Author: Basil Copper
Date: 1995-10-15 00:00:00-07:00
Keywords: General; Fiction; Short Stories; Detective and Mystery Stories; English; Mystery & Detective; Private Investigators; Traditional British; England; Short Stories (Single Author); London; Pons; Solar (F
Description: 13th in the Solar Pons Series by Basil Copper, Illustrated by Stefanie K.Hawks. Contents "The Adventure of the Cursed Curator" "The Adventure of the Hound of Hell" "The Adventure of the Mad Millionaire" "The Adventure of the Singular Sandwich" British writer Copper (The Exploits of Solar Pons) effectively captures the style of Sherlock Holmes tales in four novellas narrated by Dr. Lyndon Parker, who plays Watson to consulting detective Solar Pons in 1920s London. "The Adventure of the Mad Millionaire" requires Pons to discover if the cause of a financier's peculiar behavior is, in fact, all in
Publisher: Fedogan & Bremer

The Recollections of Solar Pons

First Edition Books in the Macabre Field by Basil Copper

Non-Fiction

THE VAMPIRE: In Legend, Fact and Art

THE WEREWOLF: In Legend, Fact and Art

Short Stories

Not After Nightfall

Here Be Daemons

And Afterward, the Dark

From Evil’s Pillow

Voices of Doom

When Footsteps Echo

Whispers in the Night

Fantasy Novels

The Great White Space

Into the Silence

The Horror on Planet X

Gothic Novels

The Curse of the Fleers

Necropolis

The House of the Wolf

The Black Death

The Solar Pons Series by August Derleth:

#01  REGARDING SHERLOCK HOLMES

#02  THE CHRONICLES OF SOLAR PONS

#03  THE MEMOIRS OF SOLAR PONS

#04  THE CASEBOOK OF SOLAR PONS

#05  THE REMINISCENCES OF SOLAR PONS

#06  THE RETURN OF SOLAR PONS

#07  MR. FAIRLIE'S FINAL JOURNEY!

The Solar Pons Series Continued By Basil Copper:

#08  THE DOSSIER OF SOLAR PONS

#09  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SOLAR PONS

#10  THE SECRET FILES OF SOLAR PONS

#11  THE UNCOLLECTED CASES OF SOLAR PONS

#12  THE EXPLOITS OF SOLAR PONS

#13  THE RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLAR PONS

#14  SOLAR PONS-THE FINAL CASES

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLAR PONS

BASIL COPPER

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

STEFANIE K. HAWKS

Minneapolis, Minnesota 1995

4 8 6 9 8 0 3 1

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLAR PONS

Copyright © 1995 Basil Copper

Illustrations Copyright © 1995 by Stefanie K. Hawks

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. Address all queries to Fedogan & Bremer, 603 Washington Ave., S.E., Suite 77, Minneapolis, MN 55414-2950.

Following the characters created by August Derleth.

The Solar Pons stories written by Basil Copper are the only ones authorised by Arkham House Publishers Inc. by whom they were first commissioned, and by the estate of the late August Derleth.

The novellas ‘THE ADVENTURE OF THE MAD MILLIONAIRE;” “THE ADVENTURE OF THE CURSED CURATOR;” and ‘THE ADVENTURE OF THE HOUND OF HELL” have never before been published.

The novella ‘THE ADVENTURE OF THE SINGULAR SANDWICH,” which briefly appeared in paperback in a much bowdlerised and altered form, appears here for the first time with the definitive text.

ISBN: 1-878252-20-8 (trade) ISBN: 1-878252-21-6 (limited)

Book design by Felix Bremer

an ebookman scan

Contents

The Recollections of Solar Pons

Contents

The Adventure of the Mad Millionaire

-1-     -2-     -3-     -4-     -5-     -6-     -7-     -8-     -9-     -10-     -11-

The Adventure of the Cursed Curator

-1-     -2-     -3-     -4-     -5-     -6-     -7-     -8-     -9-

The Adventure of the Hound Of Hell

-1-     -2-     -3-     -4-     -5-     -6-     -7-     -8-

The Adventure of the Singular Sandwich

-1-     -2-     -3-     -4-     -5-

The end of The Recollections of Solar Pons

For “the lost Lenore,”

Stefanie Kate Hawks,

Beautiful Collaborator,

Gracious Lady,

Superb Artist,

With my Love and Admiration.

Basil Copper

St. Paul, Minn

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF SOLAR PONS

The Adventure of the Mad Millionaire

The Adventure of the Mad Millionaire

-1-

“GOOD AFTERNOON, DOCTOR!”

“Good afternoon, Colonel!”

I had been enjoying an after-lunch walk in brilliant sunshine alongside the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens in perfect July weather when the robust tones of a familiar voice broke into my reverie. Though I had answered automatically and mechanically it took another split-second before I fully recognised Colonel Mortimer, a retired Army officer who was a former neighbour of mine when I lived in Chelsea for a brief period.

Mortimer was a striking figure, well above average height with a great hooked nose above his tobacco-stained cavalry moustache. But he always dressed impeccably and this afternoon he wore a startling off-white tropical suit with a pale blue tie and carried an elegant-looking Malacca cane. He fell in alongside me as I continued along the gravel walk and we were both silent for a moment, enjoying the extraordinarily beautiful weather. After a minute or two as we continued in silence, Colonel Mortimer shot a surreptitious glance at his watch.

“I am glad I have run into you, doctor. I have recently come across something that might well interest your friend Solar Pons. An acquaintance of mine has gone stark, raving mad.”

“Indeed,” I said, shooting him a sharp glance. “Would you not do better to consult one of my medical colleagues who specialises in mental disorders?”

He gave a throaty chuckle, slashing at a tangle of weeds at the edge of the Pond with the ferrule of his cane.

“It is not that sort of madness, doctor. No, believe me, there is something deep behind it which is beyond my fathoming.”

We had turned toward the edge of the Gardens now and the faint hum of traffic was becoming audible as it converged upon the Albert Memorial, while the great dome of the Albert Hall was rearing above the trees.

“Have you time for tea, doctor?” Colonel Mortimer went on.

“I have all the time in the world, Colonel,” I said.

“In that case what say you to Harrods? I have not been there for some considerable time.”

“As you please,” I said, though I was somewhat surprised by his choice of venue.

Some while later, when we were settled in the coolness of the restaurant in that elegant emporium the Colonel seemed to have thought better of his earlier confidence. He mumbled awkwardly to himself over the delicious watercress sandwiches; tapped with his teaspoon irritatingly on the edge of his cup as we made short work of the scones and jam; and hummed discordantly to the obvious discomfiture of the people at the tables round about as we rapidly created inroads into the strawberries and cream.

It was not until a second silver-plated teapot had been placed before us that he seemed to come to a decision.

“I must ask you to forgive me, doctor. I am not usually indecisive but I really do not know if I am doing right in this matter.”

“So I noticed,” I said unhelpfully, reaching for the last of the chocolate éclairs. “However, you have not yet committed yourself and even talking to me does not constitute a commission in the eyes of Pons.”

“That is certainly true,” said Mortimer, not at all flatteringly in my opinion, and he fixed me with what I was wont to call his cavalryman’s glare. I have seen it freeze waiters at more than twenty yards off and it certainly had a discouraging effect on me this afternoon.

“Oh, believe me,” the Colonel went on, “I am not breaching any confidence you may be sure. And what I am about to tell you is something which might have been observed by anyone in close proximity to Foy.”

I stared at him across the wickerwork table which stood on the red-tiled floor in an elegant bower of roses, while the thin, reedy tones of the five-piece orchestra which played for tea-dances there, ascended to the fluted iron roof-columns.

“You don’t mean Hugo Foy, the millionaire financier?”

The Colonel glanced at me in slight surprise.

“Do not tell me that you know him?”

I shook my head.

“Good heavens, no. I hardly move in such exalted circles.”

The Colonel closed his lips round a portion of strawberries and cream with satisfaction. I realised that the taste was not the only cause of his state of mind; he was pleased because I had admitted that while I might not mingle with millionaires I recognised that it was a perfectly right and proper thing for him to do so. I swallowed my amusement at this irreverent thought and concentrated on what the Colonel was saying.

“He is a near neighbour of mine at The Boltons and we are occasional partners at bridge parties together. I am merely concerned in case he might feel I was responsible for causing an unwarrantable interference in his affairs.”

“That is something you must decide for yourself,” I said.

I could not resist adding, with considerable self-satisfaction, “It means nothing to Pons. He is used to mixing with the
crowned heads of Europe and mere millionaires are ten a penny in his book.”

Colonel Mortimer swallowed a mouthful of tea the wrong way, glared at me over his cup with one eye, said “Quite” in a dead voice and snapped his mouth shut. I savoured the moment a little longer.

“Tell me, Colonel,” I said. “Just why should you consider your friend to be mad?”

“Acquaintance,” said the Colonel sharply. “Nothing more, I hasten to assure you.”

He fixed me with a piercing glance.

“What would you say to a man who rides in his motor-car naked in the moonlight; wears white drill trousers with a dark City suit; and uses a billiard cue to hole his ball on the golf course!”

I goggled at my companion.

“And those are only a few examples,” Mortimer went on. He would have said more but I put up my hand.

“There is no need to elaborate, Colonel. I think you would do better to avoid repetition by coming straight away with me to see Pons.”

There was a certain smug satisfaction in the Colonel’s eye as we finished the meal.

-2-

Solar Pons put the tips of his thin fingers together, leaned back in his armchair and blew a cloud of fragrant blue smoke at the ceiling. The windows of our sitting-room at 7B Praed Street were wide open to the fragrant summer air but so hot had been the day that I could see little beads of perspiration standing out on Colonel Mortimer’s forehead as he sipped appreciatively at the ice-cold beer I had plied him with.

It was evening now and a mauve dusk crouched at the windows, stained yellow with the flowering of the early street-lamps and window signs.

“Mad—and yet not mad, you say,” said Pons with considerable satisfaction. “You did well to direct this little matter my way, Parker.”

The Colonel stirred in his chair and cleared his throat nervously.

“You appreciate, Mr. Pons, that this affair must be handled with the utmost discretion. I have not been asked to act and Foy may be extremely annoyed if he learns that I have engaged your services.”

“Oh, indeed, Colonel,” said my friend easily. “It will do no harm to cast an eye in that direction and one need not commit oneself. But a gentleman who drives in his car stark naked, uses a billiard cue to play golf and drinks champagne with ginger beer, while remaining head of an immense financial empire, presents some intriguing facets to the world, would you not say so, Parker?”

“Oh indeed, Pons,” I put in, unable to resist a smile at the Colonel’s worried features.

“At the same time, Mr. Pons . . .” he began.

“You may have no fear, Colonel,” I broke in. “Pons is the soul of tact.”

“I am afraid that is more than I can say for you, doctor,” put in the Colonel gloweringly, which caused Pons to break into an amused chuckle.

“If you would just hand me down that Who’s Who from the shelf yonder, Parker, I will refresh my memory with the salient facets of Mr. Hugo Foy’s career.”

I lifted the heavy volume from the shelf and carried it over toward him. I remained standing by his chair as he ran his finger down the pages, an intent expression on his lean, feral features.

“Ah, here we are. Yes, just as I thought. Chairman of Wildwood House Group of investment companies. Publications include: The World Economic Situation; Through the Abyss—a Guide to Current Fiscal Policy; Company Law and Procedure, etc., etc.”

He put the volume in his lap and frowned at it.

“Hmm. Hardly light reading, Parker. Your friend Foy does not seem the frivolous type judging by his financial career and the sort of literature he writes, Colonel.”

“That is true, Mr. Pons,” said our visitor gloomily, inclining his head toward my companion. “The more I think about it the more ill-advised I feel my visit here.”

“Come, Colonel, do not say so,” said Pons briskly, taking up his pipe again. “There may be method behind these outbursts of lunacy. Pray let us have the background and salient details in specific order, if you please.”

Colonel Mortimer leaned forward in his chair and fixed my companion with troubled eyes.

“As I have explained to the good doctor here, Mr. Pons, I am merely a bystander, an observer, who has watched this madness creeping upon an acquaintance over the past few months. I have no official standing, am not authorised to act in the matter but . . .”

“You feel a responsibility for a fellow human being, Colonel,” Solar Pons interrupted smoothly, looking searchingly at our visitor through the wreathing columns of fragrant blue smoke which surrounded him. “These sentiments do you great credit. Let us be frank. If Hugo Foy is going mad then surely his family or staff would have called in medical advice long before now. Or do you suspect something else?”

The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair, licking his lips. “You are a shrewd man, Mr. Pons,” he mumbled. “You see below the surface of things. I must confess I have a vested interest in the matter, though that is not my only concern.” “You have invested some capital in Mr. Foy’s enterprises?” The Colonel nodded, unable to keep the surprise from his eyes.

“You have read the situation correctly, Mr. Pons. The amount would not bankrupt me if I lost the money but I must confess it would severely curtail my life-style.”

Pons was silent for a moment, his deep-set eyes gazing at Mortimer so intently that he seemed to see quite through him.

“Would it be indiscreet to ask how much you have invested, Colonel?”

The military figure bristled a little but the answer was forthcoming without hesitation.

“I do not mind you and Dr. Parker knowing, Mr. Pons, as I realize it will go no farther than this room.”

Pons gave a slight inclination of his head, his brilliant eyes remaining fixed on the Colonel.

“A little over forty-thousand pounds, Mr. Pons.”

“Indeed. Rather too large a sum to leave in the hands of a possibly unbalanced property tycoon, Parker.”

“As you say, Pons.”

My companion’s lean, febrile fingers were drumming softly on the arm of his chair as he puffed furiously at his pipe. “How was this money invested, Colonel Mortimer?”

“Mostly in South American mining shares, Mr. Pons. I have no reason to believe there is anything wrong with them. They have an excellent reputation in the City and the share-prices remain constant, as I had occasion to confirm this morning from the Financial Times.”

Pons nodded.

“The investment came about in what manner?”

“I had known Foy for some time, Mr. Pons. As I have already mentioned we are near neighbours. Curiously enough, we lived close in Chelsea some years ago. Then I moved to The Boltons and he bought a house nearby about a year ago and so we became neighbours again.”

“Presumably the investment possibility arose over conversations at the card-table.”

Colonel Mortimer nodded gloomily.

“Exactly so, Mr. Pons. I had followed Foy’s brilliant career in the City, of course. Indeed, he is an international figure. So when this opportunity for investment came up last autumn, I was only too glad to get in on the ground floor, as it were.”

“And now you are not only worried at your neighbour’s eccentricities but for the safety of your investment?”

The Colonel bit his lip.

“That must come into it, Mr. Pons.”

“Naturally. Now, just how long has this bizarre behaviour been going on?”

“Something like two to three months.”

Solar Pons leaned back in his chair and tented his thin fingers before him.

“Pray be precise as to circumstance and detail.”

“Very well, Mr. Pons,” said our visitor grimly. “I will endeavour to be as accurate as possible though the whole business looks, on the face of it, like raving insanity.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Exactly when did this curious behaviour begin?”

“As near as I can make out, Mr. Pons, at the end of March this year. I can be as positive as that because I had been thrown into fairly close contact with him during the past winter, in the little matter I earlier spoke of and we had also been together at card-parties when we were partners at bridge on a number of occasions. Foy had been showing some little signs of strain.”

Pons leaned forward and shot our visitor a penetrating glance.

“In what way?”

“Lack of concentration, Mr. Pons. Not only at cards but in other matters. He seemed out of sorts and on two or three occasions he made elementary mistakes at bridge which caused some comment, I can tell you.”

“He was a good bridge player?”

“Of the highest class, Mr. Pons. I am no mean hand at cards myself but I am not in the same league. It was a pleasure to watch a player of that calibre.”

Solar Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear. “Did not such behaviour strike you as even more bizarre than his apparent acts of madness?”

A look of absolute astonishment passed across Colonel Mortimer’s face.

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Mr. Pons.”

“It makes no matter. Please continue.”

The puzzled look persisted in the Colonel’s eyes as he went on with his narrative.

“He absolutely threw the games away, Mr. Pons, even when he had all the key cards in his own hands. Naturally, this created astonishment and dismay in our small circle and there was some debate about asking him to continue at our sessions. That problem was something that solved itself.”

“In what way, pray?”

“In a number of ways, Mr. Pons. For example, a week or two after the first occasion of his strange behaviour at cards, he simply did not turn up for dinner after accepting my invitation. My housekeeper telephoned his home and was told that he had left. Of course, following the dinner, we had arranged a bridge session and his non-appearance naturally annoyed my other two guests.”

“Naturally,” I put in.

Pons gave me a faint smile as he cupped his chin in his hands, his deep-set eyes looking sympathetically at Colonel Mortimer.

“After we had broken up, I strolled around to his house, Mr. Pons. I was hoping to find he had returned and naturally intended to tax him with his remissness and request an explanation. Mr. Pons, I have never been so insulted in my life! His house is only a few hundred yards from mine. As soon as I had rung the bell he appeared on the door-step and pelted me with eggs!”

Solar Pons chuckled and slapped his thigh with the flat of his hand, making a sharp noise like the cracking of a pistol. “Capital, Colonel, capital!”

Colonel Mortimer glared and half-rose from his chair.

“I see nothing funny, Mr. Pons!” he snapped. “It is tragic, sir, absolutely tragic to see a first-class intellect descend to that level. And my suit was absolutely ruined! It cost me fifty guineas in Savile Row.”

I thought Pons was going to laugh out loud but he managed to control himself.

“Of course, Colonel, you are perfectly right,” he muttered. “You must excuse my keen sense of the ridiculous. What was your reaction?”

“Reaction, sir!”

The Colonel was purple in the face now.

“I was speechless. I strode off without uttering a word and when I reached the corner of the street Foy had quietly followed me and brought me down with a flying rugby tackle!”

Pons rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

“Admirable! This gets more intriguing by the moment.”

“I am glad you think so, sir,” said Mortimer curtly. “By the time I had gathered my wits together Foy had disappeared. I thought to consult my solicitor on the matter but when I had calmed down realised the folly of becoming embroiled legally. I resolved to watch and note carefully the mad antics of my neighbour.”

Here Mortimer paused a moment, took a sip of his iced beer and reached into the breast pocket of his elegant suit. There was a crackling noise as he drew out a long, folded sheet of white paper.

“I have taken the precaution of compiling a sort of diary of these insane happenings, Mr. Pons, both as they came under my own eye and as they were reported to me by others. And whenever there were newspaper reports concerning Foy I have noted the date and page reference. Perhaps you would care to glance down it.”

Pons lowered his eyelids over his eyes and sank back into his chair.

“I think not, Colonel. I would prefer you to read out to me the salient points, if you would be so good. Parker here is a percipient and loyal friend and I find his deliberations and advice on my cases most instructive.”

Mortimer glared at me suspiciously and picked up the paper with a peremptory gesture.

“If you say so, Mr. Pons,” he said ungraciously.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair at my companion’s words. Rarely had Pons been so expansive and I must confess I felt a warm glow of pleasure at his terms of approbation.

As our prickly visitor showed no sign of continuing, Pons prompted him.

“You told Parker here, if I recall correctly, Colonel, that Mr. Foy rode naked in his Rolls-Royce in the moonlight.” Mortimer nodded grimly.

“I was just coming to that, Mr. Pons. It was the next incident on my agenda, you might say. I resolved to keep watch, as I have said. I was taking my evening stroll at about eleven o’clock a few evenings later and was just turning back to retrace my steps when I became aware that Foy’s Rolls-Royce was gliding along the avenue just behind me.”

“How did you know it was Foy’s vehicle, Colonel?” “Because, as I have said, Mr. Pons, it was a bright moonlight night and his vehicle was absolutely distinctive.”

“In what way, pray?”

“It was pure white, Mr. Pons, with silver inlaid fittings, and in addition to that the man, in regrettable taste in my opinion, had his own personal number-plate.”

Pons raised his eyebrows.

“I have heard of such things, Colonel. And the number?” “FOY 1, Mr. Pons.”

Pons turned to me.

“Well, that is distinctive enough at any rate, Parker.” “Indeed, Pons,” I murmured.

“Imagine my appalled amazement, Mr. Pons, when I saw, as it drew level that the driver was stark naked!”

“It passes belief, Pons,” I muttered.

“Does it not, Parker,” said my companion with a dry chuckle. “To say nothing of a possible contravention of bye-laws. You were sure it was Foy, Colonel?”

“Absolutely,” said Mortimer grimly. “He was grinning inanely and wearing nothing but his top hat.”

“Good Lord!” I could not forbear exclaiming.

“Remarkable,” said Pons, pulling languidly at the lobe of his right ear.

“You may well say so,” the Colonel continued. “That was the opinion of Godfrey Daimler, the City banker, who was walking along the avenue just behind me. He was absolutely thunderstruck.”

“Indeed,” said Pons, his eyes keen and alert. “I understand he is involved in some of Foy’s large-scale schemes.”

“That is correct, Mr. Pons. I must confess my own financial foundations seemed to crumble as I saw that stark, raving-mad figure in the driver’s seat. He seemed absolutely moonstruck.”

“As you say,” observed my companion, rubbing his thin fingers together purposefully.

“What was your reaction?”

“Well, Mr. Pons, we were both taken aback. Before either of us could recover Foy gave a cackling laugh and accelerated off down the avenue. He had disappeared before either of us could recover our wits.”

There was a very alert expression in Pons’ eyes and he looked at me keenly.

“What does that suggest to you, Parker?”

“Insanity, Pons.”

“Perhaps. But it does present one or two indications.”

“You are on to something, Pons?”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. Your next incident, Colonel?”

“A few days later still, Mr. Pons. I had it at secondhand but from an unimpeachable source. Foy was out at Sunningdale Golf Club as a member of a foursome over the week-end. He was down three strokes on the fifteenth. I do not know if you know the course there, Mr. Pons . . .”

My companion shook his head impatiently.

“I have never taken the slightest interest in golf, Colonel Mortimer, and details of the intricacies of the course, which would no doubt send a golfer into raptures, would only waste your time and my own. Facts, Colonel, as to Mr. Foy’s behaviour, if you please.”

Mortimer glared fixedly in front of him as though outraged at Pons’ remarks and then collected himself with an effort.

“Very well, Mr. Pons. The fifteenth, sir. Foy was three strokes down on the hole and about ten or eleven feet from the pin. Mr. Pons, you will not believe me, but he solemnly produced a billiard cue from his golfing bag, proceeded to chalk it and calmly got down on the turf and potted his ball into the hole! Bless my soul, sir, I have never heard anything like it.”

“It was absolutely scandalous, Pons!” I observed.

“If you say so, Parker,” my companion chuckled.

Colonel Mortimer glared again and seemed to have some difficulty in controlling his feelings.

“I am, to be scrupulously fair, Mr. Pons, giving you only those incidents in Foy’s extraordinary behaviour which came directly under my own observation or those, as I have said, which come from absolutely reliable sources. I have heard even wilder tales but I will leave those out of account.”

Pons nodded, his eyes hooded, as he waited for our choleric visitor to go on.

“That was in April, Mr. Pons. Throughout May I saw little of Foy as circumstances took me to Scotland for much of the month. Then, in June, after I had returned to town, other bizarre things happened. These culminated in the annual meeting of Foy’s group of companies. As a shareholder I gave notice of my intention to attend and duly went along. Imagine my astonishment, gentlemen, when Foy, in his capacity as Chairman attended in a sober city suit, but with white drill trousers. There was consternation as he rose on the platform to make his annual report.

“He gave a garbled statement, which was nonsensical to most of those in the room, and there was uproar. Then he got up to leave precipitately and quitted the meeting, attired in a white solar pith helmet!”

The Colonel was almost foaming with rage now and I could see Pons’ lips twitch with amusement, though his eyes were alight with interest.

“And what was the result of this, Colonel?”

“Well, exactly what might have been expected, Mr. Pons. The financial press were present, of course, and made much of it. The shares have been depressed and in a week’s time there is to be an extraordinary general meeting of the Board to discuss the Chairman’s sanity. Of course, that is not the given reason for the meeting, but there is no doubt as to its implications.”

“I see,” said Pons slowly, leaning back in his chair and emitting a thin plume of blue smoke from his pipe toward the ceiling. “That is the extent of all you have to tell us?”

“I should have thought that quite enough, Mr. Pons,” said the Colonel grimly. “As I have said, I could add a great deal more, but prefer to rely on personal testimony.”

“Quite,” I interjected.

Pons nodded.

“Excellent, Colonel. You have done quite right in coming to me. You may rest assured I shall look into the matter.”

He held up his hand as though to stem an expected interruption on the part of our guest.

“And you may rely upon my tact and discretion.”

“Very well, Mr. Pons.”

Colonel Mortimer got to his feet abruptly.

“I shall expect to hear from you, Mr. Pons. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night, Colonel Mortimer.”

-3-

The door clicked to behind the dapper military figure and we heard his descending footsteps followed by the faint slam of the front door. There was silence for a few moments as Pons leaned back in his chair, his eyes bright and concentrated through his pipe-smoke.

“What do you make of it, Parker?”

“I, Pons? It seems to be plain that the matter is as the Colonel says. Foy is stark, staring mad.”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. It is not unknown among financiers or newspaper proprietors, come to that. But I fancy there is something deeper behind it. Just hand me down that financial reference volume from the shelf behind you, if you would be so good.”

I did as he bade, passing the heavy tome to him, he remaining engrossed in it, sunk deep in his armchair, the volume on his knee, his brows knotted in concentration, blue whorls of smoke hanging about his absorbed figure. Presently he gave a grunt and brought it over to my own arm-chair.

“Just glance through that, Parker, if you would be so good and give me your observations.”

I went down the long column of information while Pons stood near the table looking through the open window curtains down at the darkling street.

“A busy and strenuous life, Pons.”

“Indeed, Parker.”

“A widower, I see. Wife died three years ago, according to this.”

“The fact had not escaped me, my dear fellow.”

“One child. The boy is now twelve, I observe. At school in Switzerland.”

Pons had turned from the window and stood looking down at me with sombre eyes.

“You have read all that, Parker, but what do you infer from it?”

I placed the heavy volume on the table at my side and threw up my hands in mock despair.

“What is there to be inferred from it, Pons? It is merely the record of one man’s busy public life.”

Pons went back to sit in his own chair, his lean face alive with concentration, his thin fingers, restless as the antennae of an insect, drumming softly on the leather arm.

“Much may be read from such facts, Parker.”

“If one knows how to draw such conclusions, Pons.”

He shot me a quick smile.

“Well observed, but what do you make, for example, of his life so far.”

I turned back to the book again and held it open on my knee, going down the column with my thumb.

“Well, according to this Foy was born in extremely humble circumstances. He largely educated himself at night-schools and by solitary reading. Opened a small shop in Houndsditch and had made his first financial coup by the age of twenty-one. He moved into the stock-market, public companies and the really big money before the age of thirty.”

“Exactly, Parker. You have hit the nail on the head. That is not the life-story of a man who is unbalanced, uncertain and erratic.”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“Perhaps so, Pons, but how are we to evaluate his mental and physical state in more recent years.”

My companion stared at me intently.

“That is fairly put, Parker, but I fancy we may draw a few further inferences from the available data.”

“I confess I do not see how, Pons.”

“That is because you are not looking beneath the surface. For example, Foy was elected to the Board of the Academy of Arts and Sciences in February this year. As you may have observed the volume you are studying came out only a few weeks ago and its entries are remarkably up to date.”

“Even so, Pons, I cannot imagine how that would help us.”

“Tut, Parker, you really must learn to use those ratiocinative faculties God has given you. The Academy is not noted for its ease of entry. Its membership bears grave responsibilities and its members are drawn only from the ranks of those outstanding men of science, art and industry, who have contributed a great deal to the country. Above all, they must be level-headed, masters of their professions and eminently sane to sit in the Academy’s councils.”

I stared at my companion.

“I see, Pons. But what are you inferring?”

Solar Pons puffed thoughtfully at his pipe.

“I am saying that Hugo Foy was as sane as you or I in February this year. In March, only a few weeks afterwards, he was as mad as a hatter if the Colonel’s testimony is to be believed.”

“You think something sudden and serious has happened to change him?”

“I am certain of it, Parker. As certain as we are sitting here. Something that runs entirely against the grain of the man; against the whole sober, even tenor of his life so far.”

“But may he not have been suddenly overtaken by insanity, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“I think not, Parker. I have several recent copies of the Financial Times here. I had occasion to go through them only yesterday on another matter when I could hardly help observing that Mr. Foy has been carrying out certain of his financial duties with admirable acumen. It appears to be in one field only that insanity has struck.”

And with that cryptic remark he pushed the journals over to me and not another syllable on the subject was forthcoming from him that evening.

I had to go out of town the following morning to follow up the case of a patient of mine who had had major surgery in the country, and I did not return from Hertfordshire until the late afternoon.

Pons was sitting at his table near the window absorbed in scattered sheets of paper while several bulky volumes formed a sort of rampart around the cleared space in the middle. His eyes were bright and clear and his lean, feral features bore an absorbed expression which I had come to know well.

“Ah, Parker,” he greeted me. “We progress!”

I put down my bag on my armchair and gratefully enjoyed the cool breeze which was coming in at the open windows.

“You mean the Foy case, Pons?”

“Naturally, Parker. If one can call it that at the moment.” I stared at my companion thoughtfully.

“I do not know what else you can call it, Pons. If all Colonel Mortimer says is true Hugo Foy is badly in need of help, medical or otherwise. He cannot go on in this insane manner.”

Pons lit his pipe, the flame of the match making little fiery stipples on his cheeks.

“As usual, Parker, your sturdy commonsense has hit upon the nub of the matter. But we must approach our object of study with care. I fancy we may bring about a meeting in a circuitous fashion. There is nothing so innocent and the object of enthusiasm as a man’s hobbies and he may often be taken off his guard when approached by a stranger on such an errand.”

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

“Do you not, Parker?”

There was a twinkle in Solar Pons’ eye now and he rubbed his thin fingers together with satisfaction.

“Steam yachts, Parker! Model railways!”

I turned a somewhat bewildered face to him.

“Model railways, Pons!”

“Indeed, Parker. I understand Foy is an authority on the 15-inch gauge. You will have to polish up your childhood enthusiasms.”

“I, Pons?”

Solar Pons chuckled and gave me an affirmative nod.

“You will, in fact, Parker, be one of England’s leading railway modellers. I fancy that will draw friend Foy out. And if I accompany you in your new guise, I fancy I may read much from such a man’s attitude when he is at home and off guard.” “I still do not understand you, Pons.”

“All will be made clear shortly, Parker. Ah, here is Mrs. Johnson with an excellent high tea. We are promised an exemplary ham salad followed by apple-pie and custard this evening.”

It was not until we had finished the meal that Pons again broke the heavy silence that had fallen between us. Mrs. Johnson had long cleared the things and I was sitting replete and content, studying an intriguing medical article in The Times, while a fresh and agreeable breeze came in through the half-open window, billowing the curtains and bringing with it an astonishing perfume—for Praed Street—of honeysuckle.

Pons put down the heavy, leather-bound volume he had been studying and looked at me with eyes in which enthusiasm was mingled with irony.

“If you could spare me a few minutes, my dear fellow, I would be obliged.”

I laid aside my newspaper.

“Of course, Pons.”

He moved over and brought one of the light dining-table chairs to my side.

“Here, Parker, is one of Foy’s more noted publications in the somewhat esoteric world of railway modelling. And I fancy you will find this Bassett-Lowke brochure instructive.”

I looked at my companion helplessly.

“But what am I to do with them, Pons?”

Solar Pons put his hand on my arm and said in a soothing voice, “Study them, Parker. You need only the merest gloss for my purposes. If you would be good enough to immerse yourself in them this evening in order to acquire a veneer of knowledge in the field, that will be sufficient.”

I opened the elaborate, coloured brochure, my heart sinking as I glanced at the illustrations.

“There is no getting round you, Pons,” I grumbled. “Very well, but do not blame me if this hare-brained interview comes to disaster. I promise to do my part but my mind is not so keen and adaptable as yours. I am afraid I cannot tell a fish-plate from a signal-box and if I get stuck you only have yourself to blame.”

Pons smiled again.

“You do yourself an injustice, my dear fellow.”

I went over toward the window and gazed down idly toward the street.

“But how do you know he will be there tomorrow morning, Pons?”

“Because the Colonel telephoned me this afternoon. He pointed out that Foy would be working on some books with his chief accountant earlier in the morning and that he always spent the whole day at home when thus engaged. Apparently, it is his practice to break from midday until three P.M. on these occasions. He has some sort of railway in the garden, it appears, and in summer occasionally spends an hour or so after lunch operating it.”

“Very well, Pons,” I said somewhat stiffly. “It appears that I must resign myself to this calvary.”

He looked at me sharply.

“Not a calvary, surely. You have been at my side in much more difficult not to mention dangerous situations.”

I walked back toward him and sat down again in my old chair.

“I am sorry, Pons. I am not myself this evening. I have been somewhat overworked of late and I must confess that the prospect of settling down to these wretched railway catalogues fills me with dismay.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“I am sure you will not find it difficult, Parker. And I would deeply appreciate your valuable assistance.”

“Well, if you put it like that, Pons.”

I sat down and drew the volumes toward me.

“But I know nothing of model steam locomotives, Pons. Foy will discover my ignorance in the matter in a moment.”

“I think not, Parker,” said Pons blandly. “I need the merest few minutes in the house with him. That should be sufficient for my purpose.”

I stared at my companion round-eyed.

“Then you intend to visit his home?”

“Of course. If you can spare the time. I thought just before lunch tomorrow if you can manage it.”

“It will be convenient enough for my purposes, Pons, but I cannot see the point. What do you hope to discover?”

“A little of his household arrangements. A close glimpse of the man himself.”

“But will he not think it peculiar that a fellow railway-modeller should seek him out in his own home?”

Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his right ear.

“I think not, Parker. It is my experience that enthusiasts, in whatever field they operate, seek one another out in their mutual interest. He might be a little surprised that you should call unannounced, but when he learns that you have some startling new innovation in the field to impart, I am sure you will be welcomed with open arms.”

I felt my exasperation rising but put the feeling aside.

“Come, Pons,” I protested. “What possible innovation could I devise for such an expert as Foy between now and tomorrow morning?”

“You under-estimate your powers, my dear Parker,” said Pons with maddening imperturbability. “Some new system of colour light signalling, shall we say? You will read Foy’s own views of the matter between pages 85 and 103 in his own published study yonder.”

I turned over the pages listlessly and stared uncomprehendingly at the elaborate line drawings that punctuated the text.

`That is all very well, Pons,” said I. “But how am I to explain your presence? He will be even less enthusiastic at receiving two strangers instead of one, surely.”

Solar Pons laid a lean forefinger alongside his nose, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“A point, Parker. A palpable point. But I shall introduce you as one of Europe’s foremost collectors of ‘0’ gauge steam trains which will, I think, allay his suspicions for the moment.”

Solar Pons stared at me, his mood changing to the serious.

“And I need only a few moments with him, Parker, in order to arrive at a considered assessment of his character. My own obscure nom-de-plume will be Horace Johnson.”

“I still feel uneasy about the whole matter, Pons. Will Foy not know all the leading European collectors?”

“Certainly, Parker, which is why you are assuming the persona of Eugene Sheffield.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

“Eugene Sheffield, Pons?”

“None other. He is one of the greatest experts in the field.” I put the books down at the small occasional table at my side.

“It is surely foolhardy in the extreme, Pons. Will he not know me for an impostor?”

“Tut, Parker, you really disappoint me. Sheffield and Foy have never met. To the best of my knowledge the former has never had his photograph published. And I have it on the best authority that he is at present travelling in South America studying the full-scale railway systems there.”

I rose to my feet and try as I would I could not keep the irritation from my voice.

“But we know so little of model engineering, Pons!”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“Ah, there you are certainly inaccurate, Parker. I have spent the greater part of the day studying and memorising material and data from these reference works and if I cannot, by tomorrow morning, sustain an intelligent conversation on the subject for a quarter of an hour without arousing suspicion in an expert mind, then I shall retire as a private consulting detective.”

-4-

I was up early next day and by dint of hurrying my calls and thereby scandalising some of my more elderly and querulous patients was able to return to Praed Street at a little after eleven o’clock. Pons was in excellent spirits, his manner alert and dynamic and by half-past we were in a taxi on our way to Kensington. Though I had spent some hours the previous evening studying and, as I thought, memorising salient points of the complex engineering manuals and catalogues on the model steam locomotive world, I found to my horror, that much of what had seemed simple the night before had simply slipped my memory.

Pons immediately sensed my problem and came to my rescue with a reassuring smile and his usual sound advice.

“Try not to think of specific points, my dear fellow, but the subject in general. After all, Foy may simply accept you at your face value.”

I must confess I was cheered at his attitude but as we grew nearer to our destination and the driver took a side-turning, I felt a growing apprehension. This was not assisted by the sight of the imposing-looking mansions with which we were now surrounded.

The driver drew in to the curb and looked at Pons curiously. “You didn’t specify any particular address, guvnor.”

Pons nodded affably.

“Indeed. You are perfectly correct. This will do admirably.”

We got out and I waited while Pons paid the driver. It was a superb summer’s day such as we had been enjoying for some while and the brilliant sunlight sparkled blindingly off white-painted plaster and reflected back in myriad points of dazzlement from windows, brass door-knockers and from the shimmering surfaces of coach-lamps which projected from walls and hung over doorways of the impeccably-kept mansions about us.

The Palladian porches, elaborate balconies and statued entrances of the mansions stretched in an elegant curve, each separated by high hedges and immaculately tended gardens from its neighbour. I followed Pons along the pavement and through an elaborate wrought-iron gate, up a flagged walk under an archway to a severe flight of steps which led to the entrance porch. There was an agreeable scent of roses and, above the faint murmur of traffic, came the gentle, soothing beat of a lawn-mower.

“It’s another world, Pons,” I said, casting an appreciative eye on this green, shadowy place which spoke of unobtrusive wealth and luxury.

“Is it not, Parker,” said Pons ironically, but I could see from the keen, penetrating glances he was shooting from side to side, that he was as coolly detached as ever; totally unimpressed by the milieu, which in truth he probably thought over-ornate, but alert at the same time to every nuance which might tell him something about the life-style and private problems of Hugo Foy.

We were, however, somewhat rudely interrupted by a piercing screech and so harsh and obtrusive was this in such a quiet place that I started involuntarily. Pons was smiling, however, and almost immediately I noticed what his keen eye had already picked out, a plume of white steam above the tree-tops and a few moments later came the thundering rumble of steel wheels sliding along metal rails.

“I fancy our man is not far off,” said Pons drily. “Let us just follow this path.”

He strode on down a winding, rustic by-way that led among tangled masses of flowers in rockery beds at either side and this shortly brought us to a secluded part of the garden where small gauge steel rails had been laid out, their shining ribbon sparkling in the sunlight as they gently curved and wound until they were lost to sight among the trees.

As we gained the lower level we came in full view of a remarkable spectacle. Here, laid out and back-grounded against luxuriant vegetation and thickly clustered trees was a complete scale model of a large suburban railway station with miniature chocolate machines, waiting room and even electric lighting on the platforms. Miniature signals showed red as in correct railway practice and even as we drew closer there came the sharp, repetitive clanging of the repeater bells of an electric telegraph.

Pons’ eyes sparkled with approval and he bent down at the edge of the asphalt platform, admiring the craftsmanship of the station roof with its glass panels discoloured by soot as in full-scale practice.

“Our Mr. Foy is nothing if not thorough, Parker,” he said crisply. “Let us just wait here a moment. If I mistake not the through express for Scotland should be drawing in quite shortly.”

As he spoke the signals outside the station changed to green and there was a heavy thudding vibration on the line which rose to thunder as the gleaming dark red livery of a steam locomotive broke from the heavy shadow of trees about a hundred yards away and flashed and sparkled into the sunshine. Behind it was a van and then six brown and chocolate coaches, their bright enamel and heavy brass fittings flashing and winking as the sunlight caught them. I was lost in admiration so that the strange apparition of the silver-haired man in blue dungarees, crouched in the engine cab, almost escaped me. But I was roused from my reverie by Pons removing his hat and giving the engine-driver a courtly bow.

“Forgive the liberty. Mr. Foy, is it not? My name is Horace Johnson. May I present Mr. Eugene Sheffield. One steam enthusiast meets another. Quite an historic moment.”

The dark cloud of suspicion which had gathered on the millionaire’s face—for I had recognized Hugo Foy from his newspaper representations—cleared immediately and he edged the beautiful machine gently into the station where it grunted to itself and emitted dense clouds of steam. He wiped his hands on an oily rag and leaped nimbly to the ground.

“Mr. Sheffield! I am truly honoured.”

It was only then that I remembered my assumed role.

“Beautiful, my dear sir, beautiful,” I observed. “A magnificent example of a four-six-four locomotive. Sir Nigel Apthorpe if I am not mistaken, at the head of a six-coach unit representing a King’s Cross-Edinburgh express.”

Foy moved away from the locomotive, revealing the nameplate, which I was relieved to see I had identified correctly, a smile of enthusiastic approval on his face.

“I had thought you were abroad, Mr. Sheffield,” he said, holding out his hand. “I do not usually welcome being disturbed at this hour of the day, when I indulge my hobby, but fellow enthusiasts are always welcome. Pray introduce your friend formally.”

“I have just returned home,” I said in answer to Foy’s first comment. “Allow me to present Mr. Johnson, a fellow enthusiast who, learning of my proposed visit to such a distinguished expert, asked to be allowed to accompany me.”

By Pons’ face I saw that I had acquitted myself well and was emboldened by the flush of pleasure on Foy’s face as he crossed the turf to shake hands with my companion.

“Forgive the state of my hands, gentlemen. This is a somewhat greasy hobby, as you both full well know. Will you not step into the house and let me offer you some refreshment.”

`That is extremely kind,” I said. “So long as it does not rob us of the pleasure of seeing you take Sir Nigel out again afterward.”

Foy laughed pleasantly. He had frank, open features, with the square, firm jaw often found in captains of industry; strong white teeth and lines of concentration at the corners of the mouth. He was an energetic, not to say dynamic figure but I fancy I saw signs of sorrow and strain in the depths of his brown eyes and beneath the facade of his good manners. But he took me by the elbow and guided me up the steps to the upper garden, leaving the locomotive hissing to itself in the sunshine.

“By all means, gentlemen. I know how you feel. I am fortunate in being able to devote so much space to my lay-out here in the heart of London.”

He looked at me shrewdly as we gained the higher level. “But you had a specific purpose to your visit, Mr. Sheffield?”

“Oh, indeed,” I returned.

I patted the small brown leather briefcase I carried beneath my arm.

“It is something I think will interest you.”

The eyes were concentrated to mere slits now.

“On model railway engineering?”

“Of course,” I replied. “Why else should I be here?”

Hugo Foy rubbed his begrimed fingers together with satisfaction and then carried on wiping them with a piece of oily waste he took from the pocket of his dungarees.

“Why indeed,” he said drily.

He was striding nimbly ahead, an incongruous figure in his proletarian garb against the sparkling white of the mansion which now again began to compose itself against the thick mantle of trees. He led the way At a fast pace up the steps and the ornate front door was already being opened by a white-haired butler in severe morning clothes who evinced no surprise at his master’s strange garb.

We were now inside an elegant and spacious entrance hall floored in black and white marble tiles, while a white-painted staircase arched its way upward to where a graceful round window in the far wall threw the dappled shadows of tree branches against the silk wallpaper.

“A glass of sherry and a biscuit, gentlemen? I normally eat lunch at my desk but it is not yet the hour.”

“By all means,” put in Pons smoothly. “You are most kind.”

“Most kind,” I mumbled, shooting covert glances about me as I followed Pons and our strange host across to a set of sliding rosewood doors which Foy threw peremptorily open. He led us into a magnificent panelled drawing room, exquisitely furnished with Second Empire pieces.

It was a little too ornate for my taste, not to say flamboyant, but the whole thing had been done with impeccable taste and I could see that Pons was impressed too. His lean face bore a thoughtful expression and his sharp eyes were shooting glances this way and that as we walked over toward the fireplace.

There was a beautiful rosewood desk near the mantelpiece and Foy went to seat himself behind it, waving us to chairs. As though by some unseen signal a middle-aged woman with greying hair and with a manner of great dignity and authority almost glided into the room and looked at our millionaire host questioningly.

“Ah, Mrs. Harewood,” he said with that easy, pleasant manner I have often observed among the very rich, “I would be obliged if you would have sent in some sherry and the dry special biscuits. Or better still, bring them yourself.”

“By all means, Mr. Foy.”

The housekeeper, for so I took her to be, gave us a tight-lipped smile as she turned from her employer and came back down the room toward the door. I fancied I caught on her own features some of that repressed sadness I had noticed in Foy himself and I was intrigued. It seemed obvious that the madness that was descending on the master of the house had also cast its shadow on these devoted retainers for the butler also, as he let us in, had looked at Foy in a somewhat wistful, reflective manner as though he had hidden thoughts he found difficult to repress.

“Your son also has a deep interest in your model engineering activities, Mr. Foy?” said Pons pleasantly.

The question was innocuous enough but I saw the housekeeper start as though she had been stung and she could not repress a stifled cry. Pons’ deep-set eyes were fixed upon her unwinkingly but Foy’s reaction was even more startling. He turned ashy-white and sagged in his chair as though he would have fallen. His eyes glittered strangely as he stared from Pons to me like a wild animal at bay. Then he had recovered himself and the bizarre, even dangerous expression of his face, resumed normality.

“Naturally, Mr. Johnson,” he said in a little too forced a tone.

His eyes sought the housekeeper’s and there was anger in them now. She had a handkerchief out and pressed to her face as she quitted the room rather abruptly. But Pons appeared to have noticed nothing, merely glancing round the vast room, as though with tacit approval.

“He is not here at the moment?”

The millionaire shook his head. He was master of himself again.

“At school in Switzerland,” he ventured in a harsh, barking tone. “But you did not come here to see my son, Mr. Johnson. Shall we get down to the business at hand? My time is limited, gentlemen.”

“Of course, Mr. Foy,” I said, somewhat desperately, for I realised that my thin and newly-acquired veneer of expertise was now to be put to a severe test.

“It was good of you to see us at all.”

His manner changed immediately. He had been glancing at Pons in a somewhat suspicious manner but now he relaxed, spreading his hands wide on the arm of his chair.

“Think nothing of it, gentlemen. My miniature railway activities are my most important private interest.”

A slight look of weariness passed across his face.

“A passion you might almost say. But perhaps it would be best to reserve discussion until after Mrs. Harewood returns with the refreshments.”

“By all means, Mr. Foy,” I replied, secretly glad of the opportunity of putting my briefcase aside.

Pons had risen now, with a muttered apology, and quitting his chair moved slowly to the mantelpiece.

“I see you have some exquisite Meissen, Mr. Foy.”

The millionaire looked at Pons sharply, putting his begrimed hands down on the blotter on his desk, where they sat like two quivering antennae.

“You are a man of discernment, Mr. Johnson.”

Pons bowed gracefully but I could see his gaze sweeping across the silver-framed photographs on the desk and mantel-shelf.

We were interrupted at that moment by the return of the housekeeper with a rubber-wheeled trolley on which reposed a silver tray, a crystal decanter, three matching glasses and a porcelain biscuit barrel, hand-painted with delicate primrose patterns. She handed me a plate and went over toward Pons.

I put mine down nervously on a small occasional table at my elbow. Even the plates looked like collector’s items and I was afraid I might break mine, such was the state of my nerves. Only Pons of all the people in the room seemed to be master of himself and he glanced at me with twinkling eyes, perfectly at ease as he stood by the mantel.

I noticed he again had his gaze fixed upon a large cabinet photograph in a silver frame which appeared to depict Foy, an elegant woman, presumably his wife, and a small child. He turned from the picture as the housekeeper moved to the trolley to pour the sherry.

“Regarding your son, Mr. Foy,” said Pons musingly. “A handsome child is he not . . .”

He broke off and I looked at the housekeeper in astonishment. Mrs. Harewood gave a choking cry and put the decanter back on the tray with a heavy clatter. She looked wildly round the room for a moment and then rushed out. Heavy sobs could be heard in the hallway. I got up as the millionaire crouched like a beast at bay behind his desk. His face was grey and his oil-covered hands clenched and unclenched as though he could not control them. I fancied I could hear the grinding of his teeth as he forced the words out through his trembling lips.

“Who are you and what do you want here?”

He was addressing Pons, not me and I stared in alarm at the wild-looking figure of Hugo Foy, whose control seemed to have left him entirely. Solar Pons put his hands in his pockets and looked at our host coolly, a wistful smile on his lips.

“Well, I am not a miniature railway enthusiast, Mr. Foy, as you have no doubt divined. Shall we just say one who has your interests at heart.”

The millionaire was on his feet now, his face distorted with anger and fright. I have never seen such a change come over a man in all my years of medical practice.

“No-one can help me, Mr. Johnson! I desire no help! Kindly leave my house at once.”

Pons gave Foy a little bow, his eyes never leaving the other’s face.

“If you should need my assistance at any time, Mr. Foy, I will be in touch with you at a later date.”

The millionaire’s face blazed with anger and a little colour was coming back into his face.

“How dare you gain entrance to my home under false pretences! I have a good mind to call the police.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“An excellent idea, Mr. Foy. I observe there is a telephone on the desk at your elbow. I shall await their arrival with interest.”

Foy bit his lip and he appeared to sway on his feet. He passed a hand over his face with a wearisome gesture.

“Forgive me, Mr. Johnson, or whatever your name is. All the same I should be grateful if you would leave me in peace.” Solar Pons inclined his head.

“As you wish, Mr. Foy. But you have not heard the last of us.” I followed him out of the room, clutching my briefcase, only thankful that I had not had to expose my flimsy railway  expertise to the scrutiny of the millionaire. The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen and a pert maid let us out, wide-eyed and obviously agitated. Solar Pons strode back through the sunshine of the grounds so swiftly that I had difficulty keeping up with him.

“Well, Parker, what do you make of it?”

I shook my head, watching our shadows, long and heavy on the dusty path.

“Mr. Foy has all the aspect of an angry and guilty man, Pons.”

“Has he not, Parker. We shall have to act quickly. He is a person labouring under severe mental strain and may do anything in his present mood.”

A sudden thought flickered across my mind, like a faint streak of lightning against dark cloud.

“Heavens, Pons! You do not think he would do harm to his own child? His agitation stemmed from your questions about the boy.”

I stopped and stared at Pons as the implications sank in. “Perhaps money is involved. You surely do not imply . . .” Pons interrupted me abruptly with an emphatic shake of his head. We resumed our walk toward the entrance to the grounds.

“A mentally sick man could do anything, Pons,” I said slowly. ‘The Colonel’s observations may be only the tip of the iceberg. Ought we not to call in a mental specialist?”

Solar Pons had a faint smile at the corners of his mouth now.

“Hardly, Parker. You forget we have no standing in this matter at all. We are here on sufferance, at the behest of your acquaintance, Colonel Mortimer. We shall have to tread very warily indeed if I am to unravel this business.”

And he said no more until we had regained our own quarters in Praed Street.

-5-

We fell to on a late lunch and Mrs. Johnson had no sooner cleared the first course than Pons filled his pipe and sat puffing moodily, until he was enveloped in plumes of acrid blue smoke. I stood it as long as I could and then moved pointedly nearer the open window. Pons smiled sardonically.

“Forgive me, my dear fellow. Just let me have your own impressions of the sudden madness of Mr. Hugo Foy, now that you have had the opportunity of observing him at close quarters.”

I shook my head.

“I am no nearer plumbing the depths than I was before the visit, Pons.”

“Come, Parker. Surely you have formed some opinions?”

“He is obviously mad, Pons. You saw how he behaved today. We already have all the examples enumerated by Colonel Mortimer and he is a man not at all given to exaggeration.”

Pons drew his eyebrows together, his forehead corrugated with concentration.

“I must take your word for that, Parker. The boy appears to be the key to this matter.”

“His son, Pons?”

My companion nodded, his face grim through the smoke. A sudden thought had come to me. I stared at him as though thunderstruck.

“You are not suggesting that he has done away with the child, Pons? It is too horrible to contemplate!”

Solar Pons blew smoke away from his face impatiently.

“You are not concentrating, Parker. Mr. Foy’s madness is in one area only. I postulate that this is of the utmost significance.”

I glanced at him sharply through the wreathing bands of smoke.

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

My companion chuckled.

“It would not be the first time, Parker, if I may say so without offence. Just use your considerable ratiocinative gifts and we will go through the salient points together, one by one.”

“Well Pons, it seems to me that we have already discussed the subject ad nauseam. Of what use can it be me going through the thing again, when all is so dark?”

Solar Pons gave me an approving look.

“Modesty was ever one of your virtues, Parker. You are the man in the street, par excellence, if I may make so bold.”

“You have not offended me, Pons, but your meaning is not at all clear.”

“You are the supreme catalyst, Parker. You put your objections to the matters under discussion so simply and clearly that I have no difficulty in eliminating the dross, which facilitates my going to the heart of the matter.”

“You certainly have a very elaborate way of dressing up your disparaging remarks,” I grumbled.

My companion shot me an approving smile.

“I am waiting, Parker.”

“Mr. Foy appears to be, as you say, insane on only one subject.”

“And that is?”

“His business life. He was certainly as matter-of-fact as I in his operating of that model railway.”

Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.

`There you have it, Parker. A palpable hit. Your bluff manner conceals considerable shrewdness.”

“Come, Pons, I am tiring of the game in this heat. You surely have some indications which lead you in a particular direction?”

Pons nodded.

“I have had some exhaustive inquiries made, Parker. The implications are disturbing.”

My impatience must have shown on my face for my companion relented.

“Here, my dear fellow.”

He rummaged in an inside pocket of his jacket and thrust a typewritten document toward me. It bore the printed heading of a well-known department of the public service and was headed Confidential. The word was underlined three times.

“What does this mean, Pons?” I stumbled out.

I looked at the figures in amazement, the blood draining from my face.

“Hugo Foy’s late wife was the daughter of a Bolivian tin millionaire, Parker. She left three million pounds sterling in trust for her son at her death.”

I looked at the document again, hardly daring to analyse the thoughts raised within my own mind. They were ugly, unbelievable thoughts and I felt a small bead of perspiration trickle down my forehead.

“Her son inherits the money at the age of twenty-one.” “Precisely, Parker.”

I raised my head from the paper.

“And if the son dies before attaining his majority that vast sum of money passes unconditionally to Hugo Foy. It raises ugly possibilities, to put it no higher.”

Solar Pons’ face was grim.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. There is the question here of his relations with his wife.”

I stared at my companion blankly.

“You are surely not suggesting that Mrs. Foy’s own death was not due to natural causes? Great Heavens, Pons!”

Solar Pons shook his head slowly.

“I am suggesting nothing, Parker. But we must be alert to all possibilities in such a matter. These waters may be deeper than the Colonel imagined.”

I looked at him sharply.

“There is something you have not told me, Pons.”

“You are distinctly improving, Parker. I have already cabled to the Swiss police this morning.”

He brought out a buff form from his pocket and passed it to me. I scanned the printed wording, coldness irradiating my spine. It was from Zurich and said simply:

FOY CHILD ILL IN ENGLAND. WRITTEN REPORT FOLLOWS. — VAUCHER.

Pons put his hand on his lip as the heavy tread of Mrs. Johnson sounded on the stairs.

“We will take this up again after lunch is concluded, Parker.”

-6-

I was called away that afternoon on an emergency concerning an elderly patient and saw little of Pons for the next two days. Fortunately, my patient was well out of danger by then and I was able to relax my efforts. The hospital to which I had had him conveyed was in the Holborn area and I was on my way to the nearest Tube station when I was arrested by the sight of a newsvendor’s placard at the entrance. It proclaimed in heavy black type: CRISIS IN PARAGONIA. “TIGER” MARCEAU SAYS HE WILL RETURN.

I would probably have thought little more of it—after all, crises in South America are hardly uncommon—when my eye was taken by another handwritten poster for The Star next to the previous announcement. That proclaimed: SOUTH AMERICAN SHARES SLUMP; HUGO FOY AT CENTRE OF CRISIS. With Colonel Mortimer’s choleric face flashing before me I hastily paid my halfpenny and plunged into the depths of the station. On my way home I perused the headlines and stories with deep interest, almost missing my stop in consequence.

There were two major stories; the crisis in Paragonia itself and the moves to combat it by the military dictator in charge: and two pages of gloomy City news inside regarding the landslide in South American shares. Apparently a gigantic new industrial scheme in that unhappy country involving a dam and a hydro-electric power plant, essential to the economy of the country, was endangered.

I must confess I could not at first see whether the military crisis had been engendered by the share fluctuations or the other way around but when I read that the conglomerates which Hugo Foy controlled were behind the hydro-electric scheme I began to see the deep nature and gravity of the situation.

I arrived home plunged in gloom, not only because the plight of such wretched countries always involves human suffering on a colossal scale, but because I was concerned also with Mortimer’s potential financial loss and the additional problems in which this might involve Pons. I was prepared then for a sombre countenance on Pons’ part but was staggered on my arrival at 7B to find the room blue with smoke; my friend puffing furiously at his pipe as he sat at the centre of it, engrossed in a pile of evening newspapers; his eyes shining with excitement; and every atom of his being infused with decision.

“Ah, you have seen the papers, Parker!” he said crisply. “We progress!”

“You cannot mean it, Pons,” I replied. “I see nothing but chaos and difficulty for that unhappy country.”

“Tut, Parker,” he said irritably, though his dancing eyes belied the tone, “Passing shadows. The mere effect of a cause which is no longer obscure to me. It is as though the Foy case is spread out clear and plain where all was murky before.”

I put my case down and slumped into my armchair.

“I wish you would make yourself more intelligible, Pons,” I complained. “It is far from clear and plain to me.”

We were interrupted at that moment by the thunderous tread of feet on the stairs and the somewhat dishevelled form of Colonel Mortimer literally erupted into the room. He clutched a newspaper in his hand and his eyes had a dull glitter which I did not like.

“Have you seen the news, Mr. Pons!” he groaned. “It is utter disaster for the Foy empire.”

“Pray do not distress yourself, Colonel,” said Pons coolly. “On the contrary, as I have just been telling friend Parker here, we begin to see daylight.”

Mortimer slumped into the chair I held out for him, suddenly conscious that he must present a somewhat ludicrous sight.

“You cannot mean it, Mr. Pons!”

Pons cast me a glance of amused sympathy.

“You are beginning to sound like friend Parker, Colonel,” he said. “Nevertheless, what I say is nothing but the literal truth. These events in Paragonia present me for the first time with a chain of connected events. I have already been in touch with friend Jamison.”

I stared at my friend bewilderedly.

“For what purpose, Pons?”

“Why, Parker, the reason is surely obvious. We must have official backing where there are people of diplomatic status involved. And we have little enough time to lose.”

Colonel Mortimer was a trifle more himself again. I hastened to pour him a glass of brandy and water from the sideboard, which he took in great gulps as though it were a bitterly cold day and he just rescued from drowning.

“It is obvious, Mr. Pons, you know a great deal more than we do. This is a serious business.”

“It is, Colonel,” said Pons grimly. “It is far more serious than a mere matter of stocks and shares. Human life is at stake and I cannot afford to make the slightest miscalculation!”

I stared at him, my features, I fear, stiffening with astonishment. He rose from his chair and put his hand gently on my arm.

“Patience, my dear Parker. The Colonel’s problems are connected merely with scraps of paper. Human life is something else again.”

“I most certainly agree with you, Mr. Pons,” said Colonel Mortimer stiffly, draining the last of his tumbler. “You must forgive me, sir. You have only to say if I can be of any service.”

Pons’ voice had moderated as he turned toward our visitor.

“Your sentiments do you great credit, Colonel. Believe me when I say I have the matter well in hand. And if I bring this business to a successful conclusion well, then, the enterprises in which Mr. Hugo Foy is engaged will recover of themselves. My advice to you is to go home and get a good night’s sleep. I will be in touch with you just as soon as I have anything concrete to report.”

The colour was back in Colonel Mortimer’s cheeks now. “As you will, Mr. Pons,” he said, shaking my companion by the hand. “I have every confidence in you, sir.”

“I appreciate the fact,” said Pons gravely. “Parker, if you would be so kind as to show our visitor out.”

When I returned from the lower hall I found Pons sunk in a brown study, his chin resting on his hands, his eyes sombre and drawn to brilliant points of light.

However, he roused himself as I drew near.

“You have your revolver handy, Parker?”

“Indeed, Pons,” I replied with surprise. “I do not understand your question.”

“No matter. We may have need of it before this business is through. I take it I can rely upon your support?”

“Indeed, Pons,” I said somewhat stiffly. “You know you can always rely upon that.”

I sat down in the armchair opposite him and studied him closely.

“You have something in mind, Pons?”

He nodded somewhat impatiently, his eyes narrowed almost to slits.

“I am poised on a knife-edge, Parker. I have almost all the threads of this affair in my hands. But my suppositions are circumstantial only. And if I go wrong there may be a dreadful tragedy.”

I made an instinctive movement in the chair.

“In what way may I help you, Pons?”

“By being a catalyst, Parker. You are always that. And by giving me your always valuable support. Are you free this evening?”

I nodded.

“Most certainly, Pons.”

“Excellent!”

He rubbed his thin hands together.

“I have taken the liberty of telephoning our usual establishment to hire a motor vehicle for the next two or three days. It should be here shortly. In the meantime, while we are waiting, I should be glad if you would fetch your revolver and a box of cartridges.”

“Certainly, Pons.”

I complied though still somewhat puzzled and when I returned to our sitting-room I found Pons standing at the window, looking down at the street.

“The vehicle has arrived, Parker. It is the machine you have been used to driving on previous occasions. Mrs. Johnson has brought up the keys. She will be up again directly with some sandwiches and coffee. We shall have to wait until it is almost dusk before we set out and I am only sorry we could not delay until you have had a more substantial meal.”

“It does not matter, Pons,” I said. “I have not yet read all the details of this baffling business.”

Over the coffee I perused the newspaper headings and the two related stories at my leisure; both the events detailed in the financial pages, as I have already indicated, seemed interconnected with the trouble in Paragonia which occupied the front two pages of the newspaper. I put it down at last and sat regarding Pons who was draining his second cup of coffee at the table opposite.

“Just who is this Tiger Marceau, Pons?”

He chuckled grimly.

“About the most dangerous man in South America, Parker. A born adventurer and saboteur, the son of a French father and an American Indian woman. He has been behind nine-tenths of the mischief in that unhappy corner of the world for the past dozen years or so.”

“I see you have studied him, Pons.”

“Have I not, Parker. Such exotic animals interest me as much as the zoo-keeper absorbed in some rare but savage beast which is put in his charge.”

“But how is he concerned here?”

Pons picked up his pipe and tapped its bowl against an ashtray, making a sharp, explosive sound in the room.

“You may be sure he is one of the linchpins, Parker. Titus O’Hara, the President and purportedly the strong-man of Paragonia, is nothing but a puppet figure. Mark my words, Marceau is behind the trouble there, with O’Hara making all the required noises. The Tiger is aptly named. He is a professional assassin, a trained saboteur and a deadly killer. From what I have read this case of Foy’s bears all the earmarks of his methods.”

“I must confess I am absolutely confused at all this, Pons. Hydro-electric schemes; Foy’s involvement; Tiger Marceau and O’Hara; everything is disconnected in my estimation.”

“Yet there is an overriding link,” said my companion sombrely. “It was idiotic of me not to see it sooner. Let us just pray we are in time.”

He sprang to his feet suddenly, as though invisible machinery had instantaneously animated his limbs.

“It grows dark, Parker. Now, if you are ready, we must be off!”

-7-

I moved along the tall brick wall, keeping close behind Pons, the velvety shadows of leaves across our faces. I had left our hired Morris tourer in a quiet side-street a short distance away and we had walked to Hugo Foy’s residence. We had found an unlocked side gate and now skirted the vast garden, making our way toward the lit bulk of the house.

Twice we had had to pass the entrance gate because of a patrolling policeman but now all was quiet, the only sounds the occasional soft footfall of a passer-by on the dusty pavement in the distance and the soft whisper of even more distant traffic.

“You are certain Foy is at home, Pons?”

Pons nodded, his voice low and urgent as he replied.

“There is no doubt about his movements this evening. I have had Brother Bancroft take care of that.”

I paused in surprise.

“The Foreign Office, Pons?”

“Naturally, Parker. They were already au fait with the outlines of the affair and when I pointed out the possibilities to Bancroft he was swift to move, despite his bulk.”

There was a faint smile on his face as he turned back to the house and put his finger to his lips. We were now within the shadow cast by a vast cedar tree at the edge of the lawn and from this vantage point, unseen ourselves, though the brilliant moonlight picked out every leaf and blade of grass, we waited, our eyes fixed upon the entrance steps of Hugo Foy’s mansion and the yellow lozenge of light imprinted upon the frosted glass of the front door.

We had not been there more than twenty minutes when the faint hum of a car strengthened to a loud rumble. Pons drew me back into the deepest shadow of the tree-trunk.

“This may perhaps be something, Parker. Let us hope so.”

Yellow beams of light from car headlamps swept up the gravel and as near as I could make out in the moonlight a large, gleaming closed car of the very largest and most expensive type crunched to a halt in front of the entrance steps. There was obviously another driveway to the house which allowed access for motor vehicles.

“Goodness, Pons,” I murmured, “that is an imposing-looking vehicle.”

“Is it not, Parker. A Mercedes-Benz, I fancy.”

I glanced at his dim face in surprise.

“I did not know you were an expert on motor-cars, Pons.”

“Neither am I, Parker. But with these night-glasses I should be hard put to it to mistake the distinctive motif on the bonnet.”

I saw now that he had a small pair of binoculars to his eyes and he focused them impatiently as the door of the automobile slammed to. A few moments later a bulky figure in evening dress hurried up the steps. He was evidently expected for the porch-light winked on momentarily and the front door was rapidly opened to admit him, and as rapidly closed behind him, while the light went off.

I glanced at Pons again but held my peace, contenting myself with straining my eyes through the moonlight to where the Mercedes stood. I could now see that there was no chauffeur; the man in evening dress had evidently driven himself. I saw something else too; a large piece of coloured cloth limply moving at the front of the bonnet.

“What on earth is that, Pons?” I whispered. “It looks like a flag.”

“It is a pennant, Parker. The Mercedes is a diplomatic vehicle. Unless I miss my guess it comes from the Paragonian Embassy.”

I looked at him sharply.

“Good heavens, Pons! But what does this mean? Are Foy and the Paragonians plotting something diabolical . . .”

Pons seized me firmly by the arm and drew me even farther back into the shadow.

“It means, my dear Parker, that my suppositions were correct. We have little time. Would you be good enough to fetch the car round, avoiding drawing attention to yourself if possible. I should park at least a hundred yards from Foy’s entrance in order to remain inconspicuous. Kindly remain behind the wheel and ready to drive off until I rejoin you.”

“Certainly, Pons. What will you be doing?”

“I shall keep the house under observation until our friend leaves. I wish to know whether he will be alone or whether Foy will accompany him. If the latter it will complicate matters. I can regain the road without being seen while our man turns the car round.”

“Very well, Pons. It will not take me more than five minutes.”

I must say I did an excellent job of keeping in the darkest patches of shadow as I made my way from the garden and less than four minutes had elapsed before I was once more behind the wheel of the Morris. I drove back and parked some way down the road from Foy’s house, beneath some trees, as Pons had requested. I had no sooner switched the engine off before I heard a car start up somewhere behind the thick hedge which led to the shadowy garden. I was wondering what to do when the lean form of Pons appeared at the edge of the pavement. In a few strides he was at the passenger door.

“Gently, Parker. We must not alarm him. Our man—I believe it to be the Ambassador himself—is alone. We must make certain what direction he is taking before he drives off or we shall lose him. And we cannot afford that.”

He slipped into the seat beside me.

“But the Ambassador, Pons! What does it all mean?”

Solar Pons looked at me sternly.

“It must be of vital importance for the Ambassador himself to risk coming here tonight. It is life and death, certainly! Ah, here is our man!”

He put his hand on my arm, preventing me from switching on the ignition, and we waited tensely as the yellow headlamp beams of the Mercedes swept down the drive toward the main road.

Instead of coming toward us, as I had feared, it glided majestically to the right, away from us down the road. Pons’ hand had lifted from my arm now and I switched on the ignition, easing out from the kerb as the rear-lights of the Mercedes disappeared round the corner.

“Side-lights only, Parker,” came Pons’ calm voice. “At least, all the while we are beneath the metropolitan street lamps.”

I had turned the corner now and was relieved to see the Mercedes going away from us at a stately pace so that I was able to keep a fair distance between the two vehicles without losing sight of our quarry.

“If I had known that you needed me for following such a vehicle, Pons,” I said somewhat irritably, “we could have hired a more powerful machine.”

“That is perfectly true,” said my companion equably, “and it is unfortunate that we are ill-matched so far as speed is concerned. However, the question does not arise all the time we are within the built-up areas.”

“But what if he goes into the country, Pons?”

“That is another matter entirely, Parker, but I fancy the gentleman in front of us would not wish to draw attention to himself by excessive speed, unless I very much miss my guess.”

For the first half-hour it was as Pons had predicted; the Mercedes proceeded with almost majestic calm, moving smoothly away from traffic lights and almost idling on its way, though I could truly appreciate the reserves of power beneath the bonnet by the way it drew easily ahead of the more plebeian traffic.

We were travelling almost due south now and we soon struck the Bayswater Road, where the Mercedes turned right and straight on through Holland Park Avenue toward Chiswick. The big machine turned left over Kew Bridge without any hesitation, the Thames like a steel engraving in the moonlight, and went unerringly in the southerly direction, its pace still unhurried.

I had dropped back to allow several other vehicles between us and I was certain the man driving the car in front was too absorbed in his task to realise that he was being followed, the traffic being fairly thick tonight and the lights of headlights and from street-lamps and signs making a raucous symphony of colour. Pons leaned forward and rubbed his thin hands together.

“It will be Surrey, Parker! I was certain it would not be far.” “I am not at all clear, Pons ...” I began when he motioned me to silence.

At almost the same moment I noticed that the big machine was turning yet again. We had already skirted Kew Gardens and the Old Deer Park and now, the road through Richmond Park being closed to vehicular traffic at dusk, our quarry was going left again to take Upper Richmond Road before turning sharp right in the direction of Kingston.

Pons sat back with satisfaction, his keen eyes never leaving the opulent motor-car ahead, while his thin fingers were engaged in filling his pipe with tobacco. As soon as he had got it drawing to his satisfaction, the bowl making little fiery stipples on his sharp, ascetic features, he turned to me, the fragrant smoke eddies hanging about his head.

“It would not be far from Central London, Parker. Surrey would do nicely. Accessibility combined with surprising remoteness from the urban centres.”

He seemed to be musing to himself.

“In parts one could almost be in the Highlands of Scotland.”

“It is the pines, Pons,” I said.

“Eigh?”

He looked at me sharply, as though seeing me for the first time.

“You are occasionally surprisingly irrelevant, Parker, but I could not wish for a more ideal companion.”

I kept my eyes fixed on the vehicle ahead. There were two other cars between us still, with a motor lorry just overtaking our own vehicle. I dropped back a little farther, just in case the driver of the Mercedes happened to be looking in his mirror.

“It is good of you to say so, Pons. Ah, he is turning again.”

The Mercedes indeed drew to the right of the junction; he evidently intended to skirt Kingston as we were now going in the direction of Malden.

“I give him another ten minutes, Parker,” Pons breathed. ‘Within easy reach of civilisation and yet remote enough. Let us hope it will not be too far for us to reach a telephone kiosk.”

“For what purpose, Pons?”

My companion turned to me in surprise.

“Why, to summon assistance, Parker, assuming my suppositions are proved correct. Bancroft is standing by and Jamison and a squad of armed police can be out here within the hour.”

I concealed my surprise as we had arrived at the junction now and I was engaged in turning across the traffic. The Mercedes was already well away and I had some little difficulty in drawing within a reasonable distance. We were now in a sparsely populated area of open heathland clad with thick trees and the Mercedes turned left after a few hundred yards, along a secondary lane. I slowed and looked at Pons enquiringly. The headlights of the big machine were clearly visible among the trees as it went steadily away from the main road.

“We shall have to risk it, Parker,” said Pons crisply. “If you can drive on the sidelights without putting us in the ditch so much the better.”

“There is a hotel almost opposite,” I said, indicating a low-built road-house from which a crimson glow shone invitingly. ‘We should be able to telephone from there.”

“Providing the Ambassador intends to stop in this vicinity,” Pons observed. “The lane may go straight through to join up with another road.”

I had pulled off the main thoroughfare, bumping into the narrow entrance and had almost immediately followed Pons’ suggestion, retaining only the sidelights. It was not very difficult following the big car in the bright moonlight as I could still see the glow from its own headlamps but the deep shadow cast by clumps of trees made visibility difficult at times. A cluster of cottages slid by, oil lamps burning in the windows.

“Truly rural,” I observed.

“You are developing a pretty wit, Parker,” said Pons blandly. “But please oblige me by concentrating all your attention upon the road.”

We had not far to go, fortunately, for almost immediately after Pons spoke I noticed the headlights blink out. At my companion’s muttered injunction I pulled the Morris off the lane on to a grass verge beneath a thickly sheltered hedgerow. A second more and both engine and sidelights were off. Pons was already down from the vehicle, striding swiftly along the lane and I was hard put to keep up with him.

-8-

I could hear the door of the Mercedes slamming somewhere far ahead and a moment or two later we saw lights pricking the shadows. We now found a high brick wall at our right hand and I saw Pons glance at it with an expression of concern.

I realised its significance, of course, and made no comment. Pons had thrust his empty pipe into his pocket and the lines of his ascetic features were stern and sombre in the moonlight. The lane widened out now into a gravel concourse debouching into rather grand entrance columns. The big iron gates were thrown back but the brick-built entrance lodge was dark and silent.

Pons paused, putting his hand on my arm. The drive curved through heavy banks of rhododendron and azalea, disappearing in the foliage and the shadow. Lights still showed faintly through the trees so it was evident that the house was not far. On the stonework of the nearest pillar was incised the legend: LANSDALE HOUSE.

“It looks as though it will be safe to walk down the drive,” I whispered.

Pons gave me a warning look and put his fingers on his lips. He pulled me swiftly back into the shelter of thick clumps of shrubbery which grew up against the outside walls at this point. I heard the thin, sharp sound of a door slamming a fraction later. Heavy footsteps sounded on the gravel and then a bright yellow light winked on in the mass of wrought iron that arched over the gateway.

A high, squeaking noise followed which set my teeth on edge. Someone was evidently closing and locking the gates for there followed a heavy clatter and then the rattle of a chain. There was silence for a few moments; the light went out again and the heavy shuffle of the footsteps ceased. The far slam of the door sounded and Pons relaxed.

“It does not always pay to follow one’s original instincts, my dear fellow,” he whispered. “We must find some less obvious way in.”

He eased slowly out from the bushes and I followed. Apart from the cottages Lansdale House was apparently the only house for miles as thick belts of woodland stretched away into the far distance. Pons looked thoughtfully through the bars of the locked gates to where the lodge sat dark and brooding.

“Interesting, Parker. Another small verification of my theories.”

“I do not follow, Pons.”

We had drawn away now and were walking very quietly and cautiously on the long grass in the shadow of the wall.

“There are no lights from the lodge, Parker. Either the people there are sitting in darkness or they have very thick curtains inside—or possibly shutters. And there was no bell on the gate.”

“I still do not quite see the point, Pons.”

“Tut, Parker, it is obvious. The people in the house do not wish to be disturbed; cannot be disturbed. If the lodge is empty and deserted and the gate locked and there is no means of contacting the people at the mansion, then any possible visitor is frustrated in his intentions. These people dare not draw attention to themselves. And any incautious person who tried to walk down the drive or open the gate, when it is closed, would be prevented from doing so by the person or persons in the lodge. Who are obviously on the look-out.”

“You read a good deal more into it than I, Pons. It sounds very sinister.”

My friend furrowed his brow.

“It is sinister, Parker. Dark and sinister.”

“But why did they not stop the Ambassador, Pons?”

“Because he was expected. And they obviously knew his vehicle for he drove straight through without stopping, as we observed. Now, let us see whether a turn at right-angles will serve our purposes.”

We had reached the end of the wall now, a couple of hundred yards farther on and there was nothing bordering the lane but a wire fence and a low, straggly hedge, which had many gaps in it. Pons was already over and I followed cautiously.

Once through the hedge we were in more or less open fields, broken only by heavy clumps of trees. The glimmer of a large pond in the far distance reflected back the moonlight. The brick wall continued at our right but as we advanced farther into the open country it gave way to a wire fence and heavy shrubbery. Pons grunted with satisfaction as the glimmer of the houselights showed again, above the tree-tops.

“We are in luck, Parker. If we cannot find a gap somewhere along here to suit then I will retire from practice.”

I smiled to myself.

“Somehow I cannot see that happening,” I whispered.

I had no sooner got the words out of my mouth when, rounding a heavy clump of bushes I blundered into a solid shape. For one horrifying moment, as the great body loomed over me, I thought we were discovered. I had my revolver out when Pons’ steadying hand on my arm brought me to myself. The intruder resolved itself into the form of a horse, which went snorting away into the darkness of the trees.

“Good heavens, Pons!” I spluttered. “That gave me a fright.”

“It was quite understandable, my dear fellow,” said my companion drily. “Let us hope that the animal has not aroused the household. There is always the possibility there may be guards in the grounds.”

I stared at him thoughtfully.

“What on earth are you expecting here, Pons?”

“There is no time to explain, Parker. MI is still quiet at any event. I think this will do nicely.”

So saying he eased himself quickly through a large gap in an old chestnut spile fence that bordered the estate at this point. When I followed him I found we were on the far side of the thick shrubbery which fringed the drive. We were quite close to the house here.

We moved cautiously through the undergrowth, keeping away from the area of the drive and in the deep shadow. The house gradually resolved itself into a vast Victorian pile, overhung by massive cedar trees and with a huge porch modelled on the Palladian style. In the drive in front were the Mercedes-Benz driven by the Ambassador and two other vehicles, one of which I recognised as an Austin saloon.

The drive curved to the left and we followed it, keeping well into the shadow. There was a stable block here and obvious servants’ quarters for we could hear water running and the clink of dishes being washed. Presently the paved area of the stables gave out but we continued in the same direction and came on to rough grass which led in turn to smooth lawn and formal gardens.

I continued behind Pons who moved unhesitatingly down the vast red-brick facade of the house. We were on a tiled terrace now, with clumps of statuary at intervals and clipped box hedges bordering it. There was an overpowering smell of magnolia from somewhere.

Up ahead yellow oblongs of light stabbed the gloom, imprinting the dark silhouettes of the French windows upon the terrace. I had my revolver out again but my companion motioned to me to put it away. We were now obliged to cover the few remaining yards to the lighted casements extremely cautiously as it was obvious they were wide open and I could smell the strong odour of cigar smoke on the still July air.

Fortunately, quite close to the windows there was a rose trellis or pergola set at right angles to the house and we were able to conceal ourselves behind that. I eased forward with Pons and was able to see a small corner of what appeared to be a billiard-room for there were green-shaded lamps and a rack of cues screwed to the far wall.

Smoke hung slightly quivering near the window curtains so it was evident that a man was standing close by, perhaps watching a game, for I could hear the soft click of ivory as someone played a shot. I was as still as death, however, as Pons’ rigid pose and extreme concentration communicated the urgency and deadly seriousness of our presence there that evening.

He pulled back slightly after a minute or so and glanced upward at the black facade of the house above our heads. A solitary light gleamed through the darkness of the upper storeys at this side of the mansion. Pons’ eyes were gleaming and I had seldom seen such dynamic energy as animated his frame at that moment. I could now hear someone speaking from within the room with the French windows and a shadow suddenly imprinted itself upon the tiles. I started back into deeper shadow to find that Pons had done the same.

The voice was a little clearer. The language was a foreign one, vaguely Spanish but with a strange accent. Pons gave a slight smile of satisfaction as he caught my eye. Other voices joined in and a small red dot hung in the air beyond the foliage. As I focused my eyes it became discernible as the end of a lighted cigar held by a man in dark clothing. He was standing just at the entrance to the terrace, taking in the night air and looking out across the garden. He turned to go back in and as he did so he presented a brief view of a most remarkable face.

It was swarthy and dark; certainly Spanish-looking with fine, intelligent eyes. The hair was jet-black but curiously there was a band of pure white which ran from the temple straight across the middle of the hairline to the back. He could not have been more than about thirty-five though, for the complexion was pale and smooth, quite free of wrinkles. A long, drooping black moustache could not conceal the cruelty of the thin, red-lipped mouth which parted to take in the cigar butt, revealing strong irregular yellow teeth.

But it was the vivid diagonal scar which puckered from the right-hand side of the mouth almost to the right eye-socket which gave this extraordinary visage its shocking ferocity. The effect on Pons was electric. As this vision disappeared within the room with a strange gliding motion he expelled his breath with an almost audible sound in the stillness of the garden.

“Excellent, Parker! Let us hope that the Ambassador is remaining for it will certainly take another hour before we can hope for assistance to arrive.”

We had withdrawn some way down the terrace and Pons had spoken in a whisper but I still felt exposed and naked upon the tiling in the moonlight, particularly since the appearance of that dreadful, merciless face.

“What do you want me to do, Pons?” I asked.

“Go back to that hotel we passed, taking every possible precaution to avoid being seen. As I have already indicated I want you to ring Bancroft and tell him where we are. He will do everything necessary as we have already discussed the matter.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I shall remain here and keep the house under observation. Kindly rejoin me near this spot if you will be so good.”

“Very well, Pons. You will not wish me to use the car, of course?”

“By no means, my dear fellow. We cannot risk it. But it is only a short step and should not take you more than twenty minutes in all. Here is Bancroft’s special number. He is available day and night in case of emergency and Jamison already has men available.”

“I shall be as quick as I can, Pons.”

I took the white envelope from Pons and put it in my pocket, quitting the terrace with a beating heart and looking about me at every tree in the moonlight as though it concealed a silent watcher.

I regained the lane without incident. Nothing moved in all that wide expanse of moonlight but nevertheless I obeyed Pons’ injunction and observed extreme caution while working my way past the dark and apparently deserted lodge. Once away from the house I made good time. The Morris looked innocent and unobtrusive at the side of the road and it was obvious that no-one had passed that way since we had left the vehicle.

In a very short while I crossed the main road, found a public phone box on the forecourt of the hotel and got through to Bancroft Pons. He was not given to verbosity and merely listened in silence as I gave him his brother’s message.

“Thank you, Dr. Parker,” he said crisply and there was a click as the receiver went back.

I thought he might at least have added that the police would be along shortly but Pons had emphasised that his brother would know what to do; in any event, I consoled myself, I had done my duty. I retraced my steps without incident and was able to rejoin Pons, who had moved farther down the terrace, in something like eighteen minutes.

“Well done, Parker. You may rest assured that assistance will be here in under the hour.”

“What are we to do now, Pons? I confess I am still in the dark in more ways than one.”

“Your patience has been exemplary, Parker. But I fancy I will not have to impose upon it much longer. Our first objective is to get to that room yonder. Then we may await the course of events with some equanimity.”

I looked at the facade of the great house in the moonlight with distaste.

“Possibly, Pons. But how are we to achieve your objective without rousing the household?”

“I think I have found a way. While you were telephoning I discovered another French window a little farther down, which is unlocked. It is apparently a dining-room which would no doubt have been in use earlier this evening. The occupants quitted it for the billiard-room and it is equally obvious that it is as yet too early for the servants to have locked up for the night.”

“We are in luck then, Pons.”

“Let us hope so, Parker.”

My companion was already leading the way back across the tiling and I was glad to get out of the moonlight and into the shadow of the facade. My revolver made a comforting bulge against my chest as I followed Pons. He softly eased back the big French door and I followed him into the dim interior which smelled of cigar-smoke and the stale odour of wine. We stood for a moment to get our bearings and slowly the shapes of chairs and a long pine dining table resolved themselves.

A sharp line of light in the far distance indicated the bottom of a door.

“With a little luck that should be the hall, Parker,” Pons whispered. “If we can reach the main staircase I think I have memorised the position of that room correctly and can locate it without much difficulty.”

“What then, Pons?”

“Ah, that is in the lap of the gods, my dear fellow. But I fancy we shall have need of your revolver.”

We were up closer to the light from the door now and Pons consulted his watch.

“I think we will give it another twelve minutes or so before making our move. The house seems quiet and it would be a pity to disturb the occupants while Jamison is so far off. But we may need half an hour to achieve our objective.”

“As you say, Pons.”

I moved over, found a comfortable padded chair near the sideboard and sank down gratefully. Pons’ thin, austere figure was poised near the door and he remained unblinkingly in this position as the minutes dragged wearily by. I must confess I felt more perturbed than my sober demeanour indicated, and my thoughts were confused and chaotic as the time passed with interminable slowness.

I had only the vaguest idea why Pons had followed the Paragonian Ambassador to this outlandish spot though no doubt it had something to do with the machinations of Hugo Foy and the politics of that unhappy country. But I knew Pons well enough to know that he would enlighten me only when all the facts in his theoretical edifice had fallen into place to prove or disprove his theories.

We seemed to have become fixed in our positions like immobile statutes when Pons again consulted his watch. He put his finger to his lips and moved toward the door. I stretched myself and joined him. He noiselessly opened it a crack, letting in a stream of yellow light. He slipped through quickly, beckoning me to follow. He softly closed the door behind me and led the way swiftly, as though he had known the house all his life.

We were in a vast hall with a marble floor; suits of armour stood incongruously about; there were heraldic shields on the walls; and crossed weapons interspersed with the stuffed heads of wild animals. The light was coming from a mock-mediaeval iron lantern suspended from the ceiling rafters by a chain; fortunately, it was the only light in the hall, which was a gloomy place full of shadow. Pons guided me unerringly, leading me up a huge oaken staircase with carved balustrades; we were on thick carpeting here and noiselessly ascended to the first floor.

Worn red drugget stretched along a corridor, as though the opulence glimpsed below were something merely on display to impress guests. Pons crossed the landing and went unhesitatingly up another small stairway on the left-hand side. I knew it could lead only to the upper floors on that side of the house facing the rear garden. There was a thinner carpet here and we had to be careful for the old timbers creaked unexpectedly from time to time. It was dusty and airless as though in a vault and the only light came from a single bulb burning on the first floor landing we had just quitted.

But it was admirable for our purposes and I was glad on arrival at a second, smaller landing, to find a window open, with the gentle night breeze bringing the fresh odours of flowers and hay from the surrounding fields. We were now facing a narrow corridor, which was lined with doors; there were something like six or seven each side. Pons moved down; I had the revolver out now, with the safety-catch on, and followed him as quietly as possible.

My companion seemed to be counting under his breath and he was pacing out the corridor rather meticulously, as though engaged in a mathematical formula. Later, I realised he was working out whether there were one or two windows to a room.

After what seemed an age Pons fixed on the fourth door along the left-hand side and paused in front of it. All the paintwork was shabby here as though this part of the house was little-used. Pons quietly tried the handle; the door appeared to be locked.

He listened intently, his ear against the woodwork. I could now hear what appeared to be two women’s voices in earnest discourse. Pons straightened up, his eyes dancing with excitement. Then he did something so unexpected that it filled me with horror. He simply put his hand up and rapped boldly upon the panels.

-9-

There was a moment’s hesitation and then light footsteps sounded across the carpet. A key turned and the door swung wide. Pons was through the gap like a leopard, his hand firmly over the mouth of the grey-haired woman in the uniform of a nurse. I had the pistol up but the terror on the woman’s face made the threat unnecessary. We were inside the dimly-lit room now and to my relief I saw it appeared to be empty. Pons propelled the nurse gently but firmly across to the far side of the apartment while I lost no time in locking the door behind us.

Pons put his mouth to the woman’s ear.

“I am going to release you now. If you make one sound to bring anyone to this room it will go hard with you.”

The woman, who had an intelligent face, despite her obvious alarm, nodded briefly. Pons cautiously took his hand away while I tried to look as menacing as possible. There was an expression of outrage on the grey-haired woman’s face now.

“This is disgraceful!” she hissed. “I am a professional nurse and I have never seen such goings-on in all my forty years’ experience.”

`There is no time to explain, madam,” said Pons smoothly. “You may be all you say but you can save that for the official police force.”

The nurse’s face registered shock.

“Police?” she said blankly. “I am Miss Gust. What am I to do with the police?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Pons crisply, darting sharp glances round the sparsely furnished bedroom which was lit by one shaded lamp.

“Where is your charge?”

“In the next room asleep,” said Miss Cust. “Where a child of his age should be.”

“I trust no harm has come to him,” I said, though I had little idea what Pons meant.

There was genuine shock on the woman’s face now.

“Harm?” she said. “Why should he come to harm in my charge?”

“You can explain that later,” said Pons, propelling her over toward a second door in the far corner of the gloomy bedroom. The woman wriggled free with an outraged movement of her shoulders and preceded us into a smaller room in which a night-light burned beside a cot. A small figure stirred as we came into its rays.

“Thank God he is unharmed,” said Pons fervently, bending over the child with a solicitous expression on his face.

“Who is he, Pons?” I whispered.

“Why, young Foy, of course,” said Pons, impatience fraying the edges of his voice. “Who else should it be? He is the fulcrum around which this whole case revolves.”

The nurse stared at my companion with a stupefied expression on her face.

“I was informed that the child was feeble-minded!” she said wildly. “I demand an explanation.”

“You shall have one in due course, madam,” said Pons, brushing her aside and listening at the open door. He glanced at his watch briefly and came back to the bed where a bright-faced, fair-haired child was struggling into consciousness.

“Who are you, sir?” he piped, his frightened eyes looking toward the nurse.

“A friend of your father,” said Pons firmly. “You will soon be safe again at home.”

“I would not have thought Hugo Foy capable of such wickedness . . .” I began hotly when Pons interrupted me somewhat rudely with an imperative gesture.

His keen ears had caught something unheeded by my somewhat denser sensibilities; a faint vibration coming from somewhere below. I looked sharply at the figure of Miss Cust but she was evidently not prepared to move from her dejected position, slumped at the end of the bed. Pons had gone over toward the door of the main bedroom; some moments passed in strained suspense and then I clearly heard the tread of heavy footsteps coming along the corridor outside. There were a few seconds more of silence and then an imperative rapping on the panels of the door.

Pons motioned to me to keep still. The knock was peremptorily repeated and the silence that followed was like a thick, blank wall, oppressive in its tension. Then the door was quietly, almost furtively tried. I think I shall always remember the slow deliberation with which the ornate brass knob of the handle was turned. Heavy pressure was put on the door but it was solid oak; it would have needed something like a sledgehammer to demolish it.

Then the footsteps went away again, somewhat hurriedly this time. There was only one man, then. Pons was back at my side, his eyes dancing with excitement.

“He has gone to get help. We have another three or four minutes.”

He looked at his watch with satisfaction.

“With luck we now have only some eight to ten minutes before friend Jamison arrives in the area. It should not be too difficult to hold them up, Parker, with the assistance of that useful toy there.”

He glanced swiftly about the room.

“We have just time to make our dispositions. Remain here, Miss Cust, and keep the boy calm and quiet. I shall lock you in. Have no fear, for all will be well shortly.”

The nurse was evidently impressed with Pons’ authoritative manner for she merely glanced at him, compressed her thin lips and whispered, ‘Very good, sir.”

Pons moved over and took the key from the inside of the small bedroom door, transferring it to the outer lock.

“What about this window, Pons?” I asked.

Pons looked at me with satisfaction.

“You are constantly improving, Parker. I am glad to see my training has not been wasted. There is a sheer brick wall outside this room, which drops straight to the terrace. They would need something like a fireman’s ladder to get up this way so we have nothing to fear that side.”

With another admonition to Miss Cust, Pons ushered me out of the room, turning the key in the lock behind us. He then put it in his pocket and procured a chair from the side of the room. Using his handkerchief he took the bulb from the light fitting in the centre of the room so that we were plunged into darkness. There was a standard lamp in the corner and he did the same thing there.

“We shall have some slight advantage, Parker, as they will be silhouetted against the light if they break the door down and that is always valuable in case of emergency.”

I said nothing, mentally estimating that we should now have only a few minutes to wait for reinforcements to arrive. We settled down grimly in the dark, crouched behind two big armchairs near the windows. These were already covered with heavy curtains so that we ourselves would not be silhouetted against the moonlight.

The only illumination in the room came from the two cracks of light beneath the doors of the small bedroom and that of the one leading into the corridor. I felt perspiration beading my forehead and the trigger-guard of the revolver was greasy to my touch. There was to be only a very brief interval before the next developments.

We had hardly knelt in the dimness of that sombre house when there came the muffled, but unmistakable vibration of feet on the carpeting of the main staircase. They came on at an unhurried, even pace, and I concluded that there were three men. This time there was no knocking on the panel but something far more dramatic. Merely the grating of a key in the lock but I must confess it sent a chill to my soul.

The man with the key was having some trouble forcing it through for of course it met the shank of the key on our side, which I had already turned. Before he could bring his efforts to a conclusion one way or another Pons spoke.

“I should not try that if I were you, Marceau!”

There was a muffled exclamation in Spanish and a hasty conference outside the door in which mingled English and Spanish voices overlapped. An uneasy silence prevailed and then a harsh, grating voice with a marked foreign accent spoke.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“It means, Marceau, that your game is up,” said Solar Pons coolly.

A snarl was the only answer and the explosion seemed to fill the whole room as the man on the other side of the door put a bullet into the lock. I flattened myself into the carpet as the missile whined angrily round the room and plaster pattered to the floor somewhere.

“Unwise,” said Solar Pons calmly. “I must warn you that the first man through that door will receive short commons.”

There was another muffled exclamation and then the light in the corridor went out.

“They are becoming less hysterical, Parker,” Pons observed smoothly. “Despite the loss of a clear target I trust you will still be able to hit that door.”

“I will do my best, Pons,” I replied stoutly.

I had no sooner finished speaking than there came a crash followed by a vibrating shudder which made the bedroom door strain on its hinges. I heard a cry from the child in the far room and a moment later the soothing tones of Miss Cust. There was another blow on the door and then another.

“They are using the oak settle from the corridor,” said Pons calmly. “Wait until the door is down before you use the revolver.”

He got up as he spoke and drew back the curtains. Moonlight flooded into the room and by its powdered silver I saw the furnishings of the room and the doorway clearly. Pons glanced again at his watch and gave a grunt of satisfaction.

“It is almost time, I think.”

We disposed ourselves to one side of the window, well into the deep shadow, where we were unlikely to be immediately spotted by anyone coming into the room. The door was proving remarkably tough. There had been four or five more blows upon it but it still showed no sign of giving.

Another ugly silence intervened. I was aware of a furtive shifting noise in the corridor and the whisper of voices which caused a faint prickling of my scalp. The battering on the door was preferable; there was something unutterably sinister about the mumbled colloquy beyond the door, the details of which were not quite distinct enough to make out.

“Be ready, Parker!” Pons warned me crisply and the assault on the door was resumed so suddenly that I was almost taken by surprise. At the third thundering concussion there was a high, rending noise and I knew that the hinges were giving. There was a final assault and the door was down, though it still held at the lock-plate. Someone reached in and plucked fruitlessly at the light-switch. I shot him through the shoulder while he was doing that and he went down with a groan of pain.

Pons was on his feet now, a small whistle to his lips. He blew three piercing blasts which were answered by three faint echoes from the far distance.

“Excellent!” Pons observed cheerfully. “For once Jamison is on time.”

The door was down now and there was a rush of bodies toward us. A pistol flamed and by the flash I saw two heavy figures. I fired at the nearest and the group in the dim moonlight wavered and fell back. One figure alone kept advancing. I got off another shot and it wavered, the gun drooping toward the floor as the knees buckled.

There was shouting in the house and heavy feet on the stairs; the people in the doorway seemed confused and broke up. Someone stumbled and fell on the staircase. Two more shots sounded. The revolver of the big man hit the carpet with a thump. I held my own pistol and bided my time.

There came the sound of heavy breathing near me. The big man hung suspended against the moonlight. Then he went down with a crash that shook the room. I was kneeling and he hit the front of one of the wing chairs, his face almost in mine. Black shadows crawled from the corner of the cruel mouth.

“Could you get some light on, Pons,” I said rather shakily. “By all means, my dear fellow.”

My companion was up on the chair and screwed the light bulb into its socket. By the dim illumination we took in the ruined aspect of the bedroom, the wrecked door, the groaning man who had clapped a reddened handkerchief to his shoulder. The man who half-knelt, half-lay against the wing chair had stopped breathing now. Pons turned him over with fierce eyes.

“You will have the gratitude of a great many people, I fancy, Parker. Tiger Marceau has played his last hand.”

I scrambled to my feet. The revolver suddenly felt as heavy as lead. I became aware that the corridor outside was filling with people, among them uniformed constables and plainclothes men. I suddenly recognised Jamison among them, his features sullen and scowling. He opened his eyes wide as he saw the body of the man with white streaks in his hair.

“My God, Mr. Pons! I only hope there is a good explanation for all this?”

Solar Pons nodded grimly.

“There is, Jamison. Kidnapping and extortion for one. Revolutionary plotting and planning the overthrow of a South American regime on British soil. They will do to be going on with. Ah, Bancroft! You come most opportunely.”

The massive form of Pons’ brother was shouldering his way through the crowd in the room. His eyes narrowed as he took in the wounded man in the corner and the body huddled against the chair, then flickered on to me.

“Good evening, doctor,” he said drily. “Your aim has not lost its accuracy, I see.”

Before I could reply the Foreign Office man turned to Pons. “Excellent, Solar, if somewhat untidy.”

“But Mr. Pons, sir, what am I to say to my superiors?” said Jamison to Bancroft. “Not to mention the Surrey Police?”

`Tut, man,” said Bancroft Pons blandly. ‘The matter is of no importance so far as you are concerned. It is out of your hands. You have discharged your duties admirably, Inspector. No-one could have done more and you have my commendation.”

Jamison stared at the massive form of Bancroft Pons, his expression changing as quickly as sunshine through storm clouds.

“That is very good of you, sir. If you put it like that.”

“I do,” said Bancroft smoothly. “Now, let us just see what this wretched specimen has to say for himself.”

He strode to where a big man crouching by the side of the door was beginning to recover himself. The latter now came forward under the dim light of the lamp.

“This is an outrage, sir,” he spluttered.

“It is indeed,” said Pons’ brother.

The other held a clenched fist under Bancroft’s nose.

“I shall complain to your Foreign Office, sir!”

“I represent the Foreign Office, Dr. Krish. We know all about your involvement with Marceau and the San Ysidor Zinc Trust.”

He turned grimly to Pons.

“I do not think you have met formally, Solar. This is Dr. Arpad Krish, the Paragonian Ambassador.”

He addressed himself sternly to the white-faced, crumpled figure of the diplomat.

“I fancy you will find yourself persona non grata once my report is in! I will give you twenty-four hours to quit the country.”

The big man in formal clothes made a choking noise, stared round the room with burning eyes and turned away. He pushed his way out of the room like a drunken man. Bancroft Pons laughed throatily.

“If the Paragonian Embassy does not announce a change of Ambassador this very night, Solar, I shall be very much surprised. Now, where is this child?”

“Over here, Mr. Pons,” I said, leading the way toward the far door. I opened it, finding Jamison at my elbow.

“There is a nurse here,” I muttered to him. “I think she is not involved in anything criminal but she certainly needs questioning.”

Jamison was on familiar ground now, striding into the room in front of me.

“You may be sure that will be done, doctor,” he said loudly. Pons smiled at me encouragingly as I put my revolver into my pocket.

“You have excelled yourself this evening, Parker. But I fancy we may leave all explanations until we have had an opportunity to restore this frightened young man to his unfortunate father.”

-10-

I drove cautiously through the night, Pons smoking imperturbably at my side. Bancroft had returned separately to make his report to the Foreign Office. Young Anthony Foy slept soundly on the back seat, wrapped in a blanket and presided over by the somewhat uneasy figure of Inspector Jamison. High-ranking officers of Scotland Yard and those of the Surrey Police were now collaborating in the investigations back at the mansion we had just left.

“It will be a major diplomatic incident, Pons,” I said grimly, conscious of the half-empty revolver in my pocket.

“Will it not, Parker,” my companion chuckled, darting a backward glance at the silent figure of the police officer. “But I have no doubt that Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office between them will concoct something bland for the public prints to account for the violence, the sudden demise of the late unlamented Marceau, and the swift recall to his own country of the Paragonian Ambassador.”

He blew out a languid plume of smoke which was rapidly dispersed by the summer breeze coming in through the half-open window of the car.

`Though I would guess that Dr. Krish will take the opportunity to disappear en route. His reception by the President of Paragonia would hardly be diplomatic under the circumstances. And I trust that the shares of Foy’s South American companies will take a sudden upward leap in the morning with the welcome return to sanity of Hugo Foy.”

I gave Pons an exasperated look.

`That is all very well, Pons, and I get your drift, but there are a great many things left unexplained about this extraordinary business.”

“Tut, Parker,” said my companion, blowing out another cloud of blue smoke. “I should have thought it would have been crystal clear.”

Inspector Jamison cleared his throat nervously.

“It is far from clear to me, Mr. Pons.”

He threw my companion a somewhat sour look.

“Though as usual, we were called in only at the eleventh hour to . . .”

“Give respectability to the proceedings!” said Pons cheerily, his eyes glinting as he gave me a sideways glance.

“Scotland Yard always does that, sir,” said the Inspector cautiously. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind starting at the beginning for my benefit. Just so that I can get it all down clear in my mind.”

“And in your notebook,” said Pons ironically. “I have no intention of repeating myself unnecessarily, though no doubt Mr. Foy is owed a complete explanation.”

“As you will, Mr. Pons,” Jamison mumbled, reaching out a small, black-bound notebook secured with an elastic band, from one of his capacious pockets. In the mirror I saw him lick the point of a pencil stub as he leaned forward in his seat to take advantage of rays from the dashboard lights that were straying through to the back of the vehicle.

“As you have no doubt cause to remember, Parker,” my friend said. “This bizarre affair began with the reported madness of Hugo Foy as experienced mostly at first-hand by your friend, Colonel Mortimer. A madness, moreover, that I became increasingly convinced, had a purpose behind it. It would be tedious to go through all the examples but you no doubt recall a few of them.”

“Of course, Pons. And I am still completely baffled by his extraordinary behaviour.”

“Really, Parker,” said Pons, giving me an ironic sidelong glance. “Say not so. Yet, as I pointed out to you, it was the key to the entire business.”

I gave a derisive snort.

“Yet, how could one explain away such fantasies as driving his motor-car stark naked in the moonlight; drinking champagne with ginger beer; using a billiard cue to play golf; ruining bridge games; bringing down the Colonel with a rugger tackle and pelting him with eggs.”

Solar Pons held up his hand, a twinkle in his eye, while Inspector Jamison made a heavy choking noise.

“Most concisely put, Parker. And immediately I heard these weird, not to say ridiculous details, two points immediately struck me.”

“And what were those, Pons?”

“Why, Parker, you were at some pains to go over them with me. The first was that Hugo Foy’s madness dated from a specific period in his life. At one moment he was absolutely sane; at the next he was doing weird and unbalanced things, as though impelled by some agency beyond himself. So something had happened; that much was obvious. The second, and far more significant factor at that moment, was Hugo Foy’s audience.”

I stared at him in puzzlement.

“Audience, Pons?”

My companion nodded.

“It was a theatrical performance of the finest quality with a human life at stake.”

I glanced in the mirror at the sleeping form of the blanketed child.

“I see that, Pons, but what I fail to see . . .”

“Are the factors which have been in front of you all the time. Let us be absolutely specific, Parker. Colonel Mortimer himself held substantial blocks of shares in Foy’s South American companies; the three men playing golf with Foy on that famous occasion, were all shareholders; you may remember that concerning the incident with the Rolls-Royce I was particularly interested in Godfrey Daimler, the City banker who was also in the road at the time. He has large holdings in Foy’s South American companies and it is my contention that Foy intended to impress Daimler with his insanity by his weird behaviour. I would go further and submit that he did not even know Mortimer was there until he drew level with him!”

“You amaze me, Pons.”

“That is not so very difficult, Parker. I would further postulate that the delighted expression on Foy’s face—or inane grin as you so picturesquely put it—was genuine. He had, in effect, killed two birds with one stone.”

“I am still not sure what you are driving at, Pons.”

“I am coming to it, my dear fellow. In every instance—and I have done some exhaustive checking—all the people who were witnesses of the singular madness of Hugo Foy, were shareholders or concerned in some way with his South American companies. Of course, many of them probably had holdings in his other concerns, but that was irrelevant for my purposes. And my careful study of the stock-market reports in the financial press of recent weeks, brought out another significant factor. However unbalanced Hugo Foy may have been, he was unbalanced in one direction only, for his financial handling of all his other vast commercial enterprises was impeccable.”

I nodded, aware of Jamison’s amazed expression in the rear-mirror.

“I follow you, Pons.”

“I am delighted to hear it, Parker. You will probably say that Foy’s behaviour at the board-meeting Colonel Mortimer attended was out of character inasmuch as he publicly displayed his apparent insanity to all the shareholders as well as the financial press. But that was undoubtedly due to the intolerable pressures being put upon him by Marceau through the Paragonian Ambassador.”

“I see, Pons.”

“All of Foy’s record, financial and otherwise, spoke of an icy, calculating brain which had raised him from relatively humble circumstances to be one of the great captains of industry. But what would explain his sudden insanity, dating from about March of this year? A sudden insanity which was against the whole grain of his life-style and which had apparently descended upon him overnight. The Colonel inadvertently hit upon the cause when he referred constantly to Foy being under strain and pressure.”

Solar Pons had a grim expression now as he stared ahead through the wind-screen as I guided our vehicle back over Richmond bridge and into the suburbs.

“He was under the most intolerable strain a human being can be put under. How he has survived these months I do not know. That his secret was shared by key members of his household speaks well for the devotion this extraordinary man is able to inspire.”

“You saw all this as soon as Mortimer came to us, Pons?” My companion shook his head emphatically.

“Hardly, Parker. I was casting about for the key when all the time it was before me. You approached the problem from the opposite direction and because money was involved immediately came to the outrageous conclusion that Foy had done away with his only son.”

“It was perhaps a somewhat natural conclusion, Pons,” I said somewhat irritably.

He shook his head again, even more emphatically upon this occasion.

“A man whose drawing room is filled with portraits and photographs of his late wife and only child is not concerned with hate and murder, Parker. Such souvenirs are the symbols of love. That was elementary, for a man who had committed a crime would not keep reminders about him. The housekeeper also was acting under considerable strain and I hoped to elicit some reaction from her while putting pressure upon Foy.”

“That was why you kept asking those questions about the boy, Pons!”

My companion chuckled, putting his pipe back between strong teeth.

“Naturally, Parker. And it immediately gave me the clue I was seeking. Vaucher in Switzerland provided the information that the boy was not at school. He was at home ill, according to the educational authorities there. Foy was lying, therefore, when he said the boy was in Switzerland. From his whole demeanour and from that of the housekeeper I came to the conclusion that the boy was either seriously ill in England and for some reason Foy was keeping the matter secret; or that he had been kidnapped. The latter was the more likely, but for what reason?”

“Good heavens, Mr. Pons!” Jamison broke in excitedly. “I have never heard anything like it.”

Solar Pons’ thin lips parted in the ghost of a smile.

“You astonish me, Inspector. Yet you have been present at a number of my cases in the past.”

There was a sudden burst of coughing from Jamison and I could not repress a low chuckle as I caught my companion’s eye in the rear-mirror.

“Let me just get this clear, Pons . . .”

“Tut, Parker, it was crystal-clear. Hugo Foy was mad only to specific people. His madness related to South America only. And his son was missing. I had then merely to transfer my attention to events in that inflammable corner of the world.”

“You mean those newspaper reports?”

“Of course. You may recall I drew to your notice the fact that Foy was elected to the Board of the Academy of Arts and Sciences in February of this year. According to all the available reports he apparently started losing his reason in March. But in one area only, as I have already stated. The coup in Paragonia coupled with the financial news of Foy’s projects out there gave me the key to the whole situation. The San Ysidor Zinc Trust, controlled by Foy and on which much of the prosperity of the country depends; and the new dam scheme launched by another group of Foy’s companies.

“A man who is mad only in public and eminently sane in private life. Marceau obviously threatened to kill the boy if Foy did not do as he was told. We have already learned from the people in that house that young Anthony Foy was seized on coming home from school. His aircraft was met at Croydon Airport by a bogus chauffeur in Marceau’s employ. Foy later received a note from the terrorists, who informed him the child would be killed if he did not do as they said. The child was allowed to speak to him over the telephone from time to time to reinforce their demands. I leave it to you to imagine his state of mind.”

“I am still not quite clear, Pons.”

“Come, Parker, it was quite obvious. By kidnapping Foy’s son Marceau was putting pressure on him to act in an insane manner to depress the South American shares and topple the Zinc Trust and with it the dam scheme.”

“But for what purpose, Pons?”

My friend gave me a look in which exasperation was mingled with wry affection.

“Forgive me, my dear fellow. It is obvious South American politics are not your forte. O’Hara, the President, is merely the tool of Marceau. For years Marceau has schemed to take over the country himself but O’Hara has all the wiliness of an experienced and corrupt politician and has staved off his attempts, though at the same time he cannot afford open enmity. Marceau wants Paragonia plunged into chaos. As the country’s strong man he can then take over.”

I stared at Pons as though thunderstruck, hardly conscious of the dark ribbon of road unreeling before the headlights.

“I see, Pons! It is quite clear now!”

“Naturally, Parker. There are some things worse than murder; and kidnapping and terrorism are two of them. I would not lose any sleep over Marceau’s demise if I were you. And I have no doubt the Ambassador’s visit tonight was in order to turn the screw tighter.”

“That’s all very well, gentlemen,” said Jamison sourly, stopping his writing labours for a moment, “but how am I to explain all this to the Yard? It’s a little beyond my normal reach.”

Pons was smiling thinly.

“As you have already been assured, I fancy my brother will make all right in that department, Inspector.”

He glanced at his watch.

“It is now well past midnight and though we have not all the ends it will not take long to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Late as the hour is I have no doubt we shall receive a much warmer welcome at The Boltons this time when we restore a very brave child to an even braver father.”

-11-

Things turned out exactly as Pons had predicted. Though I did not actually hear what was said Pons was closeted for more than an hour with Hugo Foy. When he came out his eyes were shining and there was more than usual satisfaction on his clear-cut features.

On the way back to Praed Street he was unusually silent, speaking once only as we were mounting the staircase to our familiar rooms at 7B.

“I have rarely felt such satisfaction at the outcome of a case, Parker. I have you entirely to thank for that, my dear fellow.”

I mumbled a disclaimer but I must confess that I flushed at the unusual honour my usually reticent friend had paid me. As Bancroft had hinted, some weeks later I learned through telegrams transmitted by Pons and reports in the public press that Dr. Arpad Krish and President O’Hara were both in gaol, awaiting trial for corruption and plotting against the State.

It was a mellow day in late September before the story was finally finished, so far as I was concerned. Pons had received an unusually heavy post that morning, including an elaborately super-inscribed buff envelope and a long, flat package which apparently emanated from the Paragonian Embassy in London.

He was sitting late at breakfast, the sun streaming through the windows, clad in his old grey dressing gown. I had been out early on an urgent call and was only too glad to join him for coffee and bacon and eggs.

“You have seen the papers, Parker?”

“Oh, you mean the dam scheme in Paragonia and the San Ysidor Zinc Trust, Pons? I saw the photograph of the new President digging the first shovelful of earth at the site of the proposed dam, if that is what you mean.”

Solar Pons nodded, his eyes glinting.

“Foy has been extremely tied up in that part of the world since late July. It would seem that things are now stable again there. He has been extraordinarily generous.”

He carelessly flung over the yellow printed slip toward me. I goggled at it.

“Good heavens! Congratulations.”

I looked at him warmly.

“You certainly deserve it.”

“Perhaps,” he said casually. “But nevertheless I shall invest some of it in an extended autumn holiday on the Continent if you are free in about a fortnight’s time. I have to consult Kringler in Berlin on his proposed Museum of Criminology and I understand that Grecian waters are quite delightful at this time of year. But before that we are both invited to a lavish party at The Boltons; ostensibly, I understand, to celebrate the eighth birthday of young Master Foy.”

“I shall be delighted to accompany you, Pons,” I said gravely. “Forgive my curiosity, but what was in that flat package?”

Solar Pons chuckled, rising from the table and going toward the window.

“I declined a public ceremony for obvious reasons but the President insisted upon it. Pray take a look at it if you would be so good.”

I opened the elaborate leather case and looked at the enamelled and jewelled cross that sparkled on its gold chain within.

“Good Lord, Pons. It is magnificent!”

“Is it not, Parker. The Order of San Ysidor. One up to your friend, Colonel Mortimer, I fancy. We have not seen much of him here since the affairs of Foy’s companies have been stabilised.”

“Neither shall we, Pons,” I said aggrievedly. The Colonel’s attitude is typical of human nature, I am afraid . . .”

“Yes, well you may omit the lecture on the frailties of humanity, Parker,” said Pons languidly.

He took the leather case from me and gazed at it expressionlessly, crossing back to the window again.

“What will you do with it, Pons?”

He smiled thinly.

“I doubt if I shall ever wear it, Parker. It would look rather ostentatious on my evening dress, do you not think?”

And with a casual movement he threw it into the open drawer of his desk.

The Adventure of the Cursed Curator

The Adventure of the Cursed Curator

-1-

OF ALL THE cases my friend Solar Pons was involved in, there was none more sombre or bizarre than that which began on a certain wet April evening. I had come in from my rounds shortly after six o’clock, to find Pons in conversation with a small, red-faced mild-looking man in a plaid check overcoat.

Our cosy sitting-room at 7B Praed Street was filled with blue smoke from Pons’ pipe and the dining table covered with documents and cups of tea brought up by our amiable landlady, Mrs. Johnson. Pons rose from the table with an apologetic smile.

“This is Mr. Horatio Biggs, Parker. Mr. Biggs has brought me a curious problem. My friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker.”

The little man bounced up like a rubber ball and shook my hand energetically.

“Delighted to meet you, doctor.”

He had a pronounced Welsh accent and went on pumping my hand as though oblivious of my discomfiture. I had studied him carefully on entering the room and soon came to the conclusion that he was suffering from stress. In truth it did not take very great medical knowledge to deduce that for his nerves were indeed in a shocking state; his eyelids were twitching, his eyes constantly on the move and he peered nervously about him all the time as though on the watch for something.

But he had a pleasant, cultured voice; was well-dressed and had a certain scholarly look about him so that I at once concluded that he was not normally in that condition and that something unusual must have occurred. Pons had been studying me himself with an amused look on his lean, feral features.

“Come, Parker. Here is a perfect opportunity for you to indulge your ratiocinative gifts.”

I took off my raincoat and laid it over the back of a chair. “What can you read from our visitor, pray?”

I looked at the little man earnestly, entering into the spirit of the thing.

“A Welshman.”

The little man beamed and resumed his seat.

“Of Welsh extraction, sir, despite my name.”

“Highly nervous and troubled. With a high complexion. Taking that with other symptoms I would say that Mr. Biggs has some little trouble with blood pressure and would be wise not to over-excite himself.”

Our visitor bit his lip and shot a swift glance at Pons who observed blandly, “I would not presume to quarrel with your medical diagnoses, Parker.”

I looked at the little man again.

“Scholarly, perhaps an academic, Pons.”

“Excellent!”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together with satisfaction and took a spill to light at the fire. The bowl of his pipe made little stipples of incandescence on the strong lines of his face as he held it to the tobacco.

“You have really excelled yourself, my dear fellow.”

“You do me too much honour, Pons.”

“Not at all, my dear Parker. You have come close to the truth.”

Pons went to stand by the fireplace and looked from me to our visitor reflectively.

“Mr. Biggs is the Curator of one of London’s foremost museums. It therefore follows that he is an academic. He is of Welsh extraction, as you correctly deduced from his accent. And he has been under some pressure as you shall learn in a moment.”

“Can you tell anything else, Pons? Something that I have overlooked, perhaps?”

“There may be one or two things still to read, Parker,” said my companion slowly.

“For example, he is a member of the Coronel Club, a bachelor, a keen enthusiast for the cinema, widely travelled, has recently returned from Egypt and is devoted to the music of Bach.”

Mr. Biggs blinked at Pons in astonishment. He rose to his feet again.

“This is absolutely incredible, Mr. Pons. It is more like magic than anything else!”

Solar Pons shook his head, smiling.

“It is hardly that, Mr. Biggs. It is elementary to the trained mind.”

“You will have to explain, Pons.”

“I intend to, Parker. As to the Coronel Club it is simplicity itself for Mr. Biggs is wearing the distinctive striped tie of that esoteric organisation. He is a bachelor because, though well-dressed he is, if he will forgive me for saying so, untidy and his collar, though spotless, is heavily crumpled and his shoes need cleaning.”

The museum Curator blinked and give Pons an apologetic smile at this point.

My friend went on imperturbably as though he were alone.

“I could not imagine any conscientious wife letting a man so important as the curator of a major museum out with his collar and shoes in that state. Therefore he is a bachelor.”

“Again correct, Mr. Pons,” said Biggs, with a rueful glance at his shoes.

“And the cinema, Pons?”

“When Mr. Biggs took out his handkerchief just now, a number of cinema ticket stubs fell unnoticed to the carpet. They are there still. There are more than a dozen of them and I notice they are for The Everyman, the Cameo, the Astor and the Rialto. The colour of the tickets tells me they were issued this year. It is only the beginning of April, which means that Mr. Biggs must go at least twice a week for he has been abroad for something like two months.”

“Oh, come, Pons!” I expostulated. ‘That is a little farfetched.”

Mr. Biggs shook his head.

“Mr. Pons is quite right, Dr. Parker, though how he does it I cannot imagine.”

I stared at my companion open-mouthed.

“Let us commence with Bach.”

“He has no less than three publications devoted to Bach on the chair yonder. They all bear a newsagent’s scribble with Mr. Biggs’ name.”

Our visitor almost laughed at this point.

“That is so, Mr. Pons. I always like to read something on the Tube.”

I managed to convey my scepticism by clearing my throat pointedly. Pons smiled faintly.

“You have not let me finish, Parker. Further indications can be read into the musical publications. Those issues are for February, March and April of this year. Therefore, it is no very great flight of imagination to surmise that they have just been collected. The issues cover three months, though the April number is obviously published in advance, as is the custom.

“Therefore I conclude that Mr. Biggs has been away on a long trip, for at least five or six weeks. When I see a newish guide to Alexandria there on the chair with the magazines, again with his initials on the cover, much stained and thumbed and I note the remnants of sunburn on Mr. Biggs’ face—Parker’s high complexion—it requires no great feat of deduction to infer that he has recently returned from a trip to Egypt, possibly for the Museum.

“The time factor alone would indicate that Mr. Biggs had six weeks in this country from January 1st in which to make his cinema visits. A comparison with the ticket stubs and we arrive at a twice-weekly visit.”

Mr. Biggs beamed and stared approvingly from Pons to me. “It is still remarkable, Mr. Pons,” he said enthusiastically.

“I have to admit that I concur, Pons,” said I.

“It is good of you to say so, Parker,” returned my friend amiably.

Biggs resumed his seat with a clouded brow.

“However, it is undoubtedly my Egyptian trip which has precipitated my present troubles.”

“Pray begin again for Dr. Parker’s benefit,” Pons suggested. “You had only just begun to tell me something of your problems when the doctor entered. In the meantime I will ring for tea. Parker must be quite starved after his long trip to Hoxton.”

I stared at him in astonishment. He gave a throaty chuckle and picked up his pipe from an earthenware bowl on the table. “There was nothing magical about that, Parker. You left your appointments pad on the breakfast table this morning.” He handed it me with a flourish.

“And now, if you please, Mr. Biggs, tea and then your tale of woe.”

-2-

Mrs. Johnson had cleared the tea-things and I sat comfortably by the fire watching Pons’ smoke-rings ascending slowly and undulatingly toward the ceiling.

“Well, Mr. Pons, part of my brief for the Egyptian trip was to pay a visit to various sites in the Valley of the Kings. My post as Curator of the Egyptian Museum in London entitled me to Government status in Egypt and I was accompanied for part of the time by Achmed Nazreel Pasha of the Cairo Museum.

Now, gentlemen, the London museum is associated formally with the Cairo Museum and we regularly exchange information and artefacts, particularly for exhibitions. Is that plainly understood?”

“By all means,” said Pons smoothly, looking at me quizzically through his pipe-smoke. “If you think it of importance.”

“It may be so, Mr. Pons, it may be,” said the little Curator self-importantly, all the harassment and worry back on his rubicund features.

“I had obtained from Nazreel Pasha the promise of certain items unearthed last year by the Egyptian Government from the Valley of the Kings and it was with considerable excitement that I travelled with him back to Cairo for a fortnight’s research and work at that great museum which must ever stand in the forefront of interest for Egyptian scholars.”

“Undoubtedly,” I put in to encourage him and Mr. Biggs shot me a glance of satisfaction.

“Now, Mr. Pons, I had been assigned a certain Egyptian servant while on my stay. He was of a fairly high caste as such people go . . . .”

He broke off and looked at Pons sternly.

“I don’t know whether you understand or have experience of the Middle East, Mr. Pons, but the fellaheen of Egypt are among the most down-trodden and oppressed people of the world.”

Pons took the stem of the pipe out of his mouth.

“So I have heard, Mr. Biggs. But your servant would not have been of this class, surely.”

Mr. Biggs looked disconcerted.

“No, no, Mr. Pons. I did not mean to imply that. I was speaking merely of the natives employed for such menial purposes as transporting materials in the Valley of the Kings and packing and moving artefacts in such great museums as that of Cairo. Apart from a city in South Africa whose name escapes me, Cairo is the greatest city in the whole of Africa.”

“I am indebted to you for the geography lesson, Mr. Biggs, but I would be grateful if you would come to the point,” said Pons crisply. “Dr. Parker has had wide experience in that part of the world and it is not entirely unknown to me. I think you may safely take it that we are reasonably familiar with the milieu.”

Mr. Biggs’ eye grew round.

“Good gracious me, Mr. Pons. Please accept my apologies. I am so used to lecturing to students that I am inclined to take a superior position with other people, without really intending to.”

Pons smiled thinly. He tented his lean fingers before him. “Pray continue. We will ourselves provide the local colour.” Our visitor flushed and then went on without more ado.

What I give now are the salient points of his narrative, shorn of his habitual verbosity.

“Among the artefacts I brought back with me were a number of treasures on loan from the Cairo Museum, which were to form the basis of a display we are mounting here in London in the late summer. These were literally priceless and irreplaceable and have been the cause of great distress to me personally.”

“Oh, yes, I have read something about the exhibition in the national press,” I interjected.

Mr. Biggs nodded.

“We did not, of course, announce the value of the Cairo exhibits because of the danger of theft, but these things are difficult to keep quiet. This material, together with certain gifts from the Egyptian Antiquities Service, which I will enumerate later, took space in some half-dozen large wooden crates that were shipped aboard steamer with me for the homeward voyage. We had some trouble with the labourers and porters at the site on the Upper Nile.”

Pons took his pipe-stem out of his mouth.

“What sort of trouble?”

The curator shrugged his shoulders.

“The usual things, Mr. Pons. About what they should be paid for their work and so forth. And then when the breakages began . . .”

“Breakages?”

Solar Pons’ eyes were sharp and alert now.

“Some of the pottery was found to be broken when we got it off the site. These fellows, supervised by their own foremen, carry them out in baskets from the excavations. Normally they are careful enough, but we never found the miscreants. That was their form of blackmail to make us accede to their requests.”

“And did you?” I put in.

“It is a time-honoured method,” said Biggs apologetically. “The items broken were only small pots, of no real value, but they are important inasmuch as they give us a clear idea of the minutiae of everyday life in Ancient Egypt. The museum experts repaired them and the extra baksheesh was paid.”

Pons blew a smoke-ring up toward the ceiling.

“I see. You implied there were other troubles.”

Biggs nodded.

“There were attempts at theft. We found one of the loaded crates partly forced open. After that we put a guard upon them.”

“And what significance did you place upon that, Mr. Biggs?”

“The obvious one, Mr. Pons. Some of the things in my care are extremely valuable and there is a class of professional tomb-robbers in Egypt who would do anything to get their hands on such items. They would find a ready market in the form of unscrupulous dealers and collectors.”

“But nothing, so far as you know, was stolen?”

Biggs shook his head.

“No, Mr. Pons. Just a few unimportant pots broken and these were repaired and restored before my visit ended.”

“So you brought them back with you?”

“Indeed, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons’ eyes narrowed to slits as he peered through his pipe-smoke.

“Were the jars sealed or open?”

Irritation was showing plainly on our visitor’s features now.

“Is it of importance, Mr. Pons?”

“I like to obtain all the facts, Mr. Biggs.”

The curator shifted in his chair awkwardly.

“I am sorry, Mr. Pons. I did not take particular notice but so far as I remember, they were sealed with stoppers. The jars were big, heavy things made of baked clay and labelled, in hieroglyphs of course, for their various purposes. They had originally contained oil and wine and so forth, though the contents had evaporated centuries ago.”

“I see.”

Biggs nodded.

“I would have got away from the site earlier but for that unfortunate death.”

Pons looked at him quickly and the room suddenly seemed to have grown very still.

“Death?”

“Well, then, murder, Mr. Pons, if you wish to be technical. Egypt is a very violent country, as you know. One of the porters was found stabbed. Some quarrel about baksheesh I suppose. The police were called but the culprit was never found.”

“This puts a different complexion on the matter, Mr. Biggs,” said Pons slowly. “You were wise to come to me.”

“I do not understand, Mr. Pons.”

“No matter, Mr. Biggs. Your narrative interests me intensely. Pray continue.”

Mr. Biggs knotted his brow as though the effort to recollect his thoughts were a great trial to him.

“I travelled home on a passenger liner, of course, and I had much to occupy me, going through documents, preparing learned papers and so forth. We sailed from Alexandria and about three days out the purser came to see me to report that an attempt had been made to open the crates in the hold. A routine inspection was being made and one of the ship’s crew saw someone making off in the shadow.”

Solar Pons tented his thin fingers before him.

“He did not see who it was?”

Biggs shook his head.

`Though the holds are lighted by electricity, of course, they are dim, shadowy places and the seaman was unable to catch the culprit. When he found wood splinters on the deck and saw that the crates had been tampered with, he reported to his superior officer.”

“You went to the hold, of course?”

“Naturally, Mr. Pons. I hurried there with the purser immediately and found the ship’s security officer already on the spot. Together we made a careful examination. A jemmy, evidently taken from a rack of tools used in the hold, was lying on the deck where it had been dropped. One of the wooden bars holding the top of the crate had been removed and a start made on the second but the miscreant had not succeeded in his objective.”

Solar Pons stared at our visitor.

“And what might that objective have been, Mr. Biggs?” “Why, theft, of course, Mr. Pons.”

My companion nodded.

“Can you remember which one of the crates was involved?” “I do not understand the question, Mr. Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled faintly.

“Come, Mr. Biggs. It is not so very difficult. I asked which of the crates. Was it one containing valuable objects for your exhibition; one containing pottery or what?”

“Ah, Mr. Pons, I see.”

Biggs wrinkled up his brow. He suddenly looked worried and anxious and full of stress again. All the while he was narrating his adventures in Egypt and was sure of Pons’ full attention something of his cares appeared to fall away, but as soon as his concentration relaxed anxiety fell upon him like a cloak.

“That was the curious part, Mr. Pons. The crate containing extremely valuable artefacts, jewellery and ornaments for the exhibition at my museum was intact. The crate the thief attempted to break open merely contained fragments, pots and common clay containers. Extremely interesting to the archaeologist of course, but of no great value in comparison with the rest.”

“Excellent!”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together and leaned forward in his chair, his excitement showing on his lean, feral features.

“Now, Mr. Biggs, I am sure you have something else to tell me regarding that particular crate?”

Our visitor’s astonishment mirrored my own.

“Well, yes, I have, as a matter of fact, Mr. Pons, though how you could have guessed . . .”

Solar Pons shook his head as he tamped fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“It was no guess, Mr. Biggs. But do go on.”

“It was nothing in itself, Mr. Pons, but it gave me a shock. I went round the other side of the crate to examine it and at first I thought there had been an accident. The side of the box was all smeared and dabbed as though with blood. Then one of the seamen said there had been an accident while the crates were being loaded on the quay at Alexandria. An Arab workman had upset a pot of red lead over the side of the crate. It was as simple as that.”

Solar Pons looked across at me.

“Simple indeed, Parker,” he observed. “I believe you had reached this part of the narrative when the doctor came in, Mr. Biggs. From your manner and attitude you hinted at something more serious at the museum?”

The Curator nodded grimly.

“Stark, staring horror and madness, Mr. Pons!”

-3-

I stared at him for a moment without saying anything. “Those are strong words, Mr. Biggs,” I ventured. The little man shook his head.

“Nevertheless, I am not exaggerating, gentlemen, as you will find if you have the patience to hear my story out.”

“You spoke of your servant earlier,” interrupted Pons, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on our visitor’s face. He flushed and again shifted in his chair.

“So I did, Mr. Pons. This business has troubled me so much that I hardly know what I am doing. I referred to him as a servant but he is really a middle-class Arab who was assigned to me by Nazreel Pasha to act as secretary and factotum. He spoke excellent English and I found him invaluable. Achmed—I never could pronounce his full name—was a gigantic character, over six feet tall, and as my travels in Egypt took me into some strange places I was more than glad of his companionship at times.”

Mr. Biggs paused and took out a handkerchief, which he used to mop his brow.

“I was rather surprised when Nazreel Pasha suggested that he should accompany me to England, but I appreciated that his strength and upright character would be most useful to me.”

“And also act as a safeguard for the valuables under your care,” said Pons crisply, blowing out a plume of blue smoke.

Biggs looked at him owlishly.

“There is that, Mr. Pons. Perhaps that explains one strange incident on the voyage. When I entered his cabin one afternoon without knocking I caught him cleaning a revolver which he swiftly covered with a newspaper. It was an extraordinary and quite worrying incident.”

Solar Pons chuckled, his eyes displaying little flecks of amusement as he regarded Biggs.

“Tut, Mr. Biggs, there is no mystery. Achmed was obviously a high-ranking Cairo police officer set to guard the treasures the Egyptian government had entrusted to your care. There is nothing strange about it.”

The little man’s eyes opened wide.

“Why, do you really think so, Mr. Pons! I never thought of that!”

“You are extraordinarily naïve, Mr. Biggs, if you do not mind me saying so,” said my companion briskly. “It is as plain as a pikestaff. One can hardly blame the Egyptian Antiquities Service for calling on their country’s police authorities in the matter.”

Mr. Biggs flushed and stared helplessly at Pons.

“I am afraid I am very much out of my depth here,” he said earnestly. “After all, my world is an academic one and I am unused to violence and intrigue.”

“Quite so,” said Pons imperturbably. “Do go on.”

“Leaving that aside, Mr. Pons, I have been back for two weeks now and ever since my arrival in London I have felt myself to be caught in the middle of a sinister plot. I am at my wit’s end.”

“I must have data if I am to assist you. Please proceed to the next incident after your arrival.”

“It was not long in coming, Mr. Pons. Naturally, the transportation and unpacking of the material I had brought with me from the Valley of the Kings and from the Cairo Museum occupied much of the first week. The treasures on loan from Cairo were naturally deposited in the strong-room in the Museum and I now understand, from what you say, just why Achmed took such an interest in the precautions we had been taking.

“There were the usual interviews with the press; a formal meeting with the Board of the Museum; and discussions with my staff on exactly what space in the galleries was to be devoted to the Exhibition. It was about a week ago that the first incident occurred. I was in my office on the first floor engaged in cataloguing and checking entries against the list I had brought back.”

“Alone?”

“Alone, Mr. Pons. Apart from the night-staff, of course, who were on their rounds.”

Solar Pons tugged thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear. “How many have you, Mr. Biggs?”

“We have three night guards, normally, Mr. Pons, one for each of the major floors of the Museum and they make their rounds four times nightly. But we have recently taken on extra staff in view of the major Exhibition we were planning.”

“I see. And then?”

“I had had the contents of some of the crates brought into my office, Mr. Pons, and was going through the material, making meticulous entries. It was about eleven o’clock at night when I became aware of a faint scratching noise. There are racks of scholarly works in one corner of my office, Mr. Pons. I have so many reference volumes that I have two free-standing bookcases set at an angle to my desk. With the bookcase set against the far wall they form two aisles. I had the green-shaded desk-lamp on and the rest of the room was in shadow.”

Mr. Biggs paused almost as though the recollection were too much for him.

“Mr. Pons, I looked up as the scratching noise sounded and, through a gap in the books I saw the wrinkled face of a 2,000-year-old mummy looking at me!”

My first inclination was to smile at the little man’s fantastic assertion but one glance at his terrified face showed me that he was in deadly earnest. Pons sat holding his pipe by its bowl, his sharp, sympathetic eyes never leaving our visitor’s face.

“That is quite impossible, Mr. Biggs,” he said coolly. “Though I can imagine the shock such a sight gave you.”

Biggs shook his head stubbornly.

“You do not understand, Mr. Pons. I was not dreaming. The thing existed. Its face was covered with rotting bandages and only the eyes were visible, burning through the wrappings. As I watched it moved and as I sat there paralysed, my heart thumping as though it would burst, the thing disappeared into the shadow with lightning rapidity. I am not afraid to confess that when I found my wits I shouted loudly and rang my bell. I need not bore you with the search the night-guards made, the comings-and-goings. In short, though a thorough examination of the premises was made the apparition had completely disappeared.”

Solar Pons frowned.

“It would not be too difficult to disappear in such a vast place as the Egyptian Museum, Mr. Biggs. I am tolerably familiar with its features and some of those galleries, with their massive statuary and mummy-cases would provide many concealed hiding places.”

Biggs nodded gloomily.

“just so, Mr. Pons. I am inviting ridicule, I know, but we also examined the mummy cases in some detail. Their fastenings were undisturbed and we have, in any event, some of them secure within glass cases. But when I returned to my office I had another shock. Though all had been intact when I left I found that the artefacts had been disturbed and some of the stoppers removed from several jars.”

Solar Pons sat upright in his chair. He brought the palms of his hands together with a small cracking sound in the silence.

“Admirable, Mr. Biggs! Just as I should have imagined. Your problem has captured my imagination and though I have a good idea what lies behind it, it is not without features of interest.”

Mr. Biggs’ mouth opened wide in amazement.

“This is all beyond me, Mr. Pons, though I am glad you can read something into it. To put things shortly, this apparition has appeared on three occasions since, always at night, until the watchmen are almost afraid to go on duty. On each occasion, once the initial shock had worn off, they chased it but were never able to sight it again after the initial glimpse.”

“I see. And where was your Egyptian detective all this time?”

“He was not there at the time of the sightings, Mr. Pons. But he remained on duty at night, though the thing never appeared to him.”

“I am not surprised,” said Solar Pons drily. “Though it is rather odd that a 2,000-year-old mummy should be frightened by a revolver.”

And he chuckled throatily to himself.

“You have not yet told me about Achmed?” he said after a moment or two.

“So you have guessed, Mr. Pons.”

“It was not very difficult, Mr. Biggs. You several times spoke of him in the past tense.”

Biggs nodded sombrely.

“There was an unfortunate accident only yesterday morning. He fell under a bus near the Museum.”

Pons gave me a significant glance.

“Fell under a bus, Mr. Biggs?”

“Yes, sir. It was an accident. There was a large crowd near the bus stop with people shoving and pushing to get on a stationary vehicle. Achmed was pushed out into the path of another bus which was passing at the time.”

Pons’ eyes were very bright and shrewd as he stared at the curator.

“And you share the view that it was an accident, Mr. Biggs?”

“It appeared to be so, Mr. Pons. And the police were of the same opinion. I notified the Egyptian Embassy, of course.”

Pons nodded.

“You had not told the police of these appearances at the Museum?”

The little man looked uncomfortable.

“I had sworn the staff to secrecy, Mr. Pons. As a great institution we could not allow such things to get about.”

“I quite understand,” I said.

Biggs shot me a grateful smile.

“But you felt you had to report the death of Achmed officially, Mr. Biggs?”

“Of course, sir. It was my duty as a citizen. Though Inspector Jamison took the same view.”

Pons raised his eyebrows, giving me a whimsical smile.

“I fail to see why the matter should have been reported to Scotland Yard, Mr. Biggs. It was, after all, though tragic, only a traffic accident. Normally the procedure would be for the local police to be informed and they would then make an inquiry and get in touch with the Coroner for the district. Inspector Jamison handles only criminal matters.”

“I am well aware of that, Mr. Pons,” said Biggs in his flustered way. “But apparently Achmed had already made contact with Scotland Yard. I now realise, from our conversation this evening, why. I could not understand Mr. Jamison referring to him as Inspector Achmed.”

Pons inclined his head toward the other.

“And the Inspector could see nothing unusual in the Inspector falling under a bus?”

“Such things happen, Mr. Pons. And London is a very crowded and congested city, quite choked with traffic.”

“Indeed. I take it the Inspector visited you at the Museum?”

“He came late yesterday afternoon, Mr. Pons, and stayed about half an hour. I told him nothing about the things which had been troubling us. He did speak of security for the Egyptian Exhibition later this year and we agreed to liaise together nearer the time.”

“And what was the Egyptian Embassy’s view of the matter, Mr. Biggs?”

“Polite regret, Mr. Pons. I have had no official reaction from Cairo but I suppose that would be too early at this stage.” “Hmm.”

Solar Pons tented his fingers before him.

“It now only remains for you to tell me of the final incident which drove you to seek my advice, Mr. Biggs. Achmed died yesterday morning, yet you have not sought me out until this evening. So presumably something else has happened in the interim to tip the scales.”

Mr. Biggs nodded.

“I am afraid it has, Mr. Pons.”

He passed his hand across his jaw to control the sudden shaking of his fingers.

“Matters came to a head this afternoon. After I had informed Inspector Jamison I hurried straight here. All the Museum staff are on the alert of course, and I have, by dint of stretching our funds, doubled the night-guards temporarily.”

“It must be serious indeed,” I put in.

“It is, Dr. Parker.”

Biggs paused.

“I do not know if you remember the Museum, Mr. Pons. On the second floor, where we have been forced to place material in corridors because of pressure on space, there is a large collection of pottery on display.

“Now, Mr. Pons, the main part of the Museum is built around a square; a large staircase leads to the various floors and the central well, where we have display cases, is commanded by a balcony running round the four sides on each of the three floors above ground level.”

Pons nodded, his eyes bright through the wreaths of tobacco smoke.

“On the second floor we have a large collection of terracotta vases, standing on plinths in the corridor which is bounded on one side by the gallery wall and on the other by the balcony commanding the stairwell and central courtyard. I had gone down from my office at about four o’clock this afternoon to check some labelling on one of the display cases.

“The Museum was quiet and there was hardly anyone about in that section; certainly no-one on the ground floor overlooked by the balconies, fortunately. I had moved away from the case and was standing, preoccupied by the problems of the past few weeks, when some instinct made me look up. I remained frozen for a moment. What I saw, Mr. Pons, was one of the great terra-cotta vases in mid-air, coming straight down toward me!”

-4-

“Great heavens!” I exclaimed involuntarily.

Mr. Biggs could not control his nerves and I got up immediately to pour him a glass of whisky from the decanter on the sideboard. He drank it with a grateful glance and Pons and I were both silent for a moment while we waited for him to recover. He put the glass down on the table in front of him and contemplated the remainder of its contents.

“Fear lent me energy, Mr. Pons. How I managed it, I do not know, but I half-fell, half thrust myself sideways. Mr. Pons, that vase smashed itself to smithereens on the pavement beside me. It could not have missed me by more than two feet. I should have been crushed to pulp if I had not had the good fortune to look up!”

Pons nodded slowly, his eyes fixed and serious.

“It could not have fallen accidentally, of course?”

A vigorous shake of the head from our visitor.

“Impossible, Mr. Pons. It was free-standing on its pedestal, naturally, but these things are of enormous weight. Besides, the height of the balustrade precludes it falling in any case. It extends for more than a foot higher than the middle of the vase. Someone of immense strength must have hoisted it on to the broad railing before releasing it.”

“Yet you heard nothing?”

“No, Mr. Pons. It is even more sinister than I can convey. Someone of great strength who could move as quietly as a cat across the marble floor. I raised the alarm, naturally, and a thorough search was made but the culprit was nowhere to be found.”

“What is above the second floor, Mr. Biggs?”

“Store-rooms for the most part, Mr. Pons, though we have two small public galleries there. Other staircases lead down to the ground floor.”

“I see. So that anyone, staff or member of the public, could have been responsible? And made their escape undetected?” “That is so, Mr. Pons.”

My companion smoked on quietly for a moment or two, the only sound in the room the faint drumming of his restless fingers on the table-top.

“And where are these treasures you brought back from the Valley of the Kings now, Mr. Biggs?”

“The material on loan from Cairo is in the main Museum strong-room, Mr. Pons. The less valuable artefacts are housed in an annexe off my office, while one open crate, containing the material I am currently examining and cataloguing, is in my office itself.”

“What about this annexe, Mr. Biggs?”

“It is secure enough, Mr. Pons. It has only the one entrance and one has to go through my office itself to get to it. There is a steel door to the annexe and I am the only one with the keys, for it is a special lock.”

“That is a rather curious circumstance, Mr. Biggs.”

“Well, you see, Mr. Pons, the annexe used to be the main strong-room of the Museum, in the old days before the war and since then the Museum has been altered and extended. It proved inconvenient so the then authorities built a new strong room on the ground floor and the Curator’s present office was built on the first floor with the result that the original strong room was within the Curator’s personal quarters. It has its advantages because treasures currently being examined and catalogued by the Curator and his staff, can be kept within the office until they take their place in the main collections.”

Pons blew out a plume of blue smoke.

“I see. You have told us an extraordinary story, Mr. Biggs. We have no time to lose. You are returning to the Museum now?” Biggs nodded, rising to his feet.

“I am meeting Inspector Jamison there at half-past eight.” Solar Pons rose and shook hands with our guest.

“You have no objection to Dr. Parker joining me?”

“Delighted, Mr. Pons.”

“Very well then. You may expect us at the Museum within the hour. In the meantime I bid you good evening.”

When I returned to our sitting-room after showing our visitor downstairs, Pons was sitting with his brilliant eyes fixed on the dancing flames of the fire.

“You have your revolver handy, Parker?”

“You think we may need it, Pons?” I returned, somewhat startled.

“It is as well to be prepared. A gentleman who can lift and throw such a vase as Biggs has described, may not be amenable to anything but bullets if we are put to it.”

“Very well, Pons. I will get it.”

I procured the weapon from the leather case in my bedroom and re-joined him with my outdoor things. Pons already had his overcoat on but still lingered, blowing slow smoke-rings up toward the ceiling.

“What do you make of this business, Parker? Pray give me your observations.”

“It is obviously tied up with the Treasure from the Valley of the Kings, Pons. It seems to me that the thieves are preparing a false trail, as it were; creating these incidents to mask their preparations for striking at the strong-room.”

Solar Pons regarded me sombrely.

“It may be so, Parker, it may be so,” he said slowly.

“And the death of the Egyptian detective?”

“It could have been an accident,” I said cautiously. “Or perhaps he found out too much and they did away with him.” Pons’ eyes were very bright and hard.

“Who are ‘they’, Parker?”

“Well, that is for you to find out, Pons,” I said somewhat irritably. “After all, that is why you have been consulted.”

“And why would they wish to kill the Curator in order to strike at the strong-room, Parker?”

“As part of the diversion?” I hazarded.

Solar Pons slowly shook his head.

“Hardly, Parker. It is fatal to postulate from false hypotheses. But we shall know more once we are upon the ground. We have just time to apprise Mrs. Johnson of our absence and walk to the corner where I believe we can find an omnibus to deposit us almost at the Museum door.”

In the event it was a little under the hour stipulated before we alighted in the Bloomsbury area and walked across a small square to the imposing Doric portico of the Egyptian Museum. There were lights in the windows of the vast structure and though a uniformed attendant was on duty in a small wooden cubicle at the great iron entrance gate, he rapidly passed us through on Pons’ introducing himself. The Museum was closed, of course, at this time of the evening, but there nevertheless seemed to be a good deal of activity going on as we mounted the steps.

Two uniformed constables were in the vestibule but they evidently had their orders and they waved us through as though they knew us. A tall, distinguished-looking man with a black beard flecked with grey was waiting inside the glass doors of the main entrance and he hurried forward with outstretched hand.

“Mr. Pons? And Dr. Lyndon Parker! Delighted to see you both! I am Castleton, the Assistant Curator.”

Dr. Cedric Castleton was a distinguished Egyptologist who had written some fascinating accounts of his explorations in the more popular newspapers and I looked at him with some interest as we shook hands.

“A frightful business, gentlemen,” he said briskly, as he ushered us through into the vast and cavernous concourse where the massive balustraded staircase marched upward into the gloom.

“Indeed,” said Solar Pons drily. “Were you here when the vase fell near Mr. Biggs?”

Castleton shook his head, looking at my companion shrewdly.

“I was in the building, yes. But I was in my office going over some reports. The Museum was unusually quiet this afternoon and I understand there were not many members of the public present when the thing happened.”

“What is your opinion of the matter, Dr. Castleton?”

The Assistant Curator shook his head.

“I haven’t one, Mr. Pons. The whole business seems inexplicable to me. That story of the mummy face, for example. If Mr. Biggs had not seen it himself I would say that the night-guards had been drinking.”

He glanced over his shoulder into the dusky depths of the Museum where overhead lamps shimmered on great carved statutes and brightly painted sandalwood chests in glass cases.

“If my whole scientific training wasn’t against it, I would have said there was something supernatural about it.”

Pons stared at him with twinkling eyes.

“And yet we both know it is not supernatural, do we not, Dr. Castleton?”

The Assistant Curator smiled faintly and then our attention was caught by the sound of hurrying feet from above.

“Ah, there is Mr. Biggs,” said Pons casually. “And if I am not mistaken our old acquaintance Inspector Jamison is just behind him.”

He drew closer to Castleton.

“Tell me,” he said in a low voice. “Where is your office, Dr. Castleton?”

“On the second floor, Mr. Pons. Just two doors down from Mr. Biggs.”

“Thank you. If I need to call on your services I shall know where to find you.”

He moved forward to the bottom of the staircase and we stood there in silence for a moment, waiting for the small group of men who came hastening down toward us.

-5-

Biggs led, an expression of relief on his face.

“Thank goodness you have come, Mr. Pons!”

Solar Pons chuckled drily.

“That is hardly flattering to our friend the Inspector here! How do you do, Jamison?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Pons,” said Jamison sourly, giving my companion a stiff inclination of the head. His face was red as though with exertion and his whole form bristled like a terrier. I concealed my secret amusement and turned my attention to the third man who towered over both the Curator and the Scotland Yard man. Biggs intercepted my glance.

“Allow me to present Professor Adrian Smithers, Keeper of our Papyrus Department. Mr. Solar Pons and Dr. Lyndon Parker.”

Professor Smithers, who was gaunt almost to emaciation and wore a frayed goatee beard which was slightly stained with nicotine, shambled forward and shook hands gingerly with us both. His hand was cold and damp to the touch and I surreptitiously wiped my fingers on my handkerchief after he had relinquished his grasp and turned to Pons.

“Despite my grandiose title, my function is somewhat more humble here than might be thought,” he told Pons in a high, reedy voice.

“But nevertheless, my duties, in addition to deciphering hieroglyphs, also extend to manuscripts, ancient and modern; inscribed tablets and tomb-writings; and modern documentation relating to the contents of the Museum. So, if I am able to help you, Mr. Pons, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”

Pons gave him a brief bow.

“I shall remember it, Professor. In the meantime I should like a brief word with you, Jamison.”

“I am at your disposal, Mr. Pons.”

The Scotland Yard man withdrew with my companion to the other end of the concourse and they remained in earnest conversation for several minutes. When they returned it may have been my imagination but I thought that Jamison’s features were even more choleric than before but his manner seemed amiable enough.

“Now, Mr. Biggs, I would like to see the scenes of these extraordinary events for myself. This is where the vase fell, I presume?”

My companion strode forward to where a section of the marble floor was railed off and covered with canvas.

“Certainly, Mr. Pons. As you can see the vase came straight from the balustrade overhead.”

Solar Pons looked keenly up at the shadowy stairway and then strode over to the enclosure. He carefully removed the canvas and I was able to see the tremendous impact the thing had made on hitting the floor. Several of the smooth marble tiles were completely shattered, revealing the cement beneath. Pons remained on his knees in silence for a moment and then rose, dusting the knees of his trousers.

“Have you the fragments of the vase?”

“Of course, Mr. Pons.”

It was Castleton, the Assistant Curator, who had spoken. “Restoration is a speciality of my department. We are up on the third floor if you would care to see.”

“By all means.”

The whole party, including Inspector Jamison, ascended the great central staircase, a brass lantern in the shape of an ancient Egyptian oil-burning vessel, containing electric light bulbs, effectively illuminating the whole of the stairwell. It was an impressive place and shadowy figures of ancient gods stood in glass cases in niches at the side of the staircase, swinging eerily past us as we mounted higher. My knowledge of Egyptology is not great but I recognised Anubis, the black, jackal-like dog couchant upon a pylon in one of the cases while, even more sinister, a carved wooden image of Bast, the cat-headed god, ornamented with gilt and gold paint stood near the top of the stairs.

Pons paused in the corridor at the stair head and we then commenced to re-ascend, the Curator leading the way. A silence had fallen on the party and the only sounds in the vast place were the muted echoes of our feet on the staircase and muffled noises and an occasional cough from the galleries beyond, presumably as the night-guards went their rounds.

On the second floor we stopped again while Pons looked searchingly at an empty plinth indicated by Biggs. He went to the balustrade and looked over into the stairwell below. He next turned his attention to a massive ochre vase which stood on another plinth a little farther along.

“The vase was this size, Mr. Biggs?”

“Almost identical, Mr. Pons, except that the one which fell was even larger.”

“Indeed.”

Solar Pons stared at the far vase, pulling absently at the lobe of his right ear.

“You were right on a number of counts, Mr. Biggs. The vase could not have fallen by accident. And if size be any indication the person who lifted it must possess giant strength.”

After a moment or two he passed on.

“I think we will first take a look at these fragments, Parker, and then I should like to question the night-guards before inspecting the Museum in general.”

“By all means, Pons.”

In silence we again ascended flights of stairs in the hushed silence of the great museum. Through massive porticoes we glimpsed other galleries beyond and then Castle-ton took the lead, opening the door to a shabby corridor with plain, white-painted walls. We passed several storerooms flanking the passage and then the Assistant Curator had opened another door leading on to a large series of rooms; bare electric bulbs burned at the ends of their flexes and I had the impression of rough wooden racks; benches; sheeted masonry and complicated fragments of paving laid out on what looked like easels, for all the world as though they were gigantic jigsaw puzzles.

Castleton led the way with firm, purposeful steps to a wooden framework set under a powerful light at the far end of the restoration department. Here, in an elaborate metal clamp the fragments of a huge red earthenware vase were being re-assembled. I marvelled at the delicacy of the work; with a powerful glue-like substance the Assistant Curator and his staff had begun their task so skilfully that only the faintest, hair-like cracks were visible on the surface of the pottery.

“Of course, Mr. Pons,” Castleton said casually, “some of the material has been destroyed beyond repair and we shall have to fill those sections with a special hardening paste of my own invention.”

The light of enthusiasm was in my companion’s eyes.

“Admirable, Mr. Castleton, admirable,” he murmured as he took out his powerful pocket lens and busied himself with examining the partly reconstructed vase and the masses of fragments scattered about the bench, some of which I noticed had already been numbered on their reverse sides. He straightened up eventually.

“I can see you are an artist, Mr. Castleton, as well as an archaeologist.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pons,” said the official, a faint flush visible on his cheeks above the beard. “I may say the same in respect to your own professional activities.”

Solar Pons acknowledged the returned compliment with a slight inclination of the head.

“What does it tell you, Pons?” I asked.

My companion shook his head.

“Nothing, Parker,” he said succinctly. “Except for the somewhat obvious fact that the Egyptian Museum and through that organisation, the nation’s Egyptology interests are in good hands.”

Mr. Biggs smiled faintly.

Pons was already striding toward the entrance of the department. He beckoned the Curator to his side.

“That is the staircase of which you spoke, Mr. Biggs?”

The little man nodded, indicating the small spiral structure which wound downwards into the dusk at the end of the corridor.

“There are no less than three of these, Mr. Pons, which made it quite impossible to trace the person who was responsible for the attempt upon my life. But you wanted to see the night-staff. Here is my head man, Morticott now.”

A gigantic shadow etched itself upon the white wall of the dimly-lit corridor and a faint swishing noise was heard. The Curator lowered his voice.

“Morticott has a somewhat unusual appearance, Mr. Pons, in addition to suffering from a lame foot. He was very badly wounded in the last war but his services have been invaluable here.”

“just so,” my companion murmured.

I was prepared for a somewhat unusual sight after Biggs’ words but was completely thrown off balance by the appearance of the apparition which presently came into view at the end of the corridor.

-6-

To say that he was gigantic would be an understatement. He was at least seven feet tall and the smart blue uniform he wore seemed only to emphasise his lop-sided appearance as he shuffled along the corridor toward us, dragging his lame left foot. His enormous hands dangled limply and the sardonic face looked particularly sinister because of a partial paralysis of one side, which pulled the muscles down; no doubt the result of his wound. Yet the entire impression of this giant was one of enormous power and I shot a swift glance at Pons.

That he had taken my point was evident for his penetrating glance was fixed on Morticott’s features and he immediately questioned the man on his movements and impressions on the night the Curator had seen the strange apparition in the Museum.

The giant answered Pons in monosyllables, shifting his feet awkwardly to and fro as he looked first at Pons and then at the small group composed of myself and the museum officials. Evidently feeling that more was called for he spoke his first connected sentence.

“Mr. Biggs told me about the intruder, sir. I immediately ran through the second floor galleries and roused the staff.” He flushed slightly and gave Pons a sharp look.

“Oh, yes, sir, in spite of my disability I am quite light on my feet and can move fast when I have a mind to.”

“I have no doubt,” said Pons cheerfully. “You found nothing, of course, as Mr. Biggs has already told us.”

“No, sir. There are several staircases you see, so the man could have gone anywhere.”

Biggs cleared his throat warningly.

“I did not specify the nature of the intruder,” he told my companion sotto voce.

“Of course, Mr. Biggs,” said Pons smoothly. He turned back to the giant attendant, taking his unlit pipe from his pocket and turning it over in his slender, artistic hands.

“Where were you when the vase fell this afternoon?”

The dark eyes of the giant had a sullen look in them now. “I was in one of the first-floor galleries. I ran to the balcony. The crash was tremendous and echoed through the building.”

Pons nodded absently.

“Have you any theory to account for such an accident?” The big man looked incredulous.

“Hardly an accident, sir.”

Pons smiled faintly.

“What makes you say that?”

I must have looked as bewildered as the Curator as I stared at Pons.

The giant shuffled his feet, the strange contortion of his features giving him a weird aspect in the low lighting of the corridor. He opened his mouth to reply when we were interrupted by rapid footsteps from behind us. The Curator turned, beckoned to two more attendants, who approached us curiously.

“Scott and Prendergast, Mr. Pons. If you have any more questions, now would be a good time to ask them.”

Pons nodded. He lit his pipe and puffed at it gently, the flames from the bowl making little stipples of rosy light on his lean, ascetic features. Scott was a small, almost weedy man with a defeated face in which a ragged moustache was the greatest distinguishing feature. His companion, Prendergast, was much more prepossessing; a tall, broad-shouldered man with an alert, intelligent expression.

“This is Mr. Solar Pons, the distinguished private consulting detective,” said Biggs pompously.

A fleeting expression of annoyance passed across my companion’s mobile features as he blew out a plume of fragrant blue smoke.

“Just a few simple questions. You yourself saw nothing of this intruder of which Mr. Biggs speaks?”

The question was addressed collectively to the two men but it was the largest who was obviously the spokesman.

Prendergast shook his head vigorously.

“No, sir. And if I may make so bold as to speak for all the night-staff—with Mr. Morticott’s permission”—here he inclined his head toward the giant who made no visible sign that I could see—”no-one but Mr. Biggs did see it that evening.”

“I see. And where were you both when the vase fell?”

It was the little man’s turn now.

“I was sweeping the corridor to the Mummy Room on the ground floor, Mr. Pons, and I hurried in to find Mr. Biggs considerably shaken.”

Pons nodded, a frown on his clear-minted face.

“I was in one of the store-rooms on this floor, sir,” said Prendergast. “It is some considerable way from the main entrance hall, as you can see. I heard nothing of the incident until later.”

Pons nodded, screwing up his eyes through the smoke. “Neither of you have any opinions on these incidents—private or otherwise?”

The two men, so diverse in their physique and characters, exchanged glances. Scott shook his head. The big man shrugged.

“It’s just a guess, sir, but might it be connected with the priceless treasures Mr. Biggs brought back from Egypt?”

Pons stared moodily at the toe-caps of his brightly polished shoes.

“It might, Prendergast, it might,” he said softly. “Thank you. You have both been of great help.”

He rubbed his hands and turned briskly to me.

“I think we might as well direct our attention to your office and the strong-room, Mr. Biggs.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons.”

The Curator led the group back the way we had come, marching importantly down the stairs at the head of our small procession. His office was a large panelled chamber with a polished oak floor, thick carpeting and a massive desk. The walls were hung with heavy oil paintings in gilt frames, a number of them rather good eighteenth-century studies of the museum building itself. The bookcases Biggs had spoken of were over on the right-hand wall and Pons strode swiftly across, making a detailed examination of the area. He paused, taking out a section of books from the shelving.

“This is where you saw the apparition, Mr. Biggs?”

We were alone now except for Castleton and the Curator himself, the remaining members of the staff having gone about their various duties, and Biggs nodded, bustling over to Pons’ side.

“Just a little farther along, here.”

“I see. What does that suggest to you, Parker?”

I frowned at the sight of Pons’ head framed in the empty space of the shelving. He was standing in the aisle at the other side of the bookcase and I immediately gained a picture of the sinister sight that must have greeted the Curator on glimpsing the horrific mummy face in the dim recess where my companion now stood. Pons is a tall man but only the upper part of his face and the eyes were visible over the top of the shelf.

“Why, that the intruder must have been a very tall man, Pons.”

“Excellent, Parker!”

Solar Pons rubbed his hands briskly together, put the books back with a bang, raising a small cloud of dust to the Curator’s mortification, and rejoined me. He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.

“Exactly. He would needs have been more than six feet tall for Mr. Biggs to have seen his entire face over the top of that shelf. Which narrows the field considerably.”

I had a sudden vision of the giant Morticott and was about to draw Pons’ attention to the matter, when I was arrested by the expression in his eyes. He smiled faintly and turned to the Curator.

“I would like to see the Museum staff records, if you please.” Biggs’ surprise was evident in his eyes but he waved his hand toward his desk.

“Certainly, Mr. Pons, if you so wish. I am not au fait with them myself. My private secretary, Miss Pilkington, deals with all that. They are in the filing cabinets in the corner there and the lady herself is on call in her own office next door.”

He bustled out, leaving Pons and myself alone with the Assistant Curator.

Pons was wandering restlessly round the room, as though he could not relax for a moment.

“This is the original strong-room Mr. Biggs spoke of?”

He indicated a massive metal door set in the far corner of the room. There were wooden crates here, with small dusty red-clay pots and vessels set about on the top of a rough wooden bench.

“That is so, Mr. Pons. I am afraid we shall have to wait until Mr. Biggs returns before we can set foot inside. The Curator holds the only keys, apart from a duplicate set in the strongbox at the bank.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his deep-set eyes stabbing glances about the big, shadowy room. I had the impression, not for the first time, that he could see many things that were hidden from me. Castleton watched my companion with interest and then excused himself.

“I have much to do, gentlemen. May I wish you all success in your efforts.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Pons absently, his eyes fixed over toward the strong-room door.

There was a light step as the Assistant Curator left and a tall, slim, fair girl with a slightly flushed face hurried in.

“Helen Pilkington, gentlemen. I am sorry to keep you waiting but things are rather at sixes and sevens. Mr. Biggs tells me you wish to see the staff records, Mr. Pons.”

“If it would not be too much trouble, Miss Pilkington.”

“By no means, Mr. Pons.”

The girl, with a bright smile, crossed to a mahogany filing cabinet in the corner and busied herself with cardboard folders. She came back with a bundle of them and placed them on the desk.

“Everyone is here, Mr. Pons, including myself and the Curator.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly, thanking her and seating himself in the Curator’s leather chair. I sat down near him and studied his face as he turned over the typewritten documents in the folders. His expression was absorbed and intent.

“You have found something, Pons?”

“It merely confirms my suppositions, Parker. Ah, here is Mr. Biggs again.”

He got up, turning the files over to me, while the girl stood uncertainly near the desk, first looking from me to my companion and then back to me again.

“I understand you would like to see in the strong-room, Mr. Pons.”

“If you please, Mr. Biggs. The matter is rather important.” “Of course, Mr. Pons.”

Biggs led the way over to the big steel door and started fitting keys into a curious circular lock, which had three keyholes in it. I stayed at the desk for a moment, skimming over the folders Pons had dismissed so cursorily. I went down the names rapidly. Morticott interested me most. I saw that he had been on the Museum staff for fifteen years.

The scholastic and managerial members seemed to have been with the museum a considerable time. Conversely, the uniformed staff included a number who had joined only a few weeks ago. Then I remembered that extra staff had been engaged in preparation for the Exhibition.

The strong-room door was open now and Pons had disappeared inside. I strolled across and joined Biggs and the girl at the entrance. We were interrupted at that moment by Inspector Jamison, who entered heavily, a worried frown on his lugubrious features. He had left us earlier on the staircase after a whispered consultation with Pons and now he produced a buff form from his pocket.

“This has just been handed to me at the museum entrance, Mr. Pons.”

My companion had re-appeared at the strong-room door and took it from him. I read it over his shoulder. The message, transmitted from Scotland Yard and delivered by special messenger was terse and to the point. The pith of it was contained in the final sentence.

CAIRO POLICE INFORM US BODY INSPECTOR ACHMED RECOVERED FROM NILE EARLIER TODAY.

-7-

“This is impossible, Mr. Pons!” Jamison exploded in the silence which followed.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“On the contrary, it is the only possible explanation of that bus ‘accident’. It appears that I have been slightly off the track but it does not alter the validity of my central hypotheses.”

“I do not understand you, Mr. Pons.”

“Think about it, Inspector. I commend that factor, the incidents surrounding Mr. Biggs, and the material removed from the Valley of the Kings to you, and you cannot fail to come to the obvious conclusion.”

Inspector Jamison scratched his head.

“It is far from clear to me, Mr. Pons, though it has been self-evident all along that these people are after the treasure Mr. Biggs brought back.”

“Ah, you have seen that, have you? Well, I wish you luck in your investigations.”

And Solar Pons turned on his heel somewhat ungraciously and stepped back into the strong-room. I followed him in, after one look at the Inspector’s crestfallen face. Pons looked thoughtfully at the two great crates set back beneath the shelves in the far corner. As Biggs had said, one of them was all splashed and stained as though with red paint.

“You have not yet dealt with these artefacts, Mr. Biggs?” The little Curator shook his head.

“There is so much to catalogue, Mr. Pons, and we have had so many worries.”

“Just so.”

Pons stared in silence for a few moments at the jumbled contents of the strong-room.

“If you will permit me?”

“By all means, Mr. Pons. But please be careful. These jars are so fragile.”

My companion picked up one of the red terracotta jars from its bed of straw and lifted it toward his face with fingers as delicate as the antennae of an insect. I noticed that the jar was intact, with its original clay stopper. Pons put it to his nose and sniffed, almost as though with appreciation. His eyes were alight with interest as he examined it carefully with his pocket magnifying glass. He put it down gently on the straw and lifted an unsealed one thoughtfully.

“These would have contained wine, you say, Mr. Biggs?” “Wine, Mr. Pons, unguents and other substances which the Ancient Egyptians used to store in this fashion.”

Pons nodded.

“The wine would, of course, have evaporated long ago?” Mr. Biggs had his omniscient look on his face again now. “Oh, indeed yes, Mr. Pons. Countless centuries. We have never found anything within the jars except the dried remains of sediment on the bottom.”

“I see.”

Pons put down the empty jar indolently and turned to me.

“I think we have seen enough for the moment, Parker. Have you a room which we could use as our own, pro tem, Mr. Biggs?”

“Of course, Mr. Pons. Nothing could be simpler. There is a small office leading off my own, which my secretary sometimes uses. It shall be put at your disposal and is only a few steps away. Would you care for some refreshment? I can have coffee and sandwiches sent up from the Museum Restaurant as the staff are staying on tonight in the emergency to cater for us all.”

“Excellent,” said Pons with a faint smile. “But a little later, if you please. We may have need of it before the evening is over, eh, Parker?”

“No doubt, Pons,” I said somewhat grimly. “I presume we intend to stay the night?”

My companion chuckled as we followed the little Curator back across his own office to a rosewood door in the far corner. “I trust it will not come to that, my dear fellow.”

He lowered his voice.

“Nevertheless, I have a distinct feeling that something may happen. We must keep a sharp eye on Mr. Biggs for he is the key to the whole matter, in more ways than one.”

He looked thoughtfully across at the open strong-room door, pulling gently with his right hand at the lobe of his right ear.

“You think an attempt will be made to steal this treasure tonight, Pons?”

“It is more than likely, Parker.”

I was astonished.

“But the place is full of police and everyone is on their guard!”

“Exactly, Parker. That is why I think this criminal will strike again. The situation is so unlikely that he hopes to catch the Museum authorities off balance. But I have drawn my own conclusions and we must keep alert at all times.”

“But what are we looking for, Pons? And what is this whole insane business about, come to that?”

Solar Pons smiled gently, surveying the small, comfortable office with oak-panelled walls into which Biggs now ushered us.

“You will be enlightened in due course, Parker. And on second thoughts, if it is not too much trouble, Mr. Biggs, a cup of coffee would not come amiss.”

“Of course not, Mr. Pons. I will arrange it at once.”

The Curator bustled over to his own telephone on the massive desk and Pons quietly shut the door behind him and followed me into the room. A low gas-fire burned in the hearth and gave off a comforting glow and I sank into a leather chair at one side while Pons stooped to light a spill of paper at the fire. He puffed contentedly at his pipe until he was wreathed in aromatic blue smoke. He sat down opposite me and extended his legs toward the fire.

“Firstly, Parker, I would be greatly obliged if you would step outside for a moment and make sure Mr. Biggs re-locks the strong-room properly.”

I stared at him.

“But there is only pottery there, Pons. The Valley of the Kings treasure is in the ground-floor vault.”

“I am aware of it, Parker, but I would still appreciate your attending to the matter. And then perhaps you would be good enough to ask Mr. Biggs to let me have the keys.”

“There are some things about the case I would like to discuss with you, Pons.”

“By all means. But I suggest we do so after your little errand and after we have consumed the coffee. There are a few points still to be sifted in my mind.”

Before I could reply there was a heavy foot-fall on the floor and the thickset figure of Inspector Jamison came hurrying across the inner room toward us. His florid features bore a grim expression and he came to the point without any preliminaries.

“I am just making my dispositions for the night, Mr. Pons,” he began heavily, “and I wondered whether you had any observations to make.”

My companion took his pipe from his mouth slowly. “Upon what, Jamison?”

A frown of irritation passed across the Scotland Yard man’s face.

“Why, upon my arrangements, Mr. Pons. And this chap Inspector Achmed, for example. He had all the proper credentials. That Cairo telegram doesn’t make sense.”

Pons smiled enigmatically.

“Ah, Inspector, you have your methods. I have mine. Parker and I will make our own plans and will endeavour not to get in your way.”

Jamison’s stolid features went a shade pinker.

“I did not mean that, Mr. Pons, and you well know it.”

Solar Pons blew out a languid plume of smoke from his pipe.

“Then you should make yourself clearer, my dear fellow. If you are asking my advice, I have already given it, as you will no doubt recall.”

Jamison scratched his head.

“I have placed a heavy guard upon the ground-floor vaults, Mr. Pons. These fellows will stop at nothing to gain this treasure.”

He could not keep the expression of amazement from his face.

“Why, you have not even visited the main strong-room, Mr. Pons!”

My companion smiled, shooting me a quick glance from his deep-set eyes.

“That is because I have no doubt that everything possible will be done by the official force. I could not possibly hope to improve upon your arrangements and I mean that sincerely, Jamison.”

The Inspector shifted embarrassedly from foot to foot.

“It is very good of you to say so,” he observed haltingly. “But what will you be doing, Mr. Pons?”

My companion laid his forefinger alongside his nose in a cautionary gesture.

“Your precautions will leave myself and the doctor free to follow our own line of thought. I shall be keeping close to Mr. Biggs.”

“Of course,” said the Inspector heavily. “His safety is of paramount importance. Now, this Morticott chap . . .”

“Tut, it is obvious,” said Pons with a flash of acerbity. “He is enormous in size, even more powerful in strength, and has been with the Museum for fifteen years! That should tell you a good deal.”

“I don’t think I follow, Mr. Pons.”

“No doubt,” said Pons a trifle tartly, it appeared to me. “But now, if you will excuse us I see our coffee approaching.”

Jamison stood stock-still for a moment, then turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him. Solar Pons chuckled throatily.

“You were a little hard on him, Pons,” I observed.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps,” he said absently, as the neat-looking woman in white overalls laid a tray with cups and saucers and a steaming coffee-pot on the desk.

“But I fancy friend Jamison will be doubly on the alert tonight. So we have nothing to fear from that quarter.”

“I do not quite understand, Pons.”

My companion sat down behind the desk, thanking the waitress absently, who withdrew with a nervous smile. He tented his thin fingers on the desk before him.

“Let us just have your observations on this affair, Parker. After you have secured those keys.”

I stared at him.

“Good heavens, Pons! I am sorry. I quite forgot what you had asked me to do.”

I hurried out to find that Mr. Biggs had already re-locked the strong-room door. He willingly relinquished the keys and when I had explained Pons’ requirements said he would be working in his own office for the next hour or so. I re-joined Pons who was sitting at the desk, sipping his coffee slowly, while thin spirals of smoke from his pipe, which was resting in the ash-tray, ascended in lazy whorls toward the ceiling. He took the bunch of keys from me without a word and thrust them into his pocket.

He looked at me quizzically.

“Just why are you so certain that something will happen tonight, Pons?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Tut, Parker, it is obvious. Mr. Biggs will not take long to get through those existing artefacts. By tomorrow afternoon at latest he will be at the heart of the matter.”

-8-

I broke a momentary silence.

“Why does not Inspector Jamison believe the telegram about Inspector Achmed, Pons?”

“Because he is working from a pre-conceived theory, Parker, and distorting his facts to fit them.”

A quarter of an hour had passed and the air was blue with smoke as we still sat at our coffee.

“But if the man who accompanied Mr. Biggs from Egypt and who fell under the bus, was not a Cairo detective, who on earth was he? You yourself said that he was a detective.”

My companion smiled faintly and blew out a plume of fragrant smoke.

“And so I did, Parker. All the facts pointed to it. But, unlike friend Jamison’s, my mind is flexible. On learning that my assumption was incorrect, I immediately re-adjusted my data to the new set of circumstances. He was a cool rascal at any event. Though a fake, he reported to Scotland Yard in Achmed’s persona, to put the Cairo Police off the track. And of course, the real Achmed’s body had not then been recovered.”

“That is all very well, Pons,” I grumbled. “But we have the most incredible jumble of mysteries here.”

Pons shook his head.

“And yet, if we start unravelling the threads in sequence all becomes simple and everything falls into place. Let us just hear your reconstruction, my dear fellow.”

“I hardly know where to begin, Pons.”

“Begin at the beginning, Parker. At the diggings in the Valley of the Kings.”

“An attempt was made to steal some of the treasures.”

Pons nodded, his head to one side as he stared at me.

“A correction, Parker. Some of the artefacts. There is a distinct difference.”

I stared back at him.

“I do not see the distinction, Pons.”

He sighed wearily.

“There is a great deal, my dear fellow. The pottery and so forth came from the on-site excavations up the Nile. The treasures came from the Cairo Museum.”

I nodded.

“Of course, Pons. How foolish of me. I was mixing up the crates.”

Solar Pons knocked out the ash from his pipe in the fender. “A great many things have been mixed up in this matter, Parker,” he said gently.

He held up his hand with a commanding gesture.

“A moment, Parker. Something is not right here.”

A few seconds later I caught the faint sounds which his keen ears had already discerned. It sounded like a dim, scuffling noise in the far distance. Pons was already on his feet, his upraised hand enjoining caution. He strode toward the door. Quick as he was, a key was already turning in the lock. I was running to join him as he pounded at the massive panels.

There was silence from the room beyond now.

“I have been a fool, Parker!” said Pons harshly.

He looked round the room, ran to the long window at the end and flung it open. I found the scene wavering in front of me, stared with amazement at the thick, pungent tendrils of vapour which were seeping in under the door.

“Gas, Pons!” I croaked, plucking at my collar.

I saw Pons’ tall figure undulate and buckle before I went down into a deep velvet darkness. How long I was unconscious I have no way of knowing but I came to myself to find perspiration cascading down my cheeks and nausea in my throat. I gulped in the cold night air gratefully, taking great mouthfuls into my lungs. Pons was beside me at the open window. He looked grimly over my shoulder.

“I have been lax, Parker,” he rapped. “If I had not opened this window we should have been out for the evening. As it is I was able to turn off the gas fire and drag you clear before the fumes had any effect on me.”

I rubbed my streaming eyes, conscious of the great flat roof of the Museum below us in the night.

“What is it, Pons?”

“Our men are at work, Parker. I have no doubt they have overpowered Biggs. But they do not know I have the keys.”

He held the bunch up with shining eyes. I looked back over my shoulder to find the room still half-full of acrid fumes.

“I fancy we can get down on to this flat roof with a little effort, Parker. Are you game?”

“By all means, Pons. I am certainly not staying here.”

He smiled at my expression and threw his leg over the sill swiftly.

“Ah, there is the diversion!”

There was a muffled explosion somewhere in the vast pile below us and immediately there sprang up smoke and flames from half a dozen different points.

“Our friends are nothing if not thorough!”

He was standing some feet below the window now and he paused to help me down. Once in the open air my head cleared rapidly and I followed him across the leads as quickly as possible.

“What on earth is happening, Pons?”

“A little pantomime staged for the benefit of friend Jamison. And it would have worked had not luck favoured us. I have been extremely lax in this matter.”

“I would hardly think so, Pons. You have extricated us from that room.”

He shook his head, tugging at a trap-door at the far side of the roof.

“Ah, here is a fire-exit. This should do admirably.”

He opened the oblong doorway, revealing a shaft of light and a narrow iron stairway leading down.

“We should not have been in that room and I should not have allowed us to be taken by surprise in that elementary manner. The story will not amuse Bancroft when he hears about it.”

He was already halfway down the ladder and I followed him gingerly, rejoining him in a narrow corridor which was obviously somewhere in the store-room area of the museum.

“You have your revolver, Parker?”

“It is here, Pons.”

“Good. We may have need of it shortly.”

We could hear running footsteps, hoarse shouts and the high, insistent clanging of a bell. We found a narrow stairway and started down. The smoke was quite thick now and we had to proceed cautiously the lower we went. We were evidently in an area of the museum barred to the public for we met several staff notices at turns in the narrow stair. I had clapped my handkerchief over my face and I noticed Pons had done the same. There was a green baize door in front and as we opened it and stepped through the smoke was thicker. Pons made a clicking noise indicative of annoyance.

We were obviously on the ground floor for between eddies of thick white smoke we could see the wavering outline of the grand staircase.

“We have missed a turn, Parker,” said Pons, moving aside to dodge the blundering figure of a uniformed constable who disappeared as swiftly as he had loomed out of the murk.

“Does it matter, Pons?”

“I think not, Parker. It will take them some time to get through that door.”

“Ah, the strong-room.”

There were more cries in front of us now and flashes of flame. By their light we could see the stocky figure of Inspector Jamison not more than two yards away.

“Ah! Mr. Pons! What did I say?”

“What did you say, Jamison?”

Strangely, the smoke was sweet and smelled of chemicals though the fog it gave off was quite impenetrable. Hence we were able to carry on conversation quite normally.

“Why, that the thieves would go for the Valley of the Kings treasures.”

Solar Pons, silhouetted in front of me against the background of white fog, shook his head.

“I think not, Jamison.”

He pointed upward.

“Those smoke-bombs were obviously lobbed from the gallery yonder. We shall find the answer to our questions up there.”

Jamison stared at Pons open-mouthed.

“Quick, man, quick!” said Pons urgently, starting toward the stairs. ‘Three of your strongest constables and we may yet be in time.”

Jamison blew a shrill blast on his whistle and heavy forms loomed up behind us. I heard the harsh clatter of boots on the stair as I hurried upward, trying to keep Pons in sight. The higher we went the thinner the smoke grew until at last, as we gained the second floor, it thinned sufficiently for me to recognise the salient features of the corridors and doors.

“Here we are, Parker,” said Pons, pointing to the Curator’s quarters, which we had just recently so precipitately quitted.

“No, my dear fellow, it is obviously locked. A couple of shots, I think. And stand well back. These men are armed and desperate.”

I put three shots through the lock. I was about to enter the room when Pons dragged me back. A moment later a bullet passed through the door-panel, sending splinters of wood whining angrily about the corridor.

“We will just await the official force, Parker,” said Pons calmly. “After all, they are paid to risk their lives in the public service. You are not.”

“You obviously know what awaits us in there, Pons.”

“I have a good idea, Parker. The matter was fairly obvious but I naturally did not know what form the feint would take.”

Inspector Jamison suddenly appeared a few yards from us, his face angry and bewildered.

“What on earth, Mr. Pons . . . ?”

He was rudely interrupted by a missile which ejected from the suddenly open door in front of us. It burst almost at his feet and we were immediately enveloped in thick white smoke. Pons had me by the arm.

“Our opportunity, I think, Parker! Follow me!”

I plunged headlong into the smoke at his heels. There was a bellow of rage and pain as a bulky form blundered into us. Pons was on him like a flash, the pistol-hand held in an iron grip.

“Quickly, Parker!”

I lashed out heavily, felt my pistol barrel connect with someone’s jaw. There was a grunt and the huge form crashed over backward, Pons and I on top of it. The pistol went skidding across the parquet as Pons hammered the big hand at the floor. I saw the ghastly, wrinkled mummy-face and my grip faltered in astonishment. Then Inspector Jamison had moved past me, a handkerchief across his mouth. There was the click of handcuffs as the giant was pinioned. A uniformed constable grabbed the mummy-form by the ankles and started dragging it out of the room.

Pons and Jamison were already snaking across the floor, their heads held low. The smoke was thinning in here and I could hear a strange hissing noise. I saw the recumbent figure of Biggs and then another dark shape blundered out of the fog. I put a shot into the ceiling. Plaster rained down and the second figure put his hands in the air.

“Excellent, Parker,” said Pons crisply, getting up. “Your prisoner, I think, Jamison.”

The Inspector pounced and a plain-clothes man darted from behind me and for the second time I heard the click of handcuffs.

“Take him out,” Jamison ordered, turning back to Pons.

“I hope you know what you are doing, Mr. Pons.”

“I am fully aware of the situation, Inspector,” said my companion drily.

He moved swiftly across the room, through the swirling smoke. I followed quickly, just having time to note the jumble of equipment at the strong-room door; the oxygen cylinders and the glowing red circle in the metal. The small man with the mask over his face, waved the oxy-acetylene torch menacingly but Pons kicked him adroitly on the ankles and he went down, sparks raining angrily about the room.

“Put your hands up!”

I had the barrel of the pistol steadily on the little man now, who sullenly got to his feet, rubbing his ankles. Jamison darted forward and turned the jet of the arc off.

“A nice little haul, Parker,” said Solar Pons approvingly. “You had better have a look at friend Biggs, if you would be so good.”

He looked sternly at the little man with the mask.

“If the Curator has come to any harm you will answer with your life.”

A flood of obscenities in French in a strange, Eastern accent came from the mask and Jamison stormed angrily forward and knocked the tinted heat-shield from the little man’s features.

“That will be enough,” he said roughly, looking with distaste at the swarthy, Levantine countenance, now twisted with hatred and pain.

I found Biggs recovering consciousness and hurried back to Pons’ side.

“The Curator has been chloroformed, Pons. He will be all right in a few minutes, just as soon as we get the air clear in here.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you would be good enough to open some windows, Inspector.”

As the Inspector crossed the room, Solar Pons turned to me with an expression of regret.

“A pity, Parker. We have broken this ring but I detect a greater hand in the affair. It bears all the hallmarks of our old friend, Baron Ennesfred Kroll.”

I looked at my companion with surprise.

“I wish I knew what you were talking about, Pons. But at least I was right about Morticott.”

Pons laughed lightly. He waited until the little man had been taken into custody and then strode out into the corridor. He tore the mummy-mask from the big man who stood stolidly between the two constables. I was astonished to see the flushed and chagrined visage of guard Prendergast.

“But how did you . . . ?” I began.

Solar Pons smiled.

“This is hardly the time or place for explanations, Parker. I suggest we wait until Mr. Biggs has recovered and the Inspector has returned from charging the prisoners. In the meantime I think we might send for some more light refreshment. I feel quite hungry after that little fracas.”

-9-

“I am completely baffled, Mr. Pons!”

Horatio Biggs sat at his desk in the disordered room and passed a trembling hand over his features.

“But I am sure matters will rapidly resolve themselves, Mr. Biggs. I am only glad that you have not suffered any worse harm at the hands of those scoundrels.”

“It was that dreadful mummy face, Mr. Pons! I sat there paralysed and then someone crept up from behind and put something over my head.”

“A chloroform pad, Mr. Biggs,” I explained. “No doubt wielded by the attendant Scott, who is now in custody with Prendergast.”

Biggs looked as though he had been stung.

“Is this true, Mr. Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled at me ironically.

“My friend Dr. Parker, though inadvertently encroaching on my prerogatives is undoubtedly correct on this occasion.”

“I am sorry, Pons,” I mumbled. “I was certain it was Morticott who was behind the whole thing.”

Solar Pons lit his pipe, blowing a stream of blue smoke at the ceiling, as he stared from me to the stolid figure of Inspector Jamison who stood with his back to the fireplace and gazed unseeingly at the battered strong-room door and the scattered tools and equipment on the floor.

“You made the elementary mistake of picking on the largest and most unprepossessing of the uniformed staff members, Parker. A glance at their Museum records would have made it obvious. Morticott had been here fifteen years, Scott and Prendergast three weeks.”

Mr. Biggs turned his harried face toward us and I poured him another small measure of whisky.

“But what does all this mean, Mr. Pons?”

“We must first open that door,” said my companion incisively. “And we will then put my theories to a practical test.”

“But there are only pottery and artefacts in there, Mr. Pons! The Treasures of the Valley of the Kings . . .”

“Are perfectly safe, Mr. Biggs,” broke in Jamison heavily. “Mr. Pons was right. No attempt was made on the main strong-room.”

“I think you had better see if you can open the door, Parker,” said Pons, handing me the keys. “Unless our friend has jammed the lock with his oxy-acetylene torch.”

I crossed to the massive door and inserted each of the three keys in turn. To my relief they appeared to work.

I seized the large iron catch and put pressure upon it.

“All is well, Pons! It is moving!”

“Excellent.”

Solar Pons moved to my side and between us we pulled the huge door back on its vast hinges. Biggs and the Inspector followed us into the chamber as my companion turned on the light. He looked musingly at the red-daubed wooden crate and the scattered pottery.

“You have no objection if I unseal one of these, Mr. Biggs?” The little man blinked.

“By no means, Mr. Pons. As I have said they are only humble wine-jars and the Museum can easily spare one or two after the services you have rendered tonight.”

Pons nodded. He crossed over to one of the crates, on top of which lay a hammer and chisel, evidently used to prise open the planking. He came back and applied the edge of the chisel to the seal in the mouth of one of the terracotta jars. It gave with an effusion of fine dust. He grunted with satisfaction and rummaged about with slender fingers inside the pot.

He pulled out a large reinforced brown paper bag, the mouth of which had been sealed by stitching. He tore it across while we watched in puzzlement. Looking over his shoulder I could see nothing but white powder. Pons sniffed at it thoughtfully.

“What do you make of this, Jamison.”

The Inspector’s eyes were wide. He followed Pons’ example, sifting the flour-like dust with powerful fingers.

“Heroin, Mr. Pons?”

“Exactly, Inspector.”

I looked at Pons open-mouthed.

“Drugs, Pons! You cannot mean it!”

“I do mean it, Parker. The material in these jars would be worth millions on the international market. As I said, this business bears all the hallmarks of our ingenious friend, the Baron. You and the Museum, Mr. Biggs, have been the unwitting carriers of a fortune in narcotics.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Pons!”

The little Curator looked as though he was about to collapse and I helped him out of the strong-room and into a comfortable chair. Pons had followed us and a few moments later Jamison hurried from the chamber, a grim look on his face.

“With your permission, Mr. Biggs, I have just opened another two of those jars. Both are full of drugs and if the rest of
the pots contain similar amounts this will be the biggest haul Scotland Yard has ever made in the drug-field! I must congratulate you, Mr. Pons.”

My companion bowed ironically.

“But how on earth, Pons . .. ?” I began.

“Let us sit down, Parker. We shall have to go back to the beginning for that. But I see the whisky-bottle and some glasses on the bureau yonder, Mr. Biggs. I take it you have no objection to our partaking?”

“Good heavens, Mr. Pons! With the greatest pleasure!”

“I take it you would positively prescribe it in Mr. Biggs’ case, Parker,” said Pons gravely. “I think we all need something a little stronger than coffee after this night’s work. If you would do the honours, my dear fellow.”

I busied myself with the glasses and we all seated ourselves round Biggs’ desk, leaving the little Curator slumped in an easy chair in front of it.

“You may remember, Parker,” said Solar Pons, when his pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, “that when Mr. Biggs first consulted me I was particularly interested in that portion of his story which related to the events which took place in the Valley of the Kings.”

I nodded.

“Some trouble with the porters on the site. Knowing the Middle East as I do, I paid it little attention.”

Solar Pons knotted his brows.

“That is where you disappoint the student of logical deduction if you will forgive me saying so. Trouble was the last thing I should have expected under the circumstances. The fellaheen of Egypt have a wretched existence and steady employment such as that afforded at the great archaeological sites of that country tend to keep them quite contented, though the pay be minuscule by European standards. I immediately seized upon the pottery breakages because, as Mr. Biggs pointed out, these labourers are normally specially selected for their carefulness. I had already heard the story once from Mr. Biggs and these facts, taken with the incident when a crate was found broken open, directed my mind toward a certain line of reasoning. I elicited, if you will recall, that the jars involved were all sealed.”

I looked at Pons in astonishment.

“So you already, at that early stage, suspected something in the jars might be at the back of this?”

My companion inclined his head, emitting a plume of blue smoke from his thin lips.

“I had tentatively formed that opinion. Your class of tomb-robber in Egypt is highly professional and is looking for valuable treasure which can be sold to the dealers of Cairo and Alexandria. He would not normally bother with common-place pots, sealed or unsealed. I formed the theory that there was something in the pots of potential value.”

The Curator had been listening to Pons in growing bewilderment and Jamison’s face betrayed no glimmer of enlightenment.

“But why would these people want to break open their own pots, Mr. Pons?” burst out the former.

My companion’s amusement showed in his face but he struggled to control it, tamping his pipe with thin, sensitive fingers.

“You misunderstand me, Mr. Biggs. I did not imply these people were breaking open the pots. I immediately came to the conclusion that the pots had been filled by one set of people and that another set had been breaking them open. When Mr. Biggs informed us that a murder had been committed on the site my theory was immeasurably strengthened.”

“There might be something in it, Mr. Pons,” said Jamison dubiously. “We had another telegram from the Cairo police authorities earlier this evening. I quite forgot about it in the excitement. It was to the effect that Inspector Achmed, who was to have accompanied Mr. Biggs to England was really Chief Inspector Achmed of the Cairo Narcotics Squad. A coded message is to follow.”

Solar Pons nodded his head in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Inspector. We will come back to that a little later. The murder told me two things. That whatever had been hidden in the pots was of great value and that the people breaking them only suspected but were not sure of the method used for carriage. The materials involved could have been stolen property; diamonds; jewellery; or drugs. I inclined to the latter commodity as the Middle East is one of the great clearing-grounds for the vile trade.”

“Quite right, Pons,” I said. “I was reading in The Lancet only last week . ..”

“No doubt, Parker,” said Pons sharply. “To return to the subject in hand, the death of the native from stab-wounds in turn meant one of two things. The party using the pots as a method of carrying the material had found a second group trying to intrude into their affairs and had killed the man as a warning to his confederates.”

“Or the first group had been discovered by the second group who struck first and killed the man guarding the material,” put in the Inspector heavily.

“Exactly,” said Pons crisply. “I am glad to see that your mind is so rapier-sharp this evening, Inspector. Those smoke-bombs have not fogged your intellect, at any rate.”

“Good of you to say so, Mr. Pons,” mumbled the Scotland Yard man, his expression betraying to me at any rate that he was not quite sure which way to take my companion’s words.

“I was at some pains to ascertain the weight of the sealed jars and, as we have seen here at the Museum, it was difficult to discover whether they were full or empty as the pottery was so thick and heavy. This, combined with them being securely sealed, made me believe that something was hidden in them and that another person or persons was trying to get at their contents.”

Pons turned to the Inspector.

“When Mr. Biggs told me of his native servant, who was accompanying him to England, it was obvious from the things he let drop, that the person was a high-ranking police officer, set to keep guard on the Cairo antiquities. We had two strands here, as it were. But unknown to me, something had thrown my reasoning out. The real Inspector had been murdered before ever he left Cairo and a fake officer using his identification had taken over. It is my belief that he was a member of the first party who had originally secreted the drugs in the pottery and he was there to guard the cargo which the Curator was inadvertently transporting to Europe for him. He was obviously a person of great intelligence and daring and his death must have been a blow to his employer’s plans.”

“Good heavens, Mr. Pons! And I travelled with that ruffian . . . .”

The Curator, whose ejaculations had reached a highly pious pitch, turned pale and reached for his whisky-glass.

Pons smiled reassuringly.

“I do not think you were in any danger, Mr. Biggs. You were concerned about the Cairo treasures but he was guarding something infinitely more valuable from his point of view. As we know, an attempt was made to break open one of the crates on the voyage. This was the one containing the drugs and which had been deliberately splashed with red paint on the quay at Alexandria in order to mark it. It is equally possible that this could have been done by either group involved but it is immaterial now. Baron Kroll’s men would not have needed any special marking on the crate as their methods were infinitely more subtle . . . .”

“Baron Kroll, Mr. Pons!”

Inspector Jamison’s jaw had dropped.

“You do not mean to say he is involved in this?”

“I do not know anyone else at large in Europe at this point in time who would have been bold enough or clever enough for a coup of this magnitude, Jamison. You may remember, Mr. Biggs, when I asked you which crate had been tampered with you said it was the one which looked as though it had been ‘daubed with blood’. That told me all I wished to know.”

“I see.”

Mr. Biggs’ brow cleared.

“But there was no more trouble on the voyage.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly.

“I am not surprised, Mr. Biggs. The Baron’s man, the false Inspector Achmed, appears to have been not only a powerful but a courageous and resourceful rascal. The man who tampered with that crate, probably a crew member, is undoubtedly at the bottom of the Mediterranean. Had the Cairo treasures been at the heart of the affair a determined attempt would undoubtedly have been made to prevent them from ever leaving Egypt. And what dealer would have handled such famous and well-known pieces?”

Mr. Biggs shuddered and took another sip of his whisky.

“A dreadful business, Mr. Pons. I should have been dead myself now but for your efforts.”

He caught the Inspector’s stony glare and hastened to add, “No reflection on your professional capacity, Inspector.”

Solar Pons exchanged a fleeting look with me and then went on.

“So here we have the mysterious cargo travelling in style with the Cairo artefacts and guarded by one of the Baron’s best men, disguised as an Egyptian police officer, complete with that unfortunate man’s genuine papers.

“As they had anticipated, all went well. The Museum authorities naturally put more store on the Cairo Museum treasures which were well guarded and went into the London Museum’s main strong-room, while the ordinary pots and other artefacts went to the Curator’s office. So they had had delivered to London with the minimum of fuss and no Customs examination, the biggest consignment of illicit drugs the capital had ever seen.

“Where the plan began to go wrong was in the way the crates were disposed. Instead of the commonplace artefacts being placed in the Museum store-rooms in the ordinary way, where they would have been easily accessible, they went straight to the Curator’s office. That would not have mattered except for the coincidence of there being two strong-rooms at the Museum. They could not have known this and to their dismay the crate marked with red paint went straight into a steel-lined chamber which was almost as impregnable as that of the Bank of England.”

“Of course, Pons!” I put in. “That was where the accomplices came in.”

“Naturally, Parker. I suspected from the beginning that two or three men at least would be involved and when Mr. Biggs told me of the mummy-apparition it was obvious. Mysterious events and confusion in the Museum would aid the miscreants in their purpose. By alarming Mr. Biggs they hoped to frighten him from the room so that they could get at the open strong-room and remove the jars before anyone returned. The man with the mummy-mask served a two-fold purpose, moreover, as the more confusion among staff and the more horrific the events, the more opportunity would they have in achieving their object. That much was evident.

“Now, Parker, when I examined that pottery earlier tonight I saw at once that there was but slight variation in weight between them, owing to the irregularity and the thickness of the clay-mixture used in throwing them all that time ago. But there were two things which stood out. One was that the ancient stoppers had been sealed with a modern chemical solution; there was no doubt about that, though the work had been skilfully done. And a number of the jars were slightly marked in a way so minute that it needed a magnifying glass to detect the tiny x which had been incised in the stoppers. I examined a number of jars and when I found that a large number had no chemical smell and that these did not bear such a tiny cross, it was obvious to me that the marked pots were the ones the intruders were looking for.”

“Remarkable, Mr. Pons,” broke in Jamison.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Scientific, Inspector. When I examined the Museum records it was for the purpose of finding a member of the staff who had recently joined but who had the physique and strength to raise that jar and drop it in the murderous attempt on the Curator’s life. Morticott fitted the bill but he was Head Attendant, was obviously able and loyal and, moreover, had been at the Museum for fifteen years.

“In my experience people of that type are not suddenly tempted with an offer of money. Moreover, it would be obviously dangerous to approach that sort of man from outside and would quickly put the Museum authorities on their guard. I looked instead for a very big man who had recently joined the staff, banking on the fact that the Museum had recruited new people following the strange incidents and would not have had very much time to check on their records.”

“Absolutely correct, Mr. Pons,” put in Biggs, his eyes never leaving my companion’s face.

“I therefore turned my attention to the two newest men, Prendergast and Scott as being prime suspects, knowing also that more than one night-guard would have been involved in the mummy deception. It would have been highly risky otherwise, for the man in the next section could easily come across him before he had time to change back into his uniform. In the event this supposition turned out to be correct.”

“But what about the man with the acetylene-torch, Pons?” My companion shook his head.

“A hired specialist, Parker. Oh, someone cool of brains and a professional expert at his job, of course. Kroll’s people were getting worried and were evidently under pressure from the Baron. The murder of Kroll’s man, pushed under a bus by a member of the group seeking the drugs, was undoubtedly the catalyst.

“They resorted to crude methods. The only way to get access to their cargo was by eliminating the Curator and stealing the keys to the strong-room. This they attempted and it was only by a miracle that Mr. Biggs escaped that murderous attack. Wisely, he came immediately to me, with the conclusion we have seen. I expected some sort of diversion tonight but was almost taken off guard by the boldness of the methods used.”

Pons raked the room with his deep-set eyes.

“To me the whole idea of the Treasure of the Valley of the Kings was a non-starter. It was far too celebrated for such a coup and no-one in the world could handle such objects. So I concentrated on the sealed jars. Inspector Achmed was the key here and when Scotland Yard was informed that the real Chief Inspector had been murdered in Cairo and had never left the city it became clear that the jars were the real objective.

“But the plan went awry with the murder of the fake Achmed by members of the second group after the drugs, and it is doubtful whether we shall ever now know who was responsible. Kroll’s men panicked and made the crude attempt on Mr. Biggs’ life. Though if Mr. Biggs had been killed and Prendergast had seized the keys I have no doubt they would have had the consignment of narcotics out of the museum within half an hour.

“As members of the staff, recruited at short notice due to the Museum’s expanding activities, they were excellently placed to aid the bogus Inspector Achmed, who was obviously the guiding force behind the team, and the professional safe-man they had to employ in the end. The mummy-mask charade was merely to act as a cover for the real attempt to recover the drugs. These activities also served the useful object from their point of view by forcing the Museum to put an even stronger guard on the Cairo treasures and therefore further to deplete its thin staff while the actual plan, as we have seen, was in fact the opposite.

“Prendergast and Scott would have been able to let people into the Museum by a side door after hours and no doubt they would have succeeded in their objective had not the ill-advised attempt been made on the Curator’s life.”

Inspector Jamison was looking a little pink about the neck and cheeks.

“If you had reported these strange manifestations to me in the first place, Mr. Biggs,” he rumbled, “Scotland Yard might have put paid to the whole matter without bothering Mr. Pons.”

“Might is a big word, Inspector,” said Pons with a twinkle in his eye.

He turned back to the little man.

“Tell me, Mr. Biggs. One thing still puzzles me and may have a profound bearing on your experiences. Did your friend Nazreel Pasha know Achmed personally? The answer might be of vital importance.”

Biggs turned red and shifted his feet on the carpet.

“I see your drift, Mr. Pons. So far as I know Nazreel Pasha did not have any personal contact. He recommended Achmed to me one day in Cairo and he turned up at my hotel the following afternoon.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons got up from his chair and stood smoking thoughtfully for a moment or two.

“By which time the unfortunate Chief Inspector was already floating in the Nile. Nevertheless, it is a point which needs clearing up. High-ranking Museum officials in places like Egypt are not averse to making fortunes on the side from drug-running, if Mr. Biggs will forgive the suggestion. A discreet word with the Cairo police authorities should take care of that, Jamison.”

The Inspector stuck out his jaw pugnaciously.

“I take your drift, Mr. Pons. I will do the necessary. I have learned a great deal here tonight.”

“Life is a university, Inspector,” said Solar Pons quietly. “We can all learn a great deal by using our eyes and ears as we progress from day to day.”

He looked at me inquisitively.

“Now, if you have no further questions, Parker . . .” “None, Pons,” said I, getting to my feet.

My companion smiled reflectively.

“I would give a great deal to see the Baron’s face tonight.” He held out his hand to Biggs and the Inspector in turn. “And now, Parker, it is almost two in the morning. I would not like to incur Mrs. Johnson’s displeasure by keeping you out so late.”

The Adventure of the Hound Of Hell

The Adventure of the Hound Of Hell

-1-

IT WAS A bleak January dusk and the snow, which had commenced three days earlier, had started falling on the capital in earnest as I returned in late afternoon to our cosy sitting-room at 7B Praed Street. There was no light on except for the landing, which Mrs. Johnson usually keeps burning, and there was nothing but a flicker of brindled firelight as I opened the door. So I was considerably startled to see a shadow moving by the window and immediately stepped to the switch.

I blinked in the sudden radiance at the common, vulgar-looking apparition dressed in a loud plaid overcoat, who rose from my comfortable armchair by the fire. He wore an immense, tobacco-stained moustache, his face looked inflamed by drink and his bleary eyes stared at me from beneath matted silver hair.

“Begging your pardon, guvnor!” he said in a loud, grating voice, which seemed to reverberate through the room. “Begging your pardon, but I was told to wait.”

“Were you?” I said, surprised and on edge at the suspicious appearance of this stranger in our rooms. He seemed to smell of tobacco and strong drink as I moved closer to him.

“And who might you be?”

“Thaddeus Thwaites, guvnor, if it pleases you.”

“I’m not so sure that it does,” I said, putting down my bag on a chair and divesting myself of my overcoat.

“Mrs. Johnson let you in, I suppose?”

The man in the plaid overcoat shook his head, a thin trickle of snow on his hair melting in the heat of the room and running in a rivulet down his florid cheek.

“Didn’t see no-one, guvnor. Let meself up.”

“Indeed,” I said tartly. “Who asked you here?”

“Mr. Pons, guvnor. Mr. Solar Pons.”

I looked at him dubiously.

“Oh, well I suppose it’s all right, but I haven’t seen him all day. You might be in for a long wait.”

“That’s all right, guvnor. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“That may be, but I haven’t,” I said somewhat irritably. “I’m cold and tired and I want my tea.”

I turned round to warm my hands at the fire when I was astonished to hear a familiar voice behind me.

“By all means, Parker! Let us have it together but there’s no need to be so curmudgeonly!”

I wheeled sharply about, hardly able to believe my eyes. In place of the disreputable-looking stranger stood my friend, smiling, and pink-faced, but undoubtedly Solar Pons. His overcoat, moustache and other accoutrements had been thrown into the armchair, where they lay all tumbled and he had swept the tangle of hair back so that it was possible to recognise his features.

“Pons! That was a shocking trick to play.”

My companion smiled, rubbing make-up from his cheeks with his pocket-handkerchief.

“Only a little experiment, my dear fellow. I have been down Barking way on a highly dangerous and confidential mission and it was vital that I should go unrecognised. I was not sure but now that I have deceived your highly-trained medical eye it has put my mind quite at rest.”

“You overdid the voice a little, Pons,” I grumbled. “I expect I would have found you out had the conversation continued a few minutes longer.”

“Possibly, Parker, possibly,” said my friend languidly, sweeping the disguise into a heap on the floor and throwing himself indolently into his own armchair, where he stretched out his lean legs contentedly to the fire. He brought out his empty pipe and clamped it between his strong teeth.

“Contrary to what I told you I did see Mrs. Johnson before I came up and apprised her of my little plan. She said you were expected back shortly and she will be up with high-tea for us within the next few minutes.”

“Excellent, Pons. I can certainly do justice to it this weather.”

“It has been severe now that you mention it, particularly out on the river.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“You do not mean to say you have been on the Thames, Pons?”

“I had to go aboard a barge in the course of my inquiries, Parker.”

Solar Pons stared at me quizzically.

“Do not be alarmed, my dear fellow. I did not swim there but went in a small rowing-boat.”

I sat down opposite him and rubbed my half-frozen ears. “So I should hope, Pons. Though I would not put anything past you.”

“Ah, that sounds like Mrs. Johnson now,” said my companion, getting up to open the door for her. “Come in, Mrs. Johnson. Our little joke quite deceived the good doctor.”

Mrs. Johnson pursed her lips and a smile flickered over her good-natured face.

“You say ‘our’, Mr. Pons, but I hope Dr. Parker will not get the impression that I was a party to this deception.”

“Doubtless Parker will form his own conclusions,” said Pons blandly, picking up the materials of his disguise from the carpet.

“Give me three minutes to wash and assume my own persona, Parker, and I will join you. You might pour the tea while I am gone, if you would be so good.”

He had no sooner rejoined me than there came a hurried knocking at the front door. Mrs. Johnson looked flustered, and glanced at us both sharply in her concerned, motherly way.

“Goodness me, Mr. Pons, I hope it is not a client on such a bitter night. And right in the middle of your meal too!”

“At any rate, Mrs. Johnson, it is someone who sounds as though he is in a hurry and has urgent business,” said my companion, who had just taken his place at the table.

“Would you like me to go, Mrs. Johnson?”

I was starting to my feet when our gracious landlady stopped me with a smile.

“It will not take me a moment, Mr. Pons, and I have, in any event, finished here.”

“If it is someone for me, you might be good enough to bring us another cup and saucer,” said Pons. “Whoever he is, he will be half-frozen, for the wind is getting up.”

We started on our tea without more ado as Mrs. Johnson quitted the room and a second and then a third tattoo on the knocker was succeeded by the opening of the front door and a low, muttered conversation from the hall. A minute or two passed in deathly silence and then came a tapping at the door. Mrs. Johnson re-appeared with another tray of tea-things.

“The poor thing looks cold and distressed, Mr. Pons. I have taken the liberty of bringing more food. There is plenty in the kitchen.”

“I take it we have a visitor, Mrs. Johnson?” said Pons gently, reaching out for another slice of hot, buttered toast.

Mrs. Johnson nodded.

“It is a young lady, Mr. Pons. A Miss Eunice Chambers of Fulham. She is in some distress but would not state her business.”

“That is quite all right, Mrs. Johnson,” Pons returned, rising from his chair.

“I will see her at once if you would be good enough to show her up.”

“I can finish my tea in my own room if you would prefer, Pons,” I ventured.

He waved me back into my chair.

“Not at all, my dear fellow. Please stay where you are. I am only sorry that this will disturb your hour of rest after a trying day.”

“I am always interested in your cases, Pons.”

We were interrupted at that moment by Mrs. Johnson announcing our visitor and then she went out, closing the door behind her The young lady who looked first from me and then to my companion was indeed distressed not to say distraught. Her thick fair hair hung down in swathes on either side of her pale, oval face and the snow crystals glittered on its disarray. She had been crying but even her reddened eyes could not disguise the beauty of the features or their distinction and breeding.

She wore a thick, tailored overcoat which clung to her slim figure and she took a quick, vibrant step forward, which gave the scarf round her neck a wavering, agitated movement.

“I am at my wit’s end, gentlemen. I really do not know what to do to help poor Rollo in this terrible predicament!”

“Pray sit by the fire and warm yourself,” said Pons kindly. “Parker, please be good enough to pour the young lady a cup of hot tea.”

“You are so kind, gentlemen,” said our visitor and to my considerable embarrassment she burst into tears. Pons bit his lip and sat looking at her with compassionate eyes but my professional instincts reasserted themselves and I made her take off her icy clothing, sat her at table and poured her the tea.

“This is my friend and companion, Dr. Lyndon Parker,” said Pons when she was more herself again. “You could not be in more capable hands.”

I flushed at this and made some mumbled reply but the girl smiled through her tears and took several sips at her cup, which seemed to calm her considerably.

“Forgive me, gentlemen. I have been under considerable stress the last few days.”

“We are used to that in Praed Street,” said Pons, turning again to his interrupted meal. ‘This agency exists to assist those in distress and I would say that you need rest and hot food as a prime requirement. It is a hard journey from Colchester on such an inclement day.”

The girl turned surprised eyes to my companion over the rim of her cup.

“How do you know that, Mr. Pons?”

“You are exhibiting the return half of a railway ticket to that place at the edge of your glove. Pray allow me to retrieve it or you will have to pay again if you lose it.”

The girl put it in a small leather purse with an expression of thanks.

“I hardly know what I have been doing since this morning, Mr. Pons. I only know that I had to come to consult you. You are the only hope for poor Rollo now. The police are convinced that he did the murder!”

Pons’ eyes narrowed and he paused, looking at her sombrely over the rim of his cup.

“Indeed. We are either talking about the Edinburgh trunk case or the murder of Miss Emily Schneider, unless there has been a third major crime this afternoon. I have not seen the evening papers and those are the only capital crimes in this country during the past few days. From a geographical point of view I should incline to the Schneider case as being that in which your unfortunate friend is concerned.”

The girl nodded, her brown eyes holding Pons’ own intently.

“You are right, Mr. Pons. It is the murder of Miss Schneider. She was the aunt of my fiancé, Mr. Roland Watling.”

Solar Pons nodded, putting down his cup. His face was grave.

“It was a sinister business, though the Press have exaggerated in their usual manner. I had half-expected a call from the Essex Police before now.”

The girl seemed much calmer and she began to nibble at the food I had placed in front of her.

“Then you know the facts, Mr. Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“Only what I have read in the papers. Perhaps you would be good enough to refresh my memory.”

“Well, Mr. Pons, it is difficult making a beginning but I suppose I ought first to tell you that I have been engaged for the past year to Rollo—Mr. Roland Watling—a young London solicitor. We plan to be married this summer but Rollo is wretchedly paid as he is a junior in a very poor practice. He has only one relative in the world, Miss Schneider, who is not only immensely rich but extremely miserly. She lives—or I should say, lived—in a very large but rundown house called The Pines on the outskirts of a lonely village called Stonecross, about fifteen miles from Colchester. It is a bleak, God-forsaken spot, and I have been there only once previous to the present circumstances, when my fiancé took me to introduce me to his aunt.”

“And how did she impress you, Miss Chambers?”

The girl shook her head vehemently.

“An old, sombre, grasping woman, Mr. Pons, who took our engagement very grudgingly. Affection does not come into it, though. Rollo is her only surviving relative but she merely used him as a cheap way of getting legal help in her affairs.”

“I see. So your friend acted as her legal adviser?”

“If you can call it that, Mr. Pons. He has represented her in one or two small matters and has been wretchedly paid for it, I can tell you.”

Solar Pons nodded and held out his cup which I swiftly re-filled with tea. There was more colour in the girl’s face now and she appeared a good deal more composed than when she had first come into our room.

“Miss Schneider had two servants at The Pines, a strong, willing woman called Mrs. Rose who did the cooking and most of the heavy work and a Mrs. Hambleton who acted as housekeeper-companion. Strangely enough, neither lived in, both being resident in the village nearby.”

Pons put his elbows on the table and tented his slim fingers before him.

“Why was that, Miss Chambers?”

The girl shook her head.

“Presumably, Mr. Pons, because she did not trust anyone else indoors with her. She had many art treasures in the house though they were neglected and in a bad state because she would not pay for their upkeep. She was always supervising her servants and snooping about the house after them. I understand they arrived at about eight in the morning and departed between three and four in the afternoon in the winter. In the summer, so Rollo says, they were allowed the privilege of staying on until five o’clock during the evenings, in order to prepare Miss Schneider’s tea and to wash up afterwards.”

“A unique privilege, Parker,” said my companion drily, turning a twinkling eye on the girl.

“Indeed, Pons,” I ventured.

“She kept money in the house, if the newspaper reports are to be believed,” Pons continued.

The girl nodded.

“That is so, Mr. Pons. A great deal of money. Which was to lead to her downfall, I am afraid. She was a highly superstitious woman and this legend of The Hound of Hell was always a matter of perturbation to her.”

I turned a puzzled eye on Pons.

“The Hound of Hell, Miss Chambers?”

“It was a family heirloom, Dr. Parker, and a rather unlucky one. It is a large silver effigy, exquisitely fashioned, of an enormous dog, standing on its hind-legs, savaging a man who is attempting to climb a tree. It is engaged in tearing his throat out and is a rather dreadful and terrifying ornament, though of superb craftsmanship, and believed to be of Eastern European origin.

“It was supposed to be worth a lot of money but was said to bring ill fortune to whoever possessed it. It came down to Miss Schneider from her father. As she grew older Rollo’s aunt grew more quirky and fearful and I have heard Rollo say more than once she wanted to get rid of it but the price, combined with the story, put potential purchasers off.”

Our visitor paused and took another sip of the strong tea.

“So when she gave it to Rollo I was quite astonished and now that it has been discovered in his rooms after Miss Schneider’s murder I am afraid the police drew somewhat obvious conclusions, especially as a large sum of money is missing from the house.”

“Indeed,” said Solar Pons languidly, stretching out a slim, sensitive hand for a slice of Madeira cake. “But I am afraid you are rather running ahead of yourself, Miss Chambers.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Pons. This terrible affair is most distracting and confusing.”

“Let me give you another helping of that hot shepherd’s pie,” I interjected and helped the young lady to re-fill her plate while Pons waited patiently for her to continue.

“To our surprise Rollo was called to Miss Schneider’s side about a month ago. The old lady had had a fall and was badly shaken. Rollo was astonished to learn that she intended to leave him all her money. She wanted him to draw up the will but, of course, he pointed out that for ethical reasons such a proposition was quite impossible. He proposed her old firm of solicitors in Colchester and the following week, after the formalities had been put in train, this was done.”

Pons’ face was sombre as he stared at the girl. She broke off her narrative and bit her lip.

“I know what you must be thinking, Mr. Pons. Things look black for Rollo after what has happened. But I just know he is innocent, even if the whole world thought otherwise!”

Pons smiled sympathetically.

“Your sentiments do you great credit, Miss Chambers, but we must take the world as we find it. Miss Schneider was Mr. Watling’s aunt. He is the sole beneficiary of her will. He visited her the other day, a short while before she was found murdered. Just how much money is involved in the bequest, Miss Chambers?”

“About half a million pounds, I believe, Mr. Pons.”

To my surprise Pons burst into a dry chuckle.

“I cannot see anything funny, Pons.”

“Can you not, Parker? Miss Chambers has just given me the finest evidence in the young man’s favour. Ten thousand pounds was stolen from the house, I believe.”

“I cannot see that has any bearing on the matter, Pons.” “Just think about it, my dear fellow.”

And with an enigmatic smile Pons pushed back his chair from the tea-table and at the young lady’s extended permission, puffed contentedly at his pipe.

-2-

“Of course, Mr. Pons, we were both astonished when Miss Schneider gave Rollo that statuette.”

“The Hound of Hell?”

“That is correct, Dr. Parker. But to look back on it, it has brought nothing but trouble, death and ruin in its wake. But our astonishment was nothing compared to our feelings when we learned of this staggering bequest.”

“In December.”

“In early December, Mr. Pons. Then, after the details of the will had been settled, he went down to stay with his aunt this last week-end. I was not invited so did not accompany him.”

Solar Pons pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his right ear.

“As today is Monday, I presume he left for Essex on Friday evening?”

“That is correct, Mr. Pons. He took the Colchester train early on Friday evening, soon after he left his office. He had booked a room at The Dun Cow, an hostelry in Stonecross.”

“That seems rather curious, Miss Chambers. Why did he not stay at The Pines?”

The girl smiled faintly, despite her evident concern.

“You did not know Miss Schneider, Mr. Pons, or you would not ask such a question. Despite her gift of the silver statuette, despite the bequest, she remained as close and tight-fisted as ever. She has even been known to give her servants short-money when she paid them on Saturday afternoons.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “It is like something out of Dickens.”

“Is it not, Parker?” said my companion, his eyes bright and alert.

“On Friday evening, after he had settled in, he went over to see his aunt.”

“What was the purpose of his visit, Miss Chambers?”

“Miss Schneider had called him there to iron out one or two minor points in the will. So far as I understand, it was nothing involved, but two or three documents required his signature.”

“I see. Pray continue.”

“Well, he made the visit on Friday evening, signed the necessary papers, stayed for an hour or so and then came away.”

“His aunt seemed quite normal?”

“Quite normal, Mr. Pons. At least so far as such a nature as hers could be. She asked him to return on Saturday evening for a meal and to read the revised draft of the will. He was a little put out when he telephoned me in London on Friday evening, but said he felt it better to humour her.”

“He wished to avoid spending the week-end in such a God-forsaken spot, Miss Chambers,” I put in.

“And no doubt he missed his fiancée,” put in Pons with a winning smile.

“Certainly,” I added. “I did not mean to be ungallant.”

“And I am sure Miss Chambers did not take it so, Parker. At what time did Mr. Watling arrive at The Pines on Saturday?”

“At about seven o’clock, Mr. Pons. It had started to snow in the afternoon and the surroundings were most bleak and inhospitable so that he was glad to reach his destination. There were lights in the windows and many foot marks in the snow leading up and down the drive to and from the front door but there was no reply to his knocking. To his surprise the front door was unlocked. He went through the house room by room but there was no sign of his aunt, though the dining-room table was laid with two places and there were some signs in the kitchen of preparations for a meal. A tray of drinks had been laid out in the large oak-beamed lounge and one glass had been used. It smelt of whisky.”

Pons suddenly became very alert and leaned forward in his chair.

“Was Mr. Watling’s aunt in the habit of drinking whisky?” The girl shook her head.

“No, Mr. Pons. She liked a little gin sometimes, and an occasional glass of white wine, but she never drank whisky.”

“I see. The servants were not in the house, of course?”

“No, Mr. Pons. By seven o’clock it had long been dark, and they would normally have returned to their homes in the afternoon. Naturally, when he found the house empty Rollo was considerably put out. There was a large iron safe in the lounge, housed within a rosewood bureau. He poured himself a whisky and then noticed that the safe door was ajar. He thought little of it for he then saw that the documents relating to the will and some associated letters bearing the superscription of the Colchester solicitors had been left on a table in front of the fire. That was another curious circumstance, Mr. Pons. The fire had gone out and the room had become extremely cold. When Rollo went to the wood-basket there was nothing there but on going into a small study adjoining the lounge he found a number of logs which had been hidden behind the door.”

I looked at my companion.

“Curious, Pons.”

“Extremely curious, Parker.”

“It was past nine o’clock by this time, Mr. Pons, and Rollo was cold, hungry, and extremely angry. Eventually, he turned off the lights, relocked the front door on the automatic latch, and returned to Stonecross. He intended to go back to the house yesterday morning to seek an explanation of his aunt’s absence and failure to keep her appointment but he was arrested at the hotel by an officer of the Essex Police before he could do so. His aunt had been found murdered, something like £10,000 had been stolen from the safe and all the evidence pointed to his implication.”

Pons passed a hand across his chin.

“What time was this, Miss Chambers?”

“At about midday, Mr. Pons. He was having a drink in the lounge bar to fortify himself for his icy walk to The Pines. Mr. Pons, the police have got hold of the most preposterous story! The London C.I.D. officers searched Rollo’s lodgings, where they found the silver statuette, The Hound of Hell. Of course, it had originally come from Miss Schneider’s house and that made things even blacker. You would not credit the monstrous allegations, Mr. Pons! Rollo is said to have swum a river in these icy conditions. The person who committed the murder must have been fiendishly cunning.”

Pons’ deep-set eyes were concentrated on his client.

“What makes you say that?”

“Miss Schneider was found strangled in a woodshed in a lonely spot at the side of the large garden after her housekeeper instigated a search when she was unable to find her mistress yesterday.”

Miss Chambers paused and looked sombrely at us.

“Mark this, Mr. Pons. There were only two sets of footprints in the snow leading to the wood-shed. One were those made by the murdered lady herself. The other set of tracks, presumably those of the murderer, were made by a pair of rubber boots. Mr. Pons, they went clearly to the woodshed but they ended there and never returned!”

-3-

There was a deep silence in the room which was broken suddenly by Pons striking his palm on his thigh with a crack like a pistol-shot.

“Excellent, Miss Chambers,” he said crisply, getting to his feet.

He reached for his pipe and started re-filling it with tobacco. “We shall be with you no later than midday tomorrow. Are you going back to Colchester?”

“Tonight, Mr. Pons. Rollo is being held by the police there.”

“Good. We shall take an early train, join you there and then travel on together to Stonecross. Who is the officer in charge of the case?”

“Inspector Stanley Rossiter of the Colchester C.I.D., Mr. Pons. He thinks . . .”

“I would rather not hear what the police think for the moment, if you please,” said Pons. “I prefer to form my own impressions on the ground. You may tell your young man when you see him that I will do everything I can to assist him. I would be grateful if you would book accommodation at the hotel at Stonecross.”

The girl got to her feet with shining eyes.

“Then you will take the case, Mr. Pons?”

“I had already decided to take it as soon as I learned your errand. Parker, I know you have had a hard day but I would be infinitely obliged if you would procure a taxi and see Miss Chambers safely to the station.”

“With pleasure. You have no objection if I accompany you to Essex tomorrow? I am free on Tuesday and Wednesday as these are my rest-days and my locum owes me the time.”

“By all means, gentlemen,” said Miss Chambers. “I will look forward to seeing you both tomorrow. If I am not at the police station you will find me at The Mitre Hotel in Colchester.”

When I returned from my errand it had turned piercingly cold, though the snow held off, and I poured myself a stiff whisky as soon as I had regained the comfort of our quarters. I found Pons enveloped by a cloud of fragrant smoke, and hunched over the table on which a cloth had been laid, deeply immersed in a gazetteer.

“Well, Parker,” he greeted me. “Here is a pretty puzzle.” “A puzzle indeed, Pons.”

“What do you make of it? Pray give me the benefit of your ratiocinative gifts.”

“You are making fun of me, Pons,” I ventured as I sat down at the table at his side, holding out my feet to toast at the fire. “There is certainly no shortage of suspects.”

His face cleared.

“Ah, you have seen the newspaper reports then.”

“I bought an evening paper at the station. The Star is full of it. There seem to have been a constant procession of people to The Pines on Saturday afternoon, a number with good motives for the crime. Apart from the two female servants, who knew of the money in the safe, there was the grocer who had a row about an unpaid bill; a farmer, who wished to discuss the boundary fencing of the properties; a tramp, who was given a dusty answer and turned away; the milkman, who had not been paid either; the postman . . .”

“Do not go on, my dear fellow,” said Pons, with a short laugh. “You will cause me to become confused otherwise.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

“That day will be marked in my diary in letters of fire, Pons.”

He glanced at me in surprise.

“Why, Parker, you are becoming quite poetic in your middle years. Perhaps I exaggerated. I merely meant that I was pursuing one line of inquiry to the exclusion of all others.”

He pushed the gazetteer over toward me.

“Just look at this large-scale map here. I knew this set would come in handy when I bought it.”

I soon saw what he meant. At various points throughout the book he had stapled large-scale, separate sheets, relating to areas of the Home Counties round about London. The map indicated gave Stonecross in great detail.

“This is Miss Schneider’s property, Parker, and you will see that a stream runs behind it and across her land and that of her neighbours on either side.”

“I have got it, Pons.”

I looked at the map with great interest, noting that Pons had pencilled dotted lines on to the sheet, indicating the route taken by the murdered woman. There was another, heavier set of lines, which gave me some thought.

“You see the second set there, Parker. The man who made those heavy footmarks, as of rubber boots, came down the drive from the main road, entered the house and committed the theft and then presumably, if we are to believe Miss Chambers and the newspaper reports, walked to the woodshed where he found Miss Schneider, strangled her and then vanished into thin air.”

I looked at him reflectively.

“It certainly seems baffling, Pons.”

He puffed furiously at his pipe, enveloping his figure in a mantle of blue vapour.

“It would be, Parker, if that were truly the case. Only fieldwork can give us the right answers. Let us pray that the snow holds off in that district until after tomorrow.”

“You regard that as important?”

He nodded.

“It is vital, Parker. It will not only give us the time-table for the crime but establish the exact movements of victim and murderer.”

I took off my coat, putting it down across the back of a chair and stretched myself in my armchair next to the fire.

“I can understand the movements, Pons, but I do not quite understand about the time-table.”

Solar Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, fixing me with a piercing eye through the thinning wreaths of smoke.

“If Miss Chambers’ fiancé’s story be true, then the murder was committed sometime between five P.M. and seven P.M. We can perhaps narrow that down a little. Between five and six would be nearer the mark.”

I looked at my companion in surprise.

“How can you be so certain, Pons, particularly when you have not even visited the locality?”

“It is not so very difficult, Parker. The weather gives us most of the data. I have already telephoned the police at Stonecross while you were out. The local sergeant was most co-operative. It began to snow there on Saturday at three o’clock in the afternoon. It was thin at first so that the ground was not covered until after dark, at about five o’clock. The staff had left The Pines about then so Miss Schneider would have been alone.”

“I follow you, Pons. It would have had to be thick, to account for the foot-prints.”

“Exactly. Then we have the habits of the old lady. Sometime during the early evening she felt the need to replenish the fire. She went out to the wood-shed . . .”

“And while she was there the murderer came upon her and strangled her,” I put in.

“Something like that, Parker,” Pons admitted. “We may have to modify our theories once we are upon the ground. The post mortem examination, of course, would establish the approximate time of death, but I should be very surprised indeed if it were not between five o’clock and six-thirty P.M. In my experience old ladies do not wander about their grounds at night in thick snow and in total darkness for the most obvious of reasons. And in addition to that Miss Schneider would probably have left her front door on the latch and as we know she had a houseful of valuables and a safe full of money. We know young Watling arrived at The Pines at about seven o’clock. Judging by the state of the house and the disappearance of the occupant there is at least a strong supposition that the old lady was already dead by that time. Which gives us the two extremes of five and seven for the commission of the crime.”

“Do we know what time it stopped snowing?”

Solar Pons smiled and a warm look of approval came to his face.

“You are constantly improving, my dear fellow. I see the significance of that factor has not escaped you. It stopped snowing at about a quarter to seven in the evening. So that none of the tracks were obliterated.”

He leaned forward, his keen, aquiline features alive with interest and curiosity.

“More important still, it has not snowed since. All the clues are there, lying about that frozen surface for the trained observer to read. Everything depends upon the weather. It has not snowed again in the Colchester area for over forty-eight hours. If it proves fine again tonight and holds for tomorrow morning we may yet read a great deal.”

He knocked his pipe out reflectively against the fender.

“Providing the big boots of the Essex Constabulary have not obliterated all traces of the details, Parker. We can do nothing further until tomorrow. I shall be a poor companion, I feel, until we are upon the ground.”

-4-

The morning dawned bitterly cold but clear and to Pons’ satisfaction the weather reports on the wireless told us there had been no further snowfalls over the British Isles during the night. We were up early and on the road before the streets were astir. It was not yet eleven o’clock before we were taking coffee with Miss Chambers in the cosy, oak-beamed lounge of The Mitre in Colchester.

Miss Chambers was tense and preoccupied when she entered but as soon as she caught sight of Pons she brightened.

“I have just come from Rollo, gentlemen. He was much cheered by your message, Mr. Pons.”

My companion nodded. He waited until the waiter had withdrawn before he spoke.

“You have seen the police obviously, Miss Chambers. They have no objection to me interviewing your fiancé?”

The girl shook her head.

“By no means, Mr. Pons. I spoke to Inspector Rossiter myself. He is anxious to meet you and will await your pleasure at Police Headquarters.”

“Excellent. We will be on our way shortly, just as soon as we have thawed ourselves out.”

“If you will just give me a few minutes to collect my bag from my room and pay my account, I will be ready, Mr. Pons.”

At Colchester Police Station, which we reached after a short drive by taxi through the bleak, snowy streets, we were at once ushered through into a bare office where Inspector Stanley Rossiter stood by a blazing fire to greet us. He was a stout, impressive figure with a waxed moustache and his jacket had obviously been let out to accommodate his corpulence. But his manner was bright enough, he gave us a cordial welcome and bustled about alertly, pulling up chairs to the fire.

“A bad business, Mr. Pons,” he said when the introductions had been completed.

“Bad enough and sinister enough, Inspector,” I said.

“But begging the young lady’s pardon, there is no doubt of the culprit and the motive, gentlemen. I have no objection at all to your presence upon the scene, Mr. Pons, and will do everything within my power to give you my co-operation and that of my staff.”

“That is handsomely said, Inspector,” returned Pons warmly. “My presence has not always been welcomed by the official force, I am afraid.”

Inspector Rossiter chuckled to himself.

“Ah, you are referring to Inspector Jamison, Mr. Pons! That has become rather a famous feud.”

“It is hardly that,” I interpolated. “If it has been represented as a feud, then Inspector Jamison has greatly exaggerated the case.”

“Ah, Parker,” said Solar Pons languidly, “You were ever my most enthusiastic champion.”

He held up a lean forefinger.

“We must avoid exaggeration on both sides. But let us get to the business in hand, Inspector.”

“Certainly, Mr. Pons. There were a number of visitors to Miss Schneider’s house last Saturday afternoon but though, on the surface, several of them had good motives for killing the old lady, they were hardly sufficient in my experience to justify such an action.”

Pons’ eyes were hard and bright.

“In my book, Inspector, large sums of money are always sufficient justification, given the temptation and the opportunity.”

The police officer shrugged ponderously.

“Perhaps, sir. But Pennyfeather, the grocer, who was owed a good deal of money by the old lady; a vagrant named Penrose, who was turned away from the house, and whom we have traced; and the milkman, Postgate, who was owed some £40 and who remonstrated hotly with Miss Schneider, all have excellent alibis. In fact, they were miles away on the evening of the murder.”

Pons nodded absently.

“Your police surgeon has established the hour of death?”

“Somewhere around six o’clock on Saturday night, Mr. Pons, though the freezing cold conditions have made it a little more difficult to establish, as no decomposition had taken place.”

“What about the two servants?”

Inspector Rossiter made a wry mouth.

“There was trouble there also, Mr. Pons, I must admit. The two women always had difficulty in getting their weekly wages and on the Saturday there appeared to have been quite a wrangle before Miss Schneider would open the safe and pay them.”

“I see. There is no doubt, I suppose, that both these women left the house in the afternoon?”

“No doubt at all, Mr. Pons. Mr. Clive Cornfield, a well-known local farmer called at The Pines at about eleven o’clock on the Saturday morning to see Miss Schneider about the state of the fencing dividing their adjacent properties. Apparently, there is an agreement that they should share the cost but Miss Schneider had refused to pay her share. Cattle had strayed on to her property and been injured by broken wire and so forth and Mr. Cornfield was quite put out about this. He had some words with the old lady and was present when the dispute over the cook and the housekeeper’s wages arose. There is no doubt that the two women left the house because they were seen to leave together at about five o’clock both by Mr. Cornfield and by some of his labourers, who had been engaged in cutting timber in a nearby field. They had stayed late because Miss Schneider said some trades people were coming for money and she was a little nervous of being alone at such moments with the safe open. They would have had to pass the farm on their way back to Stonecross.”

Solar Pons sat sunk in thought for a minute or two, while the Inspector regarded him with a faint smile.

“It is not so easy is it, Mr. Pons? Everything points to Mr. Watling’s guilt.”

“That is nonsense, Inspector!” Miss Chambers interrupted hotly. “It is purely hearsay. Rollo did not arrive at The Pines until seven o’clock and according to you his aunt had already been dead an hour.”

“We have only his word for that, Miss,” said Inspector Rossiter with a polite smile. “The evidence is circumstantial only, I must admit, but it is extremely strong. And we have had this statuette valued and it is certainly worth upwards of £3,000.”

“Ah, the famous Hound of Hell,” said Pons, coming out of his reverie. “Might we have a look at it, or have Scotland Yard retained it?”

“No, Mr. Pons, we have it in the cupboard yonder. It was brought up from London by one of their Chief Inspectors, but the Yard agrees with us on the line we have taken in regard to Mr. Wading.”

“Nevertheless, I should like to see it.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons. I have the key here.”

The Inspector rose and crossed over to a stout oaken door in the corner. He wrestled with the key for a moment or two and on opening the door, produced a strong metal box. He brought this over to the fire and opened it with another key. From it he produced an exquisitely fashioned statuette which he laid on the edge of the desk almost reverently. Instinctively we three visitors had risen and crowded round as the Inspector produced it. It was indeed a strange, almost bizarre object.

Miss Chambers’ description had prepared me for something weird but I must confess I felt a little prickling of the scalp as I stared at the terrible object the Inspector had produced from the strong-box. The lamplight of the office glistened on the dull, silvery surface of the dreadful beast with bared jaws which savaged the throat of the fur-clad man who cowered in the branches of the tree and vainly tried to protect himself.

There was something evil emanating from the inanimate surface of the metal and I think even Pons’ phlegmatic nature was affected, though he showed nothing on the surface, merely clamping strong teeth over the stem of his empty pipe. The little group was quite small but the genius of the unknown sculptor had infused such detail and finely wrought minutiae into the work that it had a baleful life that quite transcended the scale on which it was wrought.

“Nasty-looking thing, isn’t it,” said Inspector Rossiter phlegmatically. “No wonder they call it The Hound of Hell. It certainly doesn’t seem to have brought much luck to your fiancé, Miss.”

“Even so, Inspector,” said Pons evenly. ‘This thing could hardly have affected the course of events. Parker and I have our feet firmly on the ground and we are dealing with material facts, not legends, however horrific they may be.”

Rossiter shrugged and put the thing back into the metal box, before restoring it to the cupboard. He made no further reference to it, merely remarking, “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see Mr. Watling now?”

“If it will not be too much trouble, Inspector.”

“By no means, Mr. Pons. I will have him brought to the office for you. You’d no doubt prefer to see him without me being present?”

“That is extremely tactful of you, Inspector,” said Solar Pons, a faint smile on his face.

He looked thoughtfully after the receding form of the Essex police officer as he walked ponderously over toward the door.

When it had closed behind him he observed sotto voce, “An extraordinarily shrewd brain behind a stolid exterior, Parker. He will go far, mark my words.”

He smiled at Miss Chambers.

“However, he has an undisciplined mind at present, which he is not using to its best advantage. He is entirely upon the wrong track in this instance.”

“How can you be so sure, Pons?”

“I rely on my judgment of human nature, Parker. The sincerity of this young lady is beyond question. Young Watling had no need to murder his aunt. . . .”

He broke off as there came a tap at the door and a constable ushered in a worried-looking young man with dark hair, who was stylishly but untidily dressed. He blinked about him and then the girl had run forward and they were enveloped in each other’s arms. I coughed and faced toward the fireplace but Pons seemed entirely at his ease and waited until the engaged couple had come to themselves again.

“There is no doubt that you are Mr. Watling?” he chuckled, extending his hand to the young man, who was heavily flushed as he glanced from his fiancée to the lean form of Pons. He took my companion’s hand and pumped it as though he would never let go.

“It is indeed good of you to concern yourself with my wretched affairs, Mr. Pons. I swear to you by the God above and by all that I hold dear that I am innocent, sir!”

He was so vehement and his face so changed and wild that Pons took him by the arm and led him to a chair by the fire.

“Do not distress yourself, Mr. Watling. You have had a harrowing experience. Just a few questions only and then we shall be off to Stonecross to see what facts we may glean from a closer examination of the circumstances.”

“Very good, Mr. Pons.”

“You say you arrived at the house at seven?”

“At a few minutes before, Mr. Pons. It had been snowing all afternoon but had just stopped.”

“Did you notice any marks of footprints in the snow on the drive?”

“Oh, there were many, Mr. Pons, coming and going.”

Pons nodded, his empty pipe still clenched between his teeth.

“Did you notice in particular, the marks of those rubber boots, alleged to be those of the murderer, which ran from the road to the house and then to the woodshed? The ones which miraculously disappeared into thin air once they had arrived at their destination.”

Watling smiled wanly at Pons and then at the girl, who stood looking anxiously at him.

“Not particularly, Mr. Pons. There was no need for me to do so.”

“Just so. But the police took you back to The Pines, surely?” “Yes, sir. On Sunday afternoon. But I was too dazed at my arrest to take much notice in daylight.”

“But the marks were pointed out to you?”

“Yes, Mr. Pons. The only thing I noticed was that the footprints were small and narrow, like a woman’s or a child’s.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were drawn into slits now as he sucked at his empty pipe.

“Like your own, Mr. Watling. If you do not mind me saying so, you have remarkably slim, small feet for a man.”

Wading gave a wry smile.

“That is so, Mr. Pons. But I should imagine there would be thousands of men with similar feet.”

“You may be right, Mr. Wading, but we are dealing with a few feet only which trod the snow in the area round The Pines and with yours and the man who strangled Miss Schneider in particular.”

The young man nodded sombrely.

“It seems that I am entangled in a web, Mr. Pons. You are the only man who can break it.”

“That I hope to do,” said Pons steadily. ‘To succeed I must have every assistance from you possible.”

The door opened at that moment and Inspector Rossiter poked his head diffidently in.

“I hope I’ve given you enough time, Mr. Pons?”

“Of course, Inspector. Do come in. We have more or less finished.”

Pons put his hand on Roland Watling’s shoulder.

“Courage, Mr. Wading. I feel sure we shall soon see our way out of this.”

Inspector Rossiter’s face bore a faint, amused smile.

“Come, Mr. Pons. It will do no good to get Mr. Watling’s hopes up. The man who murdered Miss Schneider was a strong, vigorous man. Mr. Watling is young and determined.”

Solar Pons shrugged. There was a wealth of expression in the gesture though his face was impassive.

“That is an extremely fatuous remark, Inspector, if you will allow me to say so.”

The police officer coloured.

“Why so, Mr. Pons?”

“Tut, Inspector, we are talking of a frail old lady who would have been half-mad with fright. A slight young man—as you say—or even a determined young woman could have done it. In short, the field is wide open.”

Inspector Rossiter blew his cheeks in and out a few times without saying anything. Before anyone could break the silence Solar Pons turned to me.

“Come, Parker. We will wait outside while Miss Chambers says goodbye to her fiancé. Be of good heart, Mr. Watling.” “I feel so much better already, Mr. Pons.”

We waited in the police office for the girl to join us. It was cold here, despite the fire, and Pons and I walked slowly up and down to keep the circulation going.

“What do you think, Pons?”

“That young man is innocent, Parker. I would stake my reputation on it.”

“But how are you to prove it, Pons?”

“That is the question, Parker, as a very great Englishman once said. We shall see our way forward a little better once we reach Stonecross.”

-5-

An hour’s journey by taxi brought the three of us within sight of a bleak, windswept village, which crouched in the snow in the lee of great groups of elms. Blue smoke rose from the chimneys in the late morning air but my spirits rose as we were deposited outside the commodious premises of The Dun Cow. After we had registered and taken our bags to our rooms, we re-joined Miss Chambers for a quick lunch. Through the mullioned windows of the cosy dining-room we could see the lonely landscape thickly covered in snow and the dun-coloured sky promised more. Already, it seemed the dusk was setting in, though it was only just turned two o’clock when we three set out to walk the short distance to The Pines.

“I don’t like the look of it, Parker,” said Pons, as we strode along, well muffled against the wind. Our shadows, lean and elongated were thrown on the dirty snow and the wind plucked at the skirts of our garments with icy, probing fingers.

“Like what, Pons?”

“The weather, Parker. We may have more snow before nightfall. It appears we have come just in time, Miss Chambers.”

“Let us hope you are right, Mr. Pons.”

After a steady trudge along the deserted road which ran arrow-straight across the flat countryside we saw black smoke on the horizon and presently made out a group of thickly-clad labourers who were burning timber in a field. Clumps of farm-buildings resolved themselves from the featureless waste and the chug of a tractor could be heard.

As we drew level with the farm a police sergeant wheeling a bicycle came out from the side-track. He had a keen, alert face, now much reddened with wind and his thick black moustache gave him a forbidding aspect. But his face broke into a smile as he caught sight of us and he came forward smartly, leaning his cycle against the frozen hedge.

“Miss Chambers is it not? And, bless my soul, sir, Mr. Solar Pons!”

Pons returned the strong handclasp.

“Sergeant Chatterton, unless my senses deceive me? We last met on that Whitechapel business some half dozen years ago.”

“That’s it, sir. Inspector Rossiter said you would be along today. We can walk together.”

I dropped into step with Miss Chambers in the rear and Pons and the Sergeant walked together, the cycle between them, their conversation chopped into segments by the wind. Pons stabbed with the stem of his pipe at the group of farmhands bunched round the big fire of boughs.

“I see they are felling elm, ash and oak. Excellent wood, but will it not denude the countryside?”

The Sergeant nodded assent.

“Times are hard for farmers nowadays, Mr. Pons. Even the biggest of them are reduced to selling some of their standing timber. Ah, here is Mr. Clive Cornfield himself. Good afternoon, sir!”

A smart, military-looking figure dressed in riding breeches and a heavy tweed overcoat had hurried across to us on catching sight of the Sergeant. He was limping slightly and I saw my companion look quickly at his large, snow encrusted boots.

He saluted the officer pleasantly and cast an approving glance in our direction.

“Mr. Cornfield, this is Mr. Solar Pons, Dr. Lyndon Parker and Miss Chambers. We are just going up to The Pines.”

A dark shadow passed across the farmer’s face. He shook hands with Pons and then myself and the girl in turn.

“Delighted to know you, though it is unfortunately under such terrible circumstances.”

He glanced back over his shoulder and I noticed for the first time a long, low house with high chimneys nestling among the trees.

“I believe you knew Miss Schneider?”

“Indeed, I did, Mr. Pons. A strange and miserly old woman, if you will forgive me saying so. She was not much liked hereabouts.”

“You did not like her very much either, I take it?”

Cornfield stared at Pons for a moment and then burst into a laugh.

“That is not a secret, Mr. Pons. I had a row with her only last Saturday morning, as I expect you know. I had been up there to collect some long overdue money she owed on her share of the new fencing between our properties. She refused to pay, giving as her excuse that she was hard up. I ask you!”

He looked over reflectively toward the big house.

“I believe you were hereabouts when the two servants left?”

“Indeed I was, Mr. Pons. Round about five as far as I can remember. We had the yard-lights on as they passed. But I have told the Sergeant here and Inspector Rossiter all I know. If there is any other way in which I can help please don’t hesitate to call upon me.”

“I see you are limping, Mr. Cornfield.”

“Merely a blister, Mr. Pons. One of the joys of farming.”

With a brief smile he went sauntering back toward the bonfire, while our group continued on to The Pines. The Sergeant shook his head.

“Terrible, Mr. Pons, really, the way the old lady kept people waiting for their money. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but it was licensed robbery. I have a list of people interviewed in connection with the murder and I am expecting Inspector Rossiter himself shortly.”

“Indeed.”

Solar Pons turned to me with a bleak smile.

“He evidently does not trust me alone upon the scene.”

“It is not that, Mr. Pons. I think he could learn something from your methods. Good afternoon, George!”

A little, wizened man wearing a dark overcoat and a battered check cap was standing in a gap in the hedge. He hastily put the carcass of a rabbit in his pocket as we drew abreast.

“Good afternoon, Cedric!” he returned with a sly grin. “Back to the scene of the crime, eh?”

“I hope you got that rabbit legally,” said the Sergeant with mock severity.

The little man shook his head sourly.

“We have to do something to keep body and soul together. Even the guvnor’s been feeling the pinch. Times are hard all round. Farmers are no different to the rest of us and a lot will have to sell up if things go on like this.”

We passed by, the Sergeant adding a few muttered words of sympathy and as we gained the drive entrance of The Pines a dark motor vehicle appeared on the low horizon, sinister against the whiteness of the snow.

“Well-timed,” said the Sergeant with satisfaction. “That looks like the Inspector now.”

We stood in the shelter of a small clump of pines at one side of the carriage-drive, from which the house obviously took its name, and waited for the police-car to come nearer. When it was almost level with us the machine drew in to the verge and stopped. Inspector Rossiter got down and exchanged a few words with the driver.

“I have kept all vehicular traffic off this drive since the murder occurred, Mr. Pons, in the hope that further snow would hold off. I know something of your methods and assumed you would wish to read the tracks yourself.”

“Excellent, Inspector.”

Solar Pons nodded approvingly and went down the drive, walking on the grass verge, cat-like, oblivious of the wind, his keen eyes searching the tangled surface of the snow which bore the traces of many foot-prints and which seemed an incredible muddle to me.

“Ah, here we are! These, I assume, are the tracks to which you refer and which you contend belonged to the murderer.” `Those are they, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons looked at the Inspector sharply while the Sergeant and I together with Miss Chambers clustered together on the verge, so as not to add to the confusion of foot-prints in the crusty snow of the drive.

Solar Pons knelt briefly with his magnifying glass. He had produced a small steel folding rule from somewhere and frowned over his measurements while we waited with what patience we could muster in the frozen silence.

“Size seven wellington boots with Dunlop rubber ribbed soles, Inspector.”

“You surprise me, Mr. Pons, but I will take your word for it.” “You will find it accurate enough, Inspector. Remarkably small for a man.”

He retraced his steps and came back frowning.

“Nothing discernible on the main road, which has been too much torn up by passing traffic. Here are the prints of the two women. The rest must belong to the grocer, the tramp and the others on your list. The grocer did not bring his vehicle down?”

“No, Mr. Pons. He thought the horse might get stuck and left the van in the road.”

“That makes things simpler.”

Solar Pons walked on down the drive, occasionally darting about to look at something, while we followed, still on the verge, at a discreet distance.

He paused a long time at the front door, examining the tangled tracks with something of the air of a terrier puzzling at a bone. The indications here were confused in the extreme, as a great many feet had converged on the area of the front porch. The house itself was a somewhat forbidding pile that swept both left and right and was flanked with massive banks of rhododendron and evergreen shrubs that had grown to a great height and gave a chill and oppressive aspect to the surroundings.

My companion had his rule out again now and was carefully examining the spaces between various foot-prints. He straightened up, absorbed in his calculations, and glanced across to the left. The drive made a big sweep just in front of the house, describing a circle round huge clumps of evergreen shrubs which stood on a sort of island of lawn, which had once been well-tended but was now, even beneath its thick coating of snow, obviously all hummocks and furrows.

“Tell me, Inspector,” Pons said. “Did Miss Schneider have a gardener?”

The police officer had a dubious expression on his face but before he could answer Miss Chambers broke in.

“She used to have an old man some years ago, Mr. Pons, but he died. He was the only one who could tolerate her ways and consequently since then the grounds have more or less gone to ruin.”

Solar Pons nodded, his eyes fixed broodingly on the bleak expanse of snow-covered landscape about us.

“Do you know how long ago that was, Miss Chambers?” “About two or three years, I seem to remember Rollo saying.”

Pons nodded and glanced at Rossiter.

“I would prefer to finish up here, Inspector, before we go inside. Besides, the light will be gone soon if we are not careful.”

“Just as you say, Mr. Pons. The ground has been left as undisturbed as much as possible though of course my officers, the ambulance men and the surgeon have been down there to the woodshed. You will see the path yonder. I would like the sergeant here to keep an eye on things in the house.”

Chatterton nodded thankfully and unlocking the front door, swiftly disappeared.

“Do you object if we accompany you, Pons?” I inquired. “Or would you prefer us to wait in the house?”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“By all means come if you wish. So long as you both walk behind and not in front.”

We fell in behind and well to one side as Pons walked down the fringe of the twisting path that wound between thick shrubbery. He paid as meticulous attention to the ground and the surroundings as he had to the drive and I could see that the Inspector was impressed. As for Miss Chambers she did not take her eyes off Pons’ face all the time we were out there.

“Tell me, Inspector,” said Pons, as the path wound about, “did Miss Schneider take an electric torch with her when she went out to the woodshed?”

“Yes, Mr. Pons. It was a big affair, with a bull’s-eye front. It had fallen to the ground inside the shed when she was attacked.”

“Still switched on?”

“Yes, Mr. Pons. The switch was in the on position but the battery was exhausted. We have removed it to the house but apart from that item and the body the shed is just as we found it.”

“Excellent.”

We had rounded a bend in the path as he spoke and the shed itself, a low, black-tarred affair, its roof sagging under the weight of snow, was before us. The place was an oppressive one and would have been doubly so at night.

“What a dreadful spot, Pons,” I could not forbear saying and my friend turned to me with a wry expression.

“You speak with the benefit of hindsight, Parker. You are reading far too much into the atmosphere. It is just an ordinary shed in a secluded corner of an overgrown garden but because it has been the scene of a brutal crime that fact colours the surroundings for you. You have too much imagination for a medical man.”

“You may be right, Pons,” I assented gruffly, while Miss Chambers and the Inspector exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

Pons paused again and made a thorough examination of the scene before him. I could hear the murmur of a stream and see the glint of water, steel-grey, through the bare boles of the leafless trees.

“Just look, Mr. Pons,” Inspector Rossiter broke in eventually. “Here are Miss Schneider’s foot-prints. You see those others—of the murderer—which continue from the drive and then to here . . .”

He paused triumphantly, his eyes over the waxed moustache, fixed intently on my companion’s face.

“Well, as you will observe, they go direct to the hut but they never return!”

Pons’ eyelids were almost lowered over his eyes but now he opened them to become alert and dynamic.

“The fact had not escaped me, Inspector. Remarkable.”

Indeed, despite the trampled ground, which had been necessarily disturbed by the police and ambulance activity, the area near the door, which had been protected by boards the Inspector informed us, clearly showed the circumstances he had detailed. Pons looked across to the left of the tangled garden where black trees and a heavy wire fence showed up.

“That is Mr. Cornfield’s property over there?”

“That is so, Mr. Pons. And that new fence is the one in dispute.”

“Hmm.”

Pons stood a moment more and then, avoiding the prints near the door, placed an inclined board on the door-sill of the shed. He walked up it gingerly and opened the door. The Inspector followed him. It was a large, dim place, with a chopping block for firewood. Miss Chambers and I followed the two men and standing on the beaten earth floor by the open door it was not difficult to picture the tragic drama which had taken place here.

“She was found where, Inspector?”

“Just here, Mr. Pons, at the foot of this pile of logs. She had just picked up some baulks of firewood, which were scattered anyhow here, when she was seized, as you can see.”

Pons went on his knees.

“As I thought, the ground is too icy to show footprints in here.”

“We have been over it pretty thoroughly,” said the Inspector with satisfaction.

Solar Pons lit his pipe, the match making an eerie rasping in the frozen silence of the darkened shed. The shadows danced and vibrated on the walls and ceiling as he puffed at it, the little flames from the bowl making a fiery mask of his face.

“I have not yet heard your reconstruction of the crime, Inspector.”

“I was waiting until you were upon the ground, Mr. Pons.”

With a suppressed air of triumph Inspector Rossiter led the way to the back of the shed. He gently prised back the boards and a whole section of the planking slid away, disclosing the open air beyond. I looked through over Pons’ shoulder and saw that it was a sheer drop below to the dark and uninviting stream which meandered all the way along the back of Miss Schneider’s property to join the farmer’s land at the boundary.

“I think he went through here, Mr. Pons. The drop is sheer, unfortunately, so I was not able to find any identifiable footmarks to prove my theory.”

“How deep is that stream, Inspector?”

“About five or six feet, Mr. Pons.”

“And you think the murderer would immerse himself in an icy cold stream, at night, in such a manner?”

The Inspector looked uncomfortable but his voice was firm as he outlined his theory.

“He had just committed a murder, Mr. Pons, and had stolen ten thousand pounds.”

“Undoubtedly, Inspector, but perhaps not in the way you imagine. Are you suggesting that the old lady took the ten thousand pounds down to the shed with her? In which case your supposition might be understandable. But if he had already gone to the house and stolen the money while she was out collecting firewood, why would he need to follow and murder her?”

“Perhaps she had see him about the place and he wanted to avoid identification after she had discovered the theft, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons pulled gently at the lobe of his left ear.

“It is a possibility, Inspector.”

He looked moodily down at the dark water.

“Supposing we admit your reconstruction of events, what then? The murderer, risking pneumonia, swims the river?”

“I have been into that, Mr. Pons. In my opinion he would have first thrown his wellington boots into the river, where they would have rapidly sunk.”

Pons remained lost in thought so the Inspector plunged doggedly on.

“There is a slope on the far side, much torn up by young people tobogganing last Sunday and yesterday. There is a thick belt of trees there also, where they have been chasing about. I submit that the man who killed Miss Schneider had already hidden a change of clothing there, realising that the snow would give him away. He changed into warm, dry clothes and made a bundle of his soaked things. Just beyond the copse there is a metalled road and a bus-stop with a shelter.”

“You think he joined a bus queue and got away to Colchester or somewhere?”

“It is a possibility, Mr. Pons, and the only thing which fits the facts.”

“Perhaps, Inspector, perhaps. And you still maintain the view that the person who went through all these extraordinary hardships was Mr. Watling?”

“In the absence of stronger proof to the contrary, I do, sir.” Solar Pons smiled faintly, ignoring the angry expression on the girl’s face.

“It is a theory, Inspector, no more. I think we have seen all that is necessary here. I suggest we return to the house.”

-6-

It was already almost dark when we came in sight of The Pines again, which crouched in the gloom as though waiting for further victims. The dim lights in the windows merely emphasised its remoteness and isolation and though things were a little better once we were inside I could not shake off a faint feeling of distaste all the time we were there. Chatterton himself opened the front door to us and his frank face looked solid and dependable in the dim lighting of the low power bulbs which illuminated the room.

“The old woman was economising again,” he said, as though reading my thoughts.

Solar Pons nodded, stamping his feet on the brick floor of the small annexe to rid them of particles of snow.

“It is all of a piece with what we have heard of Mr. Watling’s aunt, eh, Parker?”

“Indeed, Pons,” I replied, with a wry smile to the girl.

The vast chamber in which we found ourselves, though it had a few touches of luxury, was austere indeed. The main door opened into the room itself but to cut the draught a small L-shaped hallway had been made of oaken panels which extended to the ceiling. A vast fire now burned in the hearth, which cast a comforting glow over the flagstones.

The fireplace itself was stone and looked to be part of the original house and there were two old, shabby settees with moth-eaten velvet cushions set at right-angles to it with an old oak table covered with books and magazines on it. The ceiling had magnificent oak beams, and two electric lamps which were suspended from them on metal hooks cast a mellow glow over the ancient fittings and competed with the leaping firelight.

A police constable who had been sitting in an easy chair near the fire rose awkwardly to his feet as the Inspector entered, but Rossiter waved him down with an easy gesture.

“Take your leisure while you can, lad,” he said pleasantly. “There’s been too much coming and going in the snow since this case began.”

The ticking of an old grandfather clock which stood over in the far corner made a melancholy background to our conversation, but I noticed that despite the cheap rugs scattered about the flagged floor, there were a few good oil-paintings on the walls, two obviously nineteenth-century landscapes and one that looked to me like a Boucher.

Pons went at once to stand in front of the fire while I handed Miss Chambers out of her coat. She sat on one of the settees and held out her hands to the blaze gratefully. But Pons did not appear to heed the cold. Instead, he was gazing intently at an oil study of a severe and forbidding-looking woman which hung in a gilt frame directly over the mantel.

“Miss Schneider?”

The girl nodded.

“Painted when she was in her early forties, according to Rollo, Mr. Pons. She was already set in her ways, as you can see.”

It was indeed a shrewd and grasping face and mentally adding another thirty years to the already deep lines in the features, I conjured up an extremely unpleasant picture of the old woman as she must have appeared at the time of her death.

“You have described her character aright,” said Pons briefly, turning about him to examine the room.

Two women who had stood silently apart and whom I had not noticed until now came forward. I realised that the room itself was a repetition of the annexe. It too was L-shaped, the length of the vast chamber representing the shaft and the other section running at right-angles to the main portion. There was a door half-ajar at the far end and I guessed, rightly, that it led to the dining-room and kitchen quarters.

“This would be Mrs. Hambleton and Mrs. Rose, the housekeeper and cook.”

“That is correct, sir,” said the elder of the two women, who had a rather fine, but sad face, as though she had found life disappointingly short of her expectations. “You gentlemen will be requiring tea, I expect.”

“An excellent idea,” Rossiter put in. “And then, when you return, I have no doubt Mr. Pons will ask a few questions.”

Pons nodded absently. He did not seem to notice the two women quit the room with quiet, self-effacing modesty. He had gone to stand a little to one side of the fireplace and his eyes were burning with concentration.

“You observe, Parker, from here one can see the half-open safe in the far wall.”

“I see, Pons,” I returned as I went to stand beside him. “What do you conclude from that, sir?” put in the Inspector quietly.

“It is obvious,” returned Pons crisply.

He looked back at the girl, and then glanced at a massive oak door set in the fireplace wall at the opposite corner.

“That is the room of which you spoke?”

Miss Chambers nodded.

“I understood from Rollo that the former study was used as Miss Schneider’s sewing room.”

Pons crossed to the door. He flung it open and I heard a tumbling noise on the bare oak boards. I joined him at the threshold to find him examining the heap of cordwood that lay behind the panelling.

“Curious, Pons,” I ventured.

He smiled mischievously.

“But obvious, Parker.”

He closed the door and crossed to the fireplace. The two women were already returning with a laden tray so it was evident that Sergeant Chatterton had already advised them to prepare something before our arrival. His eyes met mine in an amused, conspiratorial glance which was not lost upon the Inspector. The housekeeper had cleared the books and magazines from the centre table while the cook bent to place the laden tray upon it.

“Tell me, Mrs. Hambleton,” said Pons. “What did you ladies think about this statuette, The Hound of Hell and Miss Schneider’s gift of it to Mr. Watling?”

The elder woman shook her head and a shadow passed across her face.

“She was a strange and much-feared old lady, Mr. Pons. There were lots of tales about the statuette. I thought it was a horrible thing and it was a relief to me when she got rid of it. I’m not superstitious normally but I felt it to be evil.”

The cook had been listening avidly to the conversation and now broke in, without interrupting her pouring of the tea.

“There was a curse on it, sir! And it certainly brought ill-luck to Miss Schneider and to her nephew.”

“Nevertheless,” said Solar Pons, almost dreamily, “there was a strong human agency at work here. Tell me, what was the cause of the quarrels between you and your employer on Saturday?”

The two women exchanged glances. Again it was the elder who was the spokesman.

“It was the usual tale, Mr. Pons. Wages. The expense of finding people to work for her. Reductions for breakages. Both Mrs. Rose and I were fed up with it. I am afraid I expressed myself in quite strong terms and so did Cook.”

The other woman nodded silent assent, her wide eyes obviously conjuring up the scene.

“I understand there were a number of visitors here that day. I would like a brief resume of their calls, what was said and who they were. The Inspector has a list there compiled from your statements.”

The housekeeper drew herself up.

“That is correct, Mr. Pons. There were a good many people here throughout the day.”

“Tell me, was the safe open all the time that the visitors were here. And did any of them come into the room?”

“Most of them, Mr. Pons, though I do not think that they could have seen the safe from where they stood. But it was obvious what was going on, for Miss Schneider was counting out coins and shouting at the top of her voice, even when tradesmen were here. She invited everyone into the living room and she did not mince words whether there was company or not.”

Pons walked over and picked up his tea-cup, sitting down at one end of the settee. We all sat down too and at a muttered exhortation from Rossiter, the Sergeant, the constable and the two women settled themselves on the opposite settee, facing Pons. The girl got up, and despite the cook’s protests, started handing round plates of sandwiches and slices of cut-cake.

“I see,” said Pons, as though there had been no interruption in his questioning.

“So the tramp, the grocer, the postman, the milkman, Mr. Cornfield, as well as yourselves, were all here in this room at various times on that Saturday.”

“That is correct, sir. She even asked the tramp in, mistaking him, I suppose, for a man who cuts timber and does odd jobs hereabouts. When she found her mistake she sent him packing quickly enough.”

“But that was not the only row that afternoon. Apart from yourselves and the tramp, of course?”

Mrs. Hambleton shook her head decisively after a silent conference with the cook.

“It was the same old story, Mr. Pons. Almost everyone, including the postman had a complaint or a grumble. We stayed on late because of the delay to our routine caused by disgruntled visitors.”

“Unpaid bills, I suppose?”

“Indeed, Mr. Pons. Mr. Cornfield, even though he is normally the most even-tempered of men, grew quite bitter on occasion. After all, Miss Schneider owed him £100 as her share of the fencing and that is a lot of money in these times.”

“Quite so,” said Pons, his deep-set eyes raking across the room as though he saw things that were denied to our less keen vision. “So all the visitors were here when, to the best of your knowledge, the safe was standing open or at least ajar all that time?”

“That is so, Mr. Pons.”

“A sum mentioned more than once in this affair was said to be kept in that safe, Mrs. Hambleton. About £10,000 was the amount. Was there any truth in that?”

Mrs. Hambleton flushed.

“That is true, to the best of my belief, Mr. Pons and I am sure that Mrs. Rose will confirm it. There were large bundles of notes on the top shelf of the safe. Over and over again Miss Schneider referred to it in our presence. I believe it was one of her ways of flaunting her wealth—and through that her power—over us.”

Pons regarded the housekeeper with a very bright eye.

“You are an astute woman, Mrs. Hambleton. I have noticed that myself in my varied dealings about the world. I am sure you are right. But why did she keep such a large amount in the safe if she were as parsimonious as everyone says?”

The housekeeper was obviously choosing her words with care.

“I told her she was foolish to have that much money about the house many times, Mr. Pons, but she would never listen. She referred to the notes as her liquid assets. It was her belief that there would be some natural disaster one day—she often talked of this part of Essex being flooded—and I think she felt safer if she had actual cash on hand. Of course, she had enormous sums of money in the bank in holdings—she showed me her bankbooks on more than one occasion—but that was one of her strangest quirks.”

“Almost as though she were tempting fate, in one way, Pons,” I ventured.

“As you say, my dear fellow. So it was fairly common knowledge, Mrs. Hambleton, that large sums of money were kept in the safe?”

“Indeed, Mr. Pons.”

“And that the safe was often open, though only when Miss Schneider was present.”

“That is correct, Mr. Pons.”

“And that a number of people, though they could not directly see the safe last Saturday, were present at various times throughout the day and that they heard arguments and money being discussed.”

“I would not quarrel with that, Mr. Pons. It was just as you have said.”

Solar Pons pulled thoughtfully at the lobe of his left ear while Inspector Rossiter’s eyes never left his face.

“Now we come to the events of last Sunday morning, Mrs. Hambleton.”

“There is little to tell, Mr. Pons. I arrived as usual and was stupefied to find the front door unlocked. The safe was ajar and the money gone. There was only the one shelf on top which held the money. The interior of the safe was divided up into separate little strong-boxes where Miss Schneider kept papers, deeds and so forth. These were always kept locked.”

“You searched the house, of course?”

“Naturally, Mr. Pons, but she was nowhere to be found. I was thoroughly alarmed and when I went outside again I then noticed Miss Schneider’s foot-prints in the snow, going away down the side garden, in the direction of the old shed.”

“How did you know they were Miss Schneider’s footprints?”

“They were distinctive, Mr. Pons. Because she is so parsimonious, she has special hard-wearing rubber soles put on her elastic-sided boots. They have very large cleats on them, which give an unmistakable V-pattern. I have noticed them imprinted in mud on .the drive in wet weather, and I recognised them immediately in the snow.”

“Excellent! You would make a first-rate police officer yourself, Mrs. Hambleton.”

The housekeeper’s face flushed with pleasure and she looked at my companion appreciatively.

“What then?”

A hesitant look from the questioned.

“I sensed disaster, Mr. Pons. I feared what I might find down the garden. I called the police immediately and Sergeant Chatterton here told me what he had discovered.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of in that, Mrs. Hambleton. Death in any shape or form is hardly pleasant.”

My companion consulted the sheet of paper Rossiter had handed him. But the questions I had expected did not come.

“Tell me, Mrs. Hambleton, I believe you used to have a full-time gardener here?”

The housekeeper looked as mystified as the rest of us.

“That is so, Mr. Pons. Old Angus Crathie. He was as cantankerous as Miss Schneider. They both respected one another and the sparks always flew when they were discussing how the garden should be laid out and such matters. But they got on fine together!”

Pons chuckled quietly to himself.

“So it sometimes goes,” he added. “I believe the old man has been dead some while now.”

The housekeeper nodded, replacing her cup in her saucer with a faint chinking sound.

“Several years, Mr. Pons. Old Miss Schneider became even more impossible after his death. They were two of a kind, really. They respected one another.”

“She did not haggle about his wages, then?”

“No, Mr. Pons, strangely enough. I believe she even paid him over the odds. Like many self-willed bullying people, she was even a little afraid of him. He had a devil of a temper when he was roused.”

She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper.

“He used to drink sometimes down in that shed. He would hurl the empty whisky bottles down into the stream through an opening he made in the back of the building.”

“Indeed. One of the minor eccentrics of which the British race throws up a good many examples, Parker.”

“As you say, Pons.”

“Did the old man leave any of his property here when he died, Mrs. Hambleton?”

The housekeeper’s sad face, framed in its mane of grey hair, looked pensive.

“A few things, Mr. Pons. His tobacco pouch and pipe, a small stock of whisky, his old boots, a silver watch that was an heirloom. He had no family so Miss Schneider kept them in a cupboard here just in case anyone should claim them.”

Pons took one of the sandwiches and looked at it pensively as though it held an important key to the problem of Miss Schneider’s murder.

“If it is not a rude question, Mrs. Hambleton, why did you and Mrs. Rose stick such unpalatable conditions all these years?”

The housekeeper looked defiant now.

“I felt sorry for her, if you must know the truth, Mr. Pons. She was her own worst enemy and she needed looking after. There was so much money about the house, she was a danger to herself as well as a temptation to others.”

The housekeeper hesitated, prompted by Pons’ sympathetic look.

“Times are hard, Mr. Pons. Both Mrs. Rose and I needed the money, and Miss Schneider was not ungenerous in the matter of food and little extras she let us take home. It was actual cash she found so difficult to get rid of.”

The cook flashed a look at her companion.

“Though she was always grumbling and complaining about it whenever we did take advantage of her offers. There was another thing, too.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rose?”

“Mr. Watling. Such a charming young gentleman. Though he came here rarely we always looked forward to his letters and visits.”

She looked fiercely at Inspector Rossiter, who stirred uncomfortably.

“And nothing will ever make us believe he did this terrible thing.”

“Bravo, Mrs. Rose,” I could not resist putting in and Miss Chambers flushed as she caught my eye.

“Be that as it may, Parker, we still have some way to go before we can clear this up,” said Pons gently. “I should like, Inspector, to ask your indulgence in one matter.”

“What might that be, Mr. Pons?”

“I should appreciate it if the people who visited this house on Saturday could be brought here tomorrow afternoon so that I can ask them a few questions.”

“Good heavens, Pons!” I said. “Supposing they will not come?”

“I don’t think there will be any difficulty in that, Mr. Pons,” said Rossiter. “They will all wish to do everything they can to assist. Of course, that vagrant may have moved on but if he is still there I will have him brought by car from Colchester Spike.”

“Spike, Inspector?”

Pons was smiling.

“It is the somewhat picturesque vernacular for workhouse, Parker. Where itinerants receive meals and a bed for the night in return for doing manual and other work about the place.”

“You are a mine of information, Pons.”

“Am I not, Parker,” said my companion drily. “And now, if no-one has any objection, let us leave these puzzling questions temporarily and finish our tea in peace.”

-7-

As Pons had predicted it snowed heavily that evening and from the warmth of the dining-room of The Dun Cow, Pons, myself and Miss Chambers looked out at a forbidding world of whirling white flakes. But my companion was in high good humour.

“We were just in time, Parker,” he commented, handing me an excellent Brie with which to conclude the meal and though he was affable, not to say expansive, he refused utterly to answer any further questions about the case. Miss Chambers was naturally anxious for her fiancé but Pons put himself out to set her at ease and to allay her fears and when I awoke to a strange world of blank silence and whiteness the next morning I had a firm conviction that matters would come to a head before the day was out.

I found a pencilled note from Pons which had been thrust beneath my door and learned that he had gone out afoot early. Miss Chambers and I breakfasted alone and at mid-morning, taking coffee before the blazing fire in the lounge I was called to the telephone to learn from Inspector Rossiter that all the people Pons required had been contacted, including the tramp, and that he would guarantee them all present at The Pines at half-past two that afternoon. From what he said I gathered they had all been co-operative and anxious to help, apart from the vagrant.

I transmitted this news to Miss Chambers and awaited Pons’ return to the hotel with some impatience. The snow was very thick out but not enough to make the roads impassable and none had fallen since that of the night. At about a quarter to one Pons appeared in the lounge bar where we were enjoying a pre-lunch drink, carrying a brown paper parcel. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself and greeted my news of the Inspector’s message with satisfaction.

I handed Pons his glass and we three went to sit in an inglenook near the fire, where we would be out of earshot of the other drinkers.

“You look pleased, Pons.”

“I have reason to be, Parker. If all goes well we shall be back at 7B by this evening.”

I looked at him sharply.

“That will be doubly suitable, Pons.”

He glanced at me over the rim of his glass.

“Why so?”

“You forget I have to be back at my practice by tomorrow.” He was all concern at once.

“Forgive me, my dear fellow. I sometimes forget the importance of your healing art when caught up in the onrush of my own affairs. I trust that by tomorrow evening you and I will be back at opposite sides of the fire in our familiar sitting-room, while Miss Chambers here and Mr. Watling are reunited.”

“If only it could be so, Mr. Pons,” said the girl fervently.

With her face flushed from the fire and her thick fair hair reflecting back the beams of the lamplight from the overhead fittings in the lounge she had never looked more attractive and I felt a momentary envy of Watling, a man who could inspire such affection and devotion in such a lovely young lady.

“What have you in the parcel there, Pons?” I asked, indicating the heavy oblong-shaped brown paper package which rested at my companion’s side on the cushion of the settle.

“Something that may send a murderer to the gallows, Parker,” he said soberly. ‘The strands are coming together nicely. But whether I can crack our man’s iron reserve remains to be seen.”

During lunch he talked animatedly on a dozen topics, none of them the least to do with crime but I noticed that he kept a very sharp eye on the parcel, which he insisted on placing at the side of his chair, where it remained throughout the meal. At two o’clock we dressed ourselves in our thickest clothes and set out once more for The Pines.

We were just coming up past the farm buildings when we overtook the large, muffled figure of a man who was evidently bent in the same direction. He broke into a welcoming smile as we drew abreast and I immediately recognized the farmer, Mr. Clive Cornfield.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, Miss Chambers! I understand you have something exciting planned for us, Mr. Pons.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Cornfield,” Pons replied with a faint smile. “I see you are still limping.”

I looked down at the farmer’s large, glistening brown boots. Cornfield looked down ruefully also as we continued our walk.

“Nothing but a blister, Mr. Pons. They are new boots which I have just bought in Colchester and I foolishly wore them for two days running instead of breaking them in gradually.”

Pons nodded sympathetically and we turned into the forbidding driveway of The Pines. Sergeant Chatterton opened the door to us and beyond him I could see the blazing fire, the heavy moustache of Inspector Rossiter and the two motionless ladies of the house, who seemed purposeless now that their mistress had gone. But as we stepped into the inner porch I could see that the big, L-shaped room was full of strange, sometimes resentful faces.

“All present and correct, Mr. Pons,” the Inspector called out cheerfully, “though I had a devil of a job to get everyone here.”

Pons inclined his head as he coolly surveyed the company, spread out in a semi-circle in front of the fire, on settee and in easy chair.

“I am grateful for your co-operation, ladies and gentlemen. I do not think this business will take very long. I have just a few questions to ask each of you and I will then make a general statement. Will you sit here, Miss Chambers? And you in this armchair by the fire, Mr. Cornfield.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons.”

My companion turned to me.

“Perhaps you would be good enough to stand near me, Parker, as all the available chairs seem to be taken. You will be quite close to the fire there.”

I took up the position he had indicated and immediately became aware that I was standing exactly between the oddly assorted people in the chairs and settees and the door, while Sergeant Chatterton had almost imperceptibly shifted over to fill the gap. Pons himself stood foursquare beside the fireplace while Inspector Rossiter moved close to him, with an inked list in his hand. I felt a heightening of tension and a sense of suppressed excitement as I raked my eyes round the room.

The two servants of Miss Schneider seemed the calmest and most at home, as indeed they should have been, as they sat in a heavily curtained window seat, their hands clasped primly together in front of them so that they resembled nothing so much as a study by Douanier Rousseau.

“Now, Mr. Pons, if you are ready, I will make the introductions,” said Rossiter good-humouredly.

Pons walked slowly round the room behind Rossiter as the stolid police officer identified each person present. I did not catch all the names but to each Pons had a pleasant word and I noticed that his deep-set eyes were stabbing searching glances at their shoes. To the grievances of the postman, the grocer, the farmer and the others, he nodded absently.

Then Rossiter paused before a pathetic, bearded figure in threadbare clothes who sat with his red face hunched over his tea, as though the room and its shabby surroundings were the most luxurious milieu he had ever known. Even without the shaking hands and the red-rimmed eyes his cirrhosed complexion would have denoted the alcoholic.

I had noticed when we came in that his feet were particularly small and slender, despite his awkward and worn boots and Pons had obviously taken this in for he stooped in low conversation. I drew closer, thinking the matter might be important.

“Charles Penrose, Mr. Pons,” said Rossiter.

My companion nodded.

“You are a traveller, I understand. I am sorry to see you abroad in such bitter conditions.”

The man raised his head in an absent, listless way, but there was a spark of intelligence in the eyes.

“It is dreadful, sir,” he said in a slurred, though surprisingly refined voice. “Those of us on the road at this time of the year find it hard—very hard.”

“But he is well-cared for, Mr. Pons,” said the Inspector in his bluff way. “We shall take him safely back to Colchester after we have finished here.”

Pons nodded and put his hand in his pocket.

“Nevertheless, I am obliged to you for coming, Penrose. Here is a guinea for your trouble.”

The shabby figure looked with amazement at the coin Pons put in his grubby palm and Pons turned swiftly away, with an ironic glance in my direction.

“He will only spend it on drink, Pons,” I whispered quietly as we crossed over toward the fire.

“I am certain of it, Parker,” said Pons gently, “but it is the New Year, after all, and the season when such gestures are appropriate.”

I noticed that he had placed his brown paper parcel upon a low oak table near the fire and I found my eyes drawn to it again and again during that tense afternoon at the lonely house surrounded by the bleak, snowy wastes, our minds overshadowed as they were by the knowledge of the ghastly crime which had been committed only a few hundred yards from where we were now standing.

Pons went to lean against the mantelshelf and glanced round the room casually but I seemed to see a stiffening of attitude on the part of the oddly-assorted group of people who were gathered there under the suspicion of murder.

“We all know why we are here, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “I am sure every person in this room except one is interested in seeing justice done. As I have already stated, I am most grateful to you all for agreeing to come. The murder of Miss Schneider, so far from being cold-blooded and calculated as one might think, was entirely fortuitous and unpremeditated, carried out by a desperate man on the spur of the moment. It needed patience and courage but the person who took this old lady’s life was in a desperate financial situation and screwed himself to the sticking point, to mutilate one of our greatest poet’s most striking passages.”

Pons met Inspector Rossiter’s sceptical eyes with a faint smile.

“As we also know, a young man lies in a police cell in Colchester accused of this crime. The Inspector will not agree with me, but it was obvious from the beginning that Mr. Roland Watling was not the man we seek. As Miss Schneider’s sole heir it was inconceivable that he would murder his own aunt and risk death by hanging for such a comparatively small sum of money as ten thousand pounds, when he was already the beneficiary of her will to the extent of half a million. Commonsense alone is against it. Why would he take her life when he had only to wait to become a rich man?”

A deathly silence had fallen on the assembly, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional chink of a tea-cup and I could see that every eye in the room was fixed in fascination on the lean figure of my companion.

“I must admit that the Inspector’s case against Mr. Wading seemed overwhelming. The young man has small feet and the foot-prints in the snow are the same size. As to the mystery of why the tracks of the murderer lead to the shed and do not return—I will leave that until later. The boots which made those tracks were distinctive ones and the Inspector has not produced them, much less proved that they belong to Mr. Watling.”

Miss Chambers was leaning forward in her chair with parted lips, intent on Pons’ every movement. Rossiter coughed and shifted uneasily, as he caught Sergeant Chatter-ton’s eyes.

“We all have our methods, Mr. Pons,” he retorted. “I have already given you my theory as to how the murderer escaped from that shed.”

“Ah, yes,” said Pons dreamily. “According to you he pushed aside the loose planks at the back, precipitated himself into an icy stream in mid-winter, risking pneumonia or death by immersion in the freezing water, dried himself and changed in a grove of trees before catching a bus into Colchester. Though it sounds plausible enough in the warmth of this room, it smacks more of fiction than reality, and a little quiet thought will soon dispose of such a theory.”

Inspector Rossiter had a disbelieving smile on his face. “Perhaps you have a better explanation, Mr. Pons,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps,” my companion replied equably. “You have not told us why anyone should commit a murder in that bleak shed instead of in the comfort and seclusion of the house, let alone why the murderer would know that his intended victim would come there. The matter is both more complex and yet more simple than it appears on the surface.”

Rossiter nodded slowly.

“You are talking in riddles, Mr. Pons. We need more than theories here.”

“You shall have the facts, Inspector, if you would allow me to continue. There has been much talk in this case of The Hound of Hell. As might have been expected, the newspapers immediately played up this aspect. Valuable though the piece is in itself, that diabolical-looking little statue had nothing at all to do with the death of Miss Schneider, or Mr. Watling’s present predicament, though the superstitious and the gullible may read what they wish into it.”

The housekeeper, who had been looking stolidly before her, stirred at this.

“Nevertheless, sir, The Hound of Hell has not brought much luck to those who owned it. You say it had nothing to do with Miss Schneider’s death or Mr. Watling’s arrest. Yet Miss Schneider’s father, if we are to believe her own story, died mysteriously, by falling down a staircase in his Scottish home, only a year after coming into its possession.”

There was a small stir among the people in the room and all eyes, after glancing at Mrs. Hambleton, were once again turned on Pons.

“Indeed,” he said. “I did not know that and if I had it could not influence by one iota the basis of a scientifically conducted investigation.”

“If the piece was so unlucky, why did Miss Schneider keep it?” I asked.

Mrs. Hambleton shrugged.

“It was all part of her nature, doctor. It had been left to her, it was valuable and she could not bear to get rid of it, though she had considered selling it once or twice.”

“Let us keep to the point, Parker,” Solar Pons interrupted politely.

“We have here, the murder of an old lady by strangulation; the theft of some ten thousand pounds; the only foot-prints, which have to be those of the murderer, going to the woodshed and not coming away again; a number of people, all with good motives for the robbery at least; all of whom were here last Saturday; and several with small feet, which match the foot-prints, and who could have committed the crime. All of the people in this room on Saturday knew the money was in the safe and knew that it was open, because the talk between the two female members of the staff and their mistress revolved around it.

“In addition, the Inspector has not made clear an important point in his presentation of the case. If the robbery were the object or a corollary to the murder, which it would surely have to be, was the robbery committed before the murder or after?”

Solar Pons smiled faintly as Inspector Rossiter cleared his throat as if lie would interrupt, but he only folded his arms impatiently and kept silence.

“That presents us with two intriguing problems,” Pons continued. “In the first instance we are asked to believe that the murderer, having committed the robbery, followed the old lady to the woodshed and then strangled her. What would be the point? Further, the Inspector would ask us to believe that the man who committed the crime either hurled himself into an icy cold stream or, alternatively, vanished into thin air. We are faced with the same problem regarding the second supposition. The murderer followed the old lady’s foot-prints to the woodshed, presumably to strike her down and obtain the keys to the safe. But he then remained in that shed and vanished, without returning to the house. Neither of these theories will do. What do you make of it, Parker?”

I stared at him with, I fear, a somewhat dull expression on my face.

“It is an impenetrable mystery, Pons.”

“Is it not, Parker,” he replied with a dry chuckle.

My companion’s eyes were fixed on the brown paper parcel on the table before him.

“Nevertheless, I think I can present a solution which will fill the bill in most respects.”

“We should be very glad to hear it, Mr. Pons,” said Miss Chambers, a worried expression on her face.

My companion had produced his empty pipe from his pocket and was turning it over restlessly in his lean fingers as he stood with his back to the fire. He looked searchingly from one to the other of the people assembled in the long L-shaped room before us, from the stolid Chatterton near the door to Inspector Rossiter to his far left; taking in, in turn, the intense face of the girl, her worries for her fiancé showing in every lineament of her features; the alcoholic Penrose, who was slumped in his chair with glazed, vacuous features; the farmer, Cornfield, who was absorbed by Pons’ deliberations; the grocer, Pennyfeather; the milkman, Postgate; two other men, whose names I had not caught but whom I believed were the postman and another deliveryman; and the two silent women in the corner, Mrs. Rose, the cook; and the housekeeper, Mrs. Hambleton.

He walked slowly down the length of the room, stopping at the far corner, which commanded the short leg of the L, leading to the dining room.

“The dimensions of this room make it at once difficult and easy to reconstruct what has happened,” he observed, almost to himself.

He stared over toward the big iron safe, which was curiously set into the wall within the confines of a large rosewood desk. When the sloping lid was closed it entirely shut the safe from view. At present the lid was up and the safe-door ajar, just as it had been when the murder was discovered, Inspector Rossiter had informed us.

“I do not quite follow you, Pons.”

“Do you not, Parker. When a person calls here, for example, and the three ladies of the household are discussing financial matters of a confidential nature, he cannot help hearing, even though the people concerned are out of sight, right round the angle of the L-shaped room.”

He paused, as though for effect and went on more slowly.

“For example a man in business, extremely hard-pressed as many people are in these impoverished times, has come to seek Miss Schneider for payment of a long-outstanding debt.

While standing there he hears an altercation going on about money. The safe-door is opened during that time and there is the clink of coins and the rustle of notes. As a local person he knows there is the sum of ten thousand pounds in that safe and that it is open and the cash so close to him.”

I stared at my companion.

“I follow you, Pons. It was a crime committed on the spur of the moment, when exposed to temptation and with a sense of injustice at the non-payment of his bill.”

Pons nodded, his eyes shining.

“Excellent, Parker! You have excelled yourself. There you have it in a nutshell. The people in the room, though they had invited him in and knew he was there, had temporarily forgotten him in the heat of their arguments. Is that not so, Mrs. Hambleton?”

The housekeeper nodded.

“You could say so, Mr. Pons. Every person in this room, saving yourself, the doctor, the young lady, and the police, was in that situation, you might say. All were owed money by Miss Schneider, all had mentioned that fact to her, and every single one had been invited in to hear what she had to say to myself and Mrs. Rose on the subject of thrift and money. That is a fact, Mr. Pons, strange as you may find it.”

Solar Pons rubbed his right ear gently with his forefinger.

“I believe you, Mrs. Hambleton. Nothing is so singular as human nature, and I have had long observation of it. But surely the postman, Mr. Biggs here, was not owed money?”

The man indicated, a long, stringy individual with a morose face, shifted uneasily in his chair.

“My job is not a well-paid one, sir. In my spare time I do shoe repairs for the people of the village. Miss Schneider owed me £30 for work and materials, which is a lot of money to me, Mr. Pons. But I would not have killed her for it, if the amount had been three thousand pounds.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“I am inclined to believe you, Mr. Biggs.”

He turned back to me and I took the opportunity to ask him the question which had been on my tongue for the last minute or two.

“You said the problem was difficult and yet easy, Pons.”

“Indeed. Difficult, inasmuch as a number of people who came here knew about the safe, of the money in it, and that it was open. Easy, because of the geography of the room. He was in the room, could hear what was going on but could not himself be seen because the three involved in the argument were round the angle, up in the far corner of the room.”

“But why easy, Pons?”

“Because he had an ideal opportunity, Parker.”

I looked at my companion with increasing bewilderment. “Opportunity for what, Pons?”

“Tut, Parker. It is obvious. To remove that bundle of logs from the basket in the fireplace and quietly place it behind the study door yonder.”

It had grown very quiet in the room but now Inspector Rossiter cleared his throat harshly, making a jarring, divisive noise in the darkling room.

“You surely cannot place any significance on that trivial matter, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons shook his head impatiently.

“On the contrary, Inspector, that trivial fact is of vital importance and immediately pointed me in the right direction.”

My companion had come back down the room and stood in front of the fireplace looking thoughtfully about him.

“The solution of his financial problems had come to him in a flash, Parker. He had only to be patient. But he could not directly face the woman he intended to kill. So he hid those logs behind the door while the three women were arguing among themselves, out of sight at the far corner of the room.”

“With what purpose, Pons?”

“Tut, Parker, it is surely elementary. It was a bitterly cold day. During the course of the late afternoon or evening the fire would go out. Miss Schneider would discover there were no logs in the basket and would have to go out to the woodshed for fuel to replenish the fire.”

I stared at him in astonishment.

“Of course, Pons!”

Pons chuckled ironically.

“Of course, Parker. It was self-evident. That solution presented itself to me very early on and when I examined that pile of logs for myself and saw the lay-out of the room the explanation readily suggested itself.

“The Inspector has been looking at the problem of a murderer who walked into that building and never came out. Looked at from another viewpoint, that of the snowfall, it was the problem, in a sense, of a murderer who came out and never went in.”

“But we saw his foot-prints going in!” insisted Inspector Rossiter.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“We saw his foot-prints coming out, Inspector.”

“But how, Pons?” I asked.

“Because he was already there, before the snow began.” Solar Pons looked almost dreamily about the room, conscious of the uneasy shifting of his audience.

“Except for the brutality of the crime and the horror of the situation in that lonely shed one could almost feel sorry for the man.”

“Sorry, Pons?”

My companion nodded, with an ironical glance at Inspector Rossiter.

“Here we have a highly respectable man, short of money, who is brought low for lack of cash during the current recession. Like millions of others he has no control over his own destiny. But he suddenly sees an opportunity of securing wealth beyond his wildest expectations. The old woman owes him money and with typical meanness refuses to pay. He will take the money for himself. So he secretes himself in that shed. One wonders what his thoughts were as he waited hour after hour in that freezing wooden building, waiting for the fire to burn low, for the old woman, his victim, to come out to her lonely death.”

There was a quality in Pons’ tones which I had seldom heard before and I must confess I could not repress a shudder at his words. I glanced round at the large group of people in the farmhouse parlour and could see that they were similarly affected.

“So the murderer was already in the shed, Pons?”

“Exactly. That was why there were no footprints going there. He hid himself long before the snow began. And he must have been appalled when he first looked out and saw that whatever he did, he could not avoid leaving traces of his presence upon the scene.”

“Good Lord, Pons!” I could not help bursting out.

Inspector Rossiter took one step toward Pons and looked at him in stupefaction.

“You will have to prove that, Mr. Pons,” he said in almost inaudible tones.

“I intend to do so, Inspector.”

My companion’s deep-set eyes were shining as they raked over the oddly assorted group of men and women sitting before him.

“No, Parker, there were no implausible dives into cold water for our man. He was far too intelligent for that. He improvised brilliantly to stage what seemed like an impossible crime. A man who walked down the drive and then from the house to the woodshed, to strangle an old woman before disappearing into thin air.”

He chuckled briefly at the irony of the situation.

“What do you mean by improvising, Pons?”

My companion teetered on his heels as he surveyed the people in the room; he seemed to exert an almost hypnotic influence on them.

“In crime, as in any other enterprise, Parker, luck plays a great part. The murderer had a stroke of good fortune. While he was waiting for the cold weather to bring the old woman to him when the fire died out, he made a discovery at the back of the shed. A pair of old wellington boots.”

“Wellington boots, Pons?”

“I believe I just said so, Parker. A pair with distinctive soles belonging to the old gardener at The Pines, Angus Crathie. He had a small foot and the wellingtons fitted our man perfectly, as he had a small foot also. He put the wellingtons on, laced his shoes round his neck and resumed his wait.”

“Extraordinary, Pons. But how do you know all this?”

“It is inspired conjecture, Parker, underlined by what I have been able to discover locally. When Miss Schneider came to that shed she had a powerful torch with her. Perhaps our man meant only to frighten her but it is my hypothesis that she recognised him and he had to kill her. He strangled her and left her lying there, having taken the keys.”

“But how did he leave that shed without leaving a trail, Pons?”

“He did leave a trail, Parker. It is something everyone has ignored, because they were reading the signs from preconceived ideas. The murderer simply walked backwards from that shed, taking his time, leaving a trail that apparently led to the building but did not return.”

“You cannot mean it, Pons!”

“I do mean it, Parker. The murderer was a tall man but it is rather difficult to walk backwards, if you have ever tried it, and the prints formed are not very far apart, which gives the impression, as he no doubt intended, that a smaller man had made them. One is forced to take short steps when walking backwards, particularly in snow, to avoid overbalancing.”

The Inspector seemed to have been struck dumb, but I noticed his big hands were knotting and unknotting, and Sergeant Chatterton’s face was a mask of amazement.

“Just consider the scene, Parker. It is pitch-black. The Pines is an isolated property and our man had all the time in the world under the severe weather conditions prevailing. He was unlikely to be disturbed, according to his reasoning. It was about six o’clock and though it was unknown to him, Mr. Watling was not due at The Pines for another hour.

“It would have taken him about ten minutes to make those carefully spaced tracks back to the front door of the house. He would then have removed the wellingtons and gone in in his stockinged feet. Allow another five minutes for him to open the safe, remove the ten thousand pounds, leaving the key in the lock as we have seen, and then regain the porch to resume the rubber boots. Another five minutes to retrace his way, backward, down the main drive—remember it is pitch-black night and such bleak weather that there is unlikely to be anyone about—and on to the main road. Once there he could walk freely, confident that the foot-prints would be swallowed up in the traffic ruts and the prints of other passers-by.”

“Admirable, Pons,” I breathed.

“Except that it is unproven theory, Mr. Pons,” said Inspector Rossiter quietly.

“For the moment only, Inspector. You must admit that it is the only possible explanation which fits the facts as we have them.”

“It is ingenious, certainly, Mr. Pons, but you have not yet put a name to this man who waited so patiently in that shed.”

“I shall come to it in a moment, Inspector. I find it a mistake to spoil one’s dramatic effects by hurrying. There is a touch of the artist in me, and I must be allowed my little histrionic flourishes from time to time. Where was I?”

I smiled.

“You know very well, Pons. The murderer had regained the main road. But how did you know that the Inspector might not have been right? Could not the murderer have got out the back of that shed and gone over on to the adjoining farmland?”

Pons shook his head.

“I examined the terrain most carefully when we arrived on the ground, Parker. Firstly, there was nothing but the indentations of birds’ claws on the ground nearby, together with the distinctive pads of a dog-fox. No human being had traversed that ground since the snow began at three o’clock and we know that Miss Schneider was still alive at five, when Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Hambleton left The Pines. Secondly, anyone who had used the loose planks at the back of the shed as a means of egress would have plunged straight down to the surface of the icy river, the overhang is so steep. I certainly agree with Inspector Rossiter there.”

The stocky police officer gave a wry smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Pons.”

“Not at all, Inspector. I have great respect for your talents. You will go far but you need that extra touch of imagination which our murderer has displayed in this case. If we are to believe your own reports of Mr. Watling’s statement, there was a used whisky glass on the table when he arrived here. Miss Schneider did not drink whisky. That told me the real murderer had already committed the crime when he rifled the safe. He took the drink to steady his nerves after that long ordeal in the shed. He is a pathetic figure, really, despite his odious crime.”

“Do you mean to say you knew all this from the beginning, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“No, Parker. That would be expecting too much. It came to me in stages. But combined with the baffling tracks in the snow, and the wood carefully hidden behind the study door, it made a link which combined with other details to produce a convincing picture of what had happened that night. The snow was the decisive factor, of course; without it, he would never have been caught.”

Solar Pons paused and looked reflectively over toward Sergeant Chatterton near the door.

“My mind was turned in a certain direction quite early on. Boots which did not fit, valuable trees being cut and an employee who feared for his livelihood.”

“You do not mean the labourer at the farm next door, Pons!”

“Pray allow me to finish, Parker. I have not yet got to the point. I made a few inquiries in the neighbourhood this morning and paid two visits. One was to Colchester, to a well-known boot and shoe establishment in that town. The manager told me that my man had bought a pair of size eight and a half boots there on the Monday morning.”

“Boots, Pons? What does all this mean? I confess I am utterly at sea. What have boots and trees cut and disgruntled employees to do with it?”

Solar Pons smiled.

“And then,” he said, “we have old Angus Crathie’s boots themselves.”

He tore open the brown-paper parcel on the table to reveal a pair of well-worn wellingtons. He turned them over, displaying the ribbed soles.

“Here, as we see, are the distinctive cleats which made those foot-prints on the drive and in the garden. They are size sevens, as I have determined, and here are old Angus’ initials in indelible ink on the linings. An attempt has been made to erase them but the outlines are unmistakable.”

“But where did you get them, Pons?”

“Why, from the murderer’s premises, Parker. Is it not time that you told us all about it, Mr. Cornfield!”

-8-

There was a murmur of shock and anger in the room and the tall, lean form of the farmer was out of his chair. He gave a howl of pain and was then struggling vainly in the brawny arms of Sergeant Chatterton. Solar Pons strolled over and looked coolly into the farmer’s suddenly enraged features.

“I think we will have a look at his boots, Parker. Careful how you take them off. Just as I thought. Blisters when wearing boots a size and a half too large can be extremely painful!”

There was a howl as I took the right-hand boot from Cornfield’s foot; flat sheets of newspaper, bundled round his socks, tumbled out and when I had removed the sock itself several large and obviously painful blisters were revealed.

Cornfield thrust himself away from the Sergeant and folded his arms. There was a tragic dignity about him as his burning eyes looked defiantly into Pons’.

“Prove it, Mr. Pons,” he said through his teeth. “You will have a deal of difficulty.”

Solar Pons shook his head, ignoring the amazed eyes of Inspector Rossiter.

“I think not, Mr. Cornfield. I removed old Angus’ boots from your own farm premises. Not one of your labourers could get them on, though I asked each in turn. You put them there yourself after the murder, not trusting yourself to throw them into the stream, in case they came to light. Rubber boots are hard and difficult to burn and you could not risk hiding them in the farmhouse where your staff might find them. So you placed them in the line of labourers’ gumboots in a small room off your cowshed where they might have remained unnoticed, had I not known what I was looking for.”

“I will summons you for trespass!”

“I think not, Mr. Cornfield. I was invited in freely by your head cowman, who was most affable and informative about your affairs. I remembered what your labourer had said about times being hard the day I arrived here and I naturally noticed you were felling all your best timber to provide cash to pay your debts. But when your man told me you had only today paid up arrears of wages and had prepared cheques for other outstanding bills, I drew the obvious conclusion. We can easily find the money by searching your premises but it will go more easily with you if you make a clean breast of it.”

The farmer stared sullenly at Pons for a moment or two, ignoring the incredulous and shocked stares of the other people in the room.

He licked his lips once or twice and then said in a low voice, ‘Very well, Mr. Pons. You are an extremely clever man. It was just my luck to draw you. But I am not sorry about the old woman. She deserved to die. And she drove me to it.”

Solar Pons looked at him coolly, strange lights glinting at the back of his eyes.

“I could find it in my heart to feel sympathy for your plight, Mr. Cornfield, except for the fact that you were prepared to let an innocent young man go to the gallows in your stead.”

There was genuine anguish on Cornfield’s face as he turned to Pons.

“I would never have let it go that far, Mr. Pons.”

My companion shook his head.

“Nevertheless, we shall never know, Mr. Cornfield, shall we?”

He stared at the farmer until the latter lowered his gaze.

“You were clever and cool, but you were not clever and cool enough. You left a lot of loose ends. You took a great deal of trouble to lay that false set of foot-prints but in the lights of your own stock-yard you could not risk the absurdity of being seen to walk backwards so you had to walk normally across your own fields to your farm-house. I saw the imprint of those boots cross the field until they merged with the mass of prints made by your labourers cutting timber and burning branches. Obviously, you changed back into your ordinary boots when you felt safe from observation.

“Similarly, you were not in the yard when Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Hambleton passed the farm unusually late, at five o’clock that Saturday evening. You had that information from your own men and used it to embellish your own story, trusting to your men’s faulty recollection regarding your movements that night. You hoped they would not notice your absence, because you were in that shed waiting for Miss Schneider at five o’clock. You also made a mistake in going to Colchester to buy those boots for you were known there and the manager recognised you, though you were not a customer at his shop. You told him you wanted them for one of your men.”

“But why on earth did he want to buy those boots for, Pons!” I put in.

“Simply as an alibi, Parker. He knew the police would be looking for someone with small feet so he wore bigger boots than normal and padded them with paper. But ironically, the blisters engendered by this immediately drew my attention to his limp when he crossed the field toward us.”

Cornfield was calmer now. He re-laced his boot and sat down in his chair again. He looked at Pons musingly.

“You were right, Mr. Pons. I did it on impulse. Farmers are being squeezed dry nowadays and she was rich and would not pay me the small amount of money she owed me for the repairs to the fence. As I said, I am not sorry—only sorry that I have been found out.”

I looked across at Miss Chambers and was surprised to see her eyes brimming with tears.

“I am truly sorry for you, Mr. Cornfield,” she said softly. Inspector Rossiter came to life, clearing his throat with a heavy rasping noise.

“That is all very well, Miss Chambers, but we have a lot to do here. You will have to come to Colchester, Mr. Cornfield, where we shall take your statement and formally charge you. And we must make arrangements to release your fiancé, Miss Chambers!”

His face reddened as he turned to my companion.

“I am obliged to you, Mr. Pons. I nearly made a public fool of myself.”

“Don’t under-estimate yourself, Inspector,” said Pons. “Ninety-nine police officers out of a hundred would have taken the same line as you. And in ninety-nine cases they would have been right. We have had the good fortune to light upon the hundredth.”

The Inspector smiled ruefully.

“If you put it like that, Mr. Pons . . .”

He held out his hand.

“I still don’t see how you got on to it in the first place, Mr. Pons.”

“It was not so very difficult, Inspector. Mr. Cornfield was almost the only visitor who fitted the bill at The Pines on Saturday morning, long before it began to snow. Only he had the problem of one set of prints where the others, who came after the snow began, would have had two. One has simply to look at the situation from the other end.”

Pons stared moodily at the fireplace.

“Of course, it was not simply that, but it turned my mind in the right direction. Miss Chambers had already told me that the man who went to that shed had very small feet. I saw Mr. Cornfield limping across toward us and immediately paid close attention to his boots. Farmers are very tough people and do not normally have trouble with their footwear. These boots were new and I resolved to take a trip into Colchester at the earliest opportunity to see whether Mr. Cornfield had made any purchase of footwear there lately.

“When I heard Mrs. Hambleton say the old gardener had left a pair of boots in that shed and that Crathie had very small feet, I immediately saw what had happened and everything followed on from that; the wood piled behind the door; the two whisky-glasses, one used by young Watling and the other by the murderer. The remainder of the visitors to the house on Saturday could be dealt with on the basis of simple elimination, but I had to be a hundred percent sure, which is why I asked everyone to be present.”

“It was wonderful, Mr. Pons,” Miss Chambers breathed, admiration in her eyes.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“It was the wildest conjecture without substantiating proof, Miss Chambers. I took a chance by going to the farm this morning when Mr. Cornfield was otherwise occupied in the house. I had an informal chat with the head cowman and was readily given the run of the place. It did not take me long to find those boots, placed innocuously among a dozen others in a spot where all the labourers kept their working things. I had banked on him not being able to burn or otherwise dispose of them in the short time available. Like many guilty men he was torn in his mind over the best way to get rid of those incriminating items of evidence. When I heard Cornfield was settling up his men’s arrears of wages I was certain I had my man.”

“A good thing for us,” put in Inspector Rossiter bluffly. “All right, Sergeant. I think we can all return to our normal duties now.”

The room slowly emptied leaving only Pons, myself, Miss Chambers and the two women.

“Well, Mrs. Hambleton,” said Pons, with a wry smile. “Do you still think The Hound of Hell responsible for all this?” The housekeeper had a wary look in her eyes.

“Your gifts are remarkable, Mr. Pons, and I shall never forget what has taken place here today. But you cannot gainsay the fact that the thing has brought tragedy and grief to those who owned it.”

Pons shook his head.

“You are confusing cause and effect, Mrs. Hambleton. That statue was incidental. It was owned by wealthy and grasping people to whom such things would have happened whether the piece had existed or not.”

He turned to our client and bowed slightly.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Chambers. I was not implying that Mr. Watling was anything but the victim of an unfortunate coincidence.”

“What will you do with the statue now, Miss Chambers?” I asked.

The girl shivered.

“The first thing is to get poor Rollo released and set an early date for our marriage,” she said firmly. “Then we must see about the money and the estate. If I have anything to do with it The Hound of Hell will be one of the first things sold.”

“Bravo!” said Mrs. Rose, the cook, drawing closer to our little group.

“I am sure Mr. Wading would wish the two of you to stay to look after the house until it is let or sold,” Miss Chambers told the woman. “And we will see to it that you are properly paid, as well as settling up arrears in a way which is both fair and equitable.”

“That is very generous of you, Miss,” said Mrs. Hambleton, a faint flush suffusing her features.

“It is only right,” said Miss Chambers firmly. “And we shall make sure all the old lady’s outstanding debts are paid.” She held out her hand to Solar Pons.

“I shall never forget what you have done, Mr. Pons. And in the matter of fees . . .”

“I am sure whatever you and Mr. Watling decide will be fit and proper,” said Pons decisively. “I am amply repaid by being involved in one of the most interesting cases I have ever come across.”

He turned back to me.

“Eh, Parker?”

“Most certainly, Pons. It will figure largely in my written notes of your cases.”

The Adventure of the Singular Sandwich

The Adventure of the Singular Sandwich

-1-

“GREAT HEAVENS, Pons! My old friend involved in

murder! It cannot be true!”

I put down the paper in utter consternation and turned to my companion in astonishment. The heading in The Times and the accompanying account was completely shattering and I found myself unable to speak for some moments after my initial outburst.

Solar Pons stirred sympathetically at the other side of the breakfast table, his deep-set eyes searching my face. It was a damp, muggy morning in early April with a fitful sun penetrating the mist and spilling into our sitting-room at 7B Praed Street.

I passed him the newspaper, still too moved to speak. Pons took it, his eyes fixed intently on my face. He pulled at the lobe of his left ear, his features a mask of concentration as he spread the paper out on the table by the side of his plate.

“This business of the portrait painter? I did not know you knew Aramis Tregorran.”

“We were at medical school together, Pons, until he abandoned medicine for a career in art. That it should come to this!”

Pons read the item, his thin fingers tense with excitement. “It would appear that Mr. Tregorran has got himself into deep waters, Parker,” he said eventually.

“I had been inclined to envy him his success, Pons,” I said somewhat bitterly. “I see now that I have done better to stick to medicine.”

Solar Pons glanced at me ironically.

“I would not say that your life has been unsuccessful, my dear fellow. But then Tregorran’s career has been too spectacular for most of us to emulate. And his descent has been equally swift, it would appear.”

I took the newspaper from him and studied the heading of the story again. It was unbelievable.

The item read:

FAMOUS PORTRAIT PAINTER CHARGED WITH MURDER

Aramis Tregorran Accused of Strangling Wife.

The article, from The Times’ own correspondent, described a bizarre state of affairs at Tregorran’s Chelsea studio.

It appeared that the previous afternoon his servant had been aroused by screams and choking noises from the studio at the top of his house. Alarmed, he had rushed to the door but had been unable to make anyone hear. The door had been locked and he had to break it in.

He had found a unique scene of horror. The whole studio was a shambles with furniture overturned and canvases tipped awry. Aramis Tregorran himself had been slumped unconscious in the middle of the floor, in a muddle of trampled paint-tubes. At the far side of the room, near the big window letting in the northern light, Mrs. Sylvia Tregorran was lying dead, manually strangled.

When brought to consciousness, Tregorran had been incoherent and unable to make sense to his manservant, Relph or the housekeeper, Mrs. Mandeville.

The police had been called and later last night Tregorran, who had been taken to Chelsea Police Station, had been charged with murder.

“Hullo, Pons,” I said as I reached the end of the story in the paper, “I see that our friend Jamison is in charge of the case.”

“I had already observed that, Parker,” observed my companion drily.

“On this occasion, however, it would appear that he is right when he avers that the matter is a plain case of a domestic quarrel ending in murder.”

I shook my head sadly.

“I still cannot believe it, Pons.”

Solar Pons looked at me sympathetically.

“Such things are always difficult to believe, Parker. Especially when such tragedies happen to old friends.”

I turned back to the newspaper and studied the narrative again.

“I had heard, Pons, that Tregorran was not on the best of terms with his wife, but from what I know of his character he would not hurt a mouse. He was the gentlest of men.”

Pons got up from his chair, took a spill from the fireplace and lit his pipe. He spiralled a column of blue smoke toward the ceiling of our sitting-room. Then he came back to sit in his chair and looked at me interrogatively.

“What you are trying to tell me, my dear fellow, is flying in the face of the evidence,” he said gently.

“Nevertheless, I would feel easier in my mind if you would look into the affair, Pons.”

Solar Pons had surprise in his eyes.

“You cannot be serious, Parker. I have not been consulted in the matter.”

“But if I asked you, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled thinly and pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.

“That would be entirely different, Parker. I could not, of course, ignore such a request from such a close friend and companion. Just hand me that newspaper again, will you?”

He took it from me and sat smoking and studying it for the next ten minutes in silence. He put it down and sat staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace.

“It is true that Inspector Jamison is not the most brilliant of police officers but I must confess that my own faculties are considerably rusted this morning.”

“What do you mean, Pons?”

“I overlooked an obvious anomaly when reading this account, unless the newspaper has made a mistake.”

“What do you mean, Pons?”

“The door, Parker. It was locked.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“What of it, Pons?”

“It is surely unusual for a man to lock his studio door in his own house, particularly during the lunch-hour.”

“I did not read that, Pons.”

“Obviously, Parker, but there is only one implication to be drawn if the servant had to break the door in. The key was not in the lock. Therefore it had to be on the other side.”

“Perhaps he wished a private interview with his wife and during the quarrel rage overcame him?”

“Perhaps, Parker. But we do not even know there was a quarrel. That must await my own questions to your Mr. Tregorran.”

“Excellent, Pons! I would feel so much happier if you would just give us the benefit of your immense skill in these matters.”

“Flattery, Parker, flattery!”

But Solar Pons had a twinkle in his eyes as he said the words. Before he could say anything else there was a ring at the bell, a muffled conversation in the hall below and the tread of feet ascending the stairs. A few moments later there came a deferential tap at the door and the good-natured features of our amiable landlady, Mrs. Johnson, were thrust into the room.

“Inspector Jamison to see you, Mr. Pons!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. A cup of coffee, Inspector? There is still plenty in the pot.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pons.”

The somewhat deflated figure of Jamison sank into the chair proffered by Pons. He took the coffee-cup I held out to him with a grateful expression on his features.

Pons doffed his old grey dressing-gown and took up his jacket from the back of a chair in a corner. He looked at our visitor with an alert expression in his deep-set eyes.

“It is some while since we last met officially, Jamison. That little business of Romaine Schneider, was it not?”

The Scotland Yard man put down his cup in the saucer with a faint chink in the silence of our sitting-room.

“This is a little different to that, Mr. Pons,” he said with a smirk. “In fact I would not be here at all if it were not for an urgent plea by Mr. Aramis Tregorran’s solicitor.”

“Strange that you should seek my advice in another artistic matter, Inspector. First a sculptor, now a painter.”

Pons looked at me with a little mischievous smile of enjoyment playing about his mouth. Inspector Jamison seemed discomfited but he nevertheless took another sip of the coffee before replying.

“Not at all, Mr. Pons. It’s the clearest-cut case of murder I’ve ever seen. You’ve no doubt come to the same conclusion if you’ve read this morning’s paper.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Because of this urgent request by the accused’s solicitor, Mr. Pons. And because Tregorran specially asked Dr. Parker to seek your advice. He swears he is innocent. It is ridiculous, of course, but I would not like it to be thought that the Yard had not given him every chance. And as your name was mentioned . . .”

“Of course, Inspector. You are noted for fairness,” murmured Solar Pons blandly.

He took a turn about the fireplace, the blue smoke from his pipe making little eddying whorls around his lean, dynamic figure. He came back to stand in front of the Inspector.

“All the same you are not certain, are you?”

Jamison shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“To tell the truth there are one or two odd points,” he mumbled.

“Exactly,” said Solar Pons crisply. ‘The small matter of the key to the studio for example.”

Jamison stared at Pons in amazement.

“How on earth did you know that, Mr. Pons?”

“It was self-evident if The Times report had any accuracy.

And it is not usual to find The Times slack in such particulars.”

Jamison scratched his head.

“You are right, Mr. Pons. We could not find the key at all.”

“Yet the door had to be broken in?”

“Exactly.”

Solar Pons looked at me with a little smile of triumph.

“Nevertheless, things look extremely black for Mr. Tregorran, doctor,” continued the Inspector, noting the look of relief on my face. “I should not get up your hopes too high.”

“Where is Mr. Tregorran at this moment, Jamison?” asked my companion.

“At Chelsea Police Station, still being questioned, Mr. Pons. He has been detained overnight, of course.”

Pons inclined his head. “Naturally.”

I turned to Jamison.

“I trust that my friend has been afforded every facility to contact his friends and legal advisers.”

Jamison gave a short, barking laugh.

“You may be sure of that, doctor. Would I be here otherwise? And I have already allowed him to see his solicitor.”

“You have made your point, Jamison,” said Solar Pons.

“There is no complaint on that score.”

“You will come then, Mr. Pons?”

“Most certainly, though if you have been unable to unravel the matter, it is extremely unlikely that my humble efforts in the same capacity would do better.”

“You are making sport of me, Mr. Pons.”

“Only a little, Inspector,” said Pons with a thin smile.

“But first I have a fancy to see the scene of the murder. We will visit Chelsea Police Station afterwards, if you please.”

“As you wish, Mr. Pons. The studio is just as we found it, though the body has been removed, of course.”

My companion turned to me.

“Are you free, Parker?”

“Certainly, Pons, if you require me. It is my rest day.” ‘That is settled, then. Lead on, Inspector.”

-2-

Tregorran’s house turned out to be one of those modest looking white-painted, flat-chested houses in which Chelsea abounds, set back in a cobbled mews. Like most houses of its type its unassuming three-storey exterior concealed large, gracious rooms and unostentatiously displayed wealth. As we alighted from Jamison’s police vehicle, Pons walked over to the minuscule front garden, set back behind blue-painted railings and raked the facade of the building with his keen, penetrating eyes.

Watched silently by myself and the Inspector he passed through an archway at the side and glanced up at a staircase which led to an outside door at the top of the steps.

“That is the studio?”

“That is so, Mr. Pons. Mr. Tregorran had it built so in order that his sitters and other clients could come and go without disturbing the household.”

“Eminently practical.”

Pons stood in deep thought, his hand pulling at the lobe of his right ear as I had so often seen him.

“I have a mind to look at the scene of the crime without disturbing the household either. Is that practicable?”

“Certainly, Mr. Pons. The door is unlocked and there is a constable on duty.”

We followed the Inspector up the steps and found ourselves in front of a glassed-in porch. The inner door gave on to a small lobby in which the main entrance of the studio was set.

“There is no key to the outer door of the porch, Mr. Pons,” Jamison volunteered. “And so far as Mr. Tregorran is concerned, never has been.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons stepped forward as Jamison opened the polished mahogany interior door. He stood frowning at the bronze key in the obverse side of the lock.

“Is this key normally in the lock?”

Jamison looked surprised.

“No, Mr. Pons. It is Mr. Tregorran’s own key which he usually keeps on his desk. This door is usually kept locked unless he is expecting visitors.”

“I see. That seems clear enough.”

Pons bent to examine the lock and then straightened up, closing the door behind him. We found ourselves in an extremely elegant, luxuriously furnished studio, the watery sun spilling down through the massive skylight windows.

An alert, fresh-faced police constable in uniform came down the room toward us, evident pleasure on his features. Solar Pons smiled.

“Ah, Constable Mecker. It is good to see you again.”

“Thank you, sir. The pleasure is mutual, I am sure. This is a bad business. I am sorry, Dr. Parker. I understand the accused gentleman is a friend of yours.”

“That is correct, Mecker,” I said. ‘Though Mr. Pons here hopes to clear the matter up.”

There was regret in Mecker’s eyes as he shook his head, turning back to my companion.

“Begging your pardon, sir, even your great skill will find it a well-nigh impossible task to complicate such a simple matter.”

“Well, if somewhat deprecatingly put, Mecker,” said Solar Pons drily. “So your superior has been telling me. We shall just have to wait upon events. And now I must set to work.”

He went across the studio, which was in a shocking state with tumbled furniture and canvases scattered about.

“This door has not been touched?”

“Our people went over it for finger-prints, Mr. Pons, but it is substantially as we found it.”

Pons went down on his knees and carefully examined the shattered lock.

“Hullo!”

There was surprise in his voice.

“The key is in the lock!”

“Impossible, Mr. Pons!”

“Just look for yourself, Jamison.”

I crossed over to stand behind the Inspector as he stooped to the door, which was off its hinges and lying propped against the wall. Jamison’s jaw dropped blankly.

“You are right, Mr. Pons.”

A bronze key, similar to that in the studio entrance door, was protruding from the brass lock-plate.

“You are sure it could not have been overlooked?”

Little spots of red stood out on Jamison’s cheeks.

“Positive, Mr. Pons. We made a careful check. That is so, is it not, Constable Mecker?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The puzzlement of his superior was echoed in Mecker’s own eyes.

“Well, well. This is most interesting.”

Solar Pons straightened up and rubbed his thin hands together in satisfaction.

“This is a most important development. I commend it to you, Inspector.”

I saw the puzzlement in Jamison’s eyes but said nothing, merely watched Pons as he went about the room in the brisk, alert manner I had grown to know so well. At a sign from the Inspector Mecker went to stand by the far door, out of earshot.

“Where was Mrs. Tregorran found?”

“Over here, Mr. Pons. She had been manually strangled
and our doctor’s post mortem report confirms this. She was a
well-built and perfectly healthy woman, some thirty-eight years old.”

Pons nodded and walked over to a place beneath one of the great sky-lights at the far side of the studio. From the jumble of broken picture frames and a crack in the glass where one of the panes extended almost to the floor, it was evident that a savage struggle had taken place. Pons had his powerful pocket lens out now and went minutely over the carpet and surroundings in this corner of the studio.

He straightened up, dusting the knees of his trousers.

“I can learn nothing further here.”

He stood looking down with a faint frown of puzzlement on his features.

“They had no children?”

Jamison shook his head.

“No, Mr. Pons.”

He hesitated slightly, embarrassment on his face.

“From what the servants tell us they were a quarrelsome couple. Begging your pardon, Dr. Parker. The marriage had gone wrong but apparently Tregorran had sought a reconciliation. He was painting Mrs. Tregorran’s picture at the time of her death.”

“Indeed?”

The puzzlement on Solar Pons’ face had increased.

“Where is this portrait?”

“It is on the easel yonder, Mr. Pons.”

“Hmm. So apparently Mrs. Tregorran was in the studio here, having her portrait painted, the couple on reasonably good terms, if I read the situation aright?”

“That would appear to be the case, Mr. Pons,” said the Inspector, shifting heavy-footed from one leg to the other.

“We have various statements from the servants. . . .”

“We will get to them later, Jamison, if you please. . . .” said Pons brusquely.

He turned to me.

“That seems rather odd, Parker, does it not?”

I nodded.

“The painting of the portrait, Pons? It certainly seems so to me. I had heard that the Tregorrans did not get on well  together, but did not feel it was my place to point it out to you.”

Solar Pons stared at me with a languid expression on his face.

“Perfectly correct, Parker. You were old friends and you left me to form my own impressions. Exactly as I should have done had the position been reversed.”

He walked softly over to the easel indicated by Jamison. It stood directly beneath the main skylight and just across from it, on a raised platform was the chair so fatally vacated by the sitter. Paint-brushes were scattered on the floor, near a paint-bespattered palette and there was a sharp, chemical smell in the air. On a small side-table was a half-empty bottle of lager, with the stopper and foil lying by its side; an empty beer glass; and on a blue plate, the partly consumed remains of a sandwich. Jamison had approached and answered Pons’ unspoken question.

“He was in the habit of eating snacks in the studio all the while he was working.”

“I see.”

Pons stood plunged in thought, his keen eyes darting from easel to the scattered mess on the floor and then across to the dais. We waited silently while he made a minute examination. While he was doing this I looked at the almost completed canvas. It depicted a beautiful, imperious-looking woman with long blonde hair who stared insolently at the viewer from very frank, blue eyes. Jamison intercepted my glance.

“Lovely woman, wasn’t she, doctor? But a firebrand from what I can gather.”

I waited until Pons had re-joined me and he stood staring at the canvas in silence.

“It seems fairly clear what happened,” he said at last. “Tregorran put down the glass here and resumed his painting. At some period he dropped the palette, brushed past the easel—there are some threads of blue cloth caught on a protruding nail here—and rushed across to the dais. Mrs. Tregorran thrust back her chair—the indentations in the carpet on the dais where the sitter’s chair normally stood, are plain enough to see—and fled toward the door leading to the house. Tregorran intercepted her and penned her in the corner, where he strangled her among the picture-frames. In my judgment the attack was ferocious and unpremeditated. Both circumstances are singular.”

“Why so, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled a thin smile.

“For obvious reasons, Parker. One, you have already told me that Tregorran was the gentlest of men, who would not harm a fly. But this attack was savage and brutal. That it was unpremeditated is equally obvious. The man was consuming his lunch and painting in an apparently ordinary manner when he was so overcome by rage that he rushed over toward his sitter and attacked and murdered her.”

“It is extraordinary, Pons,” I said, “and I do not pretend to understand it. Perhaps they had an argument and Mrs. Tregorran said something so insulting that it set him off?” Solar Pons’ eyes were bright as he stared at the canvas. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “We shall see.”

He turned back to the Inspector.

“I should like to question the servants next.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons.”

It was with some relief that we quitted the heavy atmosphere of the studio, Mecker ushering us through the gaping opening which now led into the house. We found ourselves in a wide corridor, hung with gold-framed pictures by Tregorran and broken at intervals by a series of low mahogany bookcases. There was a small octagonal table outside the door and Pons’ sharp eyes flickered over it. A lamp stood on it, but the top was a little dusty and I saw my companion stoop and frown at the square line which divided the dusty and dusted segment of the table.

“Something normally stands here, Jamison.”

The thin form of the Inspector gave an expressive shrug.

“Tregorran didn’t like to be disturbed while he was working, Mr. Pons. The servants were in the habit of leaving trays of food for him here.”

“I see. And the person responsible was getting a little careless in the dusting up here.”

“So it would seem, Mr. Pons.”

Pons stood in silence a moment longer before swivelling to look back at the corridor behind him. To Jamison’s evident astonishment he walked back to the end of the passage. It turned at right angles. There was a small, square entry with a single window.

The weak sun glimmered at the panes and glittered on the brass handle set in the panelling. Pons turned it and stepped through. We found ourselves once again back in the glassed-in porch. The door through which we had entered was panelled on the other side and looked from the lobby just as though it were a solid wall, the edges of the door fitting cunningly behind the beading.

Solar Pons smiled at me.

“Interesting, is it not, Parker?”

Inspector Jamison scratched his head.

“Two entrances from the house to the studio. This needs looking into, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.

“On the other hand it may have a perfectly obvious explanation.”

“In what way, Mr. Pons?”

“Convenience, Jamison. We are on the first floor. It looks a long way back down to the front door. If Tregorran had his studio entrance here it might be just as convenient for his servants and guests to go out this way as well from time to time.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Pons. But why the concealed entrance?” Solar Pons smiled again.

“That explanation is equally simple. Entrance to the studio is one thing. But Tregorran would not wish to advertise an entrance into the main house to burglars.”

“That is so, Pons,” I put in. “But another explanation has suggested itself to you?”

“You excel yourself, Parker. Let us say, another possibility. I commend that to your ratiocinative instincts, Jamison.”

He led the way back into the main house again and we made our way down a handsome carved pine staircase into the entrance hall. Here a tall, thin man with careworn features was waiting for us, an elderly woman, evidently the housekeeper, standing at his side.

“There is nothing to be alarmed about,” said Jamison as we came down the last flight.

“This is Mr. Solar Pons. He is here to help Mr. Tregorran.” The worried expression on the manservant’s face deepened as he came forward.

“This is a dreadful business, Mr. Pons.”

“Indeed, Relph. You are Mr. Tregorran’s valet, I understand?”

“General factotum, Mr. Pons. Valet-butler to be precise. This is Mrs. Mandeville, the housekeeper.”

Pons acknowledged the introduction gravely.

“Let us go inside somewhere and sit down, Jamison. It will be much more conducive to comfort and efficiency.”

“By all means, Mr. Pons.”

Relph opened a sliding door at one side of the hall and led the way into a handsome, bow-fronted room with cream walls, containing a good deal of Regency furniture. My companion prevailed upon Relph and Mrs. Mandeville to sit opposite us on a divan while Jamison went to stand by the carved pine fireplace, his eyes fixed on the low fire flickering on the hearth. Solar Pons lit his pipe, the match-head rasping against the box unnaturally loudly in the silence which had fallen on the room. His deep-set eyes surveyed the two servants piercingly.

“I would like you both to tell me, in your own words, exactly what you know about yesterday’s occurrences.”

Relph glanced interrogatively at the housekeeper, who stirred and licked her lips. She spoke first, glancing occasionally at her colleague, as though for corroboration.

“I do not know that there is much to tell in my case, Mr. Pons. Mr. Tregorran breakfasted as usual yesterday morning and I did not see him again. He took a tray at lunch-time and there was a disturbance at about two o’clock. I ran out into the hall and then Mr. Relph told me what had happened. I am still stunned, Mr. Pons.”

“Quite so,” said Solar Pons soothingly. “And Mrs. Tregorran?”

“I do not understand, Mr. Pons.”

“She had been estranged from her husband, had she not?” Once again an uneasy glance passed from the housekeeper to Relph.

“I do not see that it is my place, Mr. Pons . . .”

Solar Pons tented his fingers before him and looked at Mrs. Mandeville steadily.

“Those are admirable sentiments and ones ideal in a housekeeper, but we are dealing with a murder inquiry.”

The smooth, motherly face flushed.

“Yes, that is quite true, Mr. Pons. Mr. and Mrs. Tregorran had had some terrible rows and she had gone to live elsewhere. We were all surprised to hear that they were together again.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed steadily somewhere up over the fireplace, as though he saw things denied to us.

“How did this come about?”

“I do not quite know, Mr. Pons. I think Mr. Relph knows more about it, being in Mr. Tregorran’s confidence, you see. But I understood he was painting his wife’s portrait, which amazed us all.”

Solar Pons nodded, putting the stem of his now extinct pipe between his strong, yellow teeth.

“When did Mrs. Tregorran arrive yesterday?”

“In the morning, Mr. Pons. Mr. Relph was upstairs somewhere and the two maids were otherwise occupied, so I answered the door myself.”

“How did she seem?”

“Quite normal. Perfectly pleasant, in fact. I showed her upstairs and then Mr. Relph appeared and took her through to the studio.”

“I see. Thank you Mrs. Mandeville. You have been most helpful.”

“If you wish Tregorran’s statement, I have it here, Mr. Pons,” Jamison volunteered from his position near the fireplace. He fumbled in his breast pocket and came up with a set of official-looking papers.

Pons shook his head.

“Thank you, no, Jamison. I prefer to question my client without any pre-conceived ideas. I may glance at that later.” “As you wish, Mr. Pons.”

Jamison frowned at me and put the docket back in his pocket, evidently disgruntled.

Pons turned back to Relph.

“What have you to add?”

The manservant was evidently under some constraint, for he fidgeted a little before replying.

“As Mrs. Mandeville says, gentlemen, Mr. Tregorran kept to the studio most of the morning. I had some conversation with him through the door and he informed me that his wife would be arriving for a sitting. He had been working on her portrait for the past fortnight.”

Pons’ eyes were keen as he tamped fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“Was that usual, Mr. Tregorran speaking with the door between you like that?”

“Quite usual, sir. Mr. Tregorran did not like to be disturbed while he was working.”

“Even though he had no model there?”

The manservant nodded.

“There was a deal of preparatory work, Mr. Pons. And Mr. Tregorran had many other commissions.”

“I see. Pray continue.”

“Mrs. Tregorran arrived a little before eleven o’clock. As Mrs. Mandeville has said, I escorted her to the studio and after tapping on the door announced her arrival.”

“Did you see Mr. Tregorran on that occasion?”

“No, Mr. Pons. I left Mrs. Tregorran at the door and as I gained the end of the corridor I heard the door close behind her. I was busy about my household duties and at about midday I collected a tray from Mrs. Mandeville and took him an early lunch. I knocked at the door and left the tray on the table outside the door.”

“That was a usual procedure also, I understand?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And Mrs. Tregorran?”

“The lady rarely took lunch, sir; or if she did she ate at about two o’clock in the afternoon. But Mr. Tregorran’s eating habits were entirely different and he often said he felt starved if he did not take something at midday.”

“I see. What then?”

“Nothing untoward occurred, sir, until shortly after two o’clock. Mrs. Tregorran was still in the studio and I was in my room, reading after lunch. I was just about to return to my duties when I heard terrible screams coming from the direction of the studio. My room is just along the corridor, around the corner but the noise was so horrible that I could hear it clearly from there. I ran down to the door but as I had expected, it was locked.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were sharp and glittering as he lit his pipe, shovelling aromatic blue smoke over his shoulder.

“Pray be precise as to detail. It is most important.”

“Very well, Mr. Pons. There was no reply to my agitated knocking. The screaming had stopped but I could hear a fierce struggle taking place in the studio. Things were being knocked over and bodies were blundering about. It was a dreadful time and difficult to describe, I am afraid.”

“Your account is admirably clear, Relph. What then?” “Other members of the staff had appeared, including Mrs. Mandeville. She sent a maid for the gardener and he and I broke the door in together. I went into the roomalone, and as a result of what I saw the gardener went immediately to summon the police. Mrs. Tregorran was lying near one of the big windows, her eyes wide open and staring, her tongue protruding from her mouth. It was evident that she had been strangled, for there were heavily indented bruise-marks on her throat.”

“Where was Mr. Tregorran?”

“He was slumped in a heap in the centre of the studio, sir, midway between the platform used by the models, and the window. He was in a dreadful state, his face white and chalky, perspiration on his forehead, his eyes glazed.”

“Did he give you any explanation as to why he had attacked his wife?”

The manservant shook his head.

“He was incapable of saying or doing anything, Mr. Pons. He was incoherent, barely conscious and in a complete state of collapse. He kept mumbling things. In fact, had I not known Mr. Tregorran so well, I should have said he was little short of a madman.”

There was a deep silence in the room. Solar Pons looked at me, his eyes shrewd and penetrating.

“Most singular, Parker, is it not?”

“Indeed, Pons,” I said.

My companion rose to his feet.

“Well, there is little further to be learned here unless you have anything to add, Relph. You have been most helpful.” Relph shook his head.

“I have told you everything I know, sir.”

He looked resentfully at Inspector Jamison.

“Unless you wish to know personal matters that might tell against Mr. Tregorran. Such as those the Inspector questioned me about.”

“Oh, what was that, Inspector?”

Jamison shifted uncomfortably by the fireplace.

“We’re seeking information about certain lady friends of Mr. Tregorran’s, Mr. Pons.”

Relph had a stubborn, defiant look on his face.

“My answer would be the same to you, sir, as to the Inspector here.”

“And what was that?”

“Why, to ask Mr. Tregorran, sir.”

Pons chuckled.

“Quite right. Your attitude does you credit. Come, Parker.

It is time we had a word with the accused man himself.”

-3-

A short drive brought us to Chelsea Police Station where Jamison ushered us through into a small, bare room with white-washed walls which contained nothing but a desk, a mahogany filing cabinet and a few chairs. I was prepared for a change in my friend when he was shown into my presence but never had I seen such a transformation in a man. I had not seen him in the flesh for some years, it was true, but the photographs in newspapers and magazines of the tall, handsome, glossy-haired man had not prepared me for this pale, blanched creature with lack-lustre eyes who was escorted into the office by two constables.

Tregorran was dressed only in a shirt and trousers and I noticed that he had no belt or braces, having to keep his hands on the latter garment to hold them up.

“Really, Inspector!” I protested. “He is not a common criminal!”

Jamison shot me a reproachful glance.

“It is necessary for his own good, Dr. Parker. We were afraid he might hang himself overnight. And I am afraid that whether he is your friend or no, he is a common criminal now.”

I bit my lip and hurried over to the desk where Tregorran sat slumped, his dead, soulless eyes fixed on vacancy.

“I am sorry to see you like this,” I mumbled, hardly knowing what I was saying.

The eyes painfully focused and at last I saw recognition in them. A shudder shook his frame.

“Ah, Parker! It was good of you to come. I am afraid you find me much changed.”

I clasped the feeble hand held out to me and sat down at his side, conscious that Solar Pons and the Inspector had silently taken seats at the other side of the desk. I looked across at Jamison.

“He has been medically examined?”

“Of course, doctor. Our man found him incoherent and wandering in his mind. He is confused about yesterday’s events, though that is natural enough.”

Jamison drew his lips into a thin, straight line.

“He is sane enough to stand trial if that is what you were thinking,” he said grimly.

Solar Pons leaned forward at the table and tented his thin fingers before him.

“We shall see, Jamison,” he said crisply.

He fixed Tregorran with his penetrating eyes.

“Just tell us what happened yesterday in your own words and be as accurate and precise as possible as to detail.”

Tregorran shook his head with a wan smile.

“That is just it, Mr. Pons. My mind is an absolutely confused blank. When the police told me I was accused of murdering Sylvia it was not only an appalling shock but a patent absurdity.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Tregorran?”

“Because it is the Gospel truth, Mr. Pons. My wife and I, after a period of great turbulence, were on quite amiable terms again. We were not living together, it is true; we both led separate lives and had done so for some time. But to say that I murdered her or that I even wanted to murder her is ridiculous!”

“Even in view of Miss Celia Thornton?” Jamison put in waspishly.

Tregorran turned white.

“You have seen her?”

Jamison nodded.

“We interviewed her last night. She did not deny that you had been intimate friends for some time.”

Solar Pons turned to the Inspector.

“Who is this lady, Jamison?”

The Inspector had a mocking expression in his eyes. “No doubt Mr. Tregorran can answer that, Mr. Pons.” Tregorran had a defiant expression on his face now. “It was no secret that my wife and I were at daggers drawn,

Mr. Pons. Celia and I had been lovers for a long time to be quite frank, Inspector.”

“An excellent motive for murdering your wife, I should think,” put in Jamison drily.

Tregorran shook his head wearily.

“Unfortunately, Celia and I had become estranged of late, also. It is a long story, gentlemen, and I will not bore you with it today. You were asking about yesterday, Mr. Pons?”

My companion inclined his head, his eyes never leaving Tregorran’s face.

“Your day, hour by hour, Mr. Tregorran, if you please.”

“It is very simply told, Mr. Pons. I rose at six a.m. to catch the light for a particular commission I am working on. I breakfasted at seven and by half-past I was already at work in my studio. I took a break for a cup of coffee at about 10:30 a.m., and my wife arrived around eleven o’clock for work on her portrait.”

“Tell me about that, Mr. Tregorran.”

The haggard man at the table expressed surprise.

“There is nothing to tell, Mr. Pons.”

Then his face cleared.

“You mean why did I wish to paint Sylvia’s portrait after we had been on such bad terms? It was her request. Though she put it tactfully, I gathered that the commission came from an admirer. I am quite a good painter, you know, and there was nothing unusual in such an undertaking, even given the circumstances of our stormy marriage.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Quite so.”

Tregorran passed a shaking hand over his forehead. He looked a hopeless figure slumped before us and I could not repress a twinge of pity.

“Mrs. Mandeville brought me my cup of coffee. . . .”

Pons drew his eyebrows together in a frown of concentration. He glanced at Jamison.

“She did not mention that.”

Tregorran shrugged.

“Probably an oversight, Mr. Pons. I did not see her. She merely rapped on the door and left the cup on the table outside. I left the cup there afterwards and it was presumably cleared away at lunch-time.”

“I see. What happened when your wife arrived?”

“We chatted on perfunctory matters. Then I carried on with the sitting. Mrs. Mandeville brought my lunch at about 12 o’clock. I was concentrating on the painting and did not collect the tray until about twenty-past. Fortunately, Mrs. Mandeville had put up beer and sandwiches on this occasion or the food would have been cold.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were very bright and piercing as he stared at the painter.

“Mrs. Tregorran ate nothing, I understand?”

The painter shook his head.

“I had asked for nothing for her as she always ate much later. Usually around two o’clock. That is much too late for me and I feel starved if I go beyond half-past twelve.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons sat staring silently at the wretched figure of the stricken painter.

“After your lunch, what then?”

“I continued painting, Mr. Pons. Everything was normal and from time to time I sipped at my glass of beer. Sylvia had gone out of her way to be pleasant and the thought of doing any harm to her was farthest from my mind. At about a quarter to two I felt faint.”

“How did you know it was a quarter to two?”

Solar Pons leaned forward as though the answer had tremendous import.

“I heard the quarter hour strike from the cupola of a neighbouring church, Mr. Pons. Then I came over very faint. I must have lost consciousness because when I came to myself Relph and my gardener had battered down the door. I was incoherent and not making any sense, I am told. It was not until I found myself at Chelsea Police Station late that evening that I came fully to myself and realised that Sylvia was dead and that I was being charged with murder. For God’s sake, help me, Mr. Pons!”

There was such abject misery in the words that, despite my old friend’s obvious guilt, I felt a stab of pity for him. I looked at Pons and was astonished to see that he was smiling. However, he turned to me and said somewhat mockingly, “I begin to see light, Parker. We may yet make something of this.”

Jamison gave a short laugh.

“Indeed, Mr. Pons. I had heard you were a magician but you will need to be a miracle worker to get Mr. Tregorran out of this.”

I looked at my companion ruefully.

“I am afraid he is right, Pons.”

“We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” he returned equably and went on puffing at his pipe.

-4-

Miss Celia Thornton’s residence was a large, white house approached by a circular carriage drive, in St. John’s Wood. Our cab deposited us at the foot of a broad flight of steps and after a housekeeper had answered my companion’s discreet ring at the bell, Pons had his card sent in. The woman returned almost immediately, an enigmatic expression on her bland, genteel face.

“Miss Celia is not here, Mr. Pons, but Miss Annabel will see you.”

The woman who rose to greet us in the gracious sitting-room on the ground floor was of striking beauty. She advanced hesitantly, looking from one to the other of us.

“Mr. Pons?”

“This is he,” I said, indicating my companion. “Lyndon Parker at your service.”

“Sit down, gentlemen.”

The brown eyes were shrewd beneath the masses of lustrous dark hair.

“Annabel Bolton. Celia and I share this house, as you probably know.”

Pons’ sharp eyes never left her face.

“No, I did not know, Miss Bolton. I expect you have guessed what brings me here?”

A cloud crossed the handsome features as Miss Bolton resumed her seat. She bit her lip.

“This wretched business of the painter Tregorran, Mr. Pons! A dreadful affair. Celia is well out of it.”

“Out of her entanglement with Tregorran, Miss Bolton?” The brown eyes flashed.

“Not only that, Mr. Pons! Celia has her own career to consider.”

Solar Pons bit reflectively on the stem of the empty pipe he had produced from his pocket.

“Her own career, Miss Bolton?”

“Come, Mr. Pons. You surely cannot be unaware of Celia’s brilliant and original contributions to scientific research?”

Pons stared at our fair companion as though thunderstruck.

“Miss Thornton. Of course! The experimental chemist whose researches into the nature of crystalline structures has advanced our knowledge so much. Pray forgive me. I did not connect the name at first with that of Mr. Tregorran’s friend.”

A faint flush suffused the cheeks of Miss Bolton.

“Former friend, Mr. Pons,” she corrected my companion firmly.

Solar Pons put his pipe back into his pocket and sat bolt upright in his seat.

“That puts a different complexion on matters, Parker,” he said softly. “Where could I find Miss Thornton?”

The young lady looked surprised.

“Why at her laboratory, of course, at this time of day. Though whether your visit will be welcome is another matter.”

“We must risk that,” said Solar Pons calmly. “But another occasion will do if today is not convenient.”

Miss Bolton nodded, mentioning the research laboratory of a famous London hospital. Pons thanked her, noting the details in a small black notebook he sometimes used for such purposes.

“You may tell the lady we have called,” he said, looking round the room, noting the text books that took up a great many of the shelves.

“How remiss of me. I would take it as a favour if you would not mention my faux pas to your companion.”

Annabel Bolton gave Pons a slight bow and included me in the smile which lurked behind her eyes.

“Certainly not, Mr. Pons. Good day.”

No sooner were we outside the house than Pons uttered an exclamation and snapped his fingers in annoyance.

“Come, Parker!” he said urgently, guiding me down the pavement. “We must find a cab. There is not a moment to lose or vital evidence may be missing!”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Pons!” I said in amazement.

“I have been blind, Parker,” said my companion as a cab turned the end of the crescent and pulled up obediently in response to his signal.

“We must get back to Chelsea at once.”

“You are not going to see Miss Thornton, then?”

“Tut, Parker, that is quite unnecessary for the moment. Though I had arrived at certain theories the matter now becomes blindingly simple.”

“I am glad you think so, Pons,” I retorted with some asperity.

Solar Pons’ deep-set eyes were fixed somewhere on a corner of the cab roof and it was obvious that his thoughts were far away.

“It is now just a question of deciding how the facts fit these new circumstances. We shall see, we shall see.”

Back at Tregorran’s residence Relph showed us quickly to the studio and then withdrew. Constable Mecker had just come on duty again and looked as surprised to see us as I felt. But he showed us in with a welcoming smile.

“I did not expect to see you back, Mr. Pons, but you are most welcome, gentlemen.”

Solar Pons nodded sympathetically, his sharp eyes darting about the studio.

“You are finding it dull, of course?”

“The time does drag, sir. But I suppose one must get used to that in police routine.”

“Indeed,” I rejoined. “I have had many a long and boring vigil with Mr. Pons here in the course of some of his cases.”

“Thank you, Parker,” said Solar Pons crisply, but the little lights dancing in his eyes showed that he had not taken offence at my somewhat crass remark.

Pons moved over to Tregorran’s easel, his casual manner belied by the sharpness of his eyes. He looked at the debris of the unfortunate artist’s lunch which still stood by its side.

“Special export lager, with a gold foil seal, Parker. An expensive brand, too. That has great significance.”

“I fail to see it, Pons.”

“That is because your efforts are diverted in another direction altogether, Parker. Let us just consider the texture of this sandwich.”

To my astonishment he picked up the crust of the sandwich left on the plate. The exclamation he made as he suddenly hurried toward the door almost startled me. I followed him down the corridor toward the glassed-in porch.

“The dust, Parker,” he muttered. “It told a plain, unmistakable story, yet I did not read it aright. There are two impressions; one of Mrs. Mandeville’s tray and the other of a single beer bottle and tumbler.”

“I cannot . . .” I began when Pons rudely interrupted me and opened the inner porch door. He stood in silence for a moment looking at a large ceramic jar that stood midway between the two doors. It was obviously used as an umbrella stand because two sticks, one with a silver handle, were thrust into it. Pons’ aquiline nostrils were quivering.

“Do you not smell it, Parker?”

Then I caught the same odour, an unpleasant, stale smell as of greasy food. Pons peered into the depths of the jar and gave a sharp exclamation of satisfaction.

“What do you make of that, Parker?”

I peered in over his shoulder.

“Good heavens, Pons! A plate of cold soup and something that looks like blackberry tart with cream.”

Solar Pons smiled dreamily.

“Apple tart, I think you will find, Parker. Mr. Tregorran’s lunch, undoubtedly.”

He turned back to the inner door and examined it carefully.

“There is a keyhole here, partly concealed by the scrollwork. That almost completes my case, I think. No, Parker, I am not yet quite ready to divulge the details. For that you must wait until tomorrow evening.”

He led the way back into the house and downstairs at a trot so rapid that it left me breathless. Mrs. Mandeville, who was up to her elbows in flour in the kitchen, shared my surprise.

“Mr. Tregorran’s lunch, Mrs. Mandeville,” rapped Pons. “I omitted to ask you yesterday. It is of the utmost importance. What did you serve him?”

The housekeeper dried her hands on a cloth.

“Onion soup, his favourite, Mr. Pons. A bottle of his special export lager. And apple tart with cream. I like Mr. Tregorran to eat properly, though he often makes do with sandwiches if I am not careful.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mandeville,” said Pons quietly. “I have one more piece to fit in the jigsaw but I think you have solved the problem for me. Come, Parker. I must crave Jamison’s indulgence in the matter of the police laboratory and then write a letter. In the meantime I am afraid you must contain your impatience as best you can.”

-5-

It was almost seven o’clock when I arrived at our cosy sitting-room at 7B Praed Street the following evening. I had a somewhat complicated case in the suburbs and had dined at a restaurant in Wimbledon on my way back. Pons had been enigmatic in the extreme all the previous evening and today had been absent on some mysterious errand in the morning. But when I saw him at lunch-time he had a sparkle and suppressed excitement in his manner. He rubbed his thin hands together and shuffled some official-looking documents so persistently that I twice had to ask him, at the lunch-table, to desist.

Afterward he wrote a message which he sealed in a plain envelope, addressed it to a destination he did not disclose and despatched it by special messenger. He chuckled as he sat by the fire, his spare form bathed in misty sunshine which straggled through from the street outside.

“If that does not bring our quarry to the net nothing will, Parker!”

I am completely in the dark, Pons,” I said, somewhat bitterly.

My friend laid a soothing hand on my arm.

“The philosophers counsel patience, Parker. In the mind that is once truly disciplined, as the good Marcus Aurelius has it. . . In a few hours you shall know everything that I myself know about this matter. When do you expect to return this evening?”

“At about seven, Pons.”

My companion nodded.

“Excellent. I have arranged the appointment for eight o’clock. You should be in good time for the drama.”

Now, as I entered the sitting-room, I was surprised to see that it was dark and completely empty. I switched on the light and was puzzled to hear a somewhat furtive step that seemed to come from my bedroom. I had not gone half a dozen paces across the room when Pons himself entered from his own room, blinking about him in the strong light.

“Apologies, my dear fellow. I felt rather tired after tea and have been catching up on my arrears of sleep.”

I looked at him sharply. Such a situation was most unusual for Pons but he did yawn once or twice and his hair was rumpled so I assumed that he had been lying down fully clothed in the dusk of his bedroom.

He looked alert enough now and bustled about, pulling up a third chair toward the table and looking sharply at the clock. He stopped in front of a mirror and put a careless hand up to smooth his hair.

“Now, Parker, we have only to possess ourselves in patience and with a little luck your friend Tregorran may cheat the hangman yet.”

I stared at Pons in undisguised amazement.

“I have seen you do some remarkable things, Pons, but we know from the evidence and from the witnesses that there can be no doubt that Aramis Tregorran strangled his own wife.”

“There is no doubt about it, Parker,” said Pons calmly. “Yet in my opinion he is entirely innocent.”

My jaw dropped and I gazed at my companion with mingled admiration and irritation. He saw the look in my eyes and his own danced with undisguised pleasure. He put a finger to his lips to enjoin caution and opened his tobacco pouch. In a few minutes he was completely surrounded by a cloud of aromatic blue smoke and he stayed like that, in complete silence, while I read The Lancet by the fire, for almost half an hour.

Our idyll was interrupted by a ring at the doorbell and then we heard an altercation in the hallway below; an excited female voice was opposed in a duet with the more placid tones of Mrs. Johnson. There followed scrambling footsteps on the stairs, our door was flung open unceremoniously and a panting, wild-eyed woman stood there, her black eyes flashing with anger and outrage as she stared first at me and then at my companion.

“Mr. Pons! Mr. Solar Pons! How dare you send me such a message! You have quite upset my work at the laboratory.” Solar Pons rose from his chair with a smile.

“The truth often does strike like a blow, Miss Thornton. Will you not close the door and sit down? You will find a comfortable chair yonder.”

The imperious, dark-haired woman slammed the door back in its frame with a crash that seemed to shake the building. She stamped her foot as she stared at Pons.

“I will know what this outrageous note means before I leave this house!”

She flung a sheet of paper toward him and it came to rest near the foot of my chair. Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“You would do well to sit, Miss Thornton. I really do advise it. And Dr. Parker here, as a medical man, would prescribe the relaxed position as a tonic for the nerves.”

The angry woman paused and made an impatient movement with her hand as though she would have flung something at my companion. Then she apparently thought better of it and sank sullenly into the chair indicated. I had picked up the paper and held it out to Pons. He merely gestured to me to read it.

It said: Dear Miss Thornton, If you wish to tell me all the facts about the murder of Mrs. Tregorran I shall be at my quarters at 7B Praed Street at eight o’clock this evening. I am in possession of the true circumstances and if you do not answer my summons you will have to deal directly with the official police.

Truly yours,

Solar Pons.

I put the sheet down on our table and looked across at the white, compressed face of Celia Thornton. She was a little more composed now.

“I am waiting, Mr. Pons,” she said grimly.

“I shall not keep you, Miss Thornton, and will come directly to the paint. We have heard from Mr. Tregorran that you and he had been intimate for some while, but that he had become reconciled with his wife. Jealousy is a great distorter of human relations.”

The woman opposite us had a strange smile on her taut features.

“I have not denied my relationship with Tregorran,” she said. “I gave a statement to the police yesterday.”

“I am well aware of that, Miss Thornton. What I am saying here today is that you know a great deal more than you have stated about Mrs. Tregorran’s death and the charge of murder that is now hanging over her husband.”

Celia Thornton tossed her head and looked from Pons to me and then back to my companion again.

“The implication is preposterous, Mr. Pons. You will have to do better than that.”

“I intend to,” said Solar Pons calmly.

“Let us just recall the sequence of events. Mrs. Tregorran is found strangled in a locked studio, her husband nearby, incoherent and unaware of what has happened. I questioned the unfortunate man yesterday and I am convinced that he is speaking the truth. What we are left with is something more complicated.”

Celia Thornton sat watching Solar Pons with glittering eyes but said nothing.

“The first thing that struck me about the case was a locked door without a key,” Pons went on. “That was extremely significant and I commended it to you, Parker. I will now suggest the possible sequence of events and Miss Thornton will no doubt correct me if I am wrong. Tregorran had an unhappy marriage and had formed an association with you. But when he said that he was becoming reconciled to his wife, you became extremely jealous and there were violent quarrels. We have that from Tregorran himself. You concocted an elaborate scheme for revenge that would punish both the wife whom you hated and your lover also.”

“Prove it!” Miss Thornton snapped.

“I am endeavouring so to do,” said Solar Pons equably. “Your love had turned to hate and you would stop at nothing to strike back at your former lover and the obstacle to your happiness. In your liaison with Tregorran you had obviously visited his studio. He has not told me so but I infer it as it is central to my theory.”

“I knew the studio,” the woman said with a curious smile. “The fact is not in question and easy enough to check. I admit it.”

Solar Pons inclined his head gravely.

“Very well, then. You knew the studio and the lay-out of the house. You had your own keys to the doors. On the day of the murder you went to the house and entered by the archway unseen. It is easy enough to do. Instead, however, of entering the studio by the staircase entrance, you opened the inner door to the corridor, of which you retained a key. You stationed yourself in the angle of the corridor and waited until Relph brought Tregorran’s lunch-tray.

“When he had tapped on the door and withdrawn you quickly went to the table, removed the plate of soup and the dessert. To do that—and you thought you had not very much time—you removed the bottle of lager and put it down on the table. I know that because I have seen the marks in the dust and it puzzled me at first why this should be so. The explanation then became clear to me. You put the food within the large vase used as an umbrella stand in the annexe.”

Celia Thornton’s eyes were very bright.

“Preposterous! Why should I wish to do that?”

Solar Pons held up his hand.

“I am just coming to that. You returned to the table and put the beer bottle and tumbler back on the tray. Beside it you placed your specially prepared sandwich.”

It was very quiet in the room now and I looked at Pons, my puzzlement evident on my features.

“You then resumed your vigil at the end of the corridor. When Tregorran had taken the lunch-tray back into the studio, which was not for some time, you crept back down the corridor. You quietly locked the door and took the key away.”

“Why was that, Pons?”

“Because, Parker, there had to be time for Miss Thornton’s plan to work and she did not want the sitting interrupted. It was also vital for the scheme’s success that Tregorran should be seen by witnesses to be sane and in possession of himself.”

“I am afraid I do not see . . .”

“Tut, Parker, Miss Thornton herself will give us the ingenious explanation in a moment or two.”

Our visitor drew herself up, little spots of red blazing on her cheeks.

“I find your questions offensive, your implications odious and your conclusions entirely erroneous, Mr. Pons.”

Solar Pons drew reflectively on his pipe, little stipples of fire making patterns on his thin, ascetic features.

“Indeed. You face it out well enough, Miss Thornton, but you know in your heart that your cruel and ingenious scheme has been discovered. Let us just take things a step further. When I first visited the studio I did not, of course, know of your possible involvement in the matter. When I learned that you were a brilliant experimental chemist things began to fall into place.”

“I see, Pons,” I began, light dawning in dark places.

“No doubt, Parker,” said Solar Pons crisply.

“I had noted that the lager was a special export brand, sealed with foil and a metal cap. That indicated to me that it was unlikely anything could have been introduced into the beer. But it could have acted as a catalyst for something else that should not have been in the food. Where I made my big mistake was in not detecting the substitution earlier. I had asked Mrs. Mandeville and Relph about Tregorran’s lunch but none of us had thought to mention its composition. And then there was the matter of the missing key. You showed considerable courage in that respect, as indeed, throughout this dreadful business.”

Solar Pons paused as though expecting a reply from Celia Thornton but she remained silent, staring at him with a tight, set face.

“To avoid any suspicion over the locked door, you came back to the studio at dead of night, let yourself in by the back entrance and replaced the key in the door. Either the constable on duty was asleep or had his back turned. It took tremendous nerve but now that I have met you I have no doubt that you would have managed it. And indeed, you would have to have done so, as the key was incontrovertibly back in the door when I examined it, though police and other witnesses had said it was nowhere to be found. It was unfortunate for you that its loss had already been noted.”

“I follow you, Pons,” I said admiringly.

“A little late, Parker, but I did commend the fact to you,” Pons continued.

“If I were to save my client’s life, there was only one possibility remaining. It was contained in the section of sandwich which fortunately remained unconsumed. I went back to the studio and abstracted it. The police laboratory analysis yielded interesting information. I have their report here.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly and produced some sheets of paper from his pocket.

“But you, as an outstanding chemist, would already know its contents, would you not? Be so good as to glance over this, Parker.”

I read the documents with increasing admiration.

“I see, Pons!” I cried excitedly. “Ergot! Of course. The sandwich had been made of rye diseased with ergot.”

“Correct,” said Pons, biting on the stem of his pipe. “It was an extremely clever and utterly diabolical plot that only a scientist’s mind like Miss Thornton’s would be capable of conceiving as an instrument of revenge. Bread made with rye diseased with ergotism would affect the victim in what way, Parker?”

“Why, he would very probably go mad, Pons!” I exclaimed. “Ergot produces lysergic acid and in the form of lysergic acid diethylamide would induce a schizophrenic condition.”

“Exactly, Parker. As soon as I got this report I studied the literature on the subject. There was a village in France where the local baker produced a batch of bread from diseased rye some years ago. The entire village went mad. There were several deaths, including one where a husband stabbed his wife and a number of people launched themselves from treetops in the erroneous belief that they could fly. I have no doubt Miss Thornton is extremely familiar with the literature.”

Solar Pons fixed grim, accusing eyes on Celia Thornton who sank back in her chair.

“A wicked, diabolical plot,” he repeated. “Such as could only emanate from the brain of a revenge-crazed woman who was also a very talented scientist.”

Celia Thornton half-rose from her chair.

“Prove it!” she said defiantly.

“I have already done so,” said Solar Pons.

“It is all hearsay!” the woman said wildly. “You have not a scrap of evidence. There is nothing to connect me with having been in the studio.”

Solar Pons shook his head, drawing something from his pocket.

“I am sorry to contradict a lady but this object irrefutably places you at the scene of the crime.”

He produced a small crimson leather purse which bore the gold monogram C.T.

“Your initials, I believe? I found this beneath the table in the hall of Tregorran’s house!”

The woman sprang to her feet, a shocking transformation in her face.

“You are right, Mr. Pons. I did all those things you said. But you will have a hard time proving it, let alone bringing me to court. Where is your evidence? We three are alone within these walls. You have taken no notes of our conversation. It will be my word against yours. The whole thing is preposterous.”

To my astonishment Solar Pons was smiling.

“I only wanted to hear it from your own lips, Miss Thornton. You have confirmed all my suppositions. As for the purse, you may put your mind at rest. You did not drop it at the scene of the crime. I took it from the hall of your residence yesterday when Dr. Parker and I called on your friend, Miss Annabel Bolton! But it was enough to elicit a confession from you for my purposes.

He turned to me.

“It is true that Miss Thornton could not know exactly what would happen in that studio. But the end was tragedy and in one blow she would have removed both her rival and her lover if I had not finally put two and two together.”

“You have done brilliantly, Pons, as always.”

Solar Pons waved away my congratulations.

“Even so, it was an erratic form of revenge, though she might well have driven Tregorran permanently mad. I am told the eating of such diseased material can take that form.”

“That is why she locked the door,” I said. “In Tregorran’s case it took only two hours for the ergot to have that sensational effect. Enhanced, of course by the beer he had drunk, which sent the poison more quickly round his system. In some people it might have taken a deal longer.”

Celia Thornton stood facing us with twitching features. She fought to retain control.

“You are very clever, Mr. Pons. Everything you have said is true. But as I have already stated, you will never bring me to trial or clear Tregorran. It is too late for that.”

“I think not,” said Solar Pons calmly. “You may come in, Inspector Jamison. Ah, there you are, Mecker! I trust you took an accurate note of Miss Thornton’s statement?”

Celia Thornton fell back against the table with a cry of anguish and I started up in astonishment as the forms of Inspector Jamison and the constable emerged from the shadowy doorway of Pons’ bedroom. I stared at my companion, stupefied.

“We have the statement, Mr. Pons. Celia Thornton, I charge you with complicity in the murder of Sylvia Tregorran by administering a dangerous drug and warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.”

The girl stared round at us wildly and then collapsed into her chair in a storm of sobbing.

Jamison nodded to Mecker.

“Best take her down to the station,” he said awkwardly. “We’ll sort out everything there.”

When the constable had departed with his distraught charge Jamison sat down in the vacated place and looked at my companion with grudging admiration.

“Well, Mr. Pons, you have done it again. I take off my hat to you.”

“Praise indeed, Inspector,” said Solar Pons drily.

“Though how we’re to get through the legal and other tangles I don’t know,” Jamison continued.

He scratched his head.

“The main thing is that we have saved an innocent man from the rope,” said Pons. ‘The rest is for the courts to unravel.”

Jamison sighed heavily.

“When clever people go wrong there is the devil to pay,” he observed sagely.

Solar Pons passed over Celia Thornton’s purse to him.

“You had better take that, Jamison. My methods were a little unfair but we are dealing with a cruel and implacable woman.”

I looked at the open door of Pons’ bedroom.

“So that was why you were so furtive when I came back,” I said somewhat bitterly.

Solar Pons smiled and laid his hand on my arm.

“I am afraid I could not let you into our little secret, my dear fellow. It was imperative to get that confession down on paper through the official police. Your feelings are so honestly transparent that you could not have kept up the masquerade.” He blew a cloud of smoke thoughtfully from his pipe.

“Let us hope it will have taught Mr. Tregorran a much-needed lesson. Between the two of them he was bound to come to destruction sooner or later.”

The end of The Recollections of Solar Pons

First Edition

1995

The Recollections of Solar Pons by Basil Copper

was published by Fedogan & Bremer,

603 Washington Ave., S.E., Suite 77,

Minneapolis, Minnesota 55414-2950.

Nineteen Hundred copies of the trade edition

and one hundred copies of the limited edition

have been printed from New Baskerville by the

Maple Press Company.

Table of Contents

The Recollections of Solar Pons

Contents

The Adventure of the Mad Millionaire

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-6-

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-8-

-9-

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-11-

The Adventure of the Cursed Curator

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-8-

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The Adventure of the Hound Of Hell

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-8-

The Adventure of the Singular Sandwich

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-5-

The end of The Recollections of Solar Pons