The Exploits of Solar Pons Read online

  The Exploits of Solar Pons

  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 EXPLOITS of SOLAR PONS

  Basil Copper

  Illustrations by

  Stefanie Kate Hawks

  THE EXPLOITS OF SOLAR PONS

  Copyright ©1993, by Basil Copper

  Illustrations © copyright 1993, by Stefanie K. Hawks

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. Address all queries to: FEDOGAN & BREMER, 700 Washington Ave., S. E., Suite 50, Minneapolis, MN 55414.

  ISBN: 1-878252-11-9 (Trade Edition) ISBN: 1-878252-14-3 (Limited Edition) Library of Congress Number: 93-073410

  Book design by Felix Bremer

  Following the Characters Created by August Derleth

  The Solar Pons Stories written by Basil Copper

  are the only ones authorized by Arkham House

  Publishers Inc., by whom they were first

  commissioned, and by the Estate of the late

  August Derleth.

  The novellas contained in The Exploits of Solar Pons have never before been published.

  an ebookman scan

  This One is for Dixon Smith and Madeleine Henry;

  husband and wife, gifted authors, loyal friends;

  with gratitude for their help and encouragement.

  Contents

  The Exploits of Solar Pons

  Contents

  The Adventure of the Verger’s Thumb

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  The Adventure of the Phantom Face

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

  Death at the Metropole

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7

  The Adventure of the Callous Colonel

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  End of The Exploits of Solar Pons

  The Adventure of the Verger’s Thumb

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE VERGER’S THUMB

  1

  MANY A SLIP, Parker, many a slip!”

  I looked up from my corner of the first-class railway carriage and smiled at my friend Solar Pons as he sat opposite me, spare and trim in a tweed country suit.

  “I do not understand you, Pons.”

  My companion blew a plume of fragrant blue smoke up to the roof of the compartment.

  “It would not be the first time, Parker. I was referring merely to that contraption you were fiddling with.”

  “I see!”

  I held it up so that he could have a closer look.

  “What on earth is it?”

  I smiled again.

  “I thought you were supposed to be the detective, Pons.” My friend looked at me with eyes in which little flecks of irony were dancing.

  “Muck Parker. You are developing a very pretty wit of late. I must confess I am in turn developing a taste for it.”

  “You flatter me, Pons, but you have still not answered my question.”

  “It was I who questioned you,” Pons corrected me. “I am on holiday, remember, and giving my ratiocinative faculties a rest.

  It was your idea, Parker. You said, if I recall the extravagant phraseology rightly, that the Norfolk Broads would be a tonic.” He smiled wickedly.

  “Which means that we find ourselves on the way to the unquiet metropolis of Norwich.”

  “Come, Pons,” I protested. “Norwich is one of the most beautiful cities in England. It is in the centre of the Broads and if I had taken you to a small village . . .”

  Solar Pons held up his hand.

  “It was merely my feeble attempt at a joke, Parker. You are perfectly correct. I was there once only, for half a day, but to the best of my recollection all your eulogies are well-deserved. Though we are still faced with the basic problem.”

  “You are referring to this?”

  I still held the object between thumb and forefinger and I passed it over to my companion. It was a beautiful day in early June and we were passing through the flat, lush countryside of Suffolk, typical Constable terrain in which fields of fat sheep, fine old trees and glossy streams competed for attention in the eye.

  “Ah,” said Pons. “Some sort of apparatus for tying artificial flies for trout fishing, is it not?”

  “You are right, Pons,” I said. “It is new on the market. I purchased it only yesterday.”

  Solar Pons passed the miniature vice back with a thin smile. “I did not know you were a fisherman, Parker.”

  “Neither am I, Pons,” I said ruefully. “I used to be fond of fly-fishing when I was a youngster but I have had little time in latter years. I thought I might take it up again.”

  “You will find small opportunity on the Broads, Parker.”

  I laughed.

  “Of course not, Pons. It was merely that I felt I might spend some spare time so. It is a soothing enough occupation.”

  My friend nodded and turned back to the pages of the learned journal he had been immersed in when my experimental overtures with my new toy had attracted his attention.

  The bright June day continued, the engine joyfully shovelled black smoke over its shoulder as it vibrated its way over the flat countryside and in an astonishingly short time, it seemed, we were descending amid the noise and bustle of Norwich Thorpe Station, bedecked with coloured posters featuring Broadland yachts apparently sailing across the rich fields and shouting the attractions of Yarmouth as a seaside resort.

  “Did I not say it was agreeable, Pons?”

  “Indeed, Parker,” said Solar Pons drily, skilfully dodging aside to avoid a covey of small boys carrying fishing rods.

  We had nothing except light hand luggage so after surrendering our tickets, we walked out into the brightness of the station concourse, avoiding the taxi-rank and instead crossing the road to walk by the broad, brown waters of the Yare, where tall-masted sailing boats bobbed alongside the quay at Norwich Yacht Station.

  Across the bridge, we let the flow of pedestrians take us into the heart of the city where the great spire of Norwich Cathedral floated like some huge ship at anchor, and reported ourselves at the Royal George Hotel, where we were expected. A shocked attendant took our luggage and w
hisked it immediately to our comfortable rooms. When we had again descended, Pons consulted the huge grandfather clock in the hall.

  “It is still only a quarter-past twelve, Parker. What say you to another short promenade before lunch?”

  We slipped out of a side-entrance; it was market-day apparently and a rich display of stalls, selling a fantastic variety of goods stretched as far as the eye could reach across a vast square near the Cathedral, the reds, golds and greens of their canvas roofs making a colourful, mediaeval pattern that was eye-aching in the bright summer sun.

  Solar Pons looked at the rich life about him, his keen eyes taking in the details of the individual faces, a thin plume of smoke from his pipe rising into the warm air. After a short while wandering about in this manner we turned our steps back in the direction of the Cathedral, pausing in the Close to examine the moving memorial to Nurse Edith Cavell and then crossing the road to traverse the quaint old alley of Tombland with its houses leaning at crazy angles. Neither of us talked much, we were so taken with the charm of the place, and I was delighted by many subtle indications in my friend’s attitude and demeanour that he thoroughly approved of his surroundings and my suggestion to take this much-needed holiday.

  As possibly the world’s greatest private consulting detective Pons had been extremely overworked in the spring of the year; he had been drenched in a mountain stream in Switzerland in one case; set upon by thugs in another; and had found even his iron strength severely taxed in a long and complicated affair which had involved him in covering miles of rough and almost impassable Scottish countryside on foot.

  As his medical adviser as well as his friend I had long urged caution and proper rest and the amiable landlady of our quarters at 7B Praed Street, Mrs Johnson, had joined her injunctions to mine so that we were both delighted when at last we had prevailed upon my companion to take a brief fortnight’s respite from the clatter and bustle of London.

  Indeed, I congratulated myself highly on my strategy as we sat down to an excellent lunch at The Royal George because I could see that already my friend was benefiting from the change of air and the agreeable atmosphere of Norwich in this perfect June weather.

  After lunch we strolled along the banks of the river for a while, the moored yachts and motor-boats bobbing gently at anchor, while the hum of the city rose around us like that of a hive of bees. Solar Pons glanced at me ironically, as though he could read my thoughts.

  “You were right, Parker,” he said genially. “I must congratulate you on your choice. It might take much longer than a fortnight to exhaust the possibilities of such a city.”

  My cheeks glowed at such unwonted praise from my companion.

  “I am glad to hear you say so, Pons.”

  He said nothing more and we walked on in silence, climbing some steps to gain an iron bridge and eventually finding ourselves, as though by tacit consent, in front of the mellow bulk of the Cathedral. A section of the vast double doors was open, showing a black oblong and the deep basso of an organ’s treacly notes percolated to the street.

  It was cool and shadowy inside after the brilliance of the exterior and it took some minutes before my eyes had adjusted to the diffused lighting; the sun’s rays being broken by the rich reds, greens and ambers of the medieval stained glass in the rich windows and scattering like powdered gold across the delicate tracery of stonework and timber in that magnificent interior.

  Evidently some sort of service had just concluded because people were dispersing down the long aisles and the wooden chairs were thickly occupied by seated worshippers. The unseen organist continued with his recital as the vast building emptied, though visitors were constantly stepping through the great doors from the street behind us.

  I paused to examine some carving in a side chapel while Pons wandered on, his keen eyes shooting glances up to the vaulted ceiling high above and then at some detail of the ancient stonework nearer at hand. It was an agreeable occupation and we had spent some half an hour in such gentle perambulations before we were brought up in front of a massive archway, half hidden by the vast stone pillaring. Steps led downward into the gloom.

  “This would appear to be the crypt, Pons.”

  “Would it not, Parker,” said my companion, little flecks of amusement dancing in his eyes.

  “Shall we go down?”

  “By all means, my dear fellow. A great cathedral is nothing without its crypt, which is as necessary as cloisters and Norwich is nothing if not a great cathedral.”

  I followed my companion as he led the way down the sunken stone steps into the shadowy realms below. Naked electric bulbs illuminated the honey-coloured stonework and our steps echoed loudly on the flagstones beneath the vaulted ceiling. There was evidently some work going on, for scaffolding surrounded some of the tombs and great beams barred off portions of the crypt. I had noticed evidence of the same activity in the church above.

  “Interesting, is it not, Pons?”

  “Indeed, my dear fellow. No doubt it appeals to your romantic instincts.”

  “Perhaps, Pons,” I replied cautiously. “But at any event it would not take much imagination to picture strange things happening in such a setting.”

  Pons chuckled quietly, looking about him.

  “You are certainly correct in that supposition, Parker.”

  It was indeed a formidable and strange realm in which we now found ourselves. Great stone pillars going up into the massive vaulted ceiling; flagstones beneath our feet; shadowy corners and turnings inadequately illuminated by the electric light bulbs suspended at intervals; some curious tombs and statuary, with here and there the massive beams and timbers of the renovation work. All overlaid by the echoing footsteps of the few visitors down here and their sibilant whispering which seemed to reverberate curiously about the catacombs.

  The hush was abruptly broken by the sound of hurrying footsteps and round a pillar came a curiously assorted couple. A girl of about twenty-eight, her fair hair flying, her expression furious. Behind her a tall, sullen, bearded man in his forties, rage and anger flaring on his face. Oblivious of their surroundings, they hurried on toward the entrance steps, the girl shaking off the man’s restraining arm.

  “Pray control yourself, Elise,” said the man in low, urgent tones, glancing about him.

  “It was promised!” she said in furious tones. “You said it would be today!”

  The muttering continued as the odd pair half-ran from the crypt and we could hear their agitated progress up the worn stone steps until the sound died away in the distance. Pons looked at me thoughtfully.

  “Curious, Parker,” he murmured.

  I smiled.

  “A lover’s quarrel, Pons?”

  “Perhaps,” he said shortly, an expression on his lean, feral features I had come to know well.

  I led him forward to where a Norman noble’s effigy rested on the cover of an ancient tomb. In the far corner an imperious statue raised its arm aloft.

  “I hope you are not seeking mysteries here, Pons. We are on holiday.”

  “I have not forgotten, Parker,” said Solar Pons placatingly, though I noticed his keen eyes were darting about the crypt, resting first on one detail and then another.

  “Hullo! Someone has dropped something.”

  He darted forward round the edge of the tomb and picked up a small object resting on the flagstones.

  “What do you make of this, Parker?”

  I glanced at the thing in the palm of his hand curiously. “It looks like a cotton-reel, Pons.”

  “Does it not? However, I think there is a little more to it than that.”

  He held up the little wooden cylinder, holding it toward the illumination provided by the nearest bulb. There was no-one else near us in this secluded corner, where we were screened by the massive groyning of the crypt. He twisted it gently, giving a grunt of satisfaction as it came apart.

  Within the hollow interior was a slip of paper. Pons unfolded it and smoothed it out with hi
s fingers. I looked over his shoulder. Printed on it in ink was a meaningless jumble of symbols, composed of random groups of letters.

  “It is of no value, Pons, that is evident.”

  “We shall see, Parker, we shall see,” my companion returned mysteriously, thrusting the slip and its container into his pocket.

  “I think we have seen enough for one afternoon. Let us adjourn to the open air.”

  We were ascending the steps to the Cathedral now.

  “Should we not report the finding of this article to the church authorities, Pons?”

  “All in good time, Parker.”

  Solar Pons’ face was tense and abstracted and I looked at him curiously. A moment later I saw what had attracted his attention. The bearded man we had seen in the crypt was coming back down the nave, a worried expression on his features. He passed without noticing us and darted into the entrance which led to the crypt.

  To my astonishment Pons led me into the shadow of a great pillar and seating himself on one of the wooden chairs which faced the altar motioned me down beside him. He put his fingers to his lips to enjoin caution.

  We waited perhaps ten minutes and then footsteps were heard ascending. A moment later the man with the beard, looking more worried than ever, appeared. Pons was already on his feet and strolled casually after him. I followed, considerably perplexed and not a little irritated.

  We gained the Cathedral entrance and watched the tall figure of the bearded man striding away into the heart of the city. Pons followed and I had difficulty in keeping up with him. After a short while, however, my companion slackened his pace. He was smiling.

  “Ah, Parker, we are in luck. The gentleman is evidently staying at The Royal George or taking tea there.”

  “Indeed, Pons.

  I followed his gaze and saw that the bearded man was ascending the entrance steps of our own hostelry. As we crossed the road, pausing to allow a bus to pass in front of us, I caught Pons’ arm.

  “Is it not possible that the thing you have just picked up belonged to that gentleman, and that he has been back to the crypt to find it?”