"What cheek that fellow Golders must have!"
"If you can forego lunch, Parker, let us just walk around to Brompton's and have a few words with Mr. Golders."
"By all means!" I said.
But Pons was not quite ready. He fancied a disguise. He laboriously affixed sideboards, changed his clothes to rather severe garb, and clapped a pince-nez on a black ribbon to his nose and a bowler to his head.
"You look," I said, "like a private inquiry agent dressed up to resemble a businessman."
"That is close enough," said Pons. "Let us be off."
Mr. Dennis Golders was of rather shorter than average height. He was a blond, well-built young man, alert and bright-eyed. When we entered Brompton's, he did not thrust himself upon us, but permitted us to browse among the shelves and bins of books. There were two other customers in the shop, but these presently bought books and departed.
Only then, seeing that we had not evidently found anything to our liking, did the clerk approach us.
"May I help you, sir?" he asked Pons, since it was plainly Pons who seemed to be in search of something.
"Thank you, I think not," answered Pons crisply.
"You are obviously a bibliophile," said Golders.
"Ah, is it so patent?"
"If I may say so. You must, then, have favourite authors."
"Hardy, Keats, Byron, Shelley, Dickens, Meredith." Pons rattled these names off with a professional air.
"I may have something for you, sir," pursued Golders. "But it will come rather dear."
Pons's eyes narrowed. "Price is no object," he said, though his attitude belied it.
"Let me show it to you."
Golders plunged into the rear of the shop where, reaching behind shelves of books which were separated from the wall of the shop by a counter, he drew forth a book which he handed to Pons.
I saw that it was Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby in fair condition.
Pons glanced at Golders rather than at the book. "A first edition?" he hazarded.
"No, sir. But it will cost four pounds just the same." "Four pounds!" cried Pons.
"Please open it at the flyleaf, sir."
Pons did so.
Disclosed on the flyleaf was the autograph of Charles Dickens, with a line of greeting and the date.
"Aha!" murmured Pons. "Indeed, I do want this. Four pounds is a trifle dear, as you say —but a signed Dickens!"
He handed the book back to Golders to be wrapped, while he himself took four pound-notes from his pocket and laid them on the counter.
"Do you by any chance have anything more like this?" asked Pons.
There was the barest hesitation in Golders's business-like wrapping of Nicholas Nickleby. Then he resumed, as he said, "These items are not commonly come upon, sir. Once in a great while we buy a library with such a treasure among the books, but it is not a frequent occurrence. You might look in again. Of course, some modern authors like Hardy and Conrad are more readily found in signed copies, but Dickens is less readily discovered."
"But this is surely not the only signed book on the premises," persisted Pons.
"We-ell, no, it isn't," admitted Golders.
"Then, if you have another, let me see it," demanded Pons impatiently.
Having completed his parcel, the clerk reached behind the same shelf of books and came out with another.
This time it was H. G. Wells's The First Men in the Moon, the Newnes edition of 1901. It bore but a simple, undated signature.
"How much?" asked Pons.
Golders seemed visibly to take Pons's measure. "I realize Wells may not be one of your favourites, sir, but there are those who collect him. Two guineas."
Pons paid it with no more than a grimace.
"If you are interested in stopping in from time to time — preferably at this hour, sir," said Golders, as we went out, "I may have other such treasures for you to examine."
"Extraordinary luck!" I said, as we walked along the Edgware Road toward Praed Street. "That you should be able to acquire two such signed books!"
"You did not think it unusual?" "No. Many such treasures are in fact lost in private libraries. Only the owner knows they are there. Once the owner dies, however, it is another matter, for in many cases his heirs are not aware of everything on the shelves. That is particularly true if the library is a large one. Thus, it is eminently possible for a dealer like Brompton —who buys up entire libraries to keep stock on his shelves —to get hold of such books at a very reasonable price and make a fair profit. Though these did seem to me more dear than the average."
"Well, let us just have a closer look at them when we have them home," said Pons, and would say no more.
Once back in our quarters, Pons compared the signature in the Wells he had bought with that in my Tono-Bungay. He scrutinized them under a magnifying glass. I did the same. There was no significant difference between them, save that the one in the book he had just bought seemed to be an older signature in that the letters were slightly larger than the signature in my book, and they had clearly been written with different pens.
"Would you say they were written by the same man?" asked Pons.
"I would indeed."
Pons turned next to the Dickens. He examined it thoroughly, from the front matter to the rear of the book. Then he handed it to me with the adjuration, "Pray examine the inside of the front cover, Parker."
"It is blank," I said.
"Say not so. Look again."
I studied it with care. It was somewhat stained, as by age and exposure, and the edges were rubbed.
"Does it not seem to you that an erasure has been made in the upper left corner?" asked Pons.
"The original price seems to have been removed," I said at last, detecting the area of the erasure.
"And what does it seem to you that price was?"
"Two and six."
"Two shillings and sixpence," repeated Pons. "For a book signed by Dickens?"
"Obviously the book was so priced before the signature was discovered," I said.
"It may be so. We shall just wait upon Mr. Brompton to tell us."
So saying, he retired behind the morning newspaper.
Our client returned at two o'clock. He had had his lunch and he was now eager to return to his shop.
"I have been away far too long, Mr. Pons," he said, a little breathless from the exertion of climbing the stairs to our quarters.
"I fancy young Mr. Golders will not take it amiss," said Pons.
"He is a model of propriety," said Brompton. "But I hope you may have something to tell me of his means."
Without a word Pons put before him the signed copy of Nicholas Nickleby.
Brompton picked it up and turned it round in his hands. "Ah, you bought this in my shop. Two and six. But surely you don't want it. You must let me reimburse you."
"Four pounds," said Pons.
Our client dropped the book as if it had turned to hot coal in his hands. "Not in my shop!" he cried.
"But indeed." Pons bent, picked up the book, and thrust it again at Brompton. "Pray look at the flyleaf."
Brompton did so. His eyes bulged. His mouth fell open. He was manifestly astounded.
His hands trembling, he laid the book carefully down on the table. He took a deep, gulping breath before he spoke.
"Mr. Pons, I had no such book in my shop."
Pons bent again, flipped back the cover, and pointed to the spot where the original price had been erased.
"Look there, Mr. Brompton. The indentation is clear enough. Was that in your hand?"
"It seems to be my script," said Brompton. He leaned back in his chair. "But I cannot understand it. It is seldom indeed that a signed book comes into the shop."
"Do you to your knowledge have any signed books?"
"Well, yes, I have a Machen and a de la Mare. I had a Hardy, but Mr. Golders sold it and at a good price."
"Duly entered?"
"Yes, sir. I know my stock, and th
e entry was proper."
"You have not had a signed Wells?"
"No, Mr. Pons."
"Like this?" Pons produced The First Men in the Moon.
"That looks like the book I had in stock. Not signed, of course. One and six."
Once again Pons opened the book, revealing the signature.
Our client grew pale, then flushed redly.
"I submit, Mr. Brompton, that if you now return to your shop you will find these sales entered — Nicholas Nickleby at two and six, The First Men in the Moon at one and six. The difference between those prices and four pounds for the Dickens, and two guineas for the Wells has gone into Mr. Golders's pocket. I submit further that it is by just such sales that Mr. Golders has been able to improve his standard of living over quite some time. Mr. Golders seems to have a considerable knowledge of graphology."
"That is forgery, Mr. Pons. I shall discharge him at once," cried Brompton, coming to his feet, swelling with indignation and purpose.
"Do not be too hasty, Mr. Brompton," said Pons. "Mr. Golders is apparently content to live on but a small measure of illegal gain, and out of some considerable talent and ingenuity."
"I shall give him in charge," said Mr. Brompton angrily. "But first —let me reimburse you." He reached for his pocket.
Pons stayed his hand. "Let me persuade Mr. Golders to reimburse me instead," he said. "When you return to the shop, wrap up a book —any book —and ask Mr. Golders to step around here after work and deliver it."
"If you say so, Mr. Pons. But I cannot continue to employ him."
"Let me just talk to him first."
Mr. Brompton assented, but unwillingly. "I have been taken in — and I cannot undertake to estimate how many of my customers may have been swindled."
He was still muttering angrily when he departed.
"I rather think Mr. Brompton is more angry at having been deceived than at discovering that some of his customers may have been mulcted of small sums," observed Pons.
Late that afternoon, Mr. Dennis Golders knocked.
Pons threw open the door and invited him in. Golders did not immediately see me, and, since Pons had removed his disguise, he did not recognize him.
"I am delivering a book from Brompton's," said he.
"Come in, Mr. Golders, come in," said Pons.
As soon as Golders had taken a few steps into our quarters, Pons closed the door and stood with his back against it.
At the same moment Golders caught sight of me. He started guiltily, but quickly composed himself.
"Those books on the table are yours, are they not, Mr. Golders?" asked Pons.
Golders's eyes dropped to the signed books Pons had left lying out.
"No, sir. They are yours," said Golders, his equanimity restored. "You bought them this afternoon. I recognize your voice now even without sideboards, bowler, and eyeglasses."
Pons chuckled. "Pray sit down, Mr. Golders."
Golders did so, alert but unafraid.
Pons came away from the door. "You have a considerable talent for forgery, Mr. Golders."
"Can you prove it, sir?" asked Golders.
"Yes, yes —if need be, easily," said Pons. "But I am not interested in proving it."
"The return of your money then," said Golders. "And, of course, I will take along the books again."
"I think not," said Pons. "Tell me, Mr. Golders, have you ever thought of turning that remarkable talent of yours to honest accounting?"
Golders looked at Pons calculatingly. "You are sure you have something 'honest' in mind?"
Pons shook his head disapprovingly. "Ah, you are already challenging the honesty of everyone else on the basis of your temporary lack —I say 'temporary' hopefully."
"Is there an honest way?"
"I believe there is—and there may even be occasion in it for such flights of your fancy as the forging of Lord Arthur Savile's signature."
Golders grinned. "And at a decent salary?"
"Quite sufficient for the style to which you have become accustomed, Mr. Golders. Are you willing to try it?"
"I am, sir."
"I have written a note to my brother who is in the Foreign Office. There is a constant need for the services of someone with your uncommon skill in the cryptology department. Take it around there tomorrow, for your place at Brompton's has clearly become untenable."
"There is an alternative?"
"Indeed, yes. Mr. Brompton is ready to give you in charge. And I have these books against that contingency. I trust it will never be necessary to use them. Such skill ought to be put to good use."
Golders began to laugh. "Forging letters and signatures of diplomats, couriers, intelligence agents, eh?" he said. "I never thought of it. It is still forgery, though, however you look at it. I suppose it all depends upon one's point-of-view, Mr. Pons."
"As does all life, Mr. Golders," said Pons. "Good luck!"
Golders took his leave as jauntily as if he had not a care in the world.
23 January 1920
A few days later Pons announced that his brother Bancroft had secured a provisional place in the Intelligence Division of the Admiralty for Dennis Golders, the book-seller's clerk who proved so adept at forging the names of an astonishing variety of gentlemen.
I could not keep from chaffing him a bit, for I had had some reservations about his course of action in regard to Golders.
"Surely that is a kind of rehabilitation," I said.
"I daresay it may be so looked upon," answered Pons.
"Do I not detect a certain inconsistency here?" I asked.
He shot a sharp glance in my direction. " 'A foolish consistency,' " he began to quote Emerson, but I interrupted him.
" '. . . is the hobgoblin of little minds.' Yes, I know. But let me quote another eminent authority —'Rehabilitation is fine in theory, but let us have punishment first.' By courtesy of Mr. Solar Pons."
Pons laughed heartily. "I fear you have me there. But does not that depend upon the nature of the crime?"
"You have not said so," I said. "As I recall it, you did not discriminate at all."
"The nature of the crime in the previous instance was a considerable fraud," said Pons. "I am sure that Golders can be prevailed upon to reimburse his victims. But there is a fine point here I rather think you have not taken into consideration."
"In other words," I put in caustically, "when it comes to punishment, there is all the difference in the world between a large fraud and a little one?"
"There is not the slightest difference in fact, but only in degree, and the difference in degree affects only the degree of punishment."
"But Golders is not being punished, as far as I can see."
Pons chuckled. "I had no idea you felt even more strongly than I about this matter," he said. "If it will ease your mind —or your conscience, whichever it is —Bancroft has had some long conversations with Golders. Golders is perfectly willing to reimburse the purchasers of his forgeries out of his salary. But, quite apart from the fact that he cannot remember all of them, there is that fine point you have not considered."
"Pray enlighten me," I said.
"Why, it is simply the attitude of the purchasers. I submit that not one in ten would appreciate being told he did not own, in fact, a signed copy of a book he treasures. Far rather ignorance than repayment! Collectors are a curious lot —and book collectors are in many ways the most curious of them all."
"But what if one of them discovers the fraud and demands his money back from Brompton?"
"Why, then, Brompton will reimburse him —and Golders will reimburse Brompton."
"And as for the others?"
"They have simply paid for the happiness of possessing a forged signature they do not recognize as a forgery. Their lack of knowledge does not in any way affect their happiness in its possession. I know, Parker, in the interests of propriety, you would disillusion them. But to what end? It would not satisfy them, it would in fact leave them, I submit, far m
ore unhappy than they are in their possession of their elaborate forgeries, which, actually, are so well done, as to make each of these books an 'item' in itself in the world of collectors."
"Nevertheless," I said, but subsided into silence, not quite convinced, and feeling obscurely certain that Pons had not given an inch.
"I understand, Parker," said Pons with unaccustomed gentleness. "We would all like our world composed of black and white or right and wrong, but unfortunately matters are not as simple as all that. Would that they were! But if they were, how infernally dull life would be!"
27 January 1920
Coming in from attendance on a patient this evening, I found Pons absorbed in his crime files. Cuttings from the newspapers, tear- sheets from magazines and books, and photographs of criminals lay upon and all around the table —a veritable encyclopedia of crime.
As I entered, he glanced at me through the smoke wreathing about him from his pipe. "Ah, I see by your almost fatuous expression that Mr. Simpkins is making a satisfactory recovery," he said.
I acknowledged that my patient was indeed improving and, having divested myself of my greatcoat —for the wind howled outside, and snow was in the air—I went around to look at what engaged his interest at the moment. He held in his hand an account of the death of Edwin Bartlett in Pimlico in 1886, for which his wife Adelaide had been charged with murder —and acquitted.
"Did she do it?" I asked.
"I think it likely. She was enamoured of the Reverend George Dyson, a young minister who was foolish enough to write poems to her —if one could call them poems. Listen to this bit of doggerel — " He quoted from the account of the trial at the Old Bailey.
" 'Who is it that hath burst the door Unclosed the heart that shut before And set her queen-like on its throne And made its homage all her own —My Birdie.'
'My Birdie,' indeed! There are manifestly some unhappy human beings for whom the simulation of love is a disease."
"You are being cynical, Pons," I said.
"The follies committed for the sake of what some people call 'love' are positively incredible," reflected Pons, not without a certain relish. "And the domain of crime offers innumerable examples."
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 5
