Henry Bedford-Jones

The Passing of the Sphinx Emerald

Warsaw 2022

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

In Santa Fe, the story of this malign and magic jewel,
which began in Ancient Egypt, comes to its strange conclusion.

CHAPTER ONE

SIR EVART BUCKSON was one of those Englishmen whom John Buchan loved to depict–a large man, powerfully built, as agile in his thirties as a boy of eighteen, and well poised. He had calm features and keen hazel eyes. He looked up sharply as Bill Stuart entered the room of his New York hotel.

“I’ve seen you before,” he observed. “How d’ye do? Stuart is the name?”

“Yes, sir. I was in Egypt with the American Air Forces–you had command of the field where we were putting our ships together and making deliveries.”

The calm features lighted up. “Oh, yes–I remember. You’re the chap who got hold of a mummy somewhere and dressed him up at the wheel of a plane and raised no end of a riot! The war seems long past now, eh?”

Stuart assented, laughing. “I saw in the papers you were stopping here, and took the liberty of calling.”

“Right. Glad you did. A spot of brandy, what?”

“Thanks, no. I didn’t come to beg a drink,” Stuart replied a bit stiffly.

Sir Evart gave him another look–level, guarded.

“Aye? Sit down, lad. Let’s have it.”

Stuart lighted a cigarette.

“I’ve had an airfield job since the war–top mechanic,” he said. He too showed level-headed poise. He had a quiet manner, but his dark eyes held a flash; his features–the right cheek lightly scarred–were crisp, his lips tight and thin. “I’ve a couple of sisters out West; no one else. The job folded last week. I’ve hung around town, hoping to get a word with you. That’s the situation.”

Sir Evart nodded, and wisely said nothing. Stuart went on.

“You see, I’m not too flush; but I have enough. I had a great pal in Egypt named Morrison; he was killed later over Tunis. A pilot–his sister lives here in town. She has a batch of stuff he sent home from Cairo–relics and what-not. He wrote her that some of them might be valuable. You’re a world authority on Egyptian antiquities, so I wondered if I might ask you about two or three of them. You see, Miss Morrison could use money, but I haven’t the faintest notion where to sell ’em. I tried the Metropolitan and got laughed at.”

He leaned back, finished.

Sir Evart smiled.

“Stuart, let me be mercifully cruel. Your boys in Africa got rooked, no end. They went out and bought curiosities–knives, jewels, everything, and were stuck with the finest lot of fakes ever assembled. That’s one thing; here’s another: My job’s folded too. Our people are getting out of Egypt, or have got; my Helwan museum job was washed up with the rest. That’s why I’m in your country, lecturing. Oh, I’m not broke! But we’re on short commons in England, you know.”

“I’m asking for advice, not help,” said Stuart.

“Quite; don’t flare up, my lad. You’re welcome, God knows, to the advice; I’m trying to break things easily, telling you not to expect too much. Here, take one of these.”

Stuart accepted one of the opulent Abdallahs offered him.

“There are several things your pal might have got hold of that’d mean a bit of luck,” pursued the Englishman, “and I’m not the man to reject possibility. The mummy of Queen Hatshepsu, f’rinstance, has never been found. Or consider gems: the signet of a king might be well worth while, although the gyppies turn out some remarkable fakes. Or the Sphinx Emerald, supposedly dropped into the Nile–”

“What’s that?” Stuart asked, leaning forward.

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