August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "Under fire, sir."

  "Mons."

  "Yes, sir. And Ypres."

  "And wounded."

  "Twice."

  "You were in action for some time."

  "Almost the entire course of the war."

  "You must then have seen some soul-shaking sights, Mr. Stoward. Did any of them send you reeling?"

  "No, Mr. Pons. They made me ill at times, but, of course, you expect things like that at the front. Not here."

  Pons smiled grimly. "Will you just tell us what took place last night?"

  "Yes, sir. I was on duty. Came on at midnight. At about a quarter-past two o'clock this morning, I was standing in the doorway —the night was very warm, with a light fog—when I thought I heard a woman calling for help. I ran outside at once as far as the kerb, but there was no recurrence of the call and no disturbance. I returned to my post immediately. It occurred to me somewhat later that the call might have been a ruse."

  "How much later?" interjected Pons.

  "Ten or fifteen minutes. I immediately began to make a routine examination of the building. When I came to Mr. Ricoletti's room, I saw nothing to indicate that his room had been entered. I unlocked the door and flashed my light from one side to the other. I saw something sitting at the desk; it appeared to be examining papers. I did not then believe it could have been a human being. Mr. Pons, it had long, black hair, and a horrible, warty skin, out of which shone small, gleaming eyes. I was so astonished that I staggered backward, tripping as I reached for the light-switch. At the same time, a little pencil of light struck upward from the desk and I saw the horrible swollen travesty of a face for the second time. It seemed to rise up from a blackness which might have been its body. While I was groping for the light-switch, something struck me, and I was knocked out.

  "When I came to, I switched on the light. The room was undisturbed; there were no papers on the desk; there was nothing to show that anyone had been there, except a bruise on my temple."

  Pons fingered the lobe of his left ear thoughtfully. "You have mentioned the animal-like appearance of the room's invader. Did it suggest any specific animal to you?"

  "Mr. Pons, it was like nothing I have ever seen before," said Stoward earnestly. "Except that it recalled certain hospital cases I encountered during the war."

  "Something has been said of a peculiar odour in the room. Did you notice any unusual smell?"

  "Yes."

  "A perfume?"

  "Rather a musk. It was very strong just when I was struck."

  "The smell of an animal," said Bancroft curtly. "It lingered."

  "Have you any idea what struck you?" asked Pons. "You mentioned a pencil of light.' Could it have been a torch?"

  "Yes. Or a paperweight."

  "Very well. That is all, Mr. Stoward."

  Bancroft Pons was gazing impatiently at his watch again. "Let us be on our way, Solar. I can add what remains to be said on the way back to Praed Street."

  Outside, the rain had now entirely abated, and the wind was beginning to diminish. Our cab still waited where we had left it and, once we were inside, moved off toward Praed Street somewhat more slowly than we had come from our quarters, at Bancroft's explicit directive.

  "I have no desire to repeat data which can be found in our dossier on Ricoletti," said Bancroft. "That carries you up to the time of his employment in our cryptography division. Since coming to London, Ricoletti has lived a most circumspect and secluded life. He bought his home in Hampstead, had certain alterations made there, and then sent for his wife to join him; she was then waiting in Barbados. Since her coming, neither of them has moved about socially at all. Ricoletti leaves the office, is invariably driven straight home, and does not stir from the house until his chauffeur comes in the morning to take him back to work. His routine never varies.

  "At work he remains at his desk save for two interludes: he takes his lunch away from his work, and in mid-afternoon he goes out and indulges in one solitary drink, usually a scotch and soda. He takes tea in his office at four. He leaves customarily in time for dinner at home, but on occasion, when special tasks are assigned to him, he is kept later. Whenever he is so detained, he faithfully telephones his wife that he will be late."

  "A man of singular habits," mused Pons. "And since he received this disturbing letter, what variations have been observed in his behaviour?"

  "In the major pattern, none. But there are upsetting and, I hold, indicative minor variations. He has abandoned his mid-afternoon drink. He has seemed frightened, furtive, shrunk together, as if he expected some blow to fall. On two of the three days since then, he has not taken his lunch, and he has shown a marked apprehension of the post, though he has been unable to ignore it."

  "He did not seem furtive this evening," said Pons thoughtfully.

  "You anticipate me," replied Bancroft testily. "I will tell the story in my own way, if you please. We notified Ricoletti this morning of the invasion of his office last night. He was profoundly upset. He immediately examined all his effects and declared that none of them was missing. Yet his agitation was in no way diminished. I was present at the time, and I watched him closely. Now, Solar, Ricoletti first examined the top drawer of his desk, in which presumably he keeps papers pertinent to work in progress. He then went through every other drawer methodically, after which he examined his filing cabinet with great care. He stood for a moment in honest perplexity, as far as I could ascertain his attitude. Then, quite suddenly, he picked up his wastepaper-basket, emptied it on his desk, and pawed through the crumpled papers and envelopes with shaking hands. Only after he had finished, did he assure us that none of our papers was missing."

  "Let me interrupt," put in Pons. "Surely, after Ricoletti's receipt of that disturbing letter, you had his post watched?"

  "Dear me, yes. We were, of course, watching for the recurrence of the photographed script. Ricoletti received another letter in that same hand yesterday morning. "

  "You did not examine the letter?"

  "No. There was no reason to believe that letter was not a personal matter. There are certain limitations we must observe."

  "And his reaction at its receipt?"

  "There was no reaction."

  "Ah," said Pons cryptically, and smiled.

  "But I should add," continued Bancroft, "that Ricoletti was entirely his old self after lunch today."

  "He took lunch today, then?"

  "Yes. He went to Piero's. He ate alone. He spoke to no one, except the cashier on his way out. Oh, the waiter, of course." He peered from the window of the cab. "Here we are at 7B. Are there any further questions, Solar?"

  "Only one suggests itself," replied Pons. "Is there any manifest reason why the Ricolettis do not take part in social activities?"

  "There is evidently some sensitivity about Ricoletti's deformity," replied Bancroft. He hesitated reflectively. Then, shrugging, he added, "His wife seems to share his desire for seclusion. I need hardly tell you that the Foreign Office considers a reclusive cryptographer rather an asset than otherwise. There is some unsavoury gossip about Mrs. Ricoletti; I once heard someone speak of her as 'that abominable woman.' But then, as you will learn from the dossier, she was a West Indian, and one might expect her presence in Hampstead to arouse prejudice in some quarters."

  As the cab came to a stop before our lodgings, Bancroft handed Pons the manila envelope containing Ricoletti's dossier.

  "If you need me again, you have my number and have only to call," said Bancroft.

  "I hardly think it will be necessary, apart from presenting you with the solution of this intriguing little riddle."

  "Which is no doubt already completely obvious to you, my dear Solar?" said Bancroft, smiling.

  "That is not beyond the realm of the possible," agreed Pons amiably, and bade his brother good-night.

  Once again comfortably ensconced in our quarters, Pons turned to the dossier on Ricoletti. There were not many papers in the manila envelope, and most of them
were copies. The recent letter, Pons laid to one side. He took up first two pages of biographical data.

  "Hum! An education at Oxford. Balliol," he murmured presently. "He would appear to have been the only son of a fairly prosperous greengrocer in the City. Some Continental post-graduate work at Bonn and Prague. He entered the foreign service at thirty, and spent two years at a consulate in Brazil. Another year at Pekin.

  He is evidently a master of languages. Two more years in Dutch Guiana, and finally to the Dutch West Indies. Consul at Willemstad, Curagao, for seven years. Then to his present position, in which he seems to be contented."

  He turned to several of the other enclosures, scrutinized them briefly, and cast them aside. "Ricoletti seems to be an admirable servant of the government. Here are copies of commendations from several official sources and a record of a decoration by His Majesty. He would appear to be singularly devoted to his work, and has achieved an enviable position as perhaps the outstanding crypto- analyst in the realm. Does he have the sound of an intriguer to you, Parker?"

  "Emphatically not."

  "I agree. Nevertheless, there are several points of interest which can hardly be overlooked. The description of the 'beast' in Ricoletti's office, for one. Did that convey nothing to you?"

  "I thought it had the sound of a hallucination."

  "Well, the guard's story is either true or not true. If not true, he could certainly have imagined a more credible tale. His complicity would then also be involved. But nothing was taken —at least, nothing official was taken. You will bear in mind that Ricoletti told Bancroft that none of 'our papers' was missing; he did not say 'nothing' had been taken. I submit that while the negative does not necessarily postulate the positive, there is a very strong probability that something of Ricoletti's was taken. Yet it does not seem to have been anything of intrinsic value, for Ricoletti's actions, as observed by Bancroft, suggest that it was removed from the wastepaper- basket. I think we can proceed, therefore, from the assumption that the guard's story was true as he told it. He saw something which made him think of an animal. That suggests nothing to you, Parker?"

  "Someone in disguise, I daresay."

  "Come, come, Parker, try again. The sight was enough to shock an experienced ex-soldier like Stoward. But Stoward himself suggested a comparison."

  "I am not unaware that he did," I retorted. "But if you expect me to believe that any person so badly diseased as to shock into semi-paralysis a man like Stoward could pass about London streets without exciting comment, you will have to try again. I am afraid, Pons, that whatever theory you have, it is untenable. Consider the risks of breaking into a room in the Foreign Office building for nothing more than a scrap of paper in a wastepaper-basket!"

  "Or the information on it. That might be a different matter, Parker. I submit that Ricoletti might well have worked out a complete code on a scrap of paper and thrown it away after transcribing it, though his previous diligence suggests that as unlikely. And the risks. What are they?"

  "The keys, for one thing," I replied with spirit.

  "Yes, the problem of the keys has certain points of interest. Of the three sets, none appears to have been used. Yet one set was undoubtedly in use last night. We can eliminate the guard's, since we have begun by accepting his story as objective truth. This leaves Ricoletti's set and those in the office of the Chief; of these, the likelier set to have been used is Ricoletti's, though a wax impression might have been made of the Chiefs set just as well. The guard's set, however, might be eliminated on more than his story's count — he had no set of desk keys, and the intruder evidently did, though we have no direct evidence that this is so, for the guard's story corroborated only part of Bancroft's. Moreover, the conclusion is inescapable that if anything was taken, it was something of personal concern to Ricoletti; if someone had made a wax impression of the Chiefs keys, then it is reasonable to suppose that the interloper had an interest in official papers.

  "The guard recounted, you will remember, that when he flashed the light toward the desk, it was covered with papers. Only a short while later, the desk was in order. Now, then, if the contents of the drawers had been placed on the desk, I submit that it could not have been got back into order in the little time that the guard was unconscious. Therefore, it is not amiss to conclude that the papers the guard saw on the desk were the contents of the wastepaper- basket; these could have been swept back into place in the space of moments. But actually, there is little mystery about the invasion of Ricoletti's office."

  "Indeed!" I cried. "Next thing you will be telling me you know who entered it."

  "Let us say, rather, I am reasonably certain of his identity," replied Pons. "No, the mystery lies primarily in the letter. And I daresay I detect its point of reference in this paragraph of Ricoletti's dossier."

  I looked to where Pons indicated and read:

  "Ricoletti requested transfer from Willemstad in 1910 after the unfortunate death of Cyrus Cryder, a colonial who was shot in self-defence by Ricoletti, following an attack made on Ricoletti by Cryder. Though the testimony of a clerk in Ricoletti's office exonerated Ricoletti of all blame, Ricoletti persisted in his request for transfer. His ability in analysis and composition of cryptograms having come to the attention of the Foreign Office, Ricoletti was ordered to London to be prepared against crises on the Continent."

  I gazed at Pons in undisguised astonishment. "And how does the letter refer to this? Perhaps it is a cryptogram, but I confess it seems only a casual letter about the purchase of a house."

  "Come, come, Parker. Ricoletti, to the best of our knowledge, is not buying a house; he owns one. No, the letter is a little masterpiece of subtle menace. Pray examine it again."

  I took the copy and read the letter carefully a second time.

  "I can hardly imagine a more innocuous communication," I said at last. "If there is a cipher here, it is hidden too deeply for me. But I am no cryptographer; I do not pretend to be."

  "The message is so simply presented that the experts at the Foreign Office failed to understand it for its very simplicity. It looks out at you, Parker, though doubtless the experts were looking for something quite different. Pray read it carefully once more. Meanwhile, I will just have a look at the newspapers."

  With some exasperation, I turned once more to the letter, while Pons began to look rapidly through the morning and evening papers, all of which were faithfully brought to our lodgings, for Pons carefully cut them for his voluminous files on crimes of London and the provinces, together with summaries of Continental and American crimes.

  In but a few moments Pons gave a sharp cry of delight, and placed before me a morning paper folded to a brief bulletin.

  MURDER IN LIMEHOUSE A body identified as that of Andrew Walton, a seaman, late of Barbados, was found early this morning in a room at the Wander Inn, Limehouse Causeway. Walton, who

  had taken lodging at the Inn a week ago, was off the freighter, Captain Christensen. Evidence indicated that he had been strangled in the early hours of the morning, for his body was still warm when it was discovered shortly after six o'clock. The Metropolitan Police have received reports that an animal-like person was seen in the vicinity of the Wander Inn between three and four o'clock this morning. Police are investigating.

  "I submit it is no coincidence that a human being described as 'animal-like' should be reported twice in one evening," said Pons. "They are surely not two, but one. And this crime, which followed chronologically upon the entry of Ricoletti's room at the Foreign Office, was surely the occasion of Ricoletti's attitude after lunch today. He spoke to no one but the waiter and the cashier; but almost certainly he saw a paper, for the story was there, and he is too conscientious to read his paper during working hours."

  I handed the letter back to him. "The problem only becomes more mystifying," I said.

  "On the contrary, it is now entirely explicable," reported Pons.

  "Oh, come, Pons, you cannot be serious!"

  "I ha
ve never been more so. Let us examine the problem from its beginning. The letter. If we take the initial word of each paragraph, we have the following sequence of words:

  '£1,000 In Ten Or I Reverse Address Soon'

  Now this enigmatic letter becomes clear as daylight, and Ricoletti read its full meaning at once. Small wonder that he fell into a swoon, for the letter told him that the clerk who had testified in his favour at the inquiry into Cyrus Cryder's death was now prepared to reverse his testimony unless Ricoletti paid him a thousand pounds. For what else could be 'reverse' but testimony, that would do Ricoletti harm? So what his brief message amounted to was an ultimatum to Ricoletti to deliver a thousand pounds in ten days, or he would reverse his testimony. He would send his address soon, so that Ricoletti could deliver the money to him. It did not matter that eleven years had gone by, and that such a reversal might be seriously questioned; Ricoletti's career would be ruined, and Ricoletti had more than usually strong reasons for preventing such a contingency, as the writer of this blackmailing letter well knew. But let us give the writer his name; he signs his letter simply A., for Andrew Walton, late of Barbados.

  "With this knowledge, turn to the letter again and you will understand that all this casual writing of a house has a double meaning. The house is nothing more than Ricoletti's life; the C. to whom reference is made, is the late Cyrus Cryder, who can be addressed, note the irony of it, in care of 'Guy's.' Ricoletti understood it full well; he realized its implications, too —that once he began to pay Walton, he would be subject forever after to his demands. But what else could he do?"

  "What he did," I put in. "Kill him."

  "Dear me, Parker," murmured Pons in protest, "you have a disturbing faculty of leaping to conclusions. Ricoletti could do only one thing, as he saw it; he must prepare to make the payment demanded of him. So he began to do so, waiting upon another communication which would convey the address to which the money must be sent. But in doing so, he aroused suspicion in other quarters than those of his employment. Whether he was aware of having done so, none can say. But you can well imagine his delight at discovering this morning that the predatory Walton would plague him no more. Small wonder that he was once again his old self, as Bancroft observed."