August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  End of Chapter XI: What I Heard in the Apple Barrel.

  When I looked up, Pons's eyes were keen upon me, and dancing with delight. "Now, then, what do you make of it?"

  "It is surely no mystery," I said, sure of myself. "I know the book from which it comes very well —and it is a book."

  "Is it, indeed?"

  His sharpness ought to have given me pause. "Yes —and you ought to be able to name it as well as I. Wherever else would you find 'Mr. Arrow' and 'John Silver' but in Treasure Island?"

  "Where else, indeed! Where else but in that miserable revision of the concluding paragraphs of chapter eleven!"

  "What do you mean?" I cried. "I remember the scene well. Jim has fallen asleep in the apple barrel, and when he wakes learns for the first time what a scoundrel Long John Silver is —planning the mutiny and the murder of Squire Trelawney. It is one of my favourite books. That is the way the chapter ends."

  "On the contrary," said Pons, with that air I had found so annoying, of being inevitably right. "It ends with the voice of the look-out shouting 'Land-ho!' "

  Even as he said it, I knew that it was with these words that the chapter did indeed end.

  "Whatever Stevenson was not, he was not a careless stylist, was he, Parker?"

  "I should not say so."

  "Indeed not. Fancy his having written —I commend the fourth line to your attention —the 'way Mr. Arrow will have got the strong waters that destroyed him.' 'Will have got' indeed! Stevenson would never have been guilty of such a construction."

  I conceded the point. "But it is clearly in print," I said, a trifle bewildered now.

  "Ah, Parker, I fear you share the common man's reverence for print. He will tell you, 'I saw it in the paper!' as if this were the final bit of proof needed to support whatever contention he may have uttered. 'I saw it in print' —sometimes it is 'cold print,' though all print is by its very nature cold; if it has any warmth it is the author's artistry, not the printer's."

  I looked at the page again. "Then," I said, venturing boldly into Pons's domain, "then clearly that construction was necessary to the printer!"

  "Capital! Capital!" cried Pons, clasping his hands together and raising them aloft as in tribute to heaven or to himself—certainly not to me. "You have begun to learn the elements of ratiocination. The printer is not an illiterate, yet he prints such a construction as this. Why?"

  Thus emboldened, I ventured again. "The lines contain some message which the woman —Miss Foster —could read."

  "That is a trifle elementary, Parker," said Pons, a little more subdued. "I should have thought that anyone so familiar with and fond of Treasure Island could have read the message at once. At first glance."

  "You flatter me," I said, with an edge of sarcasm I could not withhold.

  "Not in the slightest," he said, adding generously, "You do certainly possess the intelligence, you are just not applying it. This is a simple hidden message —I should not call it a cipher, it is too elementary."

  "I fail to see it."

  "Let us just have a look at a copy of Treasure Island." So saying, he got up and found the book among the jumble on his shelves. He was turning to chapter eleven as he came back to his chair. "Ah, here is the first line. ' "Dick," said Silver, "I trust you." ' — but this hapless specimen has' "Faithless Dick" ' — why?"

  "Because 'faithless' was necessary to him," I said firmly.

  "Then if that absurd construction in the fourth line was also necessary, and if, obviously, 'faithless' must then be the first word of any message this page conveys, the whole should be plain as a pikestaff."

  He got up and put the Stevenson novel away again. Then he came to stand before me, lighting a pipe of the shag he smoked, and watching me struggle with the hidden message the page contained.

  "A certain order must necessarily be imposed upon even the crudest concealed message," said Pons. "In this one it is precisely as mathematical —if not as intricate —as in one of His Majesty's secret codes. Have a go at it, Parker."

  "I am studying it," I said.

  "Let me point out again that we have two words —'faithless' and 'will' —begin with them."

  "Why must it be 'will'?" I asked. "Why can it not be 'will have'?"

  "One word at a time, Parker," said Pons with infinite patience. " 'Faithless' is the first word, is it not?"

  "You have said it must be, and it stands to reason that it is," I agreed.

  "And it is in the first line."

  "Elementary," I said.

  "And 'will' is in the fourth line."

  "And it is the fourth word," I said.

  And there for a few moments —long enough to permit Pons to sigh and wonder with evident pity if all my teachers had so difficult a time with me —I stuck, and then, of course, it came to me. I had been searching for something more complex, but the simplicity of it deceived me. With "faithless" as the first word in the first line, and "will" the fourth word in the fourth line, I tried the second word in the second line and the third in the third and had "Faithless wretch

  I will" and from there went rapidly down the lines and read it aloud with a shout of triumph.

  "Faithless wretch, I will come for you all in good time!"

  "I congratulate you, Parker," said Pons. "A trifle slow, but you came through. Now then, who wrote it?"

  "You have me there, Pons."

  "Do not say so. A printer wrote it."

  "I concede that a printer set it, but how do you know he wrote it?"

  "Why, because he is an American."

  "An American!" I cried. "Pons, you are making sport of me. That is a non sequitur if I ever heard one."

  "My dear fellow, I try manfully to avoid non sequiturs. Would any Englishman have set 'valour' in that American fashion —'valor'? Not on your life. Even if an American had handed the copy in so, he would have spelled it 'valour.' So it follows that the American set it himself."

  "With every day that passes, you amaze me more," I said, knowing how it would please him.

  He bowed. "With so well grounded a beginning, you will do as well in no time at all."

  "To say nothing of so good an instructor," I added.

  But at this moment our little game was interrupted by the return of our client, too impatient to remain away for even an hour. I opened the door to his knock.

  "Come in, come in, my dear Reverend Foster," cried Pons. "Pray be seated."

  "I trust you have some information for me, Mr. Pons," said the clergyman, seating himself in the chair Pons thrust forward.

  "I fear I may have some unpleasant news, sir," said Pons, taking his stand with one arm on the mantel. "It depends upon some intelligence you may be able to convey to me."

  "If I can," said our client.

  "It is about Miss Cordelia. Pray tell me, was she married?"

  Our client's face expressed some dismay. "If so, I do not know of it."

  "How was she occupied during her years in the United States?"

  "She was employed in a printer's and stationer's shop in New York."

  "And if not married, engaged in a liaison," said Pons.

  The Reverend Foster's face flushed angrily.

  Pons gave him no opportunity to speak. "One or the other, and she feared to tell you, knowing your restrictive views. She left the man —husband or lover —and returned to England. We do not know why. She may have had just cause. Now he has followed and found her and he has sent her this message."

  "What message?"

  " 'Faithless wretch, I will come for you all in good time.' It has an ominous sound, sir. By its very nature, it suggests that some sort of bond exists between the sender and your niece. I submit that they were or are married. He means to frighten her and uses a simple code she must have known and apprehended instantly. See there — " he took the page from my hands as he spoke, and pointed out the words of the message —"how it is framed. For some reason, they used this code to communicate in earlier years. It may well have b
een a legitimate reason. I am not prepared to say."

  Anger, bewilderment, disbelief — plainly our client was unwilling to entertain the thought that his niece had been involved with a man in any disreputable matter.

  "This is, indeed, a matter for the police, Reverend Foster," said Pons quietly. "I suggest you repair to them without delay and ask them to find an American printer not long employed in London, in the area from which this message was posted. He will be a man very likely not over forty, one who cannot resist gloating, vain and perhaps ill-tempered, for only such a one would so taunt and frighten a woman."

  Our client folded the page and thrust it back into its envelope, and this in turn he put into his pocket. He got up. "I will need to think of this for a while, Mr. Pons. I had better put it to my niece."

  "Do not delay," warned Pons.

  "Not such a man as would inspire confidence in a young woman," said Pons reflectively after he had gone. "One confined by a narrow view of the world. That poor woman must carry her burden alone."

  9 January 1920

  I watched Pons today as he read the paper. The process never varies.

  He turns first to the political news, scans it briefly, then to news of the international scene. He reads this too, only cursorily.

  But any account of a crime enlists his undivided attention. He will sit tugging at the lobe of his left ear, long after he has read the account, his eyes staring right through the paper. Manifestly, he is turning the problem of the crime over in his mind.

  Now and then he makes some comment at random about the "blindness" or the "stupidity" of the police.

  More rarely, he commends them, with, "The police are not all fools, thank heaven!"

  Having read the paper, he gets the scissors and cuts out any account of a crime that interests him and adds it to his voluminous scrapbook.

  The paper is then discarded. He assumes invariably that I have already read it, whether or not it is so.

  11 January 1920

  A grim-faced Pons greeted me when I came in from my morning round today.

  "Have you seen the paper?" he asked.

  "I had an early confinement," I answered, shaking my head.

  Without a word he passed the paper to me, folded so as to emphasize a few paragraphs under the heading, Tragedy in Herts.

  "Westmill, Herts," I read. "Miss Cordelia Foster, niece of the Rev. Howard Foster, was seriously wounded last night by a mysterious gun-shot, as she walked across the lawn toward the rectory. Her assailant was concealed behind a hedge that separated the lawn from a small formal garden.

  "An American printer, Clarence Farwell, employed by Messrs. Godwin of London, W. 2, is being held. The American claims that Miss Foster is his wife, and that she deserted him. Miss Foster has denied his claim, stating that Mr. Farwell was previously married.

  "Inquiries are under way."

  "I was afraid that fellow Foster would do nothing," said Pons. "If he put it to her, she very probably denied it, and he accepted her denial at face value because he wished to do so, out of some desire to avoid a challenge to his concept of morality. A foolish man, whose pride has led to this."

  14 January 1920

  The Adventure of the Book-seller's Clerk. Pons called me over to the windows looking down into Praed Street this morning. "What do you make of that fellow?" he asked.

  Below, on the kerb, stood an elderly man, clad in a foreign- looking fur cap, and a long coat, with a thick scarf wound around his neck and hanging out over his coat. Even through the light snow falling, I could see that his shoes were very definitely wet.

  "He has been walking for some distance," I said.

  "Or some time," amended Pons. "In so light a snowfall it would of necessity be one or the other."

  "At the moment he is studying 7B. I suppose he may be a client."

  "I should think that likely."

  "He looks like a countryman," I ventured.

  "I think not," said Pons. "That is not a countryman's garb."

  "He seems to be in no hurry."

  "True. But at the same time he appears not to have shaved this morning; it is possible that he left home in some agitation."

  "But it is almost noon. He couldn't have come directly here," I protested.

  "He may be a shopkeeper who had to wait upon his assistant to arrive. Or he may have closed early for the lunch hour. But see, he has decided to come in. We shall hear what he has to say."

  In a few moments we heard his heavy tread on the stair, preceded by the lighter footfalls of Mrs. Johnson. And presently he stood on the threshold introducing himself.

  "Mr. Pons? My name is Jason Brompton."

  "A dealer in second-hand books," said Pons.

  "I am, indeed. Perhaps you have been in my shop in the Edgware Road."

  "No, Mr. Brompton. The mustiness of old books is unmistakable. Pray sit down and tell me how I can be of assistance to you."

  Mr. Brompton came forward and sat down somewhat stiffly near the fireplace where Pons stood with his back to the mantel, his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown.

  "Well, sir, it's an old man's fancies, I'm sure, but the fact is I'm troubled about my assistant, Dennis Golders. I very much fear he lives beyond his means —and I don't understand how he can do so. I knew him to be in poor circumstances when he applied for the position, and while I cannot pay him very much —times are difficult, Mr. Pons; one need not buy books, as I am sure you know —he has begun to spend far more on clothes than he earns. They are made for him, Mr. Pons, in Savile Row!"

  He said this as if he were speaking of some personage far above his station.

  "He may have come into a legacy."

  "No, sir. I would certainly know it if he had."

  "How long has he been with you?" "Two years."

  "His work is evidently satisfactory."

  "Indeed, it is. I have no complaint."

  "His accounts are in order?"

  "Perfectly. My concern, I assure you, is for his welfare. I cannot rest until I learn how he comes by such means as to make it possible for him to live far beyond the scale even I can afford."

  "How did he come to you?"

  "He applied with the best references."

  "From other book-sellers?"

  "Oh, no, sir. He had held various other positions —if I may say so —considerably better than the one for which he made application; but he professed to a love for books —and that is not uncommon in our trade, Mr. Pons, and, since my shop has a good clientele, and has been there for many years —you may have heard of Brompton's —he came with the intention of learning the business."

  "Who referred him, Mr. Brompton?" pressed Pons.

  "Lord Arthur Savile, for one."

  Pons's eyebrows shot up; his eyes began to twinkle. "Indeed!" he said. "Who else?"

  "Sir William Joynson-Hicks, H. G. Wells, and Lord Northcliffe."

  Pons preserved an almost mask-like face. "I should very much like to see his references, Mr. Brompton."

  Mr. Brompton's grizzled face broke into a broad smile. "I rather thought you would, Mr. Pons. I have them here."

  He produced four letters from a letter-case in his pocket.

  Pons unfolded one after the other and read them. His face remained inscrutable. Presently he looked up.

  "Mr. Golders is now at work?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons."

  "How many other assistants do you employ, Mr. Brompton?"

  "One who comes in the evenings, when I have open hours. And a part-time assistant, when one or the other of us must be away."

  "If you can arrange to remain away from the shop for an hour longer this lunch-time, Dr. Parker and I will walk around to Brompton's."

  "Oh, that is easily done, Mr. Pons. Mr. Golders —with uncommon thrift —always brings his own lunch, thus giving me a considerable latitude insofar as time is concerned. I have appreciated it."

  "And if I may, I will retain these references for the time being."

 
; Mr. Brompton looked a little dubious, but he assented readily enough.

  "If you will step around this afternoon, I may possibly be able to satisfy your concern about Mr. Golders," said Pons.

  Once Mr. Brompton had taken his leave, Pons began to chuckle. His eyes now positively danced.

  "Have you ever before encountered such bedfellows as those gentlemen who gave Mr. Dennis Golders references, Parker?" he asked.

  "Well, they are impressive. I don't, though, know Sir William Joynson-Hicks."

  Pons's laughter burst forth. "Your indifference to politics causes you to miss some considerable entertainment. That fellow Joynson- Hicks is quite possibly the most jingoistic, egotistic ass who ever brayed in the halls of any government in the world."

  "But the others, of course, I know. Indeed, I have a signed Tono- Bungay. "

  Pons sobered once more. "By all means produce it."

  "I have it in my trunk," I said, and got up to get it.

  It was not without some pride of possession that I laid the book before Pons, open at Wells's signature.

  Pons unfolded Wells's letter of reference and laid it beside the autograph in Tono-Bungay.

  "Identical," I said.

  "Let us compare Northcliffe's signature," said Pons. "Any copy of the Daily Mail will do."

  He found the paper and presently discovered the newspaper magnate's signature —the bold Northcliffe on the editorial page.

  "They are certainly the same," I admitted.

  "And we may assume that Sir William Joynson-Hicks's signature is as genuine," said Pons. "But Lord Arthur Savile's is another matter entirely."

  "You are more familiar with the peerage than I," I said. "The name means nothing to me."

  "Lord Arthur Savile," said Pons, "is a character in a mediocre short story by Oscar Wilde. I daresay Mr. Dennis Golders is not entirely lacking in a sense of humour."

  "And Mr. Brompton is not as familiar with his stock-in-trade as he ought to be."

  "Oh, I would not say so. It is just such a name as Mr. Brompton must certainly have heard, but, since it appears in a relatively trivial work of fiction, it is not such a one as he might readily relate to its source, and, coming upon it as the signature to a letter, might quite conceivably conclude that the writer was a peer of the realm."