August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "What was it you put into your envelopes?" I asked then.

  "Ah, from the floor what appeared to be lint foreign to the room — of relatively little importance. On Krayle's body, however, if I do not err—I have not had time to analyze it, and I don't know that it is necessary—a drop of heavy face cream mixed with talcum powder."

  "Wherever from!" I cried.

  "Ah, that is a question to which I would like to know the answer. I suspect I may have it, but the circumstances at the moment elude me. But it is now time for lunch, and I suggest that we ought to go down and have a word with those guests whose company the late Saul Krayle did not find too offensive."

  Accordingly we descended to the dining-room of the Seaman's Berth.

  Mr. Penworthy awaited us there, and came to meet us, anxious to be of service.

  "Mrs. Ruthven has come in for lunch," he said. "She's waiting to be served. Perhaps it might be possible for you to speak with her now."

  "Very well," said Pons.

  "But, I beg you, Mr. Pons, do not betray unpleasant surprise at the sound of her voice. The poor lady has not long since had an operation for throat cancer, and her voice is harsh."

  Pons nodded his understanding, whereupon Mr. Penworthy led the way to a little table beside a window, where the lady sat. I saw, as we approached, that Mrs. Ruthven appeared to be a lady of middle age, still hopeful of presenting the impression of youth, for she was not sparing of cosmetics, and her hair, I felt sure, had been tinted to conceal the grey coming into it. About her neck she wore a velvet band with a brooch on it, evidently to conceal the scar of her surgery.

  Mr. Penworthy introduced us. Mrs. Ruthven, who inclined her head but did not offer her hand, gave no sign that she had ever heard of Solar Pons.

  "If I may take but a few moments," said Pons. "We understood that you occasionally spoke to Mr. Krayle."

  "Poor Mr. Krayle!" she murmured, pressing a handkerchief to her lips.

  "Did he ever speak of his background?"

  "No, sir. We spoke of little things like the weather or political matters we had both read about in the London papers. Mr. Krayle was such a thoughtful young man —very much like my late husband." She sighed. "I suppose it was that made me feel a certain bond to him."

  If Pons was disappointed, he did not show it. He excused himself and we retired. Mr. Penworthy, however, now steered us across the room to a portly man in early middle age, a florid-faced, fat- cheeked, moustached man whose military bearing identified him as Major Andrew Grimesby.

  "Heard of you, sir," he said, shaking Pons's hand vigorously. "Don't they call you 'the Sherlock Holmes of Praed Street'? Of course they do. Harrumph! And not without reason. What can I do for you? Harrumph!"

  Major Grimesby harrumphed after almost every sentence he spoke. He seemed to be happy in a sense of self-importance.

  Pons explained.

  "Oh, the night porter," said the Major, "Jolly good fella! Harrumph! Damned shame he had to die! Oh, I've been through it on the Western Front, Mr. Pons —saw a good many of my boys die — but this isn't war, you know. Harrumph! But I don't know anything about the fella. Fact. Never talked about himself. Just listened to me talk about myself. Ha! And we talked about the war. He was in it. So was I. Ypres, Mons and all that! Jolly good show, what? Harrumph!"

  Major Grimesby was a complete extrovert, but of no more help to us than Mrs. Ruthven had been.

  M. Joel Fromard was just entering the dining-room when we turned from Major Grimesby's table, and Mr. Penworthy's signal caused him to stand where he was. He seemed a little wary, but wariness was inherent in his figure —tall, muscular, broad shoulders surmounted by a rather thin, gaunt head, which seemed out of place on him. Moreover, he was young —certainly not over thirty- five.

  He, too, had evidently never heard of Pons, but he listened politely to him and when he answered, chose his words with great care.

  "I did not know the man Krayle," he said precisely in rather good English. "I chose this inn because it was recommended to me by M. Andre Fouyoird."

  "He was a guest here," Mr. Penworthy hastened to assure Pons.

  "Mr. Krayle spoke to me about France. He had fought there in the war. So had I. That was all. I know nothing more of him."

  Pons thanked him and withdrew to a table of our own. Mr. Pen- worthy came along.

  "I was sure it would be so," he lamented. "It is as I told you, Mr. Pons. Krayle communicated with no one, though he talked to many. But he spoke only of trivial things. 'A fine day, Mr. Pen- worthy,' he would say. Or, 'Raw morning,' and such matters. He said little more than the almanac!"

  He saw us seated, volunteered to order for us, and then, leaning forward, pressed something into Pons's hand.

  "The key to his room," he said conspiratorially. "Liskeard understands."

  Pons thanked him, and at last Mr. Penworthy left us to our own devices.

  We ate lunch in silence, since it was obvious that Pons wished to contemplate the problem of Saul Krayle's death. While we sat at table, Mrs. Ruthven finished and made her slow and rather awkward way out of the room. Major Grimesby, too, finished presently and strode away. M. Fromard, however, brooded over his coffee and a liqueur I took to be chartreuse; more than once his black eyes flickered toward us. There he sat still when we finished and in our turn left the dining-room.

  Our landlord waited at the foot of the stairs. His eyes beseeched Pons to solve the mystery of Krayle's death without further delay.

  "One of my guests has left," he said mournfully.

  "I am sorry to hear it," said Pons, though his lips trembled a little with laughter he did not permit to escape. "Was he of long standing?"

  "A month. Of course," said Mr. Penworthy, "he reserved only for a month. Still, one could hope, and I cannot help but feel that the thought of a strangler loose in the Seaman's Berth decided him against staying longer."

  "Be of good heart, Mr. Penworthy. We shall do what we can."

  We escaped our landlord and mounted the stairs.

  But Pons did not pause at the door to our room. He went on up to the top floor and let himself into Saul Krayle's chamber, which had undergone a transformation since our earlier visit that day.

  The bed had been made, the furniture had been put to rights as much as possible, short of repair, the contents of the bureau drawers had been replaced and the bureau set back against the wall.

  "What can you hope to find here?" I asked.

  "The murderer either found what he sought, or he did not find it. Let us assume for the nonce that he did not find it. Krayle had almost four years to conceal it, and the murderer scarcely an hour to discover it. I think it unlikely that he did so. We shall, then, begin — ignoring the bureau drawers, the bed and the chairs —with the alcove."

  Thereupon, all the clothing hanging in the alcove was subjected to the most methodical search, rather more of the padding and lining than of the obvious pockets which Pons had searched previously. Pons took each article of clothing and subjected it to such careful scrutiny that I knew nothing could have escaped his notice. Having finished, he came back into the centre of the room.

  There he stood for some moments more, gazing at each item of furniture in turn, before he flung himself to his knees and began to crawl along the skirting-board of the room, tapping it as he went and listening for any hollow sound. Slowly, painstakingly, he crept around the room until he had returned to his starting point without reward for his efforts. Nothing daunted, he then gave his attention to the window frame, to the walls, even to the ceiling —all without result.

  Baffled, he stood back from the walls, and once again his attention went to the room's spare furnishings. I could see that he discarded the two chairs from consideration, as he fixed upon the bureau and the bed.

  "The drawers were emptied," he said of the one, "and the mattress slit," of the other. "But a resourceful man would not be likely to utilize such prosaic hiding places."

  He now dismissed the bureau f
rom consideration and began to study the bed, which was of stout manufacture, three-quarter in size. It was of wood, and evidently of some age, with carven posts of a considerable thickness.

  "Lend me a hand, Parker," cried Pons.

  We set about taking the bed apart. Pons's object was, clearly, to detach the foot from the rest of the bed. Once that had been accomplished, Pons raised the foot of the bed and, to my astonishment, shook it, listening.

  His face fell.

  He turned the piece bottom side up, and at once his face lit up.

  "These posts have surely been tampered with," he said with some satisfaction.

  I pressed forward. The posts, which I had thought of one piece, were evidently of two, with a central rounded section framed in the square of wood that made up the outer shell of each post.

  Pons produced his jack-knife, and began to pry away the central piece.

  "Pons, that is vandalism on such an antique as this!" I protested.

  "Tut, tut, this bed was never manufactured in this way. I submit these posts have been hollowed out and this piece is but the cork."

  Even as he spoke, the "cork" came out. With it came a few strands of cotton padding.

  Pons gave a cry of delight, turned the post bottom-side down and rapped it, all in one movement, sharply on the floor.

  Out of the hollowed leg spilled jewels of every description, together with the cotton batting which had been used to pack them in lest they give out a rattling sound whenever the bed was moved.

  "If I am not mistaken," said Pons, "this is part of the remainder of the loot from the Famechon robbery. I fancy we will find the rest of it in the other posts."

  For a moment my astonishment held. "You knew!" I accused him.

  "Nonsense!" he retorted. "It was a logical deduction, but not knowledge. Come now, let us repair this post and go on to the next."

  In half an hour we had disclosed, gathered from each of the four bedposts, a veritable host of jewels —some still intact as rings or small brooches, but most of them obviously pried from their original settings. The bed stood once again as we had found it.

  Satisfied with the appearance of the room, Pons withdrew, locking the door behind him, his pockets filled with the treasure we had discovered. We repaired in silent haste to our own quarters, where Pons spread the loot out before him and contemplated it with some degree of self-satisfaction.

  "The central problem remains unsolved," I could not resist reminding him.

  "True, but that is now merely a trifling matter of a little more patience," replied Pons imperturbably.

  "You don't know the murderer's identity?"

  "I am reasonably certain of it."

  "Then why not take him?"

  "At the moment I lack the proof to convict him. We shall wait upon him to show his hand. That he will almost certainly do, as long as he does not possess this treasure for which he did not hesitate to murder Krayle."

  "If he knew, as you suggest, that the treasure was hidden in Krayle's room, why was it necessary to murder Krayle in order to get his hands on it? Krayle was on duty all night, and his room was empty."

  "Ah, I submit that the murder of Krayle was as important to the murderer as the discovery of the treasure," said Pons. "Now, let us send word to Constable Liskeard through Mr. Penworthy, and ask the Constable just to step around here as unobtrusively as possible before dark."

  Mr. Penworthy brought Constable Liskeard to our quarters just as dusk came down on St. Mawes, though he himself could not remain, since he had taken over the night porter's duties until a suitable applicant for that position presented himself.

  "Ah, Liskeard," said Pons, "I trust you will be free long enough tonight to keep watch for the murderer of Saul Krayle?"

  "If you know him, Mr. Pons, we should take him," said the Constable.

  "I prefer that he deliver himself to us. Look here."

  Pons had concealed the jewels in a stout leather pouch which he now emptied on to the bed.

  "God's mercy!" cried the Constable in astonishment. "Where did you find them?"

  "In Krayle's room," replied Pons.

  He explained how we had come upon them.

  "The murderer hunted this treasure," he went on. "He will be back again —before the room is re-occupied."

  "In short, tonight," put in Liskeard.

  "I fancy he will lose no time," agreed Pons. "I propose that we slip up to Krayle's room —one by one, if you please —and conceal ourselves there. You first, Constable. Here is the key."

  Constable Liskeard took the key and slipped out of our quarters.

  I followed soon after, and Pons came at last to join us in the gable room where Saul Krayle had met his death. Pons carried the jewels.

  "Let us just surprise him," he said, and emptied the pouch on the counterpane of the bed. He glanced at Liskeard. "You are armed, Constable?"

  "Only with my truncheon, sir."

  "That will do. Take up your place behind the door. Parker and I will conceal ourselves in the alcove. The door may be kept unlocked, since, the room being unoccupied, the murderer may expect it to be. Now then, let us be silent."

  We took up our posts, filled with anticipation.

  As the evening wore on, however, and the night closed in, anticipation waned and the monotony of waiting took its place. The sounds from the inn below came more remotely than the ringing of bells and hooting of sirens from craft in the estuary. Through the partly open window the salty pungency of the sea invaded the room; it must have come in often before, for Krayle's clothes, which still hung in the alcove, were permeated with it to such an extent that all other odours were secondary to it. I was conscious there of small sounds which would have been lost in other circumstances —the clicking of a beetle in the wall and the patter of mice, which kept the stillness from becoming oppressive.

  We had come to the gable room before nine o'clock; it was not yet midnight when Pons gripped my arm in warning to be particularly quiet. I strained to listen, and heard presently, as if it came from a great distance, the slightest of sounds —as of someone shuffling or scuffing his feet somewhere; but it was more than half unreal, so I was utterly unprepared for the sudden beam of torch-light that cut into the room from the door, and fell, naturally, since the bed was in line with the door, upon the jewels on the counterpane.

  There was a muffled gasp, the light moved closer to pause directly above the jewels, and a gloved hand came down into the glow of the torch.

  "The light, Constable," Pons called out.

  Instantly the light in the ceiling was turned on.

  I had expected to see the Frenchman, Fromard, but it was Mrs. Ruthven who stood there, the torch already held club-like in her hand as if for use as a weapon.

  For only a moment the scene held. Then Pons bounded forward, even as Constable Liskeard closed in from the wall. With a quick movement Mrs. Ruthven could not fend off, Pons tore the wig from her head, exposing closely cropped hair beneath.

  "Let me introduce you to James Fenn, former partner and recently murderer of Simon Kraven, alias Saul Krayle," said Pons.

  Fenn burst for the door, but the Constable was on him like a cat and Pons closed in from the other side to subdue him in a matter of moments.

  "He had it coming," said Fenn in his natural voice, giving up his pretence. "He left me for dead and got away with the stuff."

  "In the avalanche?" hazarded Pons. "You fought over the loot?"

  Fenn nodded sullenly. "He wanted it all. It was the fight started the avalanche. He knocked me into it, saw me covered, and thought I was done in. Then he was off. It was true, I was near dead under all that snow and the stones, but I got out —a pair of country folk found me and took care of me —I was sick a long time, and knocked about pretty bad. Simon went to hide somewhere — but I found him — I found him!"

  "And the ring?"

  "I had it in my hand. Just at the end, when he toppled me into the crevasse that started the avalanche, I wrenched
it from his finger."

  His eyes dancing, Pons turned to Liskeard. "I congratulate you, Constable. The rapidity of this capture ought to earn you a promotion!"

  "The ring, of course," explained Pons when we sat later with Mr. Penworthy, "was sent from here to France —and back to Kraven by some obliging friend who very probably had no idea he was indulging Fenn's macabre urge to frighten his victim before he murdered him.

  "The sequence of events seems eminently clear. Fenn and Kraven —very probably while still on military service — robbed the Famechon chateau, concealed the loot, and went back for it after the war. They fell out. Kraven attacked Fenn and left him for dead in the avalanche, but Fenn was not dead. Nursed back to health by Swiss peasants, he had only one desire —vengeance.

  "Meanwhile, back in England, Kraven changed his name and turned up in St. Mawes, waiting upon the time when the Famechon robbery was forgotten, and feeling secure in Fenn's death —in the absence of any word concerning him in the newspaper accounts. He had another reason to hide here —Scotland Yard had begun to inquire for him, as well as for Fenn, though the Yard does not seem to have pressed its inquiry very thoroughly. I submit that the burglaries of which Kraven kept newspaper records were very probably the work of Kraven and Fenn before they went into military service.

  "That Kraven came to St. Mawes with resources to draw upon was clear to you, Mr. Penworthy, since he had to have more than his wage to buy a sailing boat. But perhaps it did not occur to you that he could hardly have saved money in military service, and no doubt you concluded that he had inherited a competence. It would not strike you that he might have come by it illegally. It is a curious fact that the overwhelming majority of us regard crime as something that takes place beyond our immediate ken.

  "Fenn, finally recovered and back in England, set out to search for Kraven and ultimately found him here. He disguised himself elaborately, as you saw, and took residence here, settling in even to the extent of striking up a conversational acquaintance with his victim. His wound was concealed by a simulated clubfoot, and his assumption of a feminine guise deceived even Kraven — though Kraven was certainly not on the alert for Fenn. Fenn had ample time in which to assure himself that Kraven had not deposited the jewels anywhere—how could he, knowing they were stolen and must certainly be listed with the police and the dealers who might be offered pieces from the loot? So they must be with him in his quarters. And so they were. Unhappily for Fenn, it had not occurred to him that Kraven might have hidden the jewels so skillfully that he could not readily find them in the hour he allotted himself."