Pons and Jamison were already snaking across the floor, their heads held low. The smoke was thinning in here and I could hear a strange hissing noise. I saw the recumbent figure of Biggs and then another dark shape blundered out of the fog. I put a shot into the ceiling. Plaster rained down and the second figure put his hands in the air.
“Excellent, Parker,” said Pons crisply, getting up. “Your prisoner, I think, Jamison.”
The Inspector pounced and a plain-clothes man darted from behind me and for the second time I heard the click of handcuffs.
“Take him out,” Jamison ordered, turning back to Pons.
“I hope you know what you are doing, Mr. Pons.”
“I am fully aware of the situation, Inspector,” said my companion drily.
He moved swiftly across the room, through the swirling smoke. I followed quickly, just having time to note the jumble of equipment at the strong-room door; the oxygen cylinders and the glowing red circle in the metal. The small man with the mask over his face, waved the oxy-acetylene torch menacingly but Pons kicked him adroitly on the ankles and he went down, sparks raining angrily about the room.
“Put your hands up!”
I had the barrel of the pistol steadily on the little man now, who sullenly got to his feet, rubbing his ankles. Jamison darted forward and turned the jet of the arc off.
“A nice little haul, Parker,” said Solar Pons approvingly. “You had better have a look at friend Biggs, if you would be so good.”
He looked sternly at the little man with the mask.
“If the Curator has come to any harm you will answer with your life.”
A flood of obscenities in French in a strange, Eastern accent came from the mask and Jamison stormed angrily forward and knocked the tinted heat-shield from the little man’s features.
“That will be enough,” he said roughly, looking with distaste at the swarthy, Levantine countenance, now twisted with hatred and pain.
I found Biggs recovering consciousness and hurried back to Pons’ side.
“The Curator has been chloroformed, Pons. He will be all right in a few minutes, just as soon as we get the air clear in here.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you would be good enough to open some windows, Inspector.”
As the Inspector crossed the room, Solar Pons turned to me with an expression of regret.
“A pity, Parker. We have broken this ring but I detect a greater hand in the affair. It bears all the hallmarks of our old friend, Baron Ennesfred Kroll.”
I looked at my companion with surprise.
“I wish I knew what you were talking about, Pons. But at least I was right about Morticott.”
Pons laughed lightly. He waited until the little man had been taken into custody and then strode out into the corridor. He tore the mummy-mask from the big man who stood stolidly between the two constables. I was astonished to see the flushed and chagrined visage of guard Prendergast.
“But how did you…?” I began.
Solar Pons smiled.
“This is hardly the time or place for explanations, Parker. I suggest we wait until Mr. Biggs has recovered and the Inspector has returned from charging the prisoners. In the meantime I think we might send for some more light refreshment. I feel quite hungry after that little fracas.”
-9-
“I am completely baffled, Mr. Pons!”
Horatio Biggs sat at his desk in the disordered room and passed a trembling hand over his features.
“But I am sure matters will rapidly resolve themselves, Mr. Biggs. I am only glad that you have not suffered any worse harm at the hands of those scoundrels.”
“It was that dreadful mummy face, Mr. Pons! I sat there paralysed and then someone crept up from behind and put something over my head.”
“A chloroform pad, Mr. Biggs,” I explained. “No doubt wielded by the attendant Scott, who is now in custody with Prendergast.”
Biggs looked as though he had been stung.
“Is this true, Mr. Pons?”
Solar Pons smiled at me ironically.
“My friend Dr. Parker, though inadvertently encroaching on my prerogatives is undoubtedly correct on this occasion.”
“I am sorry, Pons,” I mumbled. “I was certain it was Morticott who was behind the whole thing.”
Solar Pons lit his pipe, blowing a stream of blue smoke at the ceiling, as he stared from me to the stolid figure of Inspector Jamison who stood with his back to the fireplace and gazed unseeingly at the battered strong-room door and the scattered tools and equipment on the floor.
“You made the elementary mistake of picking on the largest and most unprepossessing of the uniformed staff members, Parker. A glance at their Museum records would have made it obvious. Morticott had been here fifteen years, Scott and Prendergast three weeks.”
Mr. Biggs turned his harried face toward us and I poured him another small measure of whisky.
“But what does all this mean, Mr. Pons?”
“We must first open that door,” said my companion incisively. “And we will then put my theories to a practical test.”
“But there are only pottery and artefacts in there, Mr. Pons! The Treasures of the Valley of the Kings…”
“Are perfectly safe, Mr. Biggs,” broke in Jamison heavily. “Mr. Pons was right. No attempt was made on the main strong-room.”
“I think you had better see if you can open the door, Parker,” said Pons, handing me the keys. “Unless our friend has jammed the lock with his oxy-acetylene torch.”
I crossed to the massive door and inserted each of the three keys in turn. To my relief they appeared to work.
I seized the large iron catch and put pressure upon it.
“All is well, Pons! It is moving!”
“Excellent.”
Solar Pons moved to my side and between us we pulled the huge door back on its vast hinges. Biggs and the Inspector followed us into the chamber as my companion turned on the light. He looked musingly at the red-daubed wooden crate and the scattered pottery.
“You have no objection if I unseal one of these, Mr. Biggs?” The little man blinked.
“By no means, Mr. Pons. As I have said they are only humble wine-jars and the Museum can easily spare one or two after the services you have rendered tonight.”
Pons nodded. He crossed over to one of the crates, on top of which lay a hammer and chisel, evidently used to prise open the planking. He came back and applied the edge of the chisel to the seal in the mouth of one of the terracotta jars. It gave with an effusion of fine dust. He grunted with satisfaction and rummaged about with slender fingers inside the pot.
He pulled out a large reinforced brown paper bag, the mouth of which had been sealed by stitching. He tore it across while we watched in puzzlement. Looking over his shoulder I could see nothing but white powder. Pons sniffed at it thoughtfully.
“What do you make of this, Jamison.”
The Inspector’s eyes were wide. He followed Pons’ example, sifting the flour-like dust with powerful fingers.
“Heroin, Mr. Pons?”
“Exactly, Inspector.”
I looked at Pons open-mouthed.
“Drugs, Pons! You cannot mean it!”
“I do mean it, Parker. The material in these jars would be worth millions on the international market. As I said, this business bears all the hallmarks of our ingenious friend, the Baron. You and the Museum, Mr. Biggs, have been the unwitting carriers of a fortune in narcotics.”
“Good gracious, Mr. Pons!”
The little Curator looked as though he was about to collapse and I helped him out of the strong-room and into a comfortable chair. Pons had followed us and a few moments later Jamison hurried from the chamber, a grim look on his face.