by Otto Penzler
“Yours resp., Mrs. Flora White.”
Pons regarded me with a glint in his eye as I read it.
“A cryptogram?” I ventured.
Pons chuckled. “Oh, come, Parker, it is not as difficult as all that. She is only agitated and perhaps indignant.”
“I confess this is anything but clear to me.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Pons dryly. “But it is really quite simple on reflection. She makes reference to a Mr. Humphreys; I submit it is that fellow Athos Humphreys for whom we did a bit of investigation in connection with that little matter of the Penny Magenta. She wishes to consult us about a matter in which a doctor has already been consulted. The doctor has not succeeded in reassuring her or allaying her alarm. She cannot come at once because she cannot leave her patient alone. The patient, therefore, is at least not dead. She must wait until Julia comes, which will be late this afternoon; it is not amiss, therefore, to venture that Julia is her daughter or at least a schoolgirl, who must wait upon dismissal of classes before she can take Mrs. White’s place and thus free our prospective client to see us.
“Since it is now high time for her to make an appearance, she has probably arrived in that cab which has just come to a stop outside.”
I stepped to the window and looked down. A cab was indeed standing before our lodgings, and a heavy woman of middle age was ascending the steps of Number 7. She was dressed in very plain house-wear, which suggested that she had come directly away from her work. Her only covering, apart from an absurdly small feathered hat, was a thin shawl, for the day was cool for August.
In a few moments Mrs. Johnson had shown her in, and she stood looking from one to the other of us, her florid face showing but a moment’s indecision before she smiled uncertainly at my companion.
“You’re Mr. Pons, ain’t yer?”
“At your service, Mrs. White,” replied Pons with unaccustomed graciousness, as his alert eyes took in every detail of her appearance. “Pray sit down and tell us about the little problem which vexes you.”
She sat down with growing confidence, drew her shawl a little away from her neck, and began to recount the circumstances which had brought her to our quarters. She spoke in an animated voice, in a dialect which suggested not so much Cockney as transplanted provincial.
She explained how she “says to Mr. ’Umphreys,” and he “says to me to ask his friend, Solar Pons; so I done like he said,” as soon as her niece came from school. Pons sat patiently through her introduction until his patience was rewarded. He did not interrupt her story, once she began it.
She was employed as a cleaning woman at several houses. This was her day at the home of Idomeno Persano, a solitary resident of Hampstead Heath, an ex-patriate American of Spanish parentage. He had bought a house on the edge of the heath eleven years before, and since that time had led a most sedentary life. He was known to frequent the heath in the pursuit of certain entomological interests. As a collector of insects and information pertinent thereto, he was attentive to the children of the neighborhood; they knew him as a benign old fellow, who was ever ready to give them sixpence or a shilling for some insect to add to his collection.
Persano’s life appeared to be in all respects retiring. Judging by what Mrs. White told in her rambling manner, he corresponded with fellow entomologists and was in the habit of sending and receiving specimens. He had always seemed to be a very easy-going man, but one day a month ago, he had received a post-card from America which had upset him very much. It had no writing on it but his name and address, and it was nothing but a comic picture card. Yet he had been very agitated at receipt of it, and since that time he had not ventured out of the house.
Mrs. White had been delayed in coming to her employer’s home on this day; so it was not until afternoon that she reached the house. She was horrified to find her employer seated at his desk in an amazing condition. She thought he had gone stark mad. She had striven to arouse him, but all she could draw from him was a muttered few words which sounded like “the worm—unknown to science.” And something about “the dog”—but there had never been a dog in the house, and there was not now. Nothing more. He was staring at a specimen he had apparently just received in the post. It was a worm in a common matchbox.
“Och, an ’orrible worm, Mr. Pons. Fair give me the creeps, it did!” she said firmly.
She had summoned a physician at once. He was a young locum tenens, and confessed himself completely at sea when confronted with the ailing Persano. He had never encountered an illness of quite such a nature before, but he discovered a certain paralysis of the muscles and came to the conclusion that Persano had had a severe heart attack. From Mrs. White’s description, the diagnosis suggested coronary trouble. He had administered a sedative and had recommended that the patient be not moved.
Mrs. White, however, was not satisfied. As soon as the doctor had gone, she had consulted “Mr. ’Umphreys,” with the result that she had sent the note I had seen by messenger. Now she was here. Would Mr. Pons come around and look at her employer?
I could not refrain from asking, “Why did you think the doctor was wrong, Mrs. White?”
“I feels it,” she answered earnestly. “It’s intuition, that’s what, sir. A woman’s intuition.”
“Quite right, Mrs. White,” said Pons in a tolerant voice which nettled me the more. “My good friend Parker is of that opinion so commonly held by medical men, that his fellow practitioners are somehow above criticism or question by lay persons. I will look at Mr. Persano, though my knowledge of medicine is sadly limited.”
“And ’ere,” said our client, “is the card ’e got.”
So saying, she handed Pons a colored postcard of a type very common in America, a type evidently designed for people on holiday wishing to torment their friends who are unable to take vacations. It depicted in cartoon form a very fat man running from a little dog which had broken his leash. The drawing was bad, and the lettered legend was typical: “Having a fast time at Fox Lake. Wish you were here.” The obverse bore nothing but Persano’s address and a Chicago postmark.
“That is surely as innocuous a communication as I have ever seen,” I said.
“Is it not, indeed?” said Pons, one eyebrow lifted.
“I could well imagine that it would irritate Persano.”
“ ‘Upset’ was the word, I believe, Mrs. White?”
“That he was, Mr. Pons. Fearful upset. I seen ’im, seein’ as how ’t was me ’anded it to ’im. I says to ’im, ‘Yer friends is havin’ a time on their ’oliday,’ I says. When ’e seen it, ’e went all white, and was took with a coughin’ spell. ’E threw it from him without a word. I picked it up and kept it; so ’ere ’tis.”
Pons caressed the lobe of his right ear while he contemplated our client. “Mr. Persano is a fat man, Mrs. White?”
Her simple face lit up with pleasure. “That ’e is, Mr. Pons, though ’ow yer could know it, I don’t see. Mr. ’Umphreys was right. A marvel ’e said yer was.”
“And how old would you say he is?”
“Oh, in ’is sixties.”
“When you speak of your employer as having been ‘upset,’ do you suggest that he was frightened?”
Our client furrowed her brows. “ ’E was upset,” she repeated doggedly.
“Not angry?”
“No, sir. Upset. Troubled, like. ’Is face changed color; ’e said something under ’is breath I didn’t ’ear; ’e threw the card away, like as if ’e didn’t want ter see it again. I picked it up and kep’ it.”
Pons sat for a moment with his eyes closed. Then he took out his watch and consulted it. “It is now almost six o’clock. The matter would seem to me of some urgence. You’ve kept your cab waiting?”
Mrs. White nodded. “Julia will be that anxious.”
“Good!” cried Pons, springing to his feet. “We will go straight back with you. There is not a moment to be lost. We may already be too late.”
He doffed his worn purple
dressing-gown, flung it carelessly aside, and took up his Inverness and deerstalker.
Throughout the ride to the scene of our client’s experience, Pons maintained a meditative silence, his head sunk on his chest, his lean fingers tented where his hands rested below his chin.
—
The house on the edge of Hampstead Heath was well isolated from its neighbors. A substantial hedge, alternating with a stone wall, ran all around the building, which was of one storey, and not large. Our client bustled from the cab, Pons at her heels, leaving me to pay the fare. She led the way into the house, where we were met by a pale-faced girl who was obviously relieved to see someone.
“Been any change, Julia?” asked Mrs. White.
“No, ’m. He’s sleeping.”
“Anybody call?”
“No ’m. No one.”
“That’s good. Yer can go ’ome now, that’s a good girl.” Turning to us, our client pointed to a door to her left. “In there, Mr. Pons.”
The light of two old-fashioned lamps revealed the scene in all its starkness. Mrs. White’s employer sat in an old Chippendale wing chair before a broad table, no less old-style than the lamps which shed an eerie illumination in the room. He was a corpulent man, but it was evident at a glance that he was not sleeping, for his eyes were open and staring toward the curious object which lay before him—an opened match-box with its contents, which looked to my untutored eye very much like a rather fatter-than-usual caterpillar. A horrible smile—the risus sardonicus—twisted Persano’s lips.
“I fancy Mr. Persano is in your department, Parker,” said Pons quietly.
It took but a moment to assure me of what Pons suspected. “Pons, this man is dead!” I cried.
“It was only an off-chance that we might find him alive,” observed Pons. He turned to our client and added, “I’m afraid you must now notify the police, Mrs. White. Ask for Inspector Taylor at Scotland Yard. Say to him that I am here.”
Mrs. White, who had given forth but one wail of distress at learning of her employer’s death, rallied sufficiently to say that there was no telephone in the house. She would have to go to a neighbor’s.
The moment our client had gone, Pons threw himself into a fever of activity. He took up one of the lamps and began to examine the room, dropping to his knees now and then, scrutinizing the walls, the book-shelves, the secretary against one wall, and finally the dead man himself, examining Persano’s hands and face with what I thought to be absurd care.
“Is there not a peculiar color to the skin, Parker?” he asked at last.
I admitted that there was.
“Is it consistent with coronary thrombosis?”
“It isn’t usual.”
“You saw that faint discoloration of one finger,” continued Pons. “There is some swelling, is there not?”
“And a slight flesh wound. Yes, I saw it.”
“There is some swelling and discoloration of exposed portions of the body surely,” he went on.
“Let me anticipate you, Pons,” I put in. “If the man has been poisoned, I can think of no ordinary poison which would be consistent with the symptoms. Arsenic, antimony, strychnine, prussic acid, cyanide, atropine—all are ruled out. I am not prepared to say that this man died of unnatural causes.”
“Spoken with commendable caution,” observed Pons dryly. “I submit, however, that the evident symptoms are inconsistent with coronary thrombosis.”
“They would seem so.”
With this Pons appeared to be satisfied. He gave his attention next to the table before which Persano’s body sat. The surface of the table was covered with various objects which suggested that Persano had been in the process of trying to identify the remarkable worm when he was stricken. Books on entomology and guides to insect-life lay open in a semi-circle around the opened match-box with its strange occupant; beyond, in the shadow away from the pool of light from the lamp on the table, lay a case of mounted insects in various stages of their evolution from the larval through the pupal. This, too, suggested that Persano was searching for some points of similarity between them and the specimen unknown to science.
I reached out to take up the match-box, but Pons caught my arm.
“No, Parker. Let us not disturb the scene. Pray observe the discarded cover of the box. Are there not pin-pricks in it?”
“The creature would need air.”
Pons chuckled. “Thank heaven for the little rays of humor which your good nature affords us!” he exclaimed. “The worm is dead; I doubt that it ever was alive. Besides, the parcel was wrapped. Let us just turn the cover over.”
He suited his actions to his words. It was at once evident that the pin-pricks spelled out a sentence. Together with Pons, I leaned over to decipher it.
“Little dog catches big cat.”
I flashed a glance at Pons. “If that’s a message, certainly it is in code.”
“Surely a limited message, if so,” demurred Pons.
“But it’s nothing more than child’s play,” I protested. “It can have no meaning.”
“Little, indeed,” agreed Pons. “Yet I fancy it may help to establish the identity of the gentleman who brought about Idomeno Persano’s death.”
“Oh, come, Pons, you are having me!”
“No, no, the matter is almost disappointingly elementary,” retorted Pons. “You know my methods, Parker; you have all the facts. You need only apply them.”
With this he came to his knees at the wastebasket, where he sought diligently until he found a box six inches square, together with cord and wrapping paper.
“This would appear to be the container in which the worm arrived,” he said, examining the box. “Well filled with packing, so that the specimen should not be jolted, I see. Does that convey nothing to you, Parker?”
“It is the customary way of sending such specimens.”
“Indeed.” He looked to the wrapping. “The return address is plainly given. ‘Fowler. 29 Upper Brook Street.’ Yet is was posted in Wapping, a little detail I daresay Persano overlooked. Some care for details is indicated. Fowler will doubtless turn out to be a known correspondent in matters entomological, but most definitely not the source of this remarkable worm.”
At this moment Mrs. White returned, somewhat out of breath. At her heels followed the young locum tenens she had evidently gone to fetch after telephoning Scotland Yard; and, bringing up the rear, came Inspector Walter Taylor, a feral-faced young man in his thirties who had more than once shown an unusual aptitude for the solution of crime within his jurisdiction.
With his arrival, the Inspector immediately took charge, and soon Pons and I were on our way back to 7B Praed Street, Pons bearing with almost gingerly care, with Inspector Taylor’s permission, a little parcel containing the extraordinary worm which had sent Idomeno Persano to madness and death.
In our quarters once more, Pons carefully uncovered the remarkable worm and placed it, still in its match-box, under the light on his desk. Thus seen, it was truly an imposing sight. It was furred, like a caterpillar, but also horned, like some pupal stages, with not one horn, but four, one pair rising from the back close to its head, the other facing the first pair, but rising from the other end of the worm. Its head was bare of fur and was featured by a long proboscis, from which uncoiled a slender, thread-like tongue. It appeared to have no less than four rows of feet, double rows extending all the way along its length, as multitudinous as those of a centipede, and very similar in construction. Double antennae rose from back of its head, reaching to the height of the horns, while its tail was thick and blunt. It was perhaps four inches in length, and at least two inches in diameter.
“Have you ever seen its like before?” asked Pons delightedly, his eyes twinkling.
“Never. How could I, if even science does not know it?”
“Ah, Parker, do not be so ready to take someone’s word for such a judgment. There is no such thing, technically, as a worm unknown to science. Any worm discovered by a
scientist can be readily enough classified, even if not immediately identified with precision.”
“On the contrary,” I retorted with some spirit. “It lies before us.”
“Let me put it this way, Parker—if the worm is unknown to science, there is no such worm.”
“I’m afraid we are reversing roles, Pons,” I said with asperity. “Is it not you who scores me constantly for my didacticism?”
“I am guilty of the charge,” he admitted. “But in this case, I must give you no quarter. This worm is unknown to science for precisely the reason I have stated—there is no such worm.”
“But it lies here, refuting you!”
“Pray look again, my dear fellow. I submit that the head of this interesting creature is nothing less than the head of a sphinx moth—commonly known also as a hawk moth or humming-bird moth—quite possibly the common striped sphinx, Deilephila Lineata. The elaborate legs are nothing more than complete centipedes cunningly fitted in—six of them, I should say; these appear to be a centipede commonly found in the northern part of North America, Scutigera forceps. The antennae apparently derive from two sources—the furred pair suggest the Actias Luna, or common Luna moth; the long, thin green pair are surely those of Pterophylla camellifolia, the true katydid. The fur is as equally a fabrication, and the horns—ah, Parker, the horns are little masterpieces of deception! This is a remarkable worm indeed. How closely did you examine the wound in Persano’s finger?”
“I examined it with my customary care,” I answered somewhat stiffly.
“What would you say had caused it?”
“It appeared to be a gash, as if he had run his finger into a nail or a splinter, though the gash was clean.”
“So that you could, if pressed, suggest that Persano had come to his death by venom administered through a snake’s fang?”
“Since my imagination is somewhat more restricted, of scientific necessity, than yours, Pons…,” I began, but he interrupted me.
