August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "Well, it is certain that Bartlett could hardly have swallowed a bottle of chloroform without extreme agony—it would have seared its way to his stomach."

  "Yet somehow it got there," said Pons. "As one learned medical man remarked after the trial —'Now she's acquitted, she should tell us, in the interests of science, how she did it.' "

  He put down the Bartlett account and took up another.

  "And no area of human activity so aptly demonstrates the mawkish gullibility and stupidity of the innocent," Pons went on. "As an example, consider the case of Bruneau, the priest, who led a career of crime from the age of thirteen onward and, though caught stealing even in the seminary, was nevertheless ordained in the same year that Edwin Bartlett came to his end, and continued in his career of theft, robbery, fraud, arson, and lechery until it culminated in the murder of his superior, the Abb6 Fricot, whom he battered about the head before pushing him into the rectory garden well to die. He was duly executed at Laval in 1894 —but after his burial some pious fools fostered a legend that Fricot had been murdered by a woman caught in theft, who had subsequently confessed her crime to Bruneau and so sealed his lips —a tale so ridiculous and so utterly without foundation that one would have to be somewhat less than a moron to credit it; yet hundreds of people were gullible enough to believe it —people have a positive horror of the obvious —and Bruneau was held to be a saint and a martyr. Indeed, some imbeciles actually brought sick children to Bruneau's grave in the hope that the 'sacred' earth above the body of this murderer, who was without a single redeeming feature, might heal them!"

  "Does it give you pleasure to read about these crimes?" I asked. "I have seen you at these files quite often."

  Pons raised his eyebrows. "That has the sound of a clinical question, Parker."

  "No, no, I am only curious," I protested.

  "Let us just say then that I find these accounts instructive."

  "In what way?"

  "Why, in reaffirming my low opinion of the rationality of the average individual, criminal or otherwise —or my alternatively dim view or high regard for the blundering or, on the other hand, the efficiency of the police —or my admiration for a crime well conceived and well investigated. Will that satisfy your curiosity, clinical or otherwise?"

  I assured him that it adequately answered my inquiry.

  "Though it is true that the average crime is without imagination," Pons continued, there are those that offer some interesting points. Consider the infinite trouble to which the pathetic Dr. Hawley Crippen went in order to indulge his passion for Ethel Le Neve! This was, incidentally, one of the earliest cases in which Spilsbury shone as medical examiner."

  "Was it not also the first case of a British murderer's having been apprehended in America by dint of the police taking a faster boat?"

  "No, no, that is a common misconception. It seems to have been the first time that the wireless was used to apprehend a murderer. But Franz Muller, the first known train murderer —he killed Thomas Briggs in a train between Bow and Hackney Wick in the summer of 1864 and threw the body out on to the line —was apprehended as he stepped from the Victoria in New York, Tanner, the detective, having taken the faster ship, City of Manchester."

  He dropped the cutting and picked up a magazine account. "Now here is a classic American case —a miscarriage of justice — that of Lizzie Borden, who was acquitted of murdering her father and stepmother in Fall River, Massachusetts, on a hot day in August, 1892."

  "I know the case," I said.

  "I find the doggerel written about Lizzie much more to my fancy than that set down by the Reverend Dyson for Adelaide Bartlett —

  'Lizzie Borden took an axe, And gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done, She gave her father forty-one.'

  — And much more appropriate, too."

  "You have no doubt of her guilt?"

  "None. She alone had motive and opportunity. All other theories are the most elaborate fabrications, a testimony rather to the lubricity and wilful imagination of their authors, than to the inescapable facts of the matter. It is another incidence of people refusing to accept the obvious; for some reason they are infected by chronic doubt of what seems to them too simple, too straightforward; they prefer something more devious, more romantically sinister. The lunatic antics of the irrational sceptics in such cases are not without amusement. But enough. I have had my fill of this entertainment for this evening."

  As he gathered up the cuttings, he added reflectively, "Still and all, I suppose there is no domain of human behaviour that so well illustrates the complex nature of man as that borderland in which he is impelled toward murder."

  The Adventure of the Sotheby Salesman

  IT WAS on a warm summer night in mid-August that the curious matter of the Sotheby salesman came to the notice of my friend, Solar Pons. Fortunately, Pons had no problem in hand; he and I had spent the greater part of the day in Soho, moving idly from one place to another. Shortly after eleven o'clock that night we returned to our lodgings in Praed Street and found the telegram which was to introduce us to the mystery at Sotheby.

  CAN YOU COME DOWN TO SOTHEBY AT ONCE EXTRAORDINARY AFFAIR HAS TAKEN PLACE HERE SOMETHING QUITE IN YOUR LINE

  JEREMY HUDSON

  "Sotheby," I said. "Where is it?"

  "Just south of Aldershot," answered Pons. "It's only a village, if I'm not mistaken. Can't have more than a thousand inhabitants."

  "I don't remember having any acquaintance with Hudson."

  "I daresay you haven't. He's an interesting chap; police-inspector at Aldershot. His mind has on more than one occasion struck me as promisingly acute. I'm certain that if he must resort to me, the problem is more than ordinarily interesting." Pons looked at his watch. "We've just time to make the twelve-ten at Victoria."

  Within a half hour we were well on our way to Sotheby. Pons was in good spirits, anticipating an interesting puzzle, and he had put me in much the same frame of mind. At Victoria Pons bought a copy of the Evening News, and there we found reported what was undoubtedly the matter which had incited Hudson's wire.

  CURIOUS AFFAIR AT SOTHEBY

  Salesman Dead in Empty House

  The body of Mr. Peter Woodall was found late this afternoon in an empty house on Pearsall Street, the property of Mr. William Hendricks, who lives next door. The dead man was identified as a salesman by several merchants of Sotheby who came to view the body. It was later ascertained that the late Mr. Woodall was native to Alder- shot, and Police-Inspector Hudson was summoned to take charge of the investigation.

  An early examination shows that Mr. Woodall was killed by a rifle shot, and that he had already been dead some time, between eighteen and twenty-two hours, when found. The News will report more fully on the matter in later editions.

  "Hm!" muttered Pons. "This is the seven o'clock edition of the paper, and the man had been dead between eighteen and twenty- two hours when found late this afternoon. That would put the murder at somewhere around nine o'clock last night."

  "It sounds perplexing enough."

  "The matter certainly presents interesting aspects," agreed Pons. "The first question which naturally arises concerns the reason for the salesman's presence in an empty house obviously not his own property."

  "And who would be sufficiently acquainted with his movements to be on hand to shoot him when he arrived?"

  "Well, I daresay speculation is idle. Let us wait until we reach the scene before we search for conclusions."

  At the small station of Sotheby we were met by Inspector Hudson in person. He was a tall, heavily built man near middle age, with plain, unattractive features. He wore a slight black moustache on his upper lip. He was obviously glad to see us, for he ran toward Pons with outstretched hand as we stepped from the train.

  We were soon comfortably seated in Hudson's car, rattling away toward the scene of the murder, which was, it developed, on the farther side of the village.

  "We've seen the first repo
rts of the matter," said Pons, tapping the paper he still carried, "but, of course, we can learn little from them. Has the doctor determined when the man was killed?"

  "Yes. It was between nine and ten last night —probably closer to ten."

  "Indeed. The paper says he was killed with a rifle. Has the calibre been ascertained?"

  "Not definitely, Mr. Pons. The size of the hole in Woodall's head indicates either a .22 or a .25."

  "The bullet is lodged in the head, then?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, perhaps the man was not shot in the house," ventured Pons.

  "Some of us have thought he was shot elsewhere and dragged into the building. But I am not inclined to agree with that theory, for I've examined the grounds minutely, and it is definitely certain that Woodall came alone to the house, walked along the side wall, and entered through the back door."

  "I take it you went over the footprints?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Pons. Besides, there had been rain two nights ago, and the ground under the eaves at the side of the house where Woodall walked was somewhat muddy. Some of this mud can be found adhering to Woodall's boots."

  "Excellent, Hudson!" exclaimed Pons, his keen, dark eyes twinkling.

  "Yet," continued Hudson, "if the man had not been shot elsewhere — and presumably he had not — I find it difficult to determine why the rifle bullet did not go through his head. . . . But here we are," he added, as the car drew up before a small property fenced off from the street by a row of white staves.

  A constable at the gate saluted us as we passed. We walked up a poorly marked path and entered the house through the front door, Hudson pointing out from the windows as we went from one room to another the path taken by the victim in going around to the back door.

  As we entered the kitchen, two constables who were standing beside the body directed the light of their torches upon the recumbent form on the floor. The body was that of a middle-aged man, small of build, dressed in shabby clothes. It was difficult to imagine this unprepossessing man —for such he must have been in life —a solicitor of trade. His features were colourless, his hair was thin and sandy, and he had an incipient moustache of the same tinge. He lay almost in the centre of the room, crumpled on his side, his legs twisted beneath him, his arms flung grotesquely outward.

  At Inspector Hudson's order a lamp was now lit, for there was no electricity, and the room immediately came to life. It could now be seen that the back door opened directly on the kitchen, for it was standing ajar, and the light from the lamp threw a feeble glow outward and revealed a path of cobblestones leading away from the door. The utterly bare walls of the room were broken only by the door leading into the inner rooms, and a window looking out on the side of the house. The window, set low in the wall, had been lowered from the top as far as it could go.

  The lamp was placed on the floor beside the body, and Pons sank to his knees the better to examine the dead man. He peered intently at the black wound in the dead man's left temple, from which little blood had flowed. Then he examined the dead man's clothes, rummaging through the pockets, but he found nothing save a small penny-box of matches which was two-thirds empty. Having completed this scrutiny, he took up the lamp and, holding it aloft in one hand, crept around and around the body in ever-widening circles. At intervals he placed the lamp on the floor, in order to scrutinize anything that might catch his eye. It was an hour before this process was completed, but at last Pons rose and gave the lamp to one of the constables.

  Then he took from his pocket his own torch and vanished into the interior of the house, where we could hear him tramping from room to room. At length he went outside, for we heard the front door open and shut, and presently the light of his torch appeared at the window, where we could see him examining the tracks made by the late Mr. Woodall in approaching the kitchen. At last he himself pushed wider the kitchen door and stepped into the room.

  For some moments Pons stood gazing with rapt interest at the lowered window, his eyes slightly narrow now, his lips pushing in. and out in his customary fashion when deep in thought. Then he turned abruptly to Hudson and inquired, "Who lives next door on this side?"

  "The owner —a Mr. William Hendricks."

  "And on the other side?"

  "Mr. Jonathan Green, one of the merchants who was able to identify the body."

  Pons turned this information over in his mind for a moment without comment. Then he continued, "I understand Hendricks discovered the body late yesterday afternoon. How was it that he came to the house?"

  "The same question occurred to me," answered Hudson. "He told us he came to shut the window, which he first then saw to be open."

  "Ah, so!" exclaimed Pons. "It was not, of course, usual for this window to be open?"

  "No."

  "So I thought. I noticed that all the other windows on the ground floor were securely latched, and it struck me as strange that this one should be open. What do you make of this window's being open, Hudson?"

  "Why," said Hudson in some surprise, "I assume Woodall opened it."

  "Quite so, Hudson," said Pons. "But surely it is obvious that Woodall was shot immediately upon entering the house? For undoubtedly you have seen that the salesman, upon coming into the kitchen, struck a match and that, by the light of this match, the murderer shot him down?"

  Hudson sprang forward with an exclamation. Pons extended a match, burned a good two-thirds of the way from the head, which he had evidently found on the floor during his previous examination.

  "You intimate that someone waited for Woodall?" asked Hudson in some trepidation.

  "Precisely. The fact is self-evident. Someone came to this house and opened the window; this was certainly not Woodall, for he was unfamiliar with the house. Therefore, whoever opened that window knew that Woodall was to come here tonight. ..."

  Pons stopped suddenly, still looking intently at the open window, then clapped one hand to his head, and ran swiftly out of the open back door, to the amazement of Inspector Hudson and the constables. In a few moments it was possible to determine Pons's whereabouts, for there came through the window a flash of light behind a hedge some distance from the house. This vanished after five minutes, and there now occurred an interval of fully a quarter of an hour, at the expiration of which Pons suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

  "Singular!" he muttered, coming into the room. "Most singular." He flashed a glance at Hudson. "I understand that Woodall was an inhabitant of Aldershot. Do I understand that he made his home there?"

  "He didn't have a home of his own, Mr. Pons. But he certainly spent his free time there, staying at a second-rate hotel, The Antler Inn."

  "You are aware of no enemies he might have had?"

  "Entirely unaware of any. Woodall was a meek, timid man, not likely to arouse enmity. It is always the strong man who has enemies, seldom the weak."

  "True," assented Pons. "But surely this must have blocked your search for a motive?"

  "The murder seems marked by an entire absence of motive," admitted Hudson. "But if you've discovered anything," he continued, looking sharply at Pons, "I should be glad if you could suggest it to me."

  "I think it quite possible to say that the murderer was concealed behind a hedge dividing this property from that of its owner, Mr. Hendricks. It is obvious that he waited there for some time —over an hour, I should say. The distance from here to the hiding-place is roughly about fifty yards; I think you'll find upon investigation that a bullet from a .25 calibre rifle will not go through a man's head at fifty yards. While he waited, the murderer dropped a fragment of a note."

  Pons took from his pocket a small, triangular scrap of paper, which he spread on his palm for Hudson to see.

  "You will observe," Pons went on, "that the piece is so torn as to give us three words —the first word, he, on the topmost line of this scrap, and two words on a following line, nine and ten, from which the connective has been torn, but I daresay we would be quite safe in assuming t
he missing word to be and. Then, below, we have the first letter of a signature, the letter J. I give you that for what it is worth to you, Hudson; for the present I should like to retain the scrap. Also, I would commend to your attention the clothes of the late Mr. Woodall, and the articles found in them."

  "But there were no articles found —only a box of matches."

  "That is what I would draw to your notice." Pons turned and looked from the window, where in the grey of the sky white rifts were coming. "Dawn is breaking, Hudson, and I would like to have a few words with Mr. Jonathan Green. I daresay it can be arranged."

  "Certainly, Mr. Pons." Hudson turned to one of the constables and instructed him to go to Green's house and rouse him.

  It was becoming rapidly lighter as we left the empty house and walked slowly down the path. In the street Pons spoke again.

  "You will note that these three houses — Hendricks's two, and Green's —are fenced in as one property, though hedges divide them."

  "Yes," replied Hudson, "I understand that Green bought his house from Hendricks, who built all three. They are similar in structure, too."

  We entered Green's property. Just beyond the gate Pons stopped and indicated a short triangular series of footprints leading from the gate and back to it again.

  "Let me call to your notice that Woodall first entered here and ventured some distance before discovering his error and retracing his steps."

  "The man made a mistake anyone might have made."

  "Quite so. But recall the note. One does not appoint a rendezvous at a place with which one of the parties is not familiar. Especially is this true when the rendezvous has been made for night."

  "You think there was a rendezvous, then?"

  "Surely it is not a coincidence that the fragment of note should mention the hours of nine and ten, between which the doctor has given his opinion that Woodall was killed?"

  "But who would write to Woodall?" asked Hudson in perplexity. "Since you put it that way, you certainly bring forward a new aspect. Unless I've been greatly deceived by Woodall's appearance, I find it difficult to concede that anyone might write him to appoint a rendezvous, obviously meant to be secret."