"The answer is fairly obvious. You entrenched yourself in the trust of the authorities of the college to such an extent that even now it will be difficult for them to believe in your duplicity. You hoped to vanish completely under suspicion of being the victim of foul play, so that you would not be sought, and then later you could turn up somewhere on the Continent as a respectable middle-aged man —at that place to which you doubtless shipped your books before you went to Scotland.
"On your return then, you registered at the Adelphi as Dr. Hans von Ruda, whom you knew to have been retired from the University of Bonn in 1921, and who would therefore be difficult to locate at short notice. You knew also that inquiry might be made at Bonn, and you were quite safe there. Then, in order to substantiate your friendship, you obtained a copy of von Ruda's book and inadvertently dated the edition five months before it was printed. This you left for us to see —a kind of circumstantial evidence of a friendship which did not exist.
"As von Ruda you spent your nights at the Adelphi, but before dawn you left the hotel and spent your days as Professor Faversham, allowing yourself to be seen frequently by Dr. Dunnel, a dependable witness who lived across the street, and who was permitted to see von Ruda also, so that he could testify to von Ruda's presence, if necessary. You even went to the extent of getting two passports, one for yourself and one for von Ruda. Your own you left on your library table to help give the impression of an unpremeditated departure.
"You failed to realize that you might be held as a material witness. Up to that point, you were relatively safe. Had you simply decamped with the money, you would have been hounded for the rest of your life; with Faversham given up for dead, you would be free to live your own life. And then when you saw that there were suspicions, you seized upon the first suggestion I made to alter your story —that perhaps Faversham had got out of the door while you were peering about in the alcove: this in the face of your emphatic denial of any such suggestion.
"Incidentally, your little manoeuvre of sleeping once on your cot was rather amusing. There is a great difference between sleeping once and five times in a bed, as the sheets and the impressions will quickly reveal to a careful observer. The single impression is consistently clear, the outlines usually quite plain, the sheets rumpled only in the place where you lay; but a number of impressions will produce a blurred and broadened rumpling and outline."
"Is that all?" asked the professor calmly.
"I fancy it will be quite enough, Dr. Faversham."
"Well, it has been an amusing hour, Mr. Pons," said the professor in a relieved voice. "But I fear we shall have to bid you good-night."
He left the room, shepherded by Meeker, whose delight shone in his grateful eyes, as if he had not a care in the world. Pons strode to the window to watch them enter a cab.
"I fancy," he said over his shoulder, "Faversham might have been a really great criminal. The potentialities were there." His tone was almost regretful.
The Adventure of the Black Narcissus
IT HAS OFTEN been said that truth is stranger than fiction, and I know of no better evidence in support of that statement than the facts attending the adventure of the Black Narcissus, as the crime is listed in my notes. There was little real deduction in Solar Pons's typical vein connected with the case; that is to say, the discovery of the murderer was in itself a comparatively simple problem, but the clue that presented itself was so curiously different that Pons was struck by it at once.
At five-thirty o'clock on a rainy May evening, Mr. Jackson Deming, a stockbroker, was found slain in his offices in Paternoster Row. Pons and I had been comparatively inactive that day; we read and wrote; I had little business, for my practise had not at that time taken on much significance. Initial knowledge of the affair reached us at seven o'clock, through the medium of the Evening News, which carried two small photographs, one showing the scene of the murder, the other the victim, taken from life. Between the two pictures, in rather well-inked print, was a Wanted:
Wanted for Murder!
A young man of medium height (five feet, seven inches), black hair, dark eyes (supposed brown), full black moustache on upper lip, thin firm lips, long arms; when last seen dressed in grey raincoat and number seven shoes.
It was superscribed Police Order, and signed Seymour R. Jamison, the Scotland Yard Inspector in charge of the case, and one of Pons's most critical admirers, who very often brought his problems and difficulties to Pons's attention.
Pons, I remember, made some commonplace remark about the matter, and put the paper aside. Rain fell outside, and the twilight was still with that hush which falls along Praed Street just before darkness, so that the distant rumble of the trains at Paddington made a muted hum in the room.
It could not have been half an hour later when there came a sudden ring at the bell and, before either of us could move to answer it, there followed a wild clatter on the stairs. Pons, who was standing near the window, pulled aside the curtain and looked out. A cab stood below in the driving rain. A moment later the door flew open, and a wild-eyed young man, with a cap pulled low over his forehead, burst into the room.
"Which of you is Solar Pons?" he demanded, looking anxiously from one to the other of us.
Pons stepped away from the window, manifestly identifying himself.
"I am James T. Rudderford," said our visitor, flowing his words together in an agony of haste and obvious fright.
"Wanted for murder, I observe," said Pons. "Please sit down and compose yourself."
The young man pulled his cap from his head and stood staring at Pons with a mixture of fear and perplexity in his eyes, as if he did not know whether he had better turn in flight now or carry on. He did not move to take the chair Pons indicated.
Pons, however, was reassuringly casual. "But for the moustache that you shaved off somewhat awkwardly not long ago —cutting yourself in three places, incidentally —you might fit Jamison's Wanted description as well as any of a thousand or more other young men now in London."
Our visitor collapsed into a chair and covered his face with his hands. "Mr. Pons, I didn't do it."
"I should not have thought you came here to confess," said Pons quietly.
Rudderford raised his head and stared at Pons. "You believe me!" he cried in wide-eyed astonishment. "You don't know then. Every bit of evidence is against me, Mr. Pons —every bit!"
"Suppose you tell us just what happened," suggested Pons.
"Mr. Pons, I am a ruined man. Until yesterday I was moderately wealthy. Today I haven't a halfpenny. I have lost everything through speculation. I do not usually speculate, sir, but I took Deming's word. I had known him for some time, and I had no reason to believe that he was not honest." He shook his head, and his not unhandsome features clouded with sudden anger. "I confess I went up to his office this afternoon to kill him. I'd have done it, too —but someone had got there before me."
"Ah!" exclaimed Pons, his interest manifestly quickening. "Let us start from the beginning, Mr. Rudderford."
"It wasn't until four o'clock that I discovered Claybar Mine had gone under. At first, I couldn't believe it; Deming had assured me that it was a dead certainty to go up. When I saw I was done for, I just simply lost my head. I know I took my revolver, put on my raincoat, and ran out of the house without my hat. I believe I ran all the way to Deming's office. There was no one on the main floor in the halls, and the lift was not running; so I had to go up the stairs. On the first flight I met an old charwoman descending. There was no one else.
"I got to the fourth floor and opened Deming's door slowly, just in case someone were in the outer office. But no one was. I crossed to the inner office, which stood open. I got halfway across that room when I moved into line with the desk in the inner office, and the first thing I saw was Deming's head on its side on the desk, mouth and eyes wide open. For a moment I didn't know what to think; I hesitated; then I went boldly on. I was so angry that it didn't seem to matter what he was doing, and I t
hink I had the idea he was having me on a little by some kind of act. But at the threshold I saw what I hadn't been able to see before. Deming was dead. He had been stabbed in the back. Well, sir, when I saw that, I saw it was only by a miracle I had been saved from doing that very thing, and I turned and went back the way I had come.
"When I got down to the main floor, there was a newspaper- seller in the hall —took refuge from the rain, I think. He stepped in front of me and flourished a paper. I brushed him aside and ran out into the street. At seven o'clock I saw the Evening News, with my description. I saw then what a net I was in, shaved my moustache, and came directly here."
"Obviously the newspaper-seller described you to Jamison —an observant lad. And your footprints were taken on the stairs. Those are the circumstances of the evidence Jamison has to offer. You have a strong motive, you acted on impulse, you had the intention of committing the crime —yes, you have put yourself into a difficult position. But not a hopeless one."
"What shall I do, Mr. Pons?"
"Since you are doubtless being earnestly sought all over London, I suggest you stay here. I think Dr. Parker and I will go over to Deming's office and have a look around."
Pons doffed his smoking-jacket, and put on a light coat and his raincoat. Waiting for me at the door, he turned to our still-agitated client and reassured him. "I should not trouble myself too much if I were you, Mr. Rudderford. Let us just see what I can do. Meanwhile, there are books here, if you care to read."
We descended to Praed Street and walked rapidly toward Paddington Station. The rain by this time had deteriorated into a heavy mist, which shrouded everything; wherever one glanced, heavy drops of moisture clung, reflecting light dimly in the murky atmosphere; all sounds were muffled and strange, and there lay in the air from time to time a stray scent of flowers or foliage, as if something of the country air had managed to invade London. We took the Underground at Paddington, rode to Aldersgate, and walked rapidly over to Paternoster Row.
The building in question was a recently erected office building, five storeys high. The constable at the door was young Meeker, still comparatively new to his work, but, as Pons had noticed earlier, rather observant for his limited experience.
He greeted us with a polite "Good-evening," adding, "I have orders to let no one pass; but I daresay you may go up. Inspector Jamison's there with the police doctor."
Pons paused to shake some of the moisture from his waterproof and light his pipe. "No doubt the murderer has already been apprehended. I could not help seeing Jamison's remarkably clear description of him in the News."
"We've already got thirty suspects," answered Meeker morosely.
Pons smiled dryly. "You should have at least two hundred more by midnight."
"Oh, surely not if they measure his shoes, Mr. Pons; sevens aren't that common."
"Not at all; but that won't be done at once in most cases; and the rest of the man is alarmingly prosaic."
We went up the stairs, seeing at different places sections blocked off, clearly indicating that footprints had been taken there.
"Jamison is thorough," said Pons.
Jamison was walking through the outer office as we entered: a bluff, hearty man, with a closely clipped moustache; the police doctor could be seen in the inner room, though it was obvious that his work had been completed.
"Pons!" exclaimed Jamison. "Whatever brought you down here tonight? I'm afraid this little matter has nothing of interest to offer. Simple vengeance by a swindled investor. We'll have our man in a few hours."
"I wish you luck, Jamison. You don't feel, then, that the description you offer through the papers is —shall we say, a little general?"
"Not at all. Taken overall, not at all general, no, sir!"
"Ah, well, a difference of opinion adds zest, eh, Jamison?"
"You'll want to see the body, I suppose?" asked Jamison a little stiffly.
"I did have that in mind."
Jamison led the way into the inner office just as the police doctor came out.
The body of the dead man lay in the position Rudderford had described to us. Projecting from his back was the handle of a common carving-knife, driven to the hilt into Deming's body. Pons walked around the body and came back to stand looking at it. It was clear that the knife had been driven into the victim with great force, and I thought of Rudderford, who could easily have had strength enough to use the weapon so forcefully.
"It is not clear who discovered the body," said Pons.
"The charwoman."
"At about what time does the doctor place the murder?"
"At or near five o'clock."
"Where was the charwoman at that time?"
Jamison made an impatient movement. "She was upstairs, cleaning the floor above. She had a good alibi, if you are thinking of her in connection with this. Deming's secretary left at half-past four, and stood in the hall talking with the char, who had just come in and was going on upstairs; they talked until a quarter to five. When she left, the char went upstairs. The char, incidentally, offers a good alibi for the secretary, for she says she saw Deming at work through the half-open door. The broker upstairs, a fellow by the name of Welkins, was still in his office and vouches that the char got there at about a quarter to five. She cleaned his office and then the hall; Welkins says he saw her cleaning the hall and stairs as late as twenty-past five. Then she came down, cleaning as she went. When she came in here, she found Deming like this. That was about half-past five. Welkins was still in his office then, working late, and he called us at once when he discovered why the char had screamed."
During this resume Pons had been looking around without comment. He had examined the body to his satisfaction, and was now scrutinizing the desk, which was occupied by books, papers, a desk- pad, and the various accoutrements to be expected there. However, there remained unaccounted for a rather singular object which lay behind a book at the rear of the desk. Pons leaned over and picked it up; it was a single black narcissus, still rather fresh, for it gave off a faint perfume.
"Where was this when the body was found?"
"Near the head."
"So?" Pons placed the flower parallel to the head and stepped back. Jamison nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes, about like that. A little closer to his head, if anything."
"It was moved then. By whom?"
"The doctor, I think."
"Interesting. What do you make of it?"
Jamison was a little taken aback. "Why, nothing. Nothing at all." He hesitated and gazed at the flower again. "However, if you think it significant, I should be obliged to know why."
"Are you aware that a black narcissus is a rare and costly flower, and somewhat out-of-place in a situation like this? Surely you are not accustomed to finding black narcissi beside your corpses, Jamison! I should value this at about one pound ten."
Jamison made a sound of disgust. "Oh, rot, Pons! Deming was rich enough to buy a carload of the things. Why shouldn't he bring one of them to his office?"
"Ah, and if so, why shouldn't he put it in water, if not in his lapel? No, I'm afraid that will not wash, Jamison. Observe: it is still quite fresh. As a matter of fact, it was removed from the florist's not later than four o'clock this afternoon and reached this desk at approximately five, leaving, as you might have noticed, spots on the desk blotter —raindrops, I submit."
"What you mean is that the murderer brought it."
"Surely it would seem so? Why not just telephone Deming's secretary and ask her if Deming himself brought it after luncheon? Or if it was here in his office when she left for the day. I'll wager she will admit to knowing nothing whatever of this curious flower."
Jamison looked at Pons in bafflement, his inability to follow the trend of Pons's thought quite discernible on his bluff features. There was, too, a suggestion of aggressive defiance. He turned just as Meeker, having been relieved by another constable below, came into the room, and gave the constable an order to telephone the se
cretary, who had been asked to remain at her home pending conclusion of the initial phase of the investigation.
Pons now returned to the body and bent to examine the hilt of
the knife, looking at it from all sides.
"You noticed this legend burned into the handle, I daresay?" he asked thoughtfully.
"Yes. From Emily."
"Does it not suggest to you that Deming knew someone named Emily?"
"Oh, that is possible, but surely you don't propose that the murderer left a calling card?"
Pons smiled grimly. "I should hardly need to suggest so obvious a fact. I gave that to you."
"Look, Pons —the knife. . . ."
"I am not speaking of the knife," interrupted Pons. "But of the black narcissus."
"Oh, that. . . ."Jamison sighed.
At this moment Meeker appeared on the threshold. "Deming's secretary says that Deming did not like flowers, and there was certainly no flower of any kind in either office when she left late this afternoon."
"I put it to you, Jamison," said Pons, "that the significance of the black narcissus cannot any longer be avoided. I earnestly suggest that you concern yourself with discovering the meaning of the flower. I commend to your attention especially the files of the newspapers, which might possibly reveal a connection between Deming and the flower."
Thereupon Jamison burst into a flood of remonstrances, to the effect that, since the murderer was already being sought by the police, surely there was no need to trouble one's self about the appurtenances which had in any case only a dubious relation to the crime. Pons paid little attention to him; he walked to the outer office, seated himself at the secretary's desk, and took up pencil and paper.
Jamison watched him write, silent now, and biting his heavy lips in vexation.
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 77
