August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "A good, pertinent question, Hudson. Who would write Woodall?" He paused and looked intently at Hudson with a twinkle in his eye. "Who would write to a common salesman, and sit patiently waiting to dispose of him — a man who had not an enemy in the world?"

  "The problem grows more and more puzzling."

  "Indeed, Hudson. Where are your wits?" exclaimed Pons in mild irritation. "After all, the note was not found on Woodall's body."

  "Someone might have taken it."

  Pons shook his head impatiently. "The soft ground shows you that no one approached the deserted house until Hendricks came to examine into the matter of the open window. Besides, the note had been near the hedge since the night of the murder. Now, Hudson, I leave you to ponder over these things; here we are at the home of Mr. Green and, if I am not in error, there is our man in that small room just ahead."

  Jonathan Green was a rather handsome man about forty years of age. Slightly built, clothed in a dark blue dressing-gown, he presented a good appearance as he stood waiting for us in his small library.

  "We're sorry to rouse you up so early, Mr. Green," said Hudson, "but Mr. Pons here, who is looking into the matter next door, wished to have a few words with you." "Quite all right," said Green in a mild, pleasant tone of voice. "I'm ready to answer any question you may care to ask."

  Pons thanked him with a nod. "Forgive me if I come directly to the matter in hand. In regard to the occurrence next door, it rather surprised me that no one had made mention of hearing the shot that killed the poor fellow. Did you, by any chance, hear a shot between nine and ten o'clock on the night of the crime?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "Did you get up to look about?" "No."

  "Are shots then so common in this part of the country?"

  "In a way, yes," replied Green, smiling at Pons's surprise. "You understand, Mr. Pons, we are at one end of the village out here, and it's not unusual for rabbits from the neighbouring woodlands to come prowling about our small gardens at night. Mr. Hendricks has been especially bothered with the pests —they have been eating his vegetables —and he has got into the habit of rising at night to shoot them. I myself occasionally take a shot at them. The neighbourhood would not be startled by a shot or two before midnight." *

  "How long has this been going on?"

  "Oh, ever since last spring."

  "I think we may take it for granted that whoever shot Woodall knew of that," I put in.

  Pons assented shortly and turned again to Green. "Might I ask you what you were doing on the night of the murder, Mr. Green?"

  "Certainly," answered Green readily. "I was preparing to go out, but I changed my mind and remained at home."

  "Was that after the shot?" put in Hudson eagerly.

  Green regarded Hudson inscrutably for a moment before he replied, "Yes, after the shot."

  "May I ask where you had intended going?" inquired Pons.

  "I'd rather not say," returned Green, colouring a little. "Of course if you must know. ..."

  Pons waved the question good-naturedly aside. "You're not a married man, I see," he said, chuckling.

  "No, I'm not," Green admitted. "But it's not my fault."

  There was general laughter, only Pons retaining his composure. Pons now produced a pen and paper and extended them to Green.

  "Just as a matter of course," he explained, "will you write down and sign a statement that you heard a shot between nine and ten on the night of the crime?"

  "Certainly," said Green. He took the paper and pen, and retired to a small desk nearby, where he sat and wrote out the desired statement. He turned and read what he had written: "I hereby depose that I heard a shot between nine and ten o'clock on the night of 17 August." He looked up. "Is that satisfactory?"

  "Quite," said Pons, and gravely took the extended paper, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket. "I think that will be all, Mr. Green. Thank you for bearing with us."

  On the street once more, Pons turned to Hudson. "Now I should like to ask a few questions of Mr. Hendricks."

  Hudson nodded. "He must be up by this time. If not, we'll have no difficulty in rousing him."

  Pons nodded absently.

  "By the way, Mr. Pons," Hudson broke in, "if I might ask, why did you want Green to write out a statement?"

  "I thought that quite obvious, Hudson," replied Pons. "You'll note that the statement contains both the words nine and ten. A brief glance at the fragment of note found behind the hedge has already assured me that its writer and Mr. Jonathan Green are one and the same. The writing is marked by the Roman e; the J of the signature is precisely the same; there is the identical pronounced upward slant —all in all, there is only a very slight difference between the two writings."

  Hudson pondered this briefly before he protested, "But if Green wrote that note, he can't be our man, for the note could not have been written to himself."

  "Certainly not. But you forget that, as you yourself proposed, the murderer might have recovered the note in some fashion. Also, you might have noticed on the wall of Green's library just such a weapon as killed Woodall —a .25 calibre rifle."

  Hudson gave vent to an exclamation, and slowed his pace perceptibly.

  "And to top that, my dear Hudson, it is quite possible that some painful business details between the late Woodall and Mr. Green supplied the motive for this apparently so perplexing puzzle. It would be interesting to build up a hypothetical case along those lines."

  "Striking!" murmured Hudson. "I never considered that angle."

  "Obviously," said Pons dryly. "Nor would I suggest that you give much thought to it now."

  Inspector Hudson turned a chagrined face to me.

  "However," continued Pons imperturbably, "if you're determined to get ahead with your investigation, I would advise that you return to Mr. Green and discover just where he was going the night of the murder."

  "You think that important?"

  "Extremely so. Indeed, perhaps it is most important. Has it not occurred to you that Green might have been on his way to visit the person to whom he had addressed his note?" Pons waved Hudson away. "Don't think of us, Hudson. We'll find Hendricks easily enough. Do you go ahead and do as you please — question Green; find out where he was going. Don't be too harsh with him."

  "You think it will be necessary to be harsh with him?" asked Hudson dubiously.

  "Perhaps. In any case, I venture to predict that Mr. Green will prove remarkably reticent about where he had intended going between the hours of nine and ten on the night of the murder — despite his show of good-natured willingness to tell us a few minutes ago."

  "I'll go back," said Hudson with determination.

  "Follow us to Hendricks's as soon as you can."

  Hudson turned and walked rapidly back along the street, while Pons and I turned in at the third of the houses that were so alike. Our coming had not been unobserved, for no sooner had we closed the gate behind us than a tall, striking figure, dressed in shooting clothes, came striding around a corner of the house and bore rapidly down on us. As he came on, I observed that his face was marked by small sharp eyes beneath bristling brows, a full sensuous mouth, and a dark, heavy moustache. He came to a halt ten feet away and glowered at us suspiciously.

  "Mr. Hendricks, I presume," ventured Pons.

  The fellow nodded.

  "I'm looking into the matter next door and there are a few questions I would like to ask you. I am Solar Pons, and this gentleman is my friend, Dr. Parker."

  "Why, certainly," responded Hendricks, softening at once. "Will you come into the house?"

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode rapidly toward the house, Pons and I trailing him. In a few moments we were comfortably seated in Hendricks's den, a replica of Green's library, differing in that where Green displayed books, Hendricks had filled the room with trophies of the chase.

  "Now, Mr. Pons, I'll answer anything you ask if it bears on this matter," said Hendricks.
/>   "I want to know first whether you heard the shot that killed Woodall?"

  "I can't say for certain, of course," answered Hendricks slowly, "but I think I did. At least, I heard a shot between nine and ten o'clock on the night the fellow was killed."

  "You didn't investigate?"

  "It's common for some of us to rise at night and shoot rabbits grubbing in our gardens. I have the habit; so has my neighbour, Green. I thought Green was protecting his garden when I heard the shot."

  Pons reflected for a moment, Hendricks watching him closely. "I should like to know your reaction on discovering Woodall's body."

  "Naturally, I was very much surprised," replied Hendricks without a trace of emotion. "I knew Woodall slightly, of course, but not enough to speak to. I notified the police at once."

  "What did you think when you saw the body?"

  "Well, I didn't think it was a case of murder; I thought the poor fellow had made away with himself — I understand he'd not been in sound condition financially —but the absence of the weapon left no alternative but that murder had been done."

  "Precisely," agreed Pons. He allowed his gaze to linger on Hendricks's new shooting boots. "One more thing—I am told you went over to the house to close the kitchen window; you did not close it. Why?"

  Hendricks shrugged his shoulders. "Purely an oversight, I suppose. In the excitement of the discovery, I naturally overlooked it; later on, I realized that it was the best thing I could have done, for it left the scene just as I found it."

  "The windows were always kept locked, then. Were the doors also kept locked?"

  Hendricks leaned eagerly forward. "There you have it, Mr. Pons. Those doors were always locked. Yet, Woodall didn't break in the back door —so it must have been open when he got there. Question is, who opened it?"

  "Who has the key?"

  "It's kept in a drawer in my room."

  "The drawer is kept locked?"

  "No."

  "So that anyone in the house had access to it?"

  "Yes, but there are only three of us. My wife, my man, and myself."

  "Very good, Mr. Hendricks. I should like to speak to your wife."

  "Very well," answered Hendricks and left the room to get her.

  Mrs. Hendricks was a slight woman, somewhat younger than her husband, and singularly attractive. My first impression, which I felt Pons shared, was that Mrs. Hendricks had been weeping; for this seemed evident, despite the patent efforts she had made to disguise the fact. She greeted us in a light voice, which impressed me favourably.

  Before Pons could begin to question her, there was a sharp rapping at the front door, and Hendricks departed to answer it. As he left the room, I noticed that his wife followed him with her eyes — and I was struck with her gaze, for it was venomous with hatred.

  "Mrs. Hendricks," Pons spoke quickly, "do you realize that you have unintentionally caused the death of a man?"

  "What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly, her face paling so that the artificial colour flamed on her cheeks.

  "You unlocked the back door of the empty house so that someone could keep an appointment with you," began Pons, only to be interrupted by the woman.

  She sprang up in uncontrollable agitation and came over to Pons. She put her hand on his arm, and looked at him, wide-eyed. "How much do you know?" she demanded.

  "Everything," answered Pons, looking sternly at her.

  For a moment there was silence. She swayed a little, and I thought briefly that she might faint, but she did not. "My God!" she breathed. "Surely you can't blame me?" She stepped back. Then, with an abrupt gesture, she allowed her kimono to slip down over her shoulder, exposing her skin, upon which were ugly, dark welts.

  There was an exclamation from Pons. I felt a sudden wave of pity for Mrs. Hendricks.

  "I have to live with him," she said passionately. "I hate him —he beats me." She stopped and looked at Pons steadily for a moment, struggling to regain her composure. "You know all —about the note?"

  "Yes," said Pons in a low voice, for we could hear the footsteps of Hendricks and Hudson approaching along the passage.

  "I lost it," she went on hurriedly. "I know he found it. And his temper —I knew that might happen. But I called Jon in time!" She stopped and hastily rearranged her kimono.

  "I think that will be all," said Pons kindly, as the two men entered the room. "Please return to your room, Mrs. Hendricks."

  The woman got up obediently and, without a glance at her husband, who had shot a quick, suspicious look at her, left the room. Pons turned to Inspector Hudson.

  "Well?" he asked. "Did Green tell you?"

  Hudson shook his head glumly. "Not a word. And got quite angry, too."

  Pons smiled. "But I shall have something of interest for you soon, Hudson. Will you be so good as to call two of your constables?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Pons." He was as surprised as I at Pons's request, and he could not help betraying his perplexity as he left the room to call the constables from the empty house next door.

  "I hope you're getting on, Mr. Pons," said Hendricks. "This business is awkward for me."

  "I shall have the matter cleared up before long," answered Pons.

  At this moment Hudson and his two men entered.

  "Ah, Hudson," murmured Pons. "Please step forward. You may arrest Mr. Hendricks and charge him with the wilful murder of Mr. Woodall the night before last."

  There was a hoarse bellow of rage from Hendricks, but the constables were upon him before he could reach Pons, and in a few moments he was securely manacled between them.

  "It would be well if we removed from Mr. Hendricks that part of the evidence he has not destroyed," continued Pons, as if nothing had taken place. "Some inconvenience will no doubt be caused, but in the circumstances it would be better to remove the prisoner's right boot, on the sole of which you will find a fragment of flint pressed into the hard leather; comparison with the print beside the hedge will prove that it was made with this boot."

  Only after Hendricks was taken away did Pons consent to expound the case to Hudson, who came bristling with questions to take us back to the station.

  "Let us start at the beginning," began Pons. "You will remember, I called your attention to the articles found in the dead man's pockets, and to his clothes?"

  Hudson nodded.

  "Very good. I did so because it was perfectly obvious that his entire lack of the smallest necessities, his threadbare clothing, supplied the answer to the primary question of why Woodall was in the

  empty house. He was there for shelter; having no means and a little pride, perhaps lacking friends and, knowing this for an empty house, he planned to spend the night here. He entered as we know by way of the back door. In the kitchen he struck a match to look around him and was shot down by a good marksman at fifty yards —from the hedge next his home.

  "Since the purpose of the salesman in coming to the house must certainly have been kept secret, it follows then that the note written by Mr. Green, a fragment of which we found near the hedge, where Hendricks carelessly dropped it, could not possibly have been addressed to Woodall. After our conversation with Green, I was satisfied that he had not written a note to lure someone to the house to be killed, as at first it appeared. Instead, a new element entered into the matter. I had now to determine who opened the back door and the kitchen window. The key to the door was kept in Hendricks's drawer, where he, his wife, or his man had access to it.

  "Thus, by simple elimination, it became evident that Mrs. Hendricks had opened the door; therefore, it followed that Green's note had been addressed to her, for surely Green was not arranging a tryst with Hendricks or his man. In turn, it follows that there was something between Mrs. Hendricks and Mr. Green. However, if Mrs. Hendricks had, on receiving Green's note appointing the empty house as a safe place to meet —I daresay they had met there before — gone over and unlocked the back door, so that Green could enter and wait for her, surely she did not open the
kitchen window, for this would have attracted her husband's attention.

  "It was evident that, owing to the habits of Mr. Hendricks — you remember the he of the note, a pronoun I take to refer to Hendricks —no definite hour of meeting could be appointed; hence the rendezvous was made for some time between nine and ten o'clock that night. Now, if neither Mrs. Hendricks nor Woodall opened that window, who did? Could it be anyone but the man who intended to take his chance shooting through it without breaking the pane? Hardly, I daresay. This man was Hendricks, for he had found the note Mrs. Hendricks lost, and in his jealous fury, he determined to put Green definitely out of the way.

  "But he failed to reckon on his wife who, when she missed the note, called Green to warn him away. Hendricks, knowing nothing of this, concealed himself behind his hedge, and, when he saw a figure enter the grounds and pass into the house, he prepared to shoot. And at the moment when Woodall struck a match to look about him at the place he had chosen to spend the night in, Hendricks fired and killed him. That is all there is to the matter."

  Pons paused briefly before he added, "By the way, Hudson, if you want to do me a favour, let me suggest that you keep the relations of Mrs. Hendricks and Green as much out of the picture as possible."

  To this Hudson unhesitatingly agreed.

  There was an epilogue to this curious affair. Hudson was as good as his word, for there was no mention of Mrs. Hendricks and Green in the prosecution, and much trouble was saved by Hendricks's confession, for he made no mention of his motive in killing the salesman.

  A year after the execution of Hendricks, Pons received in the mail a cutting telling briefly of the wedding of Mr. Jonathan Green and the widow of the late Mr. William Hendricks. There was no signature, nor any indication of who might have sent it, but Pons never had a doubt of the sender. Nor had I.

  The Adventure of Ricoletti of the Clubfoot

  IT WAS on a wild and windy night in autumn of a year shortly after my fortunate chance encounter with Solar Pons led to our sharing quarters at 7B, Praed Street, that Pons was introduced to the curious affair of Orso Ricoletti, the reclusive cryptographer. I had fought my way home from a professional call through a driving rain which came down in sheets of such intensity that the street-lamps shone through only as indistinct blurs of light. Few vehicles were abroad, and even fewer pedestrians. Yet, when I reached our quarters at last, grateful to be shut away from the equinoctial gale outside, I found Solar Pons standing on the hearth in an attitude of the keenest expectation. He was clad in his blue dressing-gown and wore slippers, and stood with his hands clasped behind him; that he had been smoking shag was evident in the pungency which lingered in the room. His almost feral face with its sharp features —the aquiline nose, the piercing grey eyes, the thin-lipped mouth, and the heavy brows—was bent upon the door as if he expected it to open at any moment and present to him the agent of another perplexing adventure.