Fearing death by water is apparently a reference to a T.S. Eliot poem called "The Wasteland." Sometimes I really wish my memory source hadn't slept through so many English classes. Something about a Jew who drowned, which Phoenix thought might tie in with "some of my best friends," the sort of line used by bigots. After some debate and Larry's opinion on the way Felix used to operate, we decided that the Oedipus reference in the song was inessential, although possibly connected to the riddle matter.
    "The Wasteland... second line, hate them they're some of my best friends... Denial? I'd really hate to end up having to go to Egypt," Scott theorized. That seemed a bit far afield for our boy.
    "It's not impossible that some section of this is another anagram?" Privateer asked.
    "He wouldn't repeat himself," Larry said confidently.
    Eventually we had a list of items that we fed into the base computer, including the works and biography of T.S. Eliot, Boston locations, Egypt, Jewish antiquities, the files we have on Sphinx (in case some of his best friends turned out be important), anti-Semitism and hydrophobia. It took a while to chew over all of that, and began spitting out connections.
    Harvard's Egyptology collection is kept at the Semitic Museum. T.S. Eliot and Tom Lehrer both went to Harvard. Harvard graduates are required to take a swimming course before they graduate—one of the conditions on the bequest that endowed the Weidener Library there.
    "We're going about this the wrong way," Scott sighed. "We're following the riddles he wants us to follow."
    "What do you recommend?" Reilly wanted to know. "If he's told you where he's going to be going, why aren't we going?"
    "Oh, we are going, but we're still going about this the wrong way."
    "I'm going to call some black and whites and have them head over there."
    "Has that Greek family got here yet, the one that's going to Harvard?"
    "Yeah, they're doing the Freedom Trail tomorrow."
    "'Cause Felix took off just after getting a special delivery package from the area they come from, next town or two over."
    "I'll tail 'em," Talon offered.
    We headed for the Semitic Museum. It had been several hours since we left the MFA, and we were naturally far too late. None of us are particularly good at this riddle business. Two police cars met us out front.
    "Building's locked up, we've talked with the curator, says he's bringing the key over right now," one of the officers told us.
    Scott slipped under the door. Most of the exhibit was still there, minus some valuable gold pieces, and an entire shelf of the library was missing. No sign of the Sphinx, unless you count the tape he left on the shelf for us.
    The curator bustled up to the rest of us, outside. "I can't believe you're waking me in the middle of the night. What? None of the security systems have been tripped, I'm telling you the place is perfectly fine. But if you insist, in your foolishness... fine. Can I see your badges, please?" The forbearing cops displayed their badges. He looked at the rest of us and sniffed. "I take it you're superheroes. Go on in. Don't touch anything!" We all went inside. "As you can see, nothing's been taken, nothing's been taken...." He let out a shriek.
    "Except for that, that, and whatever was on that shelf," Scott supplied, solidifying in front of us.
    "Oh, no! No!"
    "So what did you have on the shelf?"
    "The notes and journals for all of the digs! They've been transcribed of course, but the originals, the books, the books, he's taken the books! The precious books!"
    "What's the big deal?" a cop shrugged. "You said there were copies of them."
    The curator whipped around and actually slapped him. "Books! The original books!"
    The stunned cop stared at him in disbelief. "Ow."
    "Could we get an inventory of what's actually been stolen?" Scott inquired. "And does anybody have a Walkman? He left us a tape." No one did.
    What had been taken was all of the journals and photographs from the digs Harvard did in the 1920 and 30s, with all the original maps, sketches, locations, and deathtraps; it'll take a while to get the full list of what's missing there. Also five unique gold artifacts, in theory priceless and in practice insured for $2.4 million.
    "If he stole all the dig stuff, sounds like he is going to Egypt, eventually," I remarked. "Unless he plans to sell them."
    "Or retire there," Privateer suggested.
    "You guys probably want to get some sleep," Scott suggested. It was clearly going to take a long time to go through everything at the museum.
    "Sleep? Sleep? Oh that thing," I remarked sarcastically. It was almost late enough not to bother.
    "Yeah, Miss I Have the Metabolism of a Hummingbird, before you fall over," he retorted.
    "Just give me some coffee and lots of sugar, I'll be fine."
    "You get a little erratic when you're like that...."
    "Nonsense." Thinking about the family Phoenix Talon was now guarding, I asked, "So the theory is that Felix knows one of these people?"
    "Well, not necessarily. If I was really paranoid I'd say that he's got a kid and/or grandkid somewhere in the area. Especially since this particular set of books Felix would need like he'd need a third leg," the robot shrugged. "If he doesn't have them memorized and written into his DNA I'd be astonished."
    The rest of us did eventually head back for some shut-eye, under the optimistic theory that the Sphinx, new or old, also needs to sleep and won't actually strike three times in one night. Maybe in the morning the whole business will magically make sense.

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