August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  He hastened forward again and looked up into Pons's eyes, his forehead wrinkled anxiously.

  "The ring was very probably Krayle's black spot," said Pons.

  The allusion was lost on Mr. Penworthy. He grimaced and fell into step once more.

  "You have the ring, Mr. Penworthy?" asked Pons.

  "We have it," said the Constable.

  "How long has Krayle been with you?" asked Pons.

  "Just short of four years. He came in 1920, the summer of 1920, I make it. The war had been over for more than eighteen months."

  "You said, I think, he was out that afternoon on the water," said Pons. "Sailing?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons."

  Mr. Penworthy stopped suddenly and gripped Pons's arm. He pointed off toward the estuary. "You see that craft over there? That belonged to Saul. There's not a handsomer craft in these waters."

  "A costly boat for the night porter at the Seaman's Berth, is it not, Mr. Penworthy?" mused Pons. "Small wonder he made no complaint about his wage."

  "Oh, he never bought that from what he earned, Mr. Pons," said our landlord hastily. "He had independent means. He'd saved a nest-egg, I took it."

  "So young a man must have been on active service," observed Pons.

  "He was thirty, thirty-one —something like that. He was in the war, in France. He let that drop one night when one of the guests came out point blank and asked him. A wonder it was he said as much, as tight-lipped as he always was. But here we are, Mr. Pons. You shall see for yourself."

  We had now reached the Seaman's Berth, a quaintly weathered inn kept picturesque to attract holiday visitors to St. Mawes. A police-officer stood at the reception desk near the key-board only the previous night presided over by the dead man. All was silence when we passed through the lounge and made our way up the stairs to the top floor, Mr. Penworthy in the lead, the Constable bringing up the rear. Another Constable standing at the threshold opened the door of Saul Krayle's gable room.

  The scene before us was one of wild disorder. Central to it was the bed and Saul Krayle on it, lying with arms outstretched, his face mottled and blue, his mouth wide, as if he were still gasping for the air that powerful hands had shut off. The morning light entering the one dormer window cast a pale glow over the scene. It was obvious that someone — presumably the murderer —had searched the room in haste, for the contents of the bureau drawers had been emptied, the one chair had been slashed, and the mattress on the bed had been cut in various places.

  "Saul got off at seven this morning," said Mr. Penworthy in a hushed voice. "He was tired then, and most likely went straight to bed. He always kept his door locked. It wasn't locked when we found him. Maybe he forgot to lock it. Maybe he opened it to somebody."

  He continued to watch Pons's every move, as if he expected a miracle to be performed.

  Pons stood for a long minute taking in every aspect of the room. I tried, as usual, to follow his eyes about, to guess at what he saw and what conclusions he came to. Krayle's body lay not in the centre of the bed, but athwart it; he might have been on his feet and been thrown to the bed. He was still clad in pyjamas; so he had prepared for or gone to bed. The condition of the bed suggested that he had been in bed, thrown back the coverlet, and got out again. The appearance of the body suggested that he had not been attacked while asleep. The dead face wore an expression of shocked surprise, as closely as I could read it for the agony in it. If he had admitted someone to the room, he must have been attacked almost at once.

  Pons's minute of observation ended and now, ignoring the body on the bed, he began to carry out an intensive examination of the contents of the bureau thrown about on the floor, of the bureau itself, and of the clothing hanging from several hooks in a curtained alcove. Then he dropped to his knees and carefully examined the rag rug on the floor just before the bed on the side where one of Krayle's legs hung down. He picked something up between thumb and forefinger and dropped it into one of the little envelopes he always carried, and he found something more on the body itself to put into a second envelope.

  "Eh, now, what might that be, Mr. Pons?" asked Constable Liskeard.

  "If I had known, I would not have troubled to take it up," said Pons. "When I know, you will also know."

  The Constable grunted and nodded in satisfaction.

  Then, from among the things scattered on the floor, Pons picked up a yellowing envelope, into which he but glanced briefly. Yet he kept hold of it.

  "I should like to examine this at my leisure, Constable," he said.

  Mr. Penworthy looked anxiously at Liskeard's sober visage. "Mr. Pons is a famous detective, Liskeard," he said hastily.

  "We'll want it by evening," said the Constable.

  "You shall have it," promised Pons.

  "We took note that Krayle was killed by a powerful man wearing gloves," said the Constable challengingly. "Did you find anything to the contrary, sir?"

  "Nothing," said Pons. "I submit he was admitted by Krayle, who then walked back toward the bed —not to get into it, but to take up and put on his dressing-gown. Observe how it hangs, one sleeve still over the top, the rest crumpled on the seat of the cane chair where he had thrown it —as if he had picked it up and dropped it suddenly, surprised by his visitor, and, turning, was attacked and strangled. He would appear to have been so shocked and frightened by his attacker that he offered little resistance. But let me call your attention to his hands."

  I craned forward. The dead man's hands seemed to be covered with an oily substance. Constable Liskeard also gazed at it.

  "Smell it, Constable," directed Pons.

  Liskeard bent and sniffed the nearer of Krayle's hands.

  "It is not unpleasant," said Liskeard cautiously. "He must have put on some of that cream to keep the hands soft so much used now."

  "I submit he would have been likely to rub it in a little more, if so," said Pons. "Let me commend it to your earnest study, Constable."

  "Yes, sir," said Liskeard, his brow wrinkled in perplexity.

  "What does it mean, Mr. Pons? What does it mean?" asked our landlord, literally dancing about in his impatient excitement.

  "We shall have to wait upon events to tell us that, Mr. Pen- worthy," said Pons. "I fancy we shall know in a day or two. Can you tell me now how many new clients have come to the Seaman's Berth in the past fortnight?"

  "Yourselves, Mr. Pons—Major Andrew Grimesby —and but two days ago, a Frenchman named Noel Fromard. You shall see them all at luncheon, sir."

  Pons turned to Constable Liskeard. "You said you are in possession of the ring Krayle received by post."

  "Yes, sir." The Constable fished in his pocket and brought out a simple gold band which he handed to Pons. "This is it. Mr. Pen- worthy made the identification."

  "Yes, that's it, Mr. Pons. A plain gold ring. A man's ring, as you see."

  Pons was now examining the ring, studying the initials on the inside of the band. "S. K." There was nothing more to be seen on the ring.

  "Not too long worn," observed Pons. "Perhaps five or six years." He handed the ring back to Constable Liskeard and asked our landlord, "Did you happen to see the package, Mr. Penworthy?"

  "A glance is all I had of it, Mr. Pons."

  "A pity. You cannot say where it was posted?"

  "No, except that it came from France. I recognized the stamps. I've a hobby of stamp-collecting, Mr. Pons. But as to the place why no, I'm sorry, I couldn't see that, had no reason to want to. The box was in Krayle's pigeon-hole until he took it out, and I only glanced at it, nothing more. The post's not my affair, Mr. Pons. I like to think our guests and staff have as much privacy here as in their homes."

  "If you've finished here, Mr. Pons," said the Constable then, "we'll need to move the body. And you can tidy up the room, Mr. Penworthy."

  "Certainly, Constable," said Pons. "I want to ask Mr. Penworthy a few more questions, but perhaps he will accompany us to our quarters."

  "By all means, Mr. Pons," said our l
andlord.

  We bade Constable Liskeard good-morning and made our way back down the stairs to our quarters on the floor below, where we had a duo of connected rooms which opened upon a splendid view of the estuary and Falmouth on the far side.

  "I need hardly tell you, sir," said our landlord the moment the door of our quarters closed behind us, "I am most anxious to have this affair over and done with in as short a time as possible, and anything you can do will be most earnestly appreciated."

  "I rather think Constable Liskeard is a very capable young man," said Pons, "but I shall be happy to lend him any assistance within my power. To that end we should know all we can about Saul Krayle."

  Mr. Penworthy's honest face betrayed his unhappiness. He clasped his hands together and cried, "Perhaps it might have been better if I had been more curious! Now I think of it, we know nothing but the most superficial facts about him. A young man, who evidently came from London. ..."

  "Who had seen military service, had independent means, owned a sailing boat, and led an existence far more reclusive than is customary for young men of his years," added Pons. "Did he have references, Mr. Penworthy?"

  "None."

  "Did he receive many letters?"

  "Very few, Mr. Pons. Now and then he sent off for something in response to an advertisement. Hardly more than that."

  "Was Krayle in the habit of fraternizing with the guests, Mr. Penworthy?"

  "No-o," said our landlord with some hesitation. "I wouldn't put it that way. He was always courteous and sometimes friendly."

  "Did he have any special friends?"

  "I wouldn't say so. Mrs. Ruthven seemed to hit it off with him well enough, but they seldom exchanged more than a few sentences at a time. He seemed to take to Major Grimesby, but I gathered that it was more or less a matter of mutual reminiscences of the war. And he seemed very friendly with M. Fromard."

  "We shall want to speak to them," said Pons.

  "That can be arranged."

  "One thing more. Was any stranger seen entering the inn since the receptionist came on duty?"

  "Certainly not by the receptionist, Mr. Pons. I asked. But, of course, the receptionist doesn't always stay at the desk. She leaves it from time to time; so someone could have slipped in."

  "You were present when Krayle opened the little package from France and discovered the ring?" asked Pons then.

  "Yes. I was at the desk. He came in from the water late that afternoon. He always came on duty from eight in the evening until seven in the morning. He saw the box in his pigeon-hole, took it out, and opened it."

  "Did he seem apprehensive?"

  "No, sir. Just curious. When he saw the ring, he sort of tightened up. When he saw the initials on it, he went white. I told you how it was on the way from the shore."

  "Indeed you did, Mr. Penworthy. I recall it," said Pons. "Did you not think it strange that Krayle was so much by himself?"

  Mr. Penworthy shrugged. "Every man to his taste, I always say. Besides, what chance had he to mix? He might leave his duties for a few moments to look in on the bar or watch a game of darts, but he could hardly take part and still discharge his obligations to the house, Mr. Pons."

  "You have seen this man for almost four years, at least in the closing hours of the day, if at no other time," pursued Pons, "and you must have observed his habits."

  "Oh, Mr. Pons. He was a painstakingly clean man. He smoked a pipe on occasion. He never drank —though, truth to tell, I thought he looked longingly at the glass now and then." Mr. Penworthy chuckled. "But perhaps it was an old man's fancy. He read the Times every day and the Observer every week. When we talked together it was of sailing, political matter the weather, the trade. I could say I thought him a Conservative but would that help you? I'll wager not. There must be some other way I can help you, Mr. Pons."

  Pons smiled. "There is, Mr. Penworthy. When the police are finished up there, I would like the key to the room."

  "What will the police say?" asked Mr. Penworthy anxiously.

  "My compliments to Constable Liskeard. Ask him not to seal the room —if he means to do so —until tomorrow. Ask him to stand by until I send word to him."

  "Yes, Mr. Pons," said Mr. Penworthy, backing to the door, ducking and bowing, and letting himself out.

  "Now, then," said Pons briskly, suiting his actions to his words, "let us just see what this evidently treasured envelope contains."

  He opened the envelope he had taken from Saul Krayle's room as he spoke, and began to remove its contents, piece by piece.

  "Hm! A photograph of Krayle as a boy —in a Lord Fauntleroy suit," he murmured. "Discharge papers. Ah, he had reached corporal rank! —Two death notices, clipped together. Henry and Per- dita Kraven. Evidently relatives, married —died a year apart. Country folk in Northumberland." He pored over the notices for a little while before he put them aside with, "Nothing here to suggest anything but modest means."

  Next he brought forth a small packet of newspaper cuttings. Taking up the first, he read, " 'Escape of Two Burglars —A pair of agile burglars escaped capture after looting a flat in South Norwood last night. The two made their way to freedom over the rooftops after P. C. Leonard Worden slipped and fell while in pursuit. . . .' " He took another cutting from the packet. "A listing of burglaries committed by the soldiers of various nations in the course of the war." He turned to a third. " 'Daring Burglary in Kent.' The fourth was in French, which Pons translated — " 'Part of Famechon Loot Recovered. Some of the jewelry stolen from Count Gilbert de Famechon's chateau at Bordelais two years ago was recovered near the scene of an avalanche near the Swiss border yesterday. . . .' " He took up another paper, shaking his head. "Yet another clipping about criminal activities, this time in England. Krayle seems to have had a fondness for the criminous." He rummaged through three or four accounts which were patently of a similar nature, pausing only to read another concerning the disappearance of a soldier, Charles Fenn, from the Swiss border. He went on to a briefer report. "An advertisement. 'Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Simon Kraven or James Fenn, late in His Majesty's military service, please communicate with Scotland Yard.' — The description appended would fit a quarter of all the young men in England, except for a shrapnel wound in Fenn's leg," he added, chuckling. Pressing his examination, he went on. "The photograph of a young lady. No identification. Very possibly a sweetheart. Another photograph, this time of Krayle in uniform."

  At the end of half an hour Pons had taken from the envelope all it contained. The material testified to some degree of sentimentality on the part of its former owner, as well as to his interest in the criminous. There was an almost total lack of anything that might help an inquiry into the life of Saul Krayle.

  Pons restored the papers and photographs to the envelope and put it aside. Then he sat for a few minutes with his eyes closed and his fingers fondling his unlit pipe, a meditative attitude I knew well enough not to interrupt. Presently, however, he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on me.

  "What do you make of it, Parker?"

  I chose my words with care. "It would seem to me that if Krayle wished to lose himself, he might have chosen a rural village rather than a watering place."

  "Would not a stranger in a little village stand out far more? I submit he would. You are then of the opinion that Krayle wished to leave behind him his former haunts and companions?"

  "It would seem so."

  "It does not seem to you strange that a young man, with much of his life still before him, should choose to lead a reclusive existence as a night porter at an obscure inn?"

  "Far stranger events are commonplace, Pons," I said, ticking off a few of them rapidly for his benefit.

  "True, true," agreed Pons. "Go on."

  "He may have suffered a disappointment in love. Or he may have been the victim of traumatic shock as a result of his experiences in the war," I went on. "It took me many months to recover from seeing one of my friends blown to pieces virtually at my side."


  "You and I both spoke to Krayle on more than one occasion while he was on duty," said Pons. "Did he strike you as anything but cool and collected?"

  "No," I said reluctantly.

  "As someone easily upset by a broken romance or subject to trauma?" pressed Pons.

  I had to concede that he did not. "But these things do not always show on the surface, Pons," I objected.

  "Very well. Let it pass. What did you make of his reaction to the ring?"

  "It was obviously something he had once seen and never expected to see again."

  "Capital!" cried Pons. "That is well put."

  Thus encouraged, I went on. "Specifically, it was apparently not so much the ring as the identifying initials."

  'S. K.' " mused Pons. "They were his own initials. Perhaps his own ring?"

  "A wedding ring —abandoned and now sent back to him with meaning he understood very well," I added.

  Pons chuckled. "You insist on romance, Parker!"

  "Why not? Though you are somewhat singular in this respect, I assure you it plays a major part in life."

  Pons bowed in mock humility. But in a moment his smile faded. "The room was searched for something," he pointed out.

  "Why is it that the obvious is always avoided?" I protested. "Robbery could have been the motive for Krayle's death."

  Pons shook his head in disappointment. "Oh, come, come, Parker!" he cried. "It was evident that Krayle opened his door to his visitor. Moreover, the initialed ring was not taken. Nor was some fifty pounds in his wallet on the bureau. His watch was undisturbed. In view of these facts, robbery does not seem to warrant being considered as motive. No, the murderer was someone Krayle had no reason to distrust. He opened the door to him without hesitation very probably not long after he had turned in. His visitor knocked at his door between seven and eight o'clock this morning, murdered him, and searched his room —in such obvious haste that there was no time to restore the contents of the drawers before guests rousing themselves for breakfast might catch him abroad. What he sought was not, evidently, the valuables so ready to hand. No, what he wanted is not immediately apparent. It might have been a document —a packet of letters —incriminating evidence —or something of similar nature. It was certainly not Krayle's modest valuables."