The Dossier of Solar Pons Page 2

  "Something serious?" queried Pons hopefully.

  Jamison mopped his brow with a handkerchief he took from his overcoat pocket and stared from my companion to me.

  "Not only serious, Mr. Pons, but horrific"

  "Murder, then?" said Pons.

  "Murder in the most sickening circumstances. In a locked room and with a number of singular features."

  "Where?"

  "Highbury. In broad daylight too. Yesterday afternoon."

  An annoyed expression crossed Solar Pons's face and he clicked his tongue.

  "Dear me, Jamison. As long ago as that? And no doubt your fellows have been trampling about with their heavy boots."

  Jamison colored and shifted from one foot to another.

  "All has been preserved just as Professor Mair was found," he said stiffly. "I would appreciate your cooperation."

  "Certainly, my dear fellow. I will just get my coat."

  "Coming, Parker?"

  I was already on my feet, draining the last of my whiskey.

  "Certainly, Pons. No doubt the inspector will enlighten us on the way."

  2

  We were driving northeast, through rain-sodden streets, before Jamison broke the silence which had descended on the three of us.

  "Professor Mair is a wealthy man who retired from the British Museum some years ago," he said at last "He was an expert on Chinese pottery, I believe. He lives in a large house in Highbury—The Poplars—with a staff of servants, a private secretary, and three relatives. These are his niece, Miss Jean Conyers, and two nephews, Lionel Amsden, a broker in the City, and Clifford Armitage, who looked after the professor's financial affairs. So far as we can make but the household was a fairly amiable one. Mair had never married and since his parents had made considerable investments on his behalf, he was able to keep up an almost regal establishment at The Poplars. You'll see what I mean when we get there."

  Pons made no reply, his intent, hawklike face silhouetted against the bloom of passing gas lamps, as the police car turned from a main highway into a subsidiary road.

  "But just lately the professor had taken a fancy to move out of London," Inspector Jamison continued. "This caused a minor ripple in the household. The professor suffered from arthritis and had been advised by his medical man to seek a drier climate."

  "In England or abroad?" Pons interjected.

  Jamison looked startled.

  "That was not made quite clear," he answered stiffly. "But at any rate he intended to put The Poplars up for sale. This was the situation which obtained until yesterday afternoon. Then, at about three o'clock the people in the house heard the most appalling and inhuman screams coming from Professor Mair's study, which is at the front of the house, on the first floor.

  "The servants found the door locked and had to break it down to gain entry. Inside, they discovered a most appalling sight Drawers and cupboards had been ransacked and it looked as though there had been a tremendous struggle. The professor lay in front of his desk. A large javelin, one of his collection of weapons, had been taken from the wall and dashed through his body with such force that it penetrated the carpet beneath, pinning him like a butterfly on a card."

  "Good Heavens!" I could not help interjecting.

  Jamison shook his head.

  "You may well say so, Doctor. It was one of the most horrible scenes I have ever clapped eyes on and I've seen some things in my time."

  "Pray do go on, Jamison," said Pons imperturbably. "I am finding this most absorbing. Were all the family at home?"

  The inspector nodded.

  "Niece, nephews, and secretary. They helped to break down the door."

  "Ah, yes, the door," interjected Pons slowly. "That does indeed present a problem. You checked the windows, of course?"

  Jamison turned an aggrieved face toward us.

  "Of course, Mr. Pons. Both the big windows at the front of the study, which face the garden, are three-quarter length. They were securely locked and in any case it is a considerable drop to the garden onto a paved pathway at that point."

  Solar Pons sat hunched in thought for a few moments more, oblivious of the lurching of the car or the spitting of the rain on the bodywork.

  "But you must have come to some conclusions, Jamison?"

  The inspector stirred uncomfortably on his seat opposite us.

  "It is a very complex business. As to motive, both nephews and the niece stand to inherit considerable sums from the professor's estate as his only relatives. I have had some talk with the family lawyer this afternoon. There is something in excess of a quarter of a million pounds involved."

  Pons turned in his corner of the car and his eyes caught mine.

  "Motive enough there, Parker, eh?"

  I nodded.

  "But the locked room . . . And who would be strong enough to wield a harpoon in that manner?"

  "A javelin, Doctor," Jamison put in. "I had not overlooked that point, Mr. Pons."

  He had a little gleam of triumph in his eyes. "I favor young Mr. Amsden. He is over six feet tall and built like a Greek god. Except that only a minute elapsed between the professor's screaming and the breaking in of the door. As Mr. Amsden was principally concerned in breaking in that very same door, I did not feel I had anything strong enough to go on."

  "You were quite right, Jamison," said Solar Pons crisply. "You would have made yourself look extremely foolish had you been misguided enough to have arrested him. There are a number of intriguing aspects here."

  Jamison's face brightened.

  "You are on to something?"

  Pons shook his head irritably.

  "I prefer to draw my conclusions from strictly observed data on the spot. I fancy I will need to know a great deal more about The Poplars and its inhabitants before I am able to do so."

  And he said nothing further until the wheels of the police car scraped the curb as it came to a halt in the rainy night before a high brick wall.

  3

  Jamison led the way across the pavement to where two large wrought-iron gates were thrown- back, framing the entrance to a graveled drive. By the light of an adjacent gas lamp which threw a mellow glare onto the scene I was able to see why the police car had not driven in to The Poplars. There was a trench dug in the pavement, paving slabs piled high; and across the entry to Professor Mair's mansion heavy boards had been placed. The whole of the frontage leading to the driveway had been excavated, and clay and sand filled the gap.

  "The Council workmen are doing drainage maintenance here, gentlemen," Jamison explained. "I thought it might be worthwhile keeping this surface clear."

  Pons's eyes were sharp and alert in the light of the gas lamp.

  "You have done well, Jamison," he said dryly. "My precepts appear to have taught you something at last."

  The inspector looked reproachfully at Pons and two tiny spots of red started out on his cheeks, but he said nothing—only waited while Pons went down on hands and knees on the thick boards, examining the trench with his pocket flashlight.

  "A pity you did not call me sooner," he grunted. "Tradesmen and the rain of the past day have done much to obliterate detail which might have told us a good deal. I shall have these boards up as soon as it gets light."

  Jamison cleared his throat.

  "I think you will find the area beneath the boards may tell you something, Mr. Pons," he said stiffly.

  "Let us hope so," my companion replied, looking keenly about him as we walked up the drive, to where the large, squat, three-storied mansion of the late Professor Mair stood frowning across a broad lawn to the shrubbery which screened it from the road. The house was a blaze of light and it was evident that our arrival was expected, for a constable ran down the broad front steps toward Jamison, and the massive front door was already being opened by a trimly dressed parlormaid as we ascended to the portico.

  The house had an air of suppressed mourning and one could feel tragedy in the air as Pons and I followed Jamison across a large hall floored in marble. Electric lights in a massive brass lantern illuminated the broad-balconied staircase up which Jamison hurried to the first floor. Pons was darting keen glances about him. A knot of servants stood talking in monotones on the wide landing, but they broke up and went about their duties as our group arrived.

  The scene of the tragedy was guarded by a plainclothes detective-sergeant who had a muttered colloquy with his superior before ushering us past the shattered rosewood door which had shielded the entrance to the professor's study. It was a broad, high room lit by green-shaded lamps: two in ceiling fittings, one on the cluttered desk, and another standard lamp which stood near the paneled fireplace.

  The fire had long burned out and the place struck dank and chill; the reason for the coldness was obvious from the thing which sprawled incongruously in the center of the room, amid documents, upturned drawers and other debris. I have long been inured to scenes of postmortem squalor in my profession, but I have seldom felt the thrill of horror which this room evoked in me.

  The body of Professor Mair was spread out in bizarre fashion, his hands crooked in agony about the heavy shaft of the steel-tipped javelin which transfixed his body to the carpet beneath him. Blood had seeped from the wound and made heavy stains on the rug and on the parquet around it.

  The professor was a man of about seventy, with a snow-white beard which was thrown back, at an acute angle; the mouth with the broken, decayed teeth was wide open, as though he had been in the act of screaming as he was cut down; and a dark necklace of blood had run from the corner of his mouth onto the collar of his smoking jacket. The blue eyes were wide and staring. It was an horrific and appalling sight and even Pons seemed visibly shaken.

  We stood in a hushed semicircle about the remains for a few seconds a
nd then Pons was himself again; he dropped to his knees with a magnifying glass and busied himself in an examination of the area round the body.

  "Nothing of importance there, Mr. Pons," Jamison put in heavily. "We haven't overlooked theft, of course, but these are just papers connected with the professor's work."

  Pons nodded without replying. He was on his feet again now, his keen eyes stabbing about the room. Then he crossed toward the door, taking off his hat and overcoat which he placed on a chair. He came back to me.

  "Your department, Parker. Just give me your opinion, would you?"

  "Certainly, Pons."

  Jamison brought in a bundle of sacking from a pile near the door and I knelt gingerly upon it to carry out my examination. I avoided the javelin, but Jamison observed, "We have tested for fingerprints, Doctor. The murderer wore gloves."

  Pons was already near the windows, giving them his usual meticulous examination. He paused on the floor between them, his magnifying glass passing inch by inch across the flooring.

  "You are certainly right about one thing, Inspector. No one has been out that way."

  Jamison exchanged a satisfied look with the detective-sergeant, who had come back inside the room and was an interested spectator of the proceedings. Pons next went around the entire room, dismissing the serried ranks of

  books, which took up three sides, with hardly a glance. He examined the shattered door carefully, noting the key still in the lock. He spent more time on two large cupboards which flanked the door. The inspector caught the question in his eyes.

  "Files, according to Clarence Moffat, the professor's secretary. But there's been nothing disturbed there, so far as we know."

  Pons already had the left-hand door open and was examining the linoleum-covered floor of the interior. He pulled open one or two of the mahogany drawers at the rear of the cupboard and gave the contents a cursory glance. Then he went over to the right-hand cupboard and repeated the process. I noticed he had one of the small envelopes in which he collected specimens ready to hand.

  He was at my elbow as I completed my examination, a necessarily brief one in the absence of my case of instruments. "Rigor mortis has long set in," I said. "Death would have been instantaneous and probably some time yesterday afternoon."

  Jamison nodded portentously.

  "The same conclusion drawn by the police surgeon," he said. "Of course we shall know more after the postmortem, but I thought you'd prefer to view the body in situ, Mr. Pons."

  Pons nodded.

  "Extremely thoughtful, Jamison. Is there nothing further, Parker? Would the javelin have penetrated at one stroke, for example?"

  I took hold of the shaft, now that there was no need for caution.

  "It's certainly a heavy and fearsome weapon, Pons," I began. "Hello, it's quite loose!"

  Even as I spoke, the javelin broke free of the wound and clattered to the floor. Pons had a curious expression on his face. But he said nothing and was already turning to the area above the fireplace where a number of weapons were hung in ornamental display on the wall.

  "Obviously this came from the pair here," he mused, his eyes hooded and seemingly half-asleep. He pulled a heavy Malay kris from its scabbard and used it to point at the inspector.

  "Seems rather a strange feature of the decor for a man of peace like Professor Mair, wouldn't you say, Inspector?"

  Jamison looked puzzled.

  "I don't quite see what you're driving at, Mr. Pons. I believe some of these things originally belonged to the professor's brother, who was a widely traveled man."

  "If you have finished with my services, Pons," I said somewhat testily, I'd be glad to be allowed to rise from my knees."

  Solar Pons permitted himself a somewhat bleak smile in that oppressive room of silent death.

  "Certainly, my dear fellow. Do forgive me. I was quite absorbed in this little problem before us."

  He looked from the corpse to Jamison and then crossed to the fireplace to replace the kris in its scabbard. The envelope had already been returned to his inner pocket. I removed the sacking and dusted my trousers.

  "I think we have seen everything of interest for the time being," said Pons crisply, picking up his hat and coat. "And now ,if you will allow me, I should like to question the professor's immediate family."

  "They are gathered in the morning room," Jamison volunteered. "There is some refreshment if you would care to partake..."

  "Thank you but we have already dined," Pons told him. "And now, if you will lead the way, I shall be glad to learn what the late professor's nearest and dearest have to tell

  4

  As we were descending the main staircase to the hall, a thin, fussy-looking, middle-aged man in a rusty black frock coat and striped trousers came out of one of the ground-floor rooms. He turned a startled face up toward us and I could see the thin strands of black hair shaped carefully across but not concealing the baldness of his head.

  "Ah, here is Mr. Moffat, the professor's secretary," observed Jamison. Perhaps you would care to have a word with him first. He has been with the professor for the past ten years."

  We had now descended to the ground floor and Jamison effected the introductions.

  "Certainly, Mr. Pons," said Clarence Moffat with a nervous smile, when the inspector had explained our presence there. "Anything I can do to help."

  He led the way into a small tastefully furnished room with oil paintings of classical subjects in heavy gilt frames lining the walls. Jamison had not exaggerated the scale and value of the late Professor Mair's possessions, I reflected, looking at the pictures. The nearest appeared to be a genuine Watteau. At Pons's insistence the secretary sank into a deep leather chair by the fire opposite Pons. Jamison and I remained standing.

  "Where were you exactly when the tragedy occurred, Mr. Moffat?" asked Pons, lowering the lids over his eyes and tenting his bony fingers before him.

  "I was reading in this very room, Mr. Pons, awaiting the professor's summons. He usually goes through private papers directly after lunch and then calls me to take dictation for one of his articles."

  Pons nodded and sat in thought for a moment though I could see that his eyes were keenly regarding the secretary from beneath his half-lowered lids.

  "What then?"

  "It was just at five to three, Mr. Pons. I heard these horrible screams. I ran upstairs. Some of the servants and members of the professor's household joined me. We had to break the door in."

  He put his hands up over his eyes.

  "It was a dreadful sight, Mr. Pons. I hope never to see such another. But then you have seen for yourself."

  Pons nodded. He ignored Jamison's puzzled frown and turned back to Moffat.

  "What were your exact duties, Mr. Moffat? I understand from the inspector here that Mr. Clifford Armitage, one of the professor's nephews, looks after his financial affairs."

  The secretary inclined his head.

  "That is so, Mr. Pons. I deal with all the professor's correspondence and take stenographic dictation and so forth. Mr. Armitage deals purely with the late professor's financial affairs, which are extensive. When I receive a letter which has financial implications, I pass it to Mr. Armitage and he reciprocates as regards communications concerning my sphere. Our duties slightly overlap but not to any great extent."

  "I am sure you will not misunderstand me, Mr. Moffat, but as far as you know, had Professor Mair made any financial provision for you in his will?"

  Dull patches of red were standing out on the secretary's pale cheeks now. He shook his head.

  "The professor did not take me into his confidence regarding such matters, Mr. Pons. But no doubt Mr. Armitage could enlighten you."

  He moistened his lips and then went on hesitantly.

  "He did indicate something on one occasion. He has left me a small annuity, but I have no idea of the actual amount."

  Pons made a slight bow. His eyes were sweeping round the room now and he seemed to have lost interest in Moffat.

  "You told the inspector, I believe, that the files in the cupboards upstairs were intact?"

  "That is so, Mr. Pons. I have made an exhaustive check and to the best of my belief there is nothing missing." "Very well. Thank you for your assistance." Pons uncoiled his lean, spare form from his chair, and Moffat got up with evident relief. We were walking back toward the door when it was opened to admit a tall, slim girl with dark hair whose somber clothing and haggard features proclaimed her grief at the sinister happening of the previous day. She stopped on the threshold, evidently surprised.