"And that reason?" I countered.
"All in good time, Parker. Let us turn now to that enigmatic dying message."
So saying, he placed the tracing he had made on the arm of his chair. I came over and bent above it, looking at it closely.
"There can be no doubt of the first three letters," I said. "They are 'I,' 'a,' and 's.' Then he straggled off to what appears to be a 'd,' followed by a 'u' and a 't.' There was some attempt to write further, but death prevented it."
"Surely that fourth discernible letter is a capital 'D,' " said Pons.
"It might be."
"I submit further that the second letter is an 'o,' not an 'a,' and that there was an attempt to write a fourth letter to precede the capital," continued Pons. "Let us set down the first word as 'Lost.' "
"No, it is surely 'last,' " I protested. "The victim was trying to tell us that it was the last survivor of a group of criminals who murdered him."
"Ah, Parker, you're wasting your talents writing up these tame little adventures of mine. You should be in the department of sinister Orientals and the cosh-and-bag-'em school. What would it be? Last Dutberry— Last Dutwinkle?"
"That next unfinished letter is not 'b,' " I cried in hot protest. "It looks more like a 'c.' "
"So it does. But let us leave this for the nonce. Just hand me that American Almanac, Parker."
I gave him the book and sat mutely watching as he turned its pages.
"I fancy the section on mines and mining might prove instructive," he murmured as his eyes traveled rapidly over the pages. "Ah, here we are. Los Amarillas —Goacher's — Bowie Mine— Jose Vaca's Cave —the Lost Nigger." He lingered to read a page. "Now here is a curious tale, Parker. Let me read it to you. 'In 1865, a band of Apache Indians, wishing to do a service to a military post doctor named Thorne, who had been kind to them, led him blindfolded on a horse into a range of mountains, known by the
Spanish as the Sierra de la Espuma — the Mountains of the Foam — which rise in Arizona just east of what is now the city of Phoenix. When the blindfold was removed, Dr. Thorne found himself at the site of a gold mine so rich that all he had to do was pick gold up from the surface of the earth. He filled two saddlebags with almost six thousand dollars worth of gold ore, and then, blindfolded again, was led out of the mountains, pledged to silence. Six years later, two prospectors named Jacob Waltz and Jacob Weiser, having heard rumors of this mine, went into the mountains in search of it. They had to guide them only a tale the doctor had told of seeing a tall, needle-like crag. This they assumed to be a rock called Weaver's Needle, after a pioneer woman of the Southwest. Some time later, Weiser staggered out of the mountains to die in a Pima Indian village, and bequeathed to the village doctor a rawhide map showing the location of the fabulous mine. The doctor retained it for many years, and at least one copy, subsequently destroyed, was made of it.'
I conceded that the legend was interesting.
"It is not a legend," said Pons. "It suggests nothing to you?"
"I suppose it is similar to scores of other such tales."
"Jacob Waltz is hardly an English name. Though nothing was ever heard of him again, it was he who gave the name, indirectly, to the mine. Waltz was a Dutchman."
"The Lost Dutchman!" I cried.
"Precisely. I submit it was this that Mr. Pyncheon's victim was trying to write in the dust in the room where he was so foully murdered." He paused and cocked his head a little to one side. "I thought it was surely time for Jamison to come."
The sober tread which had reached Pons's keen ears now fell upon my own, and in a few moments Inspector Jamison opened the door and stepped into the room. The customarily cheerful Inspector looked both wrathful and troubled. He greeted us perfunctorily and immediately voiced his grievance.
"The duty of every Englishman is to report to the police any crime on the instant of its discovery," he said sententiously. "The Yard does not look kindly on the efforts of amateurs to take the place of the police."
"Ah, that is well spoken, Jamison. Doubtless, however, my little interference has not prevented you from solving the case."
"No, it hasn't. We've detained Mr. Renfield, though I don't see why he should have done it. And come back to it, too! No evidence of robbery, and the motive is anything but clear."
"Mr. Renfield is merely the unfortunate dupe of the man, Pyncheon."
"Pyncheon, Pyncheon! That's all I've been hearing. Can Renfield bring forward one other person who has seen him? No, he can't."
"Tut, tut, my dear fellow. You can always find trace of Pyncheon by the regular police methods. Someone must have engaged the shop for conversion to the offices of Counsellors Extraordinary, Ltd. Someone must have inserted the advertisements and paid for them. I have no doubt that the usual efficiency of the Yard will in due time discover the murder weapon. I fear, however, we shall not have time now to pursue this model routine. We must act more quickly. Just hand me today's Times, will you, Jamison?" asked Pons, his eyes twinkling.
Jamison did so, however grudgingly, and sat down, disgruntled and still reproachful. He pushed his bowler back on his head and watched Pons look into the paper.
"Ah, here we are!" cried Pons. "The 5.5. Sheffield sails from Liverpool for New York in just one hour. There has been no prior sailing for America since the murder, and I should think it highly probable that our Mr. Pyncheon is aboard her. Let us lose no further time. We can fly from Croydon, and, to make things doubly certain, you can wire ahead for the ship to be held until we reach there!"
"Pons, you cannot mean it!" protested Jamison, a wild gleam of hope in his eyes.
"I was never more serious. Come, time does not wait on us."
I pass over that hurried flight to Liverpool.
We reached the city just at the hour the 5.5. Sheffield was scheduled to sail. We raced in a cab from the landing field to the docks, and were soon mounting the gangplank of the Sheffield, the captain and purser of which, duly impressed by the majesty of New Scotland Yard, waited for us. The captain identified us at once and stepped forward to greet us.
"Captain Lacey, at your service, Inspector. What can we do for you?"
Jamison gestured toward Pons.
"Captain, you are likely to have aboard a gentleman of middle age or over, with red or chestnut-red hair," said Pons. "He is cleanshaven and walks in a slightly crab-like fashion due to an impediment in his right leg. He is somewhat above middle height, and
the index and second fingers of his right hand are quite probably stained with nicotine since he is an inveterate cigarette smoker. The bridge of his nose may bear the marks of pince-nez, of which he has no need, but which were part of his disguise and were torn from him in a struggle last night. He has rather small feet, and wears a size eight shoe. The gentleman in question is American, very probably from the Southwestern part of that country."
Captain Lacey turned inquiringly toward his purser.
"We do have a man who answers that description, sir," said the purser.
"Can you make it possible for us to see him?" asked Pons.
"Certainly, sir. Follow me."
We made our way through the throngs of people milling about the deck, following the purser toward the cabins. We had not quite reached his destination, however, when the purser slowed up and paused.
"Here he is now, sir, coming toward us."
A red-haired man, carrying a large Ingersoll watch open in his hand, came walking toward us. The pedal impediment on which Pons had insisted was scarcely noticeable. He was clearly perturbed.
"See here, purser," he said, as he approached. "It's past sailing time. What the devil's the delay?"
"I'm sorry, sir. We're hoisting anchor in five minutes."
The red-haired man snapped his watch shut and turned on his heel. He would have gone back the way he had come, had not Pons spoken.
"If you please, Mr. Perkins."
Perkins whirled about.
"Otherwise known as Pyncheon," conti
nued Pons.
A wild look came into Perkins's eyes.
"Late of Counsellors Extraordinary, Ltd."
A scream of rage and defiance broke from Perkins, and, just as Jamison pushed forward, saying, "I hold a warrant for your arrest . . . ," he broke from us and ran to the rail.
Jamison was too quick for him. Surprisingly agile for his bulk, he flung himself on Perkins before he could throw himself over the rail. But he was not quick enough to prevent Perkins from throwing into the sea something that fell like a heavy cloth.
"The map, Jamison! The map!" cried Pons.
But his warning came too late.
Defiant in Jamison's strong grasp, Perkins shouted savagely, "If I
can't have it, no one else will either!" He flung a similar piece to the deck. "And the one's no good without the other!" He struggled wildly for a moment, to no avail, for the purser and several passengers drawn by the disturbance had gone to Jamison's assistance. "Curse him!" he cried in a voice that rang with despair. "I should have finished Stark when I had the chance."
"You did," said Jamison. "The charge is murder."
Pons bent and retrieved a piece of rawhide on which was drawn half a map of a secret, almost inaccessible spot in the mountains of western Arizona.
"How you could have known it was a map —or half a map — Perkins was after is beyond me," I said when once we were settled in the compartment of the train taking us back to Euston. "And what a lucky shot at his real name!"
"Elementary, Parker, true —but not luck. It could have been none other," said Pons. "It was perfectly clear from the circumstances narrated by our client that the late Mr. Stark possessed something Perkins wanted very much. By the same token, Perkins had something Stark wished to own. Since Stark was obviously connected with gold mining in some capacity, and since he had attempted to write down in the dust in his dying extremity the name of a fabulous lost mine, what more probable but that the object each so ardently desired was half of a map showing the location of the Lost Dutchman?
"How then to attract Stark's attention, once Perkins had reached London and permitted Stark to know where he had gone with his half of the map? He hit upon a most ingenious device, and then, to make sure that Stark would take the bait, he made it doubly attractive by advertising repeatedly 'the books and papers of the late Jarel Perkins, including maps, notes, documents.' Poor Stark was thrown off his guard, and still more so when he came around for a look at the place, only to see our guileless client in charge before he came face to face with the very man he had thought dead.
"A fetching little problem, Parker," concluded Pons, settling himself for the journey to London. "And its final act was fitting in that the map was rendered useless. Enough blood has already been shed over the Lost Dutchman in the past half century. The lust for gold curses its possessors."
The Adventure of the Grice-Paterson Curse
"No, PARKER," said my friend Solar Pons suddenly, "you need have no fear that the ants, for all their social organization, are close to taking over mankind."
"The prospect is horrible," I cried —and stopped short. I turned. "But how did you know what I was thinking? Pons, this is uncanny."
"Tut,tut —you are too much given to overstatement. It is only the simplest deduction. You have been reading Mr. H. G. Wells's admirable fantasies. When I observed you just now staring at an ant on the pane with an expression that can only be described as one of horror, it was not too much to conclude that you have at last read 'The Empire of the Ants.' "
"How simple it is, after all!"
"As most seemingly complex matters are simple." He gestured toward the windows. "Draw the curtains, will you, Parker?"
I stepped across the room to shut the elements from sight. Rain whispered steadily at the panes, and from the street came now and then the sound of vehicles splashing through the water, for the warm, late summer rain had been falling the better part of the day, bringing a misty fog to shroud London. It was now twilight, and the yellow glow of lights in windows and along the street could be seen dimly.
"Tell me, Parker, does the name of Colonel Sir Ronald Grice- Paterson recall anything to your mind?" asked Pons, as I walked back toward him.
"Nothing but that I seem to remember him as Governor-Genera I of some part of the British Empire. Was it not Malaya?"
"It was indeed."
Pons stretched forth a lean arm, took an envelope off the mantel, and held it out to me. I took it, unfolded the paper inside, and glanced at it.
"From a woman, I see," I said. "She uses a highly individual perfume."
"A musk-like aroma."
" 'Dear Mr. Pons,' " I read. " 'Against the wishes of my family, I am writing to ask that you receive me tomorrow night at eight on a most urgent matter pertaining to the curse of our unhappy family.' " It was signed, "Edith Grice-Paterson." I looked up. "His daughter?"
"I believe the Colonel's daughter pre-deceased him. His granddaughter, perhaps. What do you make of the postmark?"
I looked at the envelope. Though the stamps were British, the postmark was not; it read "Isle of Uffa," and in its geometrical centre were stamped the initials "G.P."
"Where in the world is Uffa?" I asked.
"Ah, Parker, I fear my geography is lacking in the information you ask. But I seem to remember that on his retirement from Malaya, Grice-Paterson went to live out his life on an island estate which exists in a state of quasi-independence from Great Britain. If memory serves me rightly, it lies off the coast of Cornwall, east of the Scilly Isles. It has a status similar, I believe, to the almost incredible Isle of Redonda, which has been a separate little kingdom, though allied to Great Britain, for decades. Uffa, however, is close to England, whereas Redonda is in the Leeward Islands, in the British West Indies."
"I'm afraid both are beyond my knowledge."
"You have never chanced to encounter them."
I turned again to the letter. "She writes in an agitated hand."
"That is hardly surprising. The papers carried a brief notice within the week of the finding of the body of Lt. Austen Hanwell, described as her fiance. Certain mysterious circumstances attended his death. Let me see, I believe I cut out the account."
Pons opened one of his huge scrapbooks, which was lying among newspapers on the table. From a group of loose cuttings waiting to be added to the storehouse of criminous occurrences between those covers, he selected one.
"Yes, here we are."
I walked to where he bent and looked past him. The story was indeed brief. "Tragic Death," read the short heading. "The body of Lt. Austen Hanwell, 27, was discovered early yesterday in a study at The Creepers, the home of his fiance, Miss Edith Grice-Paterson, on the Island of Uffa. He appeared to have been asphyxiated or choked to death, though routine inquiries failed to discover any evidence of foul play. Lt. Hanwell was a native of Brighton. His death is the third in a series of tragedies which have beset the family of the late Col. Sir Ronald Grice-Paterson. "
"This seems a most bizarre affair, Pons," I said.
"Is it not, indeed!" agreed Pons. "There is more here than the press is willing to print. Perhaps our client can enlighten us further. I hear a car pulling to a stop below, and, since it is just past the hour set in her letter, I daresay it is she."
In a few moments our client stood before us. She was a tall, willowy young lady, a pronounced blonde, with striking blue eyes. Though she gave evidence of some trepidation, there was an air of grim determination about her also. She was dressed entirely in black, and was enveloped in a full cape, which served both to keep her dry and to protect her from the wind. Once she had thrown back her cape, she had the bearing of a young woman well on her way to spinsterhood, so sombre was her manner.
She ignored the chair Pons held out for her and burst at once into speech. "Mr. Pons, I have no one else to turn to. The police of Helston have declined jurisdiction, on the ground that Uffa has a separate government and that its status in relation to Great Britain
has never been clearly defined. That is all nonsense —we are part of England —but they do have certain valid reasons for their reluctance to act. Nevertheless, I am determined to bring to an end the curse which has hung over our house ever since I can remember." Though she spoke with suppressed feeling, there was no mistaking the firmness of her resolve. She paused dramatically before she added, "Mr. Pons, in the past eleven years, three persons have died very strangely under our roof, in circumstances which strongly suggest murder —but, if so, it is murder without meaning and motive, murder which the authorities are reluctant to accept as that."
She strode up and down before the fireplace, clasping and unclasping her fingers in agitation she fought to control.
"Pray compose yourself, my dear lady," said Pons quietly. "You are the granddaughter of the late Colonel Sir Ronald Grice- Paterson?"
"I am. I am the mistress of The Creepers."
"The late Colonel had two sons and a daughter?"
Our client drew in her breath for a moment and clenched her hands. "His two sons were the first and second victims of the curse which has fallen on our family, Mr. Pons. My aunt, my father's sister, died when she was quite young. My mother died in an accident at sea. There are left of our entire family now only my two brothers and myself. Both are younger than I, and for the time being, they live with me at The Creepers.
"My grandfather died eleven years ago, and the estate —that is, the Island of Uffa — fell to his three children. My only aunt and one uncle died without heirs; so the estate came to my father. He in turn died as mysteriously as his brother, and my poor Austen, within a year after he came down from London to assume possession of Uffa. All the children had been living away from the house when my grandfather died; he was a solitary man, very introspective by nature, and with a strong streak of misanthropy. He lived alone but for one servant, and discouraged even his children's visits. His sole occupations were the writing of his memoirs, which were never published, and his devotion to horticultural pursuits. While he made or seemed to make an exception in my case, in that he showed a fondness for me on such occasions as we visited Uffa while my father was employed in London, he was rebelliously rude and cantankerous with everyone else."
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 69
