Читать книгу The Bat Flies Low - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 6

“Mr. Stefanson.”

Lurgan stood aside, and Ulric Stefanson came into the library.

Stefanson was a young man with a mane of limp blond hair, so blond that in artificial light it appeared to be white.

He paused in the doorway as Lurgan went out, staring vaguely in the direction of the big table. He saw a sheet of faded papyrus pinned upon a drawing board, with some sort of manuscript lying beside it; then:

“Evening, Stefanson,” said Lincoln Hayes, and dusted imaginary ash—he was smoking a cigar—from the left lapel of his coat. “Rorke’s got a problem for you.”

Stefanson came forward, shaking hands with his host and with Captain Rorke. He appeared to be utterly bewildered. He was very short-sighted, so that even through the powerful lenses of his spectacles he peered, continuously. He wore ill-fitting dinner kit, and his tie was a ghastly parody. He was loose-limbed and tall, but stooped much.

“G-good,” he replied, for he was afflicted by an impediment in his speech. “I l-l-love problems.”

It had called for the inherited acumen of Lincoln Hayes to discover inside this unprepossessing exterior a scientific genius.

“Drink, Stefanson?” Hayes continued, and moved towards the side table.

“You know I never dr-drink wh-whisky.”

“Of course! Truth is, Stefanson—excited. Ring, Paddy.”

Lurgan, in response to the ring, appeared as if by magic. His immobility was wonderful; but his keen hazel eyes missed nothing of importance in the library.

“Three bottles Liebfraumilch small bin,” Hayes ordered.

Lurgan bowed and went out.

“Normally should have remembered you drink nothing but Rhine wine.”

“You don’t know anything about this, Stefanson,” said Rorke pointing to the papyrus pinned to the drawing board. “But tonight, you are going to know everything about it.”

“G-good,” said Stefanson.

Lincoln Hayes walked across to the fire and leaned upon the mantel, staring down into the flames. There was a moment of silence interrupted only by the crackle of a log. Stefanson was peering at the papyrus. The door opened, and Lurgan came in carrying a large ice bucket in which were three long-necked bottles of wine.

“It may not be cool enough for you, sir.”

“Q-quite cool enough.”

Pale-faced, nervous, and possessed of very large, aimless hands, Ulric Stefanson was one of the most helpless-looking young men one could have found in all New York City. He was also chief technician of Western States Electric, and in his own province second to none in the country.

With deft efficiency Lurgan opened a bottle, poured out a glass of wine for Mr. Stefanson, replaced the bottle in the ice, and withdrew.

“You remember,” said Rorke abruptly, “the experiments which you made two years ago with a fragment of an Egyptian lamp which I brought back, and which is now in the Metropolitan Museum?”

“I re-remember per-perfectly. I s-spent s-several months on the s-silly thing.”

“Not silly,” jerked Lincoln Hayes, without turning around.

“This papyrus—” Rorke pointed, his light, flexible voice giving no indication of the seriousness of his subject—“should enable you to continue your experiments.”

Although not much above medium height, Captain Patrick Rorke, late Royal Engineers, was built upon such finely slender lines that he appeared to be as tall as Stefanson. Far short of forty, his wavy hair was quite gray, but his thick Irish lashes retained their original color, lending extraordinary luster to cold blue eyes, which nevertheless were capable of softening. He wore a close-cut “regulation” mustache. His lean face had a sort of ascetic beauty as he watched the scientist. Here was a poet or perhaps an actor. The sun had baked his pale skin dark brown.

Stefanson moved to the side table and poured himself out another glass of wine.

“I do-don’t follow,” he declared.

There was a rap on the door, and Lurgan came in. He addressed Hayes.

“Excuse me, sir, for interrupting you, but Miss Wayland would like to speak to you for a moment.”

“Is she there?”

“Yes.”

Ann Wayland came in.

“Mohammed Ahmes Bey has been called by phone to return to his hotel immediately,” she said, glancing about her and nodding smilingly to Stefanson. “He is awfully sorry, but he must go.”

“Rude on my part, matter of fact,” Hayes muttered. “Excuse me.” He started for the door. “Where is he?”

“He came back from the telephone to the museum; I suppose he’s still in there.”

Hayes hurried through to the big lofty room which enshrined the treasures of the Hayes Collection. He took very long strides, leaving Ann behind. He was conscious of a breach of hospitality.

The door was open, and he burst in, looking right and left. It was a strange apartment, resembling the second Egyptian Room in the British Museum.

There were rows of cases along the center of the parquet floor, some containing mummies, notable either for their state of preservation or because of their historic importance. In others were scarabs, rings, and various kinds of Egyptian jewelry. In the wall cases were sarcophagus lids, statuettes, examples of furniture, arms, and domestic utensils.

Above the cases, framed upon the wall surrounding the entire museum, was a perfectly executed copy in colors of the Hayes Papyrus. The original was in the Metropolitan Museum. It was a curious variation of the usual ritual, discovered in the Theban tomb of a prince of the Fourteenth Dynasty by Captain Rorke’s predecessor, Lincoln Hayes senior having been actually present at the opening of the tomb. He had purchased it from the authorities on the understanding that it should never be re-sold except to them.

The place was lighted by many hanging lamps. Haggard outlines beneath saffron-colored wrappings stared up at the lamps; bright colors gleamed from wall cases. The strange silent apartment otherwise was empty.

Lincoln Hayes turned to Ann, who had entered behind him.

“Must have gone. Very strange!”

“He told me the message was urgent, Lincoln.”

“May be Lurgan knows.”

Hayes pressed a bell. Following a lapse of less than twenty seconds the butler appeared in the open door.

“Did you see Mohammed Bey out?”

“No, sir.”

“Why?”

“I last saw him in here, sir—in this room. He was called to the phone, and I showed him the way. Miss Wayland then rang and asked me to tell you that Mohammed Bey must leave, and I came to the library. I haven’t seen him since, sir.”

“Did Slim drive him?”

“No, sir. Slim is outside now.”

Lincoln Hayes glanced sharply about. It was not in his breed to doubt the honesty of a guest.

“Annoying,” he muttered. “These people very touchy. Away too long.”

“His hotel is not more than four minutes off, sir. He probably decided to walk.”

“Call through. Hold him if you get him. Don’t stay up, Ann.”

Lincoln Hayes returned to the library.