trip, for at least five or six weeks. When I see a newish guide to Alexandria there on the chair with the magazines, again with his initials on the cover, much stained and thumbed and I note the remnants of sunburn on Mr. Biggs’ face — Parker’s high complexion — it requires no great feat of deduction to infer that he has recently returned from a trip to Egypt, possibly for the Museum.
“The time factor alone would indicate that Mr. Biggs had six weeks in this country from January 1st in which to make his cinema visits. A comparison with the ticket stubs and we arrive at a twice-weekly visit.”
Mr. Biggs beamed and stared approvingly from Pons to me. “It is still remarkable, Mr. Pons,” he said enthusiastically.
“I have to admit that I concur, Pons,” said I.
“It is good of you to say so, Parker,” returned my friend amiably.
Biggs resumed his seat with a clouded brow.
“However, it is undoubtedly my Egyptian trip which has precipitated my present troubles.”
“Pray begin again for Dr. Parker’s benefit,” Pons suggested. “You had only just begun to tell me something of your problems when the doctor entered. In the meantime I will ring for tea. Parker must be quite starved after his long trip to Hoxton.”
I stared at him in astonishment. He gave a throaty chuckle and picked up his pipe from an earthenware bowl on the table. “There was nothing magical about that, Parker. You left your appointments pad on the breakfast table this morning.” He handed it me with a flourish.
“And now, if you please, Mr. Biggs, tea and then your tale of woe.”
-2-
Mrs. Johnson had cleared the tea-things and I sat comfortably by the fire watching Pons’ smoke-rings ascending slowly and undulatingly toward the ceiling.
“Well, Mr. Pons, part of my brief for the Egyptian trip was to pay a visit to various sites in the Valley of the Kings. My post as Curator of the Egyptian Museum in London entitled me to Government status in Egypt and I was accompanied for part of the time by Achmed Nazreel Pasha of the Cairo Museum.
Now, gentlemen, the London museum is associated formally with the Cairo Museum and we regularly exchange information and artefacts, particularly for exhibitions. Is that plainly understood?”
“By all means,” said Pons smoothly, looking at me quizzically through his pipe-smoke. “If you think it of importance.”
“It may be so, Mr. Pons, it may be,” said the little Curator self-importantly, all the harassment and worry back on his rubicund features.
“I had obtained from Nazreel Pasha the promise of certain items unearthed last year by the Egyptian Government from the Valley of the Kings and it was with considerable excitement that I travelled with him back to Cairo for a fortnight’s research and work at that great museum which must ever stand in the forefront of interest for Egyptian scholars.”
“Undoubtedly,” I put in to encourage him and Mr. Biggs shot me a glance of satisfaction.
“Now, Mr. Pons, I had been assigned a certain Egyptian servant while on my stay. He was of a fairly high caste as such people go….”
He broke off and looked at Pons sternly.
“I don’t know whether you understand or have experience of the Middle East, Mr. Pons, but the fellaheen of Egypt are among the most down-trodden and oppressed people of the world.”
Pons took the stem of the pipe out of his mouth.
“So I have heard, Mr. Biggs. But your servant would not have been of this class, surely.”
Mr. Biggs looked disconcerted.
“No, no, Mr. Pons. I did not mean to imply that. I was speaking merely of the natives employed for such menial purposes as transporting materials in the Valley of the Kings and packing and moving artefacts in such great museums as that of Cairo. Apart from a city in South Africa whose name escapes me, Cairo is the greatest city in the whole of Africa.”
“I am indebted to you for the geography lesson, Mr. Biggs, but I would be grateful if you would come to the point,” said Pons crisply. “Dr. Parker has had wide experience in that part of the world and it is not entirely unknown to me. I think you may safely take it that we are reasonably familiar with the milieu.”
Mr. Biggs’ eye grew round.
“Good gracious me, Mr. Pons. Please accept my apologies. I am so used to lecturing to students that I am inclined to take a superior position with other people, without really intending to.”
Pons smiled thinly. He tented his lean fingers before him. “Pray continue. We will ourselves provide the local colour.” Our visitor flushed and then went on without more ado.