August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "Yes, that is true."

  "And what can I do for you, Mrs. Murray?"

  "Why, Mr. Pons, I am an acquaintance of your landlady, and since you and Dr. Parker are bachelors, I took it you might have some sewing for me to do."

  19 October 1919

  Pons's persisting habits —

  He toys with his ear, pulls at the lobe —usually his left, when in deep thought. (Freud would have something to say about this!) He also closes his eyes frequently to concentrate the better.

  He is an attentive listener. Sitting, he tends to tent his fingers. Standing, he leans against the mantel most frequently. On occasion he paces back and forth, hands clasped behind him.

  His eyes seem alternately grey or grey-green. They seem to be extraordinarily keen and alive. He seems to miss nothing. His glance is quick —"darting" would be the word, and he seems to look into one.

  He smokes the most abominable shag ever prepared by the hand of man. I could believe it to be a mixture of cabbage leaves, string, and the Chinese tea smoked from the burning of yak dung. He keeps it wherever the fancy suits him —the coal-scuttle, the toe of a slipper, the pen holder, etc.

  He delights to display his deductive powers, but at the same time he vastly appreciates it when the joke is on him.

  He is devoted to his Inverness and deerstalker, but I wonder sometimes if he does not wear them for effect only. (If that is blasphemy — mea culpa.) He has dressing-gowns in several colours, all dark —and all well worn. He shows no inclination to get himself a new robe.

  He is much given to disguising himself. He fancies, because he has deceived me so readily several times, that he is very good at disguise, forgetting that, as he has pointed out on even more occasions, I am not as observant as I ought to be.

  7 November 1919

  Inspector Jamison called today to lay a problem before Pons. He was apologetic about its trivial nature —repeated house-breaking in Park Lane —but it was evident that he was vexed about it, nevertheless. He gave an account of seven burglaries all within two adjoining streets, and ended finally with, "The crux of the matter, Pons, is its senselessness."

  "I daresay its meaning has not yet become evident," said Pons dryly.

  "Every one a clumsy break-in, and nothing of value taken."

  "An amateur's work, clearly?"

  "No doubt of it."

  "Or made to seem so. Let me see, now," Pons went on, leaning back in his chair at the fireplace, his eyes closed, his fingers tented before him. "A Chinese piece stolen at the Forrer home?"

  "Value about one pound," said Jamison.

  "Nothing more?"

  "Nothing. One item from each house."

  "A gold-plated pen from the Beston house."

  Jamison shrugged. "Ten shillings —if that. It wasn't the loss Beston resented so much as the breakage —a pane of the back door broken in while they were gone."

  "In all cases the householders were absent," mused Pons. "So the burglar seemed to have some knowledge of their movements."

  "Yes, yes, Pons—all that is elementary," said Jamison impatiently. "What good did it do him to watch these houses if all he meant to take was some trifling article? That's the work of an imbecile."

  "I would not say so," said Pons. "The most expensive item taken appears to have been a cheap brooch from the Kendall home," he went on.

  "Under two pounds value," said Jamison.

  "And entry, if I understood you, seems to have been made in every case before midnight."

  "In two cases before half-past ten. The householders got home by ten-thirty."

  Pons smiled. "This suggests nothing to you, Jamison?"

  "The man's a fool. Or he means to be a nuisance. Perhaps he wants to put the wind up somebody in that neighbourhood."

  "I submit it is more than that," said Pons with an annoying habit, which I had observed before, of saying too little.

  "I suppose next you will be telling me to look for a short fat man with a limp, who smokes nothing but imported cigars and is supporting his mother-in-law," said Jamison with heavy sarcasm.

  Pons laughed heartily. "I regret I cannot oblige you this time, Jamison. I think the honour of catching him must be yours. But then," he added, his eyes dancing, "it always has been, has it not?"

  "You can describe him then?" asked Jamison, incredulous.

  "I do not know whether he is short or tall, fat or lean," said Pons, "and at this point, I am sorry to say, the case does not seem interesting enough to challenge me. And, if I may say so, it is too elementary."

  Jamison got to his feet as abruptly as his bulk permitted. "I shall have to look elsewhere."

  "I suggest you sit tight and let him betray himself."

  "Ah, and how many times will he have to make a burglarious entry before then?"

  "I rather think he has done almost as many as he needs to do," continued Pons. "At any time now he will make a mistake."

  Jamison's interest quickened. "What sort of mistake?"

  "He will steal something of value. Perhaps of great value. And something certain to be heavily insured. You will then, of course, investigate thoroughly the financial situation of the gentleman who reports the theft. I submit you will find that all the other burglaries were performed only to make his own loss credible. I can foresee the headlines: Inspector Jamison Scores Again!"

  "And if nothing of the sort happens?" asked Jamison sceptically.

  "Then by all means call on me again and I will be happy to look into the matter."

  18 November 1919

  At my place at breakfast this morning, Pons, who had gone out, had left the morning paper with a small item circled in red crayon. "Inspector Jamison Scores," I read. "Mr. Geoffrey Thompson was taken into custody this morning and charged with a series of burglaries in the Park Lane area. Mr. Thompson had only two days ago reported himself as the victim of such a burglary, having lost a valuable pearl necklace belonging to his wife. ..." No mention of Pons, of course; but that is how he prefers it.

  21 November 1919

  A short man, introducing himself as Mr. Howard Robinson, retired, came to see Pons this morning. He was not over five feet in height, and thin almost to cadaverousness. His bearing was military. A moustache he wore would on almost anyone else have looked fierce, but on him had the appearance of something attached for effect. He had rough hands.

  "I have, Mr. Pons, a rather delicate problem." I observed that he pronounced "ra-ther" in two distinct and separate syllables. "Late yesterday I received a sealed envelope in which my solicitor forwarded to me a certain legacy in bank-notes. While the covering letter was enclosed, the bank-notes were not. Yet the seal was unbroken. My solicitor is a man of the utmost honesty, so that one of the three persons through whose hands this envelope passed from him to me must have taken the bank-notes. But how? I looked in on Thorndyke, but he was in Scotland. I took the liberty of coming to you without an appointment."

  All prim and proper, and very business-like.

  "You have the envelope, Mr. Robinson?" asked Pons.

  "Yes, sir."

  Robinson produced it, carefully wrapped in gauze, from a pocket-case of hard leather. He handed it to Pons.

  "I see by its shape that it certainly did at one time contain something of bulk, " said Pons at once.

  "I thought so. I opened it with an opener. The letter, you see, has plainly been wrapped around something—certainly the banknotes."

  "Let us just see. " So saying, Pons carried the envelope over to the corner of our quarters where he amused himself with chemicals. He sat down there, took up his magnifying glass, and studied the seal. I heard him chuckle. "Pray step over here, Mr. Robinson."

  Robinson did so. I was at his heels.

  "See there, sir," said Pons, pointing to a mere speck of grey on the maroon wax of the seal. "This is plaster of Paris. Someone took off the seal and replaced it."

  "But how, sir?"

  Pons leaned back. "Why, by a common method indeed. Someo
ne oiled the seal and poured on to it some freshly burned plaster of Paris. As soon as it was set, the seal was raised. After the money was taken out of the envelope, the seal was renewed from the oiled mould. It is almost inevitable that flakes or grains of the plaster will stick to the seal. There is evidence here that some grains were removed."

  "It will hold up in court?"

  "Any competent witness can testify to it successfully."

  "Would you be willing to do so?"

  "If I am called upon, Mr. Robinson. If I am called upon," said Pons. He stood up so suddenly that Mr. Robinson fell back. "That will be two pounds, sir."

  "Two —two pounds?" stuttered Robinson.

  "Two pounds," said Pons with such finality that Robinson paid him forthwith.

  He bowed himself out.

  Pons threw the notes to the table and walked over to the window to watch our late client emerge from 7B.

  "Nature provides an infinite variety in mankind," he reflected. "What did you make of him, Parker?"

  "An ex-military man," I said at once.

  "Capital!" said Pons. "But obvious. It has been a long time since he was in military service."

  "And a man accustomed to clerical work."

  "Ah, you make progress. You saw the typical middle-finger callus of a man who has used a pen for a long time. Nothing more?"

  "I did think his clothes a trifle old."

  "Excellent. And worn. The fellow is a miser. You saw how taken aback he was when I asked a fee."

  "I did indeed."

  "I submit, moreover, that he is very probably also a potential thief. There was plaster of Paris also under one of his fingernails. He came here to test his plan. Greed has made a bungler of him. He ought never to have opened the envelope save in the presence of witnesses. We shall hear no more from him."

  26 November 1919

  Our landlady, Mrs. Johnson, tapped rather timidly at our door today. When I had opened to her, she excused herself, apologized for her temerity, and addressed herself to Pons.

  "Mr. Pons, sir, I wonder if it would be too much if I asked Lillie Morris up to talk to you. What with the new will they found, she's that upset and all."

  "What is her trouble, Mrs. Johnson?"

  "Why, it's the new will," she said, as if he might have known. "The old will gave everything to her—and the new one nothing. And after she took care of the old man, too!"

  "Pray ask her up, Mrs. Johnson," said Pons, his eyes twinkling.

  I could not help saying, after our landlady had gone down to her quarters, "More than once, I've had that particular failing called to mind —some woman who gives a decade or more of her life to taking care of an aged father or mother or other relative is done out of her rightful due by another member of the family who shows up from time to time and who sends around little gifts now and then. Old people exaggerate the little differences that invariably develop between them and those who care for them, and fail to realize that it is quite the easiest thing to do them an occasional kindness without the day to day exchange arising to sully the impression so easily created."

  Pons nodded. "That is only another trifle of evidence in support of human frailty."

  "Do you know Mrs. Johnson's friend?"

  "I have never heard of her before."

  Mrs. Johnson presently appeared with Lillie Morris in tow. She was a woman in her early thirties not ill-favoured in looks, with brown eyes at present a bit clouded with trouble. She was neatly but not expensively dressed, and wore her ash-blonde hair attractively piled on to her head. Since she wore no wedding band, I concluded that she was unmarried.

  "Pray sit down, Miss Morris, and tell me your trouble," invited Pons.

  Miss Morris had brought up her reticule, and this she now put beside the chair on which she sat. Mrs. Johnson took a seat between her friend and the door, and sat leaning forward expectantly, as if at any moment a miracle might be produced by my companion to ease her friend's mind.

  "Thank you, Mr. Pons." And what a pleasant, well-modulated voice she had! "Mrs. Johnson said you would be kind enough to listen to me, though I'm sure I am imposing upon you. For the past eleven years I have been living with my grandfather who needed someone to take care of him, and when he died, he left a will leaving his house and what he owned to me."

  "A considerable sum or a modest one?" interposed Pons.

  "I believe it is considerable, Mr. Pons. But it seems I am not to get it after all. A later will has turned up, and he has left it all to my cousin Percy, with whom he was on friendly terms."

  "Percy lived with him?"

  "Oh, no, Mr. Pons. Percy lives in Kensington. But he came around now and then and took grandfather out for a day. Mrs. Johnson says I ought to contest the will, and so do some of my other friends."

  "You have seen the will, Miss Morris?"

  "I was sent a photographic copy of it."

  "Ah. Pray let me see it."

  Miss Morris took a fat envelope from her reticule and from this took the document in question and passed it to Pons.

  He unfolded it and glanced at it. His eyes narrowed. "Why, it is dated less than six months ago," he said.

  "My grandfather died two months past," said Miss Morris.

  Pons read rapidly through the will. "Each page separately signed, I see."

  "Yes, Mr. Pons. I am afraid there is no doubt it is my grandfather's signature. No doubt at all. Even I would have to testify to it."

  Pons's eyes, I saw, grew intent as he looked at first one page and then another, until he had finished the fourth page. He lowered the will but continued to hold on to it while he gazed thoughtfully at Miss Morris.

  "How old was your grandfather when he died?" he asked.

  "He was eighty-seven, Mr. Pons."

  "I have no doubt there were differences between you."

  "I suppose there were bound to be. Old people are occasionally unreasonable. But nothing very serious, Mr. Pons. Certainly nothing serious enough to bring him to make such a change in his will."

  "Your grandfather was in good health?"

  "He had been failing for some years, Mr. Pons. No, I shouldn't say he was in good health —or had been in the past three years. He was —well, uncertain on his legs, as one would say."

  "Shaky, Miss Morris?"

  "Yes, sir. He still got around, but only with difficulty."

  "You are mentioned here, Miss Morris —for five hundred pounds."

  "I know, Mr. Pons. That was the exact sum my grandfather once mentioned he would leave Percy."

  "Indeed. Excuse me, Miss Morris."

  Pons got up and went over to that corner of our quarters in which he kept his chemical paraphernalia. He sat down there and carefully scrutinized one page after another of the will Miss Morris had given him, using a magnifying glass, and putting the pages over light, one atop the other. Mrs. Johnson assured Miss Morris sotto voce, while they waited, that Pons was a great detective who could unravel any problem at all, but Miss Morris did not seem entirely convinced.

  Presently Pons returned to his chair at the fireplace. "There are two courses open to you, Miss Morris. You can contest this will, or you can lay a claim to wages covering the years you took care of your grandfather —unless, of course, he paid you a salary."

  "Oh, no, Mr. Pons—short of providing my living, he paid me nothing." Then, uncertainly, she added, "Which would you do, Mr. Pons?"

  "Contest, by all means!"

  "But how can I do so, Mr. Pons? I know that is my grandfather's signature."

  "Very well. Let us accept that it is indeed Mr. Lemuel Morris's signature. But this will, Miss Morris, is a forgery."

  "How can you say so!" cried Miss Morris.

  "Each of four pages has been signed in precisely the same way. There is not the slightest deviation among the signatures. One is a precise copy of the other. I submit, Miss Morris, that no man of eighty-seven —and certainly not a man who was shaky —could possibly perform such a feat. I am far from that age
myself, and I never to my knowledge indite my name in exactly the same way twice in succession. Nor does Dr. Parker. No, Miss Morris —I rather suspect that your cousin Percy is at the bottom of it. You need only apply to a competent solicitor and lay these facts before him. There are plenty of capable experts who will present the court with all the proof necessary."

  Mrs. Johnson beamed, as if her faith in Pons's infallibility had been proved.

  3 December 1919

  Pons on Probability. "Though there are always several possible or probable solutions to every problem, there is only one that will exactly fit all the facts. One proceeds initially to apply the facts to the solution that seems most likely in the circumstances, and then, if they do not fit, to one after another until the correct solution is found.

  "If, however, all the probable solutions are eliminated —if none fits all the facts —then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the correct solution. This was the course invariably followed by the Master. In my opinion, no other course is proper for an investigator.

  "Occasionally the police, before they fall back upon this method, seize upon the most likely solution as the correct one, and then attempt to make the facts fit the solution. This has had the happy result of bringing to my attention problems I might not otherwise have encountered."

  11 December 1919

  When Pons came to the breakfast-table this morning I had the satisfaction of reading a heading in the morning paper to him. " 'Morris Will Case: Percy Morris Charged.'

  "Ah, that young woman took the more sensible course," observed Pons. "I was inclined to think her a little soft —perhaps ready to accept some compromise from her cousin. I am delighted that it is not so."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "It is a simple matter of seeing justice done, my dear fellow," he replied. "There is a great deal being said today about rehabilitation rather than punishment. I have dealt with the criminal element long enough to know that this idealistic humanitarianism takes rise out of ignorance rather than any well-founded knowledge. Rehabilitation is fine theory, but let us have punishment first."

  I could not help observing that my companion sounded like a character from A lice in Wonderland.