Free The Avenger 2 - The Yellow Hoard by Kenneth Robeson

looted.
    “There was a sarcophagus almost like the Egyptian ones. In it was a mummy. There were dozens of little gold and copper ornaments. But the most important thing was a belt, around the middle of the mummy. A belt of five links, like the one you have there.
    “Dad placed the man and the tomb from the picture writing on the walls. We had actually discovered the secret resting place of Montezuma the Second, killed when the Spaniards invaded Mexico and murdered the Aztec tribe in 1520. The belt was worth probably a hundred thousand dollars as gold and emeralds. But any big museum would have given a year’s appropriation for it. The Smithsonian would give half a million, if they could beg or steal it from someone to pay for it.
    “We knew the Mexican government wouldn’t let it leave the country, so dad put the links in five bricks, as you guessed. We replaced the dirt over the tomb entrance in the night before we left, knowing that in a few months jungle growth would hide it again.”
    Nellie’s eyes grew clouded, worried.
    “We were replacing the dirt when we heard a branch crack, and looked around. From beyond the mound, for just an instant, we saw a man’s head silhouetted against the sky. We’d thought no one but us knew the secret of the mound. But someone from the camp had followed us. That person might have seen the whole business, including the belt as dad lifted it from the sarcophagus. We didn’t know. But as a precaution, dad kept two of the bricks, and gave one apiece to Dr. Barker, Alec Knight, and Olin Chandler, whom he knew almost as well as Knight and the doctor.”
    Benson nodded.
    “So the eavesdropper is now after the belt, getting it piece by piece, killing for it. He got two of the golden plates from your father, after murdering him. He got one from Chandler, without murder. He murdered Knight for the fourth—and didn’t find it. We can be sure of only one thing. There will be more deaths.”
    Benson turned the massive gold plate over in slim, powerful fingers. On the curved back, which was still worn smooth from years of contact, centuries before, with the abdomen of King Montezuma the Second, were carved more ancient ideographs.
    Benson stared at the hieroglyphs with icily flaring pale eyes.
    “If only we had an idea who’d be next, so that we could prevent tragedy!” he said.
    Though no mortal mind could have guessed it at that stage of the game, the next person was to be an old man in a storeroom at the Metropolitan Museum.
    It was nearly midnight. Dr. Brunniger was reluctantly putting away the primitives he had been examining earlier in the evening. Time to go home. He reached into a locker for his hat and coat, and turned to put them on.
    There was a man standing in the storeroom doorway, with his back to the west wing of one of the public display rooms. The man wore a black suit with dark-gray shirt and black hat. He was not bad-looking, very dark of hair and skin, with narrowed black eyes.
    “Dr. Brunniger?”
    “Why, yes,” said the old man. “But who are you, and how did you get in at this hour? The watchman—”
    “I looked for the watchman, to get official permission to see you, but he wasn’t around. The door wasn’t locked, so I just came in.”
    “That’s very odd,” said Brunniger. Then: “You wanted to see me? Why?”
    “I’ve been told you’re the best-known authority in the country in Indian picture writing,” the dark man said. “So I came to you with some of the stuff to see if you could read it for me.”
    “Queer,” said Brunniger. “Another person was in here several hours ago with the same request.”
    “That is funny,” said the man. His smile grew set, stony, then was carefully made natural again. “But I wouldn’t know anything about that. Would you try the sign language for me?”
    “Why, yes, I guess so,” said the old man. “Our mission is to serve the public. Let’s see it.”
    The man took out a sheet of paper, covered with