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When the sleuth fetched
me, the stationmaster was by his side with a veritable sheaf of rail
tickets and an enthusiastic expression on his face. I knew what that
meant Holmes's knowledge of rail traffic had suggested a varied route
festooned with connections, which had positively enthralled the
stationmaster who would certainly wire ahead to assure us of superior
service during our journey. It was a procedure that Holmes had
followed on previous cases. Whatever strange stations we dropped off
at to await an inbound train, whatever intricate route we followed,
we were certain to arrive in Venice in
the shortest possible
time. Holmes's travel plans invariably depended on perfect timing,
which was always forthcoming. In the minds of Anglo-Saxons, possibly
other races as well, there lurks the tendency to attribute a
personality and sex to inanimate objects, even such awesome things as
thundering locomotives. The beautiful Blue Train to the south of
France has always seemed feminine to me, whereas the luxurious Orient
Express is associated with the masculine gender. If, amidst the
pistons and wheels of a great train, there lurks a smidgen of soul, I
know of a certainty that it is aware of the presence of Sherlock
Holmes and would never dare be behind schedule when carrying the
master sleuth. Call me mad, but the results bear out my fancy, and
after four changes en route, we arrived at the pearl of the Adriatic
in an amazingly short time indeed. The St. Lucia railway station
was as irrational as ever, but Holmes had us out of it and into a
suite in the Venezia Hotel on the Grand Canal in short order.

During our rush through
western Europe and down the boot of Italy, one thing was glaringly
obvious. Our route had been relayed to others, for cables had arrived
for Holmes at various stations during the trip. He did not choose to
make me privy to all of their contents, but I gathered that Howard
Andrade resided in
a private home on the Rio di San Canciano.
I assumed Holmes had made arrangements to approach the gentleman,
since this seemed his intent, but my native curiosity as to his
methods and plans was diverted by my queasy stomach and travel
fatigue. Once installed in the Venezia with assurances from my friend
that nothing would happen of an immediate nature, I devoted
myself to the healing arms of Morpheus and, in early evening, awoke
considerably refreshed and feeling quite the new man.

Holmes was pacing the
sitting room, clad in his purple robe and puffing on his pipe, giving
no indication of fatigue from our journey. I sensed that he had not
rested since our arrival and confirmed this thought when I spied the
butt of a thin Mexican cigar in an ashtray.

"Orloff has been
here!" I cried instinctively. My friend's eyes twinkled.
"Watson, what a delight! You spy the only clue to the presence
of our somewhat sinister friend in a trice. Truly, our years together
have not been wasted."

"But what is he
doing here?" I snapped my fingers suddenly. "Ah ha!
You contacted your brother, and Wakefield Orloff followed us to
Italy."

"I certainly
contacted Mycroft after our interesting meeting with Randolph Rapp.
However, this led to a trading of information. He was most
interested to learn that Chu San Fu is en route here via yacht. After
a bit of prodding he revealed that Orloff has been in Venice for
some time keeping an eye on Howard Andrade, the expert on ancient
writings."

I was regarding the
sleuth with knitted brows. "You mean, your brother anticipated
Chu San Fu's trip to Venice?"

"Not at all, but
Mycroft has been captivated with the idea of something in Egypt being
at the bottom of the Mid East unrest. He knew of Howard Andrade's
work on the secret writings of the pharaohs, and very reasonably put
two and two together."

"Holmes, you'll
have to be more specific than that."

"Then I must blend
fact with conjecture," he replied, his hands clasped behind him
as he strode the length of the room and back again. "The ominous
meetings of Moslem leaders being fact. As to what has stirred the Mid
East cauldron, we must look for some new element, some occurrence
out of the ordinary that has brought these various factions together
at this specific time. If the catalyst is in Egypt, conjecture leads
us to Andrade. If he has decoded the secret writings, that is
certainly new and could lead to additional breakthroughs in the
unraveling of the history of the ancient civilization. Remember,
Watson, it was but in 1822 that the Frenchman, Champollion, using the
Rosetta stone as his key, cracked the hieroglyphics. Since Egypt's
history was recorded in stone and preserved by the unique dry
climate, Champollion's discovery allowed modern scholars to learn
more about life in ancient Egypt than we know of our own original
Saxons. The Rosetta Stone was discovered in 1799, but it took almost
a quarter of a century before that black lump of basalt
fulfilled its destiny."

I realized that I was
shaking my head. "I'm a little vague on that, Holmes. As I
recall from school days, there were some fourteen lines of
hieroglyphics and fifty or so lines of Greek based on them. Since the
Greek message was a translation of the ancient carvings, what took so
long?"

"Actually, the
message was in three forms, Watson. It included thirty-two lines of
common demotic script, but that's not important. The difficulty in
decoding the hieroglyphics lay in the fact that some of the
signs are alphabetic, some phonetic, while others simply
represent ideas. Trying to translate ideas is a bit of a problem, is
it not? Lot of guesswork involved."

"Now about those
secret writings, can we not assume that they were composed in part or
whole by the rulers themselves, privy because of their position and
authority to the as-yet-unrevealed secrets of the land of the Nile?
The Rosetta Stone recorded a decree by priests of Memphis praising
the pharaoh Ptolemy Fifth some two hundred years before Christ.
Little of importance there. But what if one of the golden tablets, as
yet undeciphered, dates back three thousand years before Christ and
contains the secret of the Khufu pyramid?"

"What secret?"
I said instinctively. "King Khufu, or Cheops in Greek, built the
great pyramid, ol' chap. It's size alone is staggering, but its
orientation is truly amazing. The mass of stone covers thirteen
acres, and its sides run almost exactly to the cardinal compass
points. Its deviation from true north is but five arc minutes. Such
an alignment could not happen simply by chance. Do you know the
shadow it casts can be used as a calendar, and an accurate one at
that?"

Holmes's eyes were
burning as he spoke, and it took no genius to realize that he was,
for the moment, caught up in the myriad of unanswered questions of
ancient Egypt. I mentally chided myself for a clod. What more
reasonable that the solver of mysteries would be captivated by the
greatest puzzle in the history of mankind! My own poor brain was
dazzled by the thought of a civilization, predating ours by five
thousand years, that could construct edifices so colossal as to defy
the skills of our mechanical age! The light faded from Holmes's eyes
to be replaced by the cold, analytic look that grounded his flight
into the mysterious fantasies conjured up by the pharaohs of so long
ago.

"But come, Watson,
our duties are of a more practical nature. Either Andrade has cracked
the carvings of the ruling class or he has not, and we'd best
find out. Wakefield Orloff has arranged an appointment with the
hieroglyphics expert, who lives but a short distance away."

Outside the hotel Holmes
secured a gondola for us, which I regarded with some trepidation. The
waters of the Grand Canal were as smooth as glass, and my erratic
stomach was of no concern. However, the thirty-two-foot craft leaned
to the left, by design of course, and being only five foot in width
it did not appear seaworthy to me. However, similar vessels studded
the waters of the canal, and I overcame my reservations and gingerly
gained a seat as Holmes directed the gondolier, who promptly put us
in motion with his single oar.

The small craft had a
unique rhythm, not unpleasant, and I actually began to enjoy our
journey, though convinced that this type of conveyance would
never replace the dependable hansom. There was considerable traffic,
but our oarsman was skillful. Holmes pointed out some truly striking
mansions on the Riva del Vin, and then I spied the Rialto Bridge. It
was an imposing stone span over the Canal that inspired a sinking
feeling within me as we made for it.

"I say, Holmes,
that bridge has shops on it."

"Two rows, old
fellow, and well trafficked."

"But the thing's
overloaded! It will collapse on us."

"Rest easy, Watson.
It does seem a bit inelegant, but gondolas like ours have been
sailing under it safely since 1591."

This silenced me and
reassured me as well. Shortly after passing under the Rialto Bridge,
we abandoned the Grand Canal for the San Canciano, on which the
Egyptologist lived. This being a much smaller canal, there were
frequent stone footbridges that curved overhead as we moved down its
still waters. The houses on both sides were private dwellings of
varied heights and designs though universally constructed of stone.

Our destination proved
to be of two stories with its main entrance on the Rio di San
Canciano and one side facing a tributary canal. There was no porch or
float and, of course, no sidewalks. One simply rowed to the front
door and stepped into a small vestibule. At the corner of the house
was a bow window overhanging the quiet waters of the canal and
sufficiently different from the general architecture to catch my
eye. Some thoughtful builder had conceived of a view of both the
canals the house faced on, and a pleasant sight of an evening it must
provide.

Holmes instructed our
gondolier to await our return and knocked on the impressive door. I
noted that the adjacent house had ivy growing on its outer surface,
which was dotted with small stone balconies from which tendrils
of vines dangled, providing a pleasing, slightly bohemian look.
Everywhere there were curved arches, stone overhangs, and the general
appearance of well-tended, though ancient, construction. Many of the
buildings must have been at least three hundred years old, I thought,
perhaps older. They had to take good care of the stonework, for
Holmes had mentioned that seasonal high tides sometimes raised the
level of the water to the first story. Doors must be jolly well tight
set, I thought as the one in front of us opened. I did not know what
I expected to find on the other side, possibly a servant or the
Egyptologist we wished to contact, but here was a familiar and
welcome face: the straight nose, the small, military moustache, and
the moon-shaped visage of the portly and deadly Wakefield Orloff.
Those fathomless green eyes defrosted with an alien warmth as they
flitted over us and, by habit, checked our backtrail. Then the
security agent stepped to one side, indicating for us to enter. We
were constantly meeting, usually in unusual places, and
greetings were superfluous. Ever since the matter of the Louvre
robbery so brilliantly handled by Holmes, Orloff had been ranked as
an associate, and I was always grateful for his presence, which
carried with it an insurance value as sound as the pound sterling.

"Gentlemen,"
said Orloff, in his low, mild voice, "this is Howard Andrade."

A figure leaning over a
huge table turned towards us and, with a departing glance at the
subject of his scrutiny, crossed in our direction. The Egyptologist
was beardless, with flaxen hair streaked here and there with gray and
a broad, pink, good-humored face. His waistcoat had apparently given
up its efforts to compass his girth, but he moved quickly enough and
his handshake was firm.

"Mr. Holmes, of
course, and this must be Doctor Watson, whose words have
provided many a fascinating hour. I'm honored, gentlemen."

It was immediately
obvious to me that Andrade was a splendid fellow. As he indicated
available chairs in the very large room in which we stood, I surveyed
the interior of this quaint Italian house. That the hieroglyphics
expert or a predecessor had instituted extensive remodeling was
apparent. The walls to what had to be a combined living room and
study rose two stories to an ornamental plaster ceiling that was
quite magnificent.

There were numerous
bookcases well filled as befitted the home of a scholar. The south
wall was interesting indeed, containing a first-story gallery
running the depth of the house and reached by a curved staircase. Off
the upper landing, guarded by a wooden balustrade, was but one door,
and I assumed that the master bedchamber was there. Windows, which
formerly served the original first story, now provided two rows of
apertures for the large central chamber. During the day, I imagined,
the area was brightly lit by sunlight even though there were no
windows in the walls other than the one that constituted the front of
the house. Behind us and to the right of the entrance door must be
the kitchen facilities, possibly servants' quarters as well, I
thought. The remainder, save for that portion of the first floor
facing onto the gallery, was one large open room lit by chandeliers
and with Hepplewhite furniture tastefully positioned. The walls were
festooned with pictures, all of Egyptian scenes. There was a
delightful feeling of space. The room was dominated by the oaken
table Andrade had been at when we arrived. It was strewn with
pictures, calipers, dividers, parallel rules, and other
equipment that I could not recognize. I sensed that Andrade worked
mainly on his feet, circling the table that was the focus of his area
of activity.