The Peacock’s Shadow – E. Hoffman Price

Mon Vieux, what do you say to a bit of housebreaking?”

This, from Pierre d’Artois, a gentleman of France and a master of the sword, seemed unusual, to say the least.

“Well, why not?” I agreed, not to be outdone by the d’Artois nonchalance. “But whose house do we invade? What the devil, do you fear I will become homesick if from time to time there is not something to remind me of my own native land of liberty?”

“Mais non! No, we are not going as prohibition agents. Not at all! And it is no ordinary house into which we are to break. We invade the château of Monsieur the Marquis de la Tour de Maracq,” announced Pierre as he stepped on the accelerator of his favorite car, the Issotta roadster.

“But what of Monsieur the Marquis?” I suggested with what seemed to be a touch of reason.

“He is very busy at Biarritz at a fencing tournament.”

Well, this solved one riddle: I now knew why d’Artois, that fierce old ferrailleur, had overlooked a chance to demonstrate his exquisite mastery of the sword.

“But, mon Pierre, what of the housebreaking? What loot are we after?” I ventured as we cleared Pont de Mousserole and left behind us the gray battlements of Bayonne.

“The truth of it is, I am playing what you call the hunch,” he evaded, then continued: “But he is the good hunch. There has been an elopement, and it is for me to locate the lady.”

Worse and worse yet! A quiet month in Bayonne.

“Who is the girl?” D’Artois laughed.

“A princess, and the daughter of a king.”

“Not bad for a marquis. And young and beautiful?” I retorted to the mockery I saw in his keen old eyes.

“Beautiful, yes. If you like such beauty. But young, no. In fact, older than I am.”

“The devil!”

“The truth! Thirty-seven hundred years old at least.”

This was too much!

“Mais non. I do not jest,” continued Pierre. “She was stolen from the Guimet museum of Lyons and carried all the way to the château of the marquis.”

“Well, and that is a case for the police, is it not?”

“No. For one is not really certain; it is but strongly suspected that he accomplished the almost impossible feat of looting the museum and carrying the mummy to his château. Monsieur the Prefect of Police, not being any too sure of himself, has taken me into his confidence and asked me to investigate unofficially. A false move would ruin him, since Monsieur the Marquis is a man of influence.”

“But why should anyone steal a mummy, especially de la Tour de Maracq, who is rich as an Indian prince, and of a house as old as Charlemagne?”