Within an hour, the British Museum was flooded with police and emergency services in search of the thieves.
‘Jack! Scarlet! Are you all right?’
Ignatius Doyle hurried towards them.
‘Just a little shaken up,’ Scarlet said.
‘If you can call absolute terror a little shaken up,’ Jack added.
Police interviewed witnesses. When the broken display case was thoroughly processed, a photographer took pictures with a square bellows camera the size of a bread bin, set up on a tripod.
Jack noticed Inspector Greystoke—an old friend of Mr Doyle’s from Scotland Yard—enter the room.
The inspector arrowed over. ‘Doyle!’ he said. ‘I should have expected you to be involved in this!’
‘Only peripherally,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘It was my young assistants who were at the heart of the action.’
Greystoke asked them to go through the chain of events, and Jack and Scarlet obliged. They explained about meeting Professor Clarke and the arrival of the masked men. Mr Doyle listened thoughtfully while the inspector made notes on a small jotter.
‘So you believe these men were dressed as police officers?’ Greystoke said.
‘They were,’ Jack confirmed, ‘except for the masks, of course.’
‘It’s the perfect disguise,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘I’ll get a constable to see if anyone noticed them change,’ Greystoke said.
Mr Doyle nodded. ‘We may be lucky, but there are two rather more intriguing questions regarding this case.’
‘And they are?’
‘First of all, why did they steal the Cusco necklace?’
‘Surely that’s obvious. It’s quite valuable.’
‘But why take it when there are several other equally precious pieces in the museum that would have been far easier to steal?’
‘It is rather puzzling,’ Greystoke admitted. ‘But sometimes people steal pieces for their private collection. The artefact never sees the light of day again.’
‘You said you had two questions, Mr Doyle,’ Scarlet said.
‘Indeed I do,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I am wondering exactly where Professor Clarke went.’
Jack was confused about that too. After the robbery, Jack and Scarlet had checked the other museum visitors to see if anyone had been hurt. By the time they came back the professor was hurrying from the room, his bag in tow.
Matthew Pocket appeared from downstairs. They told him about Professor Clarke’s rapid departure.
‘I met James Clarke a few years ago at a symposium on ancient history,’ Pocket said. ‘He’s a genius, but also rather reclusive.’
‘Did you see him today?’ Inspector Greystoke asked.
‘No. I didn’t know he was coming in.’ The young man frowned. ‘I remember hearing he had a heart condition. I hope he’s all right.’
‘We should check,’ Mr Doyle said to Jack and Scarlet. ‘There are twelve hotels within walking distance of the museum. He can’t have lugged such an enormous bag far.’
They began the arduous task of trekking from hotel to hotel. The sixth was a modest-looking building near the Thames called The Bainbridge. Mr Doyle inquired about the professor at the front desk.
‘He is staying here,’ the clerk confirmed. He wore a badge that read John Mills. ‘But we are not in the habit of handing out the room numbers of our guests. I can have a message sent up, if you like.’
When Mr Doyle explained they were concerned about the professor’s health, Mills sent one of the bellhops to check. He returned a moment later and spoke quietly to the desk clerk. ‘There may be something wrong with Professor Clarke,’ Mills relayed. ‘There’s no answer at his door, and it appears to be locked from the inside.’
Jack, Scarlet and Mr Doyle took an elevator to the fifth floor with Mills. At the end of the corridor, Mills pointed to a door, numbered 56. He called Professor Clarke’s name, but there was no reply. Mr Doyle tried the handle, then threw himself against the door. Inside they found the old man in a chair facing the window.
‘Professor Clarke?’ Mr Doyle inquired, rounding the figure and grasping his arm. ‘Can you hear me?’
The old man did not make a sound. The detective snapped his fingers a few times, repeating his name.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Mills asked.
‘He seems to be in some sort of trance. He is completely unresponsive.’
Clarke’s eyes were open, but they were dilated and unfocused. Occasionally he blinked, but it was a lazy movement as if he were operating in slow motion.
‘You’d best send for an ambulance,’ Mr Doyle said to Mills. ‘This looks quite serious.’
Jack and Scarlet waited for the desk clerk to leave.
‘We have another problem,’ Scarlet said.
‘What is it?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘This man isn’t Professor Clarke,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t know who he is.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not him.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mr Doyle asked. ‘You did only meet him for a few minutes.’
‘Completely,’ Scarlet said, examining him. ‘He looks similar, but the man we met had a longer face.’
‘And his eyes were a different colour,’ Jack agreed. ‘The man we met had brown eyes. This isn’t the same man.’
‘How very strange,’ the detective said. ‘We should search the room.’
Jack looked inside the wardrobe while Scarlet opened drawers. But there wasn’t much to find. The professor—if that’s who he was—had little in the way of personal effects. Apart from the papers on the desk, he only had a few items of clothing and some toiletries.
‘Look at this,’ Mr Doyle said, pulling something from the chair. ‘It’s some kind of thorn.’ It was purple and thin as a needle.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Scarlet said.
‘It’s certainly not native to this country.’ The detective examined the professor again. ‘There’s a small mark under his jaw.’ Mr Doyle placed the thorn into a bag. ‘Which brings us to another mystery. How did the perpetrator escape this room?’
Good question, Jack thought. The room was locked from the inside.
‘Could the professor have done this to himself?’ he asked.
Mr Doyle tilted his head.
‘You already know,’ Scarlet said.
‘I believe so.’
Ignatius Doyle went to the window and carefully eased it open. A ledge, half a foot wide, ran the length of the building.
‘You think someone escaped through the window?’ Scarlet said. ‘The ledge is very narrow.’
‘It could be done,’ Jack said, remembering back to his days at the circus. It was all about controlling your balance and remaining calm. ‘But it wouldn’t be easy. It’s a fifty-foot drop.’
‘Yet it would seem to be the only possibility.’ Mr Doyle leaned out the window. ‘And I think I can see where the assailant went. A window leading to the next room is ajar.’
Mills returned. ‘I’ve sent a boy for an ambulance,’ he said. ‘It should be here in a few minutes.’
‘Good,’ Ignatius Doyle said. ‘Is there anyone staying in this next room?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Please open it for us.’
Mills lent them the key while he guarded the professor. The room next door was identical. Mr Doyle gave a satisfied grunt as he examined the windowsill.
‘There’s a thread on this window from an orange shirt,’ he said, placing the fabric into another small bag. ‘I wonder if they found what they were looking for.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Doyle?’ Jack asked.
‘You mentioned Professor Clarke had a large trunk with him earlier, but we have seen no sign of it.’
‘The man next door is not him,’ Scarlet said firmly.
‘Or,’ Jack said, ‘the man we saw at the museum wasn’t the professor.’
‘Either way,’ Mr Doyle said, ‘there is no sign of the bag.’
They returned to the other room. Two ambulance men had just arrived with a stretcher. The professor’s condition was unchanged, his eyes wide open, staring into space. Jack found it unnerving.
As they carried the professor away, Mr Doyle turned to the desk clerk. ‘Did he leave anything in the hotel safe?’
‘One moment.’
They headed downstairs where Mills disappeared into a room behind the front desk. He emerged a minute later, frowning.
‘What is it?’ Mr Doyle asked.
The clerk looked pained. ‘There is something, but hotel regulations do not allow us to disclose that information.’
‘Are you sure you can’t bend the rules? A man’s life may be at stake.’
‘It would be my job if I were to tell you,’ he said. ‘And the reputation of the hotel.’
Mr Doyle nodded. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask a friend at Scotland Yard to contact you.’
‘Not at all. A request from the police is a completely different matter.’
They bade him goodnight, left the hotel and paused in the early evening air. The sky above London was growing dark. The Metrotower angled up between two buildings, thousands of windows illuminated like small eyes watching over the city. A fog was rolling in. The streets were busy with commuters heading home, steamcars spilling smoke into the air as horse and carts jockeyed for position on the road. The ambulance carrying Professor Clarke—or whoever he was—disappeared around the corner.
Jack shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. He couldn’t get the horrible expression on the professor’s face from his mind.
‘We’ll find a tavern to have a meal before we return to Bee Street,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I suspect you haven’t eaten lunch.’
‘We did miss out,’ Jack said, suddenly aware of his growling stomach.
‘And we’ll visit the hospital to check on the professor’s condition first thing tomorrow morning,’ Mr Doyle said.
But it was not to be.