August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "Yet medicine is, comparatively speaking, no more an exact science than that of ratiocination," said Pons, with a twinkle in his eyes. "The chemistry of each individual differs from that of every other, however infinitesimally. But to go on —I submit it is an interesting coincidence that Jefferds should have been killed at twilight, the precise hour Trevor Pope is about with his mastiffs."

  "Would you have it otherwise?" I cried. "That was the hour for him to commit the crime!"

  "One would have thought he would be less bold about it and given himself some kind of alibi."

  "Ah, well," I could not help saying, "how was he to know that Solar Pons might be called in!"

  "Touchi!" cried Pons, laughing.

  "I suppose,'' I went on, "you have constructed a perfect case about Pearson?''

  "Ah, Parker, you continually surprise me. Pearson is certainly in the matter —up to his eyes, shall we say? —or I am dead wrong. Let me see," he went on, looking at his watch, "it is now after eleven o'clock. Inspector Jamison will certainly be at home by this time. Now if I can manage to reach the telephone without arousing the household, I will just have a little talk with him."

  So saying, he slipped out of our room to place a trunk-call.

  When he came back, he vouchsafed no information.

  Next morning Pons deliberately dawdled about the house until the call he was expecting came at ten o'clock. He took it, listened, said less than ten words, thanked Inspector Jamison, and rang off.

  All this time our client had been standing by, waiting to be of service to us.

  "One more thing, Mr. Colvin," said Pons. "As I mentioned last night, I have a mind to follow the course your father customarily takes on his evening walks. Can it be done?"

  "Certainly, sir. Come along."

  Hewitt Colvin led the way out of the house and struck off into the surrounding woods. We followed him, Pons commenting now and then on nothing more profound than the numbers of chaffinches or thrushes put up at our passing.

  Our course led down the slope of Blackdown toward the Weald, away from Lurgashall. Pons's eyes darted here and there. Occasionally he commented on the view to be had from openings in the trees, and once he asked about the proximity of Trevor Pope's course.

  "The paths intersect at that copse just ahead, Mr. Pons," said our client. "That's where I saw Pope and his mastiffs."

  We passed through the copse, which consisted of one very large old chestnut, surrounded by fifty or more younger trees. We had not gone far beyond it, when Pons suddenly excused himself, and ran back into it, bidding us wait for him.

  "Odd chap," said our client dryly.

  "There are others who think so," I said.

  In a few moments Pons rejoined us, his eyes dancing. "I believe we have seen enough, Mr. Colvin," he said. "I wanted especially to make sure that there was a point of intersection between your father's course and Trevor Pope's. It seems to serve the purpose for which it is intended."

  "I am glad you think so, Mr. Pons."

  Pons looked at his watch. "And now, if you will forgive me, we seem to have accomplished for the time being everything we can, and if you will drive us into Petworth, we can catch the 12:45 to London."

  "I can drive you to London, Mr. Pons."

  "I would not dream of putting you to the trouble, sir. Pray pay my respects to your father, and say to him that I have every hope of laying hands upon the murderer of Mr. Jefferds within forty-eight hours."

  "You've laid a trap for Trevor Pope!" cried our client.

  "We shall have to take the murderer in the act," said Pons. "Pope is desperate. I aggravated him severely last evening. Tell your brother to take exceptional care when he follows your father tonight."

  We walked back to the house, and within a few minutes we were in our client's car on our way to Petworth, where we were deposited at the station.

  "Surely, Mr. Pons," said Hewitt Colvin from his driver's seat, "you will permit me to take you to London. Your train is still half an hour away; we could be halfway there by that time."

  "I have a fancy to look about this charming old village, Mr. Colvin. I prefer to do so now. You will hear from me soon."

  With this, our client had to be content. He drove away, I knew, filled with misgivings, but surely with no more than troubled me.

  "Now, then," said Pons the moment he was out of sight, "let us deposit our bags and spend a little time wandering about Petworth. We might take a bite of lunch."

  "We'll miss our train, Pons!"

  Pons favoured me with an amused smile. "We're not taking the train, Parker. We have an engagement with a murderer this evening. I expect to keep it. For the nonce, we'll look about Petworth—visit Old Petworth Church, and Petworth House adjacent to it —about them the entire village revolves, as spokes about the hub of a wheel. Petworth House is eminently worth your attention, the deprecations of Ruskin's followers notwithstanding. And the village's narrow, wandering streets with their kinship to the contours of this land have a charm quite their own."

  I gazed at him, I fear, with open-mouthed astonishment.

  "And afterward, I almost hesitate to tell you, we have at least a three-mile walk into the woods —closer to four, I make it."

  "Pons!" I cried at last —"You're mad!"

  "It becomes me," said he.

  Just before sunset we made our way into that copse of trees where Joshua Colvin's path crossed that of Trevor Pope. Pons had an objective clearly in view —it was the old chestnut tree with a hollow at shoulder height and down one side of the tree —a low-branched tree which dominated the copse, and, indeed, much of the surrounding landscape.

  "This is our rendezvous," said Pons. "If I am not in error, this is Joshua Colvin's night of peril. I hope to prevent his death and take his would-be murderer in the act. Now, then, up into the tree, Parker. Well up."

  Within a few moments we were out of sight up along the trunk of the old chestnut, Pons taking care to be along the far side, away from the direction from which Pope might come, but in a place from which he might freely drop to the ground.

  "But the dogs, Pons," I cried. "What of them?"

  "We shall deal with them if the need arises," he answered. "Now, then, the sun is setting—we may expect Joshua Colvin to set out soon on his round. It will take him half an hour to reach here."

  "And Pope, running from a greater distance, as long," I mused. "How it all works out!"

  "How indeed! Now let us be silent and wait upon events. Whatever you see, Parker —make no sound!"

  The sun went down, the sky paled, changing from aquamarine to a band of magenta and saffron with mother-of-pearl clouds moving toward the zenith. The vespers of the birds fell sweetly to ear —the songs of sky-larks, cuckoos, wrens, wheatears, and curlews —and bats began to flitter noiselessly about. Then, promptly on time, Joshua Colvin entered the wood, his gun held carelessly in the crook of one arm, and passed within sight of the tree.

  He had hardly gone before Alasdair Colvin sauntered within sight. And then there occurred one of those strangely terrifying scenes which the mind is always unwilling at first to accept. The younger Colvin came straight to the chestnut tree and set his gun down against the old bole. He took from his pockets a pair of skintight gloves, into which he hastily slipped his hands. Then he reached down into the opening in the chestnut tree and drew forth a bow and arrow!

  At this moment Pons hurtled down upon him.

  Startled at last from my almost paralyzed shock, I scrambled down the trunk and dropped after Pons.

  Alasdair Colvin fought like a beast, with a burst of strength surprising in one so slight of body, but Pons and I managed to subdue him just as the elder Colvin came running upon the scene, drawn back by the sound of the struggle. Seeing the bow and arrow lying nearby, Joshua Colvin understood the meaning of the scene at once. He raised his gun and fired twice to bring help.

  "Serpent!" he grated. "Ungrateful serpent!" Then, spurning the prostrate young man, he turned to
Pons. "But why? Why?"

  "You will find that your son was heavily in debt, Mr. Colvin. I suspect also that he was being blackmailed by Pearson. Your son killed Andrew Jefferds and planned your death in an attempt to recreate an old crime and fasten it upon an old murderer."

  "An old crime?"

  "Henry Pope's murder. It was almost certainly his brother who slew him. Your paths crossed here, within minutes, though tonight, unaccountably, he is evidently not coming—which would have served Alasdair grievously had he succeeded in his diabolical plan."

  From the direction of the house came the sound of running footsteps.

  In our compartment bound for London at last, Pons yielded to my entreaties.

  "It seemed to me at the outset that, while not impossible, it was highly improbable that anyone would exact vengeance twenty years after the event to be avenged," he said. "And it would certainly have been the greatest folly to announce 'punishment' to those suspected of having committed the murder of Henry Pope, for this would surely focus attention upon Trevor Pope, the one man who might conceivably want to avenge his brother's death. It seemed therefore elementary that these messages were intended explicitly to do just that.

  "Proceeding from this conclusion, I had only to look around for motive. Who would benefit at Joshua Colvin's death but his sons? Hewitt Colvin would hardly have enlisted my help had he been involved in any plan against his father's life. That left only Alasdair.

  But what motive could he have? Curiously enough, it was the landlord of the inn in Petworth who furnished a motive when he mentioned that Alasdair still owed him so trifling a sum as five pounds —a motive which was strengthened when Jamison informed me this morning, in response to my request for an inquiry into the matter, that Alasdair Colvin was deeply in debt to bookies and in various gaming houses — a matter of over five thousand pounds.

  "The plan was conceived with wonderful cleverness. A pity Andrew Jefferds had to die —a sacrifice to Alasdair Colvin's vanity. Everyone knew the elder Colvin's routine —and Alasdair knew that Trevor Pope would not be able to supply himself with an alibi at that hour of the day. Moreover, the arrows and the bow Alasdair had taken from his father's effects and hidden in the tree could as readily have belonged to the late Henry Pope. Trevor Pope alone knew that there was no reason for vengeance against the Sussex Archers —for he unquestionably killed his brother; he alone had motive and opportunity —that vague walking tour of the Highlands enabled him to slip back, commit the crime —the itinerary of the Archers was arranged annually, according to Colvin senior —and return to the Highlands to be 'discovered' after well-planned difficulties.

  "Unhappily for Alasdair, two little events he had not counted upon took place. The beater, Pearson, came upon him the night of Jefferds's murder —which also occurred at twilight, when Trevor Pope was out with his mastiffs —and very probably saw him with the bow in hand before he had the chance to conceal it. Though Pearson may have come originally to see the elder Colvin, he came thereafter to see Alasdair for the purpose of blackmailing him. You will recall the discrepancy between Alasdair's statement that he had seen Pearson months ago, and Pearson's own claim, corroborated by Hewitt's failure to see him, that it was 'more like two weeks' than two months. So Pearson suspected, and was thus in it up to his eyes!

  "The other event, of course, was Hewitt's application at 7B. A neat little problem, Parker. Tomorrow, I fancy, I shall endeavour to trace Trevor Pope's Highlands itinerary —difficult as that will be."

  But the solution of the secondary mystery was not to be Pons's, for the morning papers announced the suicide by hanging of Trevor Pope, who, though he left no message behind, evidently saw in Pons's presence on the scene of his own dastardly crime the working of a belated nemesis.

  The Adventure of the Cloverdale Kennels

  THE CURIOUS PUZZLE of the Cloverdale Kennels came to the attention of my friend, Solar Pons, late one night in the same summer which saw the diverting case of the reluctant scholar, Ivor Allanmain, the riddle of the Sussex Archers, and the singular affair of the Lost Dutchman. Indeed, I had just finished filing my notes on two of these cases, and was preparing to retire, content to leave Pons bent like a lean and hungry bird of prey over his retorts, deep in a chemical problem, when the outer bell rang.

  Pons glanced at the clock on the mantel. "Mrs. Johnson will surely have retired by this hour," he said. "Run down and see who it is, Parker, like a good fellow."

  Our caller proved to be a messenger boy with a wire for Pons. I asked him to wait for an answer.

  Pons eagerly tore open the envelope. His keen eyes scanned the message before he handed it to me.

  CAN YOU COME HASLEMERE AT ONCE WOULD APPRECIATE YOUR ASSISTANCE IN MYSTERIOUS DEATH EDWARD HARTON- HETHERMAN.

  "Hetherman," I said, looking up. "Do I know him?"

  "You may recall that extraordinary occasion when Inspector Jamison asked me to talk on the science of ratiocination to a group of provincial police-officers meeting in London, Parker. Detective- Sergeant Hetherman was in the contingent from Surrey and came up to speak to me after the meeting. He cannot be more than thirty now, but struck me even then as a bright and promising young man."

  There was no need to ask whether Pons intended to run down to Haslemere, for he had already taken up the Railway Guide and had begun to turn its pages.

  "Harton's death must have taken place within the past few hours," he said thoughtfully. "There was nothing about it in the evening papers, and the most recent news bulletin on the B.B.C. made no mention of it." He paused, his eyes arrested."Ah, here we are. We've just missed the last train from Waterloo by a quarter of an hour. The next suitable one is at 8:30 in the morning. If your practise can spare you, we will be on it." His glance challenged me. "What do you say, Parker?"

  "You know my answer," I replied.

  Pons rapidly scrawled a message to Detective-Sergeant Hetherman, and I delivered it to the waiting messenger below.

  It lacked but a few minutes to ten o'clock next morning when the train drew into the station at Haslemere, in Surrey. Sergeant Hetherman stood waiting for us in the chill, misty air. He was a slender man, as tall as Pons, with close-cropped hair and warm blue eyes. He shook my hand, at our introduction, with genuine heartiness.

  "I have a car waiting, Mr. Pons," he said. "This is a country matter, and we must drive out of Haslemere. Have you had breakfast?"

  "I prefer to dispense with food when I confront one of those little problems which give me so much pleasure," answered Pons, as we walked toward the car. "I could not help observing, Sergeant, that you carefully avoided calling Harton's death 'murder.' Is there doubt?"

  "Well, sir, there is —but not much in my own mind. There seems to be a rather general acceptance among the neighbours that Har- ton took his own life. If he did so, his method was singularly roundabout, and there's no motive for suicide that I've been able to uncover."

  "Perhaps we had better have an account of the matter," suggested Pons, as we seated ourselves in Sergeant Hetherman's car.

  "Very well, Mr. Pons. Harton was an employee of Mr. George Pelham, a businessman in Haslemere. Pelham's hobby is sporting dogs. Harton was manager and trainer at the Cloverdale Kennels, owned by Pelham. These kennels are approximately four miles out of Haslemere, and Harton didn't stay there; he had rooms with Mr. and Mrs. Martin Coster, whose home is about half a mile away from the kennels. Harton had been in the vicinity for six years or so. He was well known and well liked, to hear people talk."

  "It always seems possible to prefer the outsider to the native," said Pons. "It is a sad reflection upon human nature that it is so. Where was Harton from?"

  "London. Pelham had brought him down."

  "A racing man?"

  "No record of it, Mr. Pons." "You certainly made inquiries, of course."

  "Certainly, Mr. Pons."

  "He came recommended?"

  "Very well, sir. Pelham is a man who'd make certain of that —a real martinet and
a bit stuffy."

  "Very well. Go on, please."

  "The kennels are one longish building, with the manager's little office —a small room with space for his assistant, Roger Ballinger, to work in —at one end. Harton was in the habit of working at a high desk, sitting on a stool, immediately next to the window at the very end of his quarters. He was sitting there last night when he was shot from a little grove of beech-trees at the edge of the property, exactly a hundred yards away. He was shot with a rifle carefully supported by the crook of a beech-tree branch, which was in line with the window."

  "You recovered the weapon?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons."

  "Is that not somewhat unusual in cases of murder, Sergeant?"

  "Indeed it is, Mr. Pons."

  Pons smiled. "I detect a note of uncertainty in your voice, Sergeant. What struck you?"

  "Mr. Pons, it was his own rifle with which he was killed," answered Hetherman. "Furthermore, there was a cord attached to the trigger, and this cord was looped around the broken end of a stout twig, and carried back to the open window through which he was shot."

  "Only to it?"

  "No, over the sill and into the room."

  "Within reach of Harton?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons. He could have pulled the cord."

  Pons's eyes danced. "I believe my illustrious predecessor demonstrated his remarkable abilities in a matter of like nature on a country estate near Winchester, if I am not mistaken. Shall we find it similar, I wonder? A hundred yards of cord! I fancy we have to deal with a remarkably cool intelligence. You have removed the rifle, Sergeant?"

  "We examined it, of course, but we replaced it this morning specifically for your scrutiny. We have removed the body, however."

  "Naturally, naturally. Now then, if we accept your conclusion that there was no motive —at least not a patent one —for suicide, did Harton have enemies who might wish to see him out of the way? Or who might wish him grievous harm?"

  "I doubt it, sir."

  Pons chuckled. "Dear me, Sergeant. Again that note of uncertainty. Why?"