August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "Two?" I cried.

  "Yes, two. One by Inspector Jamison, the other by our client. Pray permit me to continue —two mysteries, then, in each of which there figures a man who gets about with the aid of a crutch, and who is a frequenter of art galleries. This suggests nothing to you? I submit it should."

  "A case of mistaken identity?" I ventured.

  "Oh, fie! By Mrs. Porteous's account, her husband has been dead for a year. One could hardly mistake someone for him."

  "You raise some tantalizing points," I admitted. "There are similarities, indeed —but you will yourself admit that life frequently presents us with the most astonishing coincidences. These two late gentlemen —Mr. Porteous and the murdered Sidney Lowell —may have frequented the galleries and museums —after all, the Tate is not far from Mrs. Porteous's address —but there is no evidence that they ever met, or even knew each other."

  "Nor is there any evidence to the contrary. I fancy there is more to the former. I submit that, even if they never met they were aware, one of the other. How could it be otherwise? In the account of Lowell's life in the press, it is set forth that he was a copyist who spent many hours at the galleries copying some of the masterpieces there —a man of some modest skill, apparently, for he seems to have had a ready market for his wares, according to the accounts. It is highly probable that at some time during his visit to the galleries Porteous encountered Lowell at his work. Both carried a crutch. Does it not seem likely that they may have spoken to each other? A common affliction is a credible ground for striking up at least a speaking acquaintance."

  I conceded this, withal grudgingly.

  "Very well, then. Carry on from there. You know my methods."

  With this caustic advice, so usual for him, Pons turned to occupy himself with the writing of some short work. He drew up several drafts before he was interrupted by the telephone.

  I could hear our client's voice coming in over the wire. "Mr. Pons? Mrs. Porteous here. I don't know how you ever knew it, but that umbrella had been opened. It wasn't folded back together as carefully as I fold it. What do I do now?"

  "We expect to call on you at noon tomorrow," said Pons. "One word of caution, however —under no circumstances open your door to anyone until we arrive. Tomorrow morning's papers will carry a notice over your name; I will have inserted it. Pray take no telephone calls in regard to it."

  "What is it? What are you about, Mr. Pons?" Mrs. Porteous's indignation and curiosity boomed into the room.

  "You will have to trust me, Mrs. Porteous," said Pons, and thereupon hung up before our client could protest further.

  "Notice?" I asked.

  Pons did not reply until he had finished a final draft of his announcement. "I fancy that will do," he said, and handed it to me.

  I read it with growing astonishment.

  "Will the gentleman who last month left on my premises an aluminium crutch please be so kind as to claim it? Apply to Mrs. John Porteous, 127 Lupus Street, at any time after midday."

  I looked up. "This is utterly fantastic. I don't recall hearing Mrs. Porteous say anything of the kind."

  "Nor did she."

  "Pons, this is the sheerest intuition!"

  "I respect intuition in the fair sex. I am wary of it in our own. No, Parker, it is ratiocination at its most unassailable."

  "You cannot mean it!"

  "Indeed I do. I fear, though, that you are taking my little notice a trifle too literally. Read it with more imagination, my dear

  fellow." And with that he left me to my own thoughts while he buried himself in his files of recent criminal events.

  When I came in from a round of calls late in the day, I found Pons still absorbed in study. He had put aside his cuttings and was now poring over a dossier. When I had removed my light overcoat, I stepped around and gazed over his shoulder; he was reading the Yard dossier on Sidney Lowell.

  "Ah, Jamison has after all sought your help," I said.

  "A reasonable deduction," answered Pons, "but faulty in this instance. I asked him to have this information sent around. He was good enough to do so."

  "Expecting your assistance in return."

  "Possibly. There were one or two points about Lowell's death that interested me."

  "For example?"

  "I submit that there is something a trifle odd about a presumably impecunious artist's being beaten to death. The motive certainly cannot have been robbery —though it is true that his painter's case was not found at the scene; yet there is no definite evidence to show that he carried it at the time, though he had it with him when he left the Tate within the hour. The manner of his death suggests that he was killed in a rage —perhaps by more than one person. I have studied these notes carefully. They deal not only with the evidence at the scene of the crime, but also in some detail with the life and habits of the late artist."

  "What has all this to do with the invasion of our client's home?" I could not help asking.

  "Gently, gently, Parker! All in good time. We are not due at Mrs. Porteous's home until tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, this little problem of Jamison's challenges me. I am interested in Sidney Lowell, who turns out, by the way, to have been not so impecunious as I had imagined; indeed, he had considerable assets in the way of investments in very sound stocks, and his artistic skill seems to have been greater than merely passably good. He is on record as having sold an excellent copy of a Canaletto to Cardinal Fonseca at a quite respectable fee, and only six months ago sold a copy of Vermeer's View of Delft to Lord Farringdon. An excellent work; I took time this afternoon to go around and look at it."

  "The original was recently stolen, if I recall," I said.

  Pons nodded and went on. "He sold some highly praised copies to collectors on the Continent, and particularly to the Americans, who are always so casual with their wealth. He was apparently a most painstaking copyist, and an artist at least high in the second rank on his own abilities."

  "Odd that he should not have perfected his own talent rather than copy the masters."

  "Ah, well, copying the masters is a way toward perfection. Perhaps Lowell recognized that he lacked certain qualities of greatness and did not labour under the illusion of genius, that curse of the creative artist that too often precludes a healthy objectivity about his work. Lowell was the only son of a poor collier in Westmorland. A teacher undertook to send him to study art and so launched him on his career, which an unfortunate accident interrupted —hence his disability. He had been haunting the art galleries for over a decade, and was well known to the curators and many of the regular visitors, all of whom regarded him with esteem both as man and artist. He seems to have entered but one art competition fifteen years ago, and his work aroused some curiosity by failing to take first place, some critics charging that the judges were inclined toward the second-rate performance of a first-rate artist over the first-rate performance of an unknown. This is rather more often the case than one supposes, and virtually all prizes and awards in the creative arts are suspect. Consider the Nobel Award in Literature, for instance — bestowed upon such minor figures as Car- ducci, Gjellerup, and Pontoppidan, while such literary giants as Proust, Hardy, and Conrad have been ignored."

  "Surely his work was subsequently recognized."

  "He never again strove for an award, claiming—with some justification —that such competitions were dishonest. He pursued a relatively reclusive life in bachelor quarters in Park Lane."

  "What was he doing in Lupus Street?"

  "That does not appear to have been shown in these reports," said Pons dryly.

  "Are you planning to look into the murder?"

  "It interests me," said Pons thoughtfully. "But it is Jamison's responsibility, not mine, and the Yard seldom looks appreciatively on my little efforts unless someone with authority there initiates them. Since no one has done so, I fancy that they may well be on the trail. They may on occasion be guilty of extraordinary stupidity, but in the main they are conscientious and
not without skill, however plodding they may seem to be. I have, by the way, asked Jamison to go around to our client's home with us tomorrow."

  "He won't thank you," I said, chuckling.

  "I would be astonished if he did," replied Pons.

  Pons had given Inspector Jamison a summary of our client's case over the telephone, for on his arrival at 7B just before noon next day the Inspector huffed and trumpeted about the invitation.

  "I don't usually look into matters like this, Pons. Illegal entry. Petty theft —and that's not even been established in this case. Pickpocketing. And that like. Nor do you. I don't understand you, Pons." He looked at my companion as if challenging him to reveal his motive in asking Jamison to accompany us. "This matter should have been reported to the local constable."

  Pons remained noncommittal, save to observe that little crimes were often the precursors of capital offenses.

  "I would regard this as minimal indeed. Nothing has been reported as taken," said Jamison. "The whole matter has the sound of some sort of hoax."

  "Does it not!" agreed Pons imperturbably.

  "And so does this," added Jamison, throwing to the table a copy of that morning's Mail, with the advertisement Pons had had inserted in our client's name circled in red crayon.

  "It is bait," said Pons. "I hope to net a fish with it —one to your taste, Inspector."

  Jamison flashed him a sharp glance but held his tongue.

  We set out presently for our client's home, not in Jamison's police car, but by cab, at Pons's insistence. Nor were we deposited at the door of Number 127 Lupus Street; we were taken around the corner and left in the middle of Bessborough Street.

  "Mrs. Porteous's house may be under surveillance," explained Pons. "We'll make our way to the rear of the house."

  Jamison stood briefly and looked around. "Just over there," he pointed, "is the spot Lowell's body was found. He was killed some time before midnight and found by a cab-driver soon after."

  "A curious place for him to be," observed Pons. "Has it been determined why he was here? It is not on the way to his quarters."

  "We've conjectured that he had an assignation with someone," said Jamison. "Incidentally, his painting case and paraphernalia have been found on the bank of the Thames. Perhaps, after all, robbery was the motive."

  Our client was astounded when we presented ourselves at the back door of her home. She made no effort to conceal it.

  "I saw that notice, Mr. Pons," she said at once, as she admitted us, plainly disgruntled. "I can't imagine what you meant by it." Patently the opinion she had held of Pons's abilities had suffered a decline.

  "Time will tell, Mrs. Porteous," said Pons. He gestured toward Jamison. "This gentleman is from Scotland Yard."

  Mrs. Porteous was further taken aback. She knitted her brows and looked Jamison up and down, clearly not forming any advantageous judgment, and finally fixed unwavering eyes on his bowler until the Inspector, somewhat abashed, removed it.

  "A highly irregular thing to do," murmured our client. "Do I understand that you gentlemen intend to wait until someone calls here and asks for that imaginary crutch?"

  "Ah, Mrs. Porteous," said Pons, "I assure you the crutch is not imaginary. It hangs, I believe, in your late husband's quarters — very likely in his wardrobe. Do us the favour of fetching it."

  Our client's jaw fell, but only momentarily. She bridled. "It is my late husband's crutch, Mr. Pons," she said, and made no move.

  "So you told us, Mrs. Porteous," said Pons. "Let us have it brought out so that your visitor, when he comes, may see that there is, after all, an aluminium crutch on the premises."

  "Well, I never. . . ." began our client truculently.

  "Madame, we wish to see the crutch in question," said Jamison heavily.

  Our client finally gave way. She turned, muttering, "You may as well use the parlour; it is adjacent to the front entrance." And, having led us there, she vanished in the direction of the stairs opening out of the lower hall. The sound of her climbing the stairs was determinedly audible.

  "A tartar!" murmured Jamison.

  "Small wonder her husband spent so much of his time at the galleries," I said.

  "Women living alone can do with a bit of aggressiveness," observed Pons quietly.

  Mrs. Porteous returned presently, carrying her late husband's aluminium crutch. "Here it is, gentlemen, though I don't know, I'm sure, what you want it for."

  Pons took the crutch and shook it gently. He smiled. Then he placed it against the wall of the room opposite the entrance.

  "Now, Mrs. Porteous, we will just wait upon events," said Pons.

  "Events!" she cried. "Who in the world is interested in John's crutch besides me?"

  "My methods may be a trifle unorthodox," began Pons.

  Our client broke in. "That is hardly the word, sir, hardly the word. I hope you're not intending to surrender my husband's crutch to any jackanapes who may call for it!"

  "If our notice has been seen by the person or persons who will be interested in it, you may be sure, Mrs. Porteous, that someone will call —perhaps the very person who invaded your house and other houses in the street. You will show him into this room, where we will make certain that he sees the crutch before he catches sight of us. That is all you need do."

  Mrs. Porteous, I fear, thought Pons mad and made no secret of it. Pons's tone, however, clearly dismissed her. Quite obviously irritated, she retired from the room.

  "Pray examine that crutch carefully, Jamison," said Pons then.

  The Inspector crossed the room and picked up the crutch. He subjected it to a careful scrutiny, but his face betrayed no discovery. "It's a plain aluminium crutch, well worn down at the bottom."

  "Newly capped, is it not?"

  "I see that. Still, though, worn. The cap was put on —let us say — not more than six months before Porteous died."

  "Six months more or less," agreed Pons. "The precise time is immaterial. Is there nothing more that strikes your professional eye?"

  Jamison shook his head even as his eye fell upon what Pons had intended him to see. "Why, there are spots of what seems to be oil or watercolour. Small, yet distinct. Did Porteous paint as well as visit the galleries?" Before Pons could reply, Jamison's eyes widened. "Pons!" he cried, "this is Sidney Lowell's crutch!"

  "Ah, Jamison, you make progress, however slowly."

  At this moment the sound of the doorbell came to our ears.

  "Hist!" cautioned Pons. "Let us move over to the wall away from the door."

  We took our stand along the near wall, opposite the crutch Jamison had hastily put down against the far wall in line with the door. Mrs. Porteous, meanwhile, had come from the rear of the house and now walked past toward the front door. She opened it.

  A man's voice sounded. "Do I address Mrs. Fiona Porteous?"

  "You do, sir."

  "My card, madam. I saw your advertisement in this morning's papers."

  "Mr. Adam Forsyth," read Mrs. Porteous in a voice that was intended for our ears.

  "I have come for my poor friend's crutch. He was set upon by hooligans in the street nearby and carried off—his crutch was evidently thrown onto your premises. Do you still have it?"

  He betrayed a certain anxiety not unmixed with eagerness.

  "I do. Please come this way."

  Mrs. Porteous appeared in the doorway and, catching sight of us pressed against the wall to the right of the entrance, stood off to that side to block her visitor's view. He was a well-dressed man of perhaps forty; he wore a neatly clipped moustache and carried gloves. His appearance exuded confidence. He saw the crutch at once and strode directly over to it without a glance to either side.

  He seized the crutch and turned to look into Jamison's revolver.

  "If you don't mind, Mr. Forsyth, we'll have Lowell's crutch," said Pons.

  "A trap!" exclaimed Forsyth in disgust.

  He surrendered the crutch to Pons. Without delay, Pons carefully unscrewe
d the top. He turned it upside down. From the hollow stem slid a cardboard tube. Pons caught it, dropped the crutch, and uncapped the tube, tipping this up too. Out slid a tightly rolled canvas. Jamison's captive watched with a scornfully amused expression.

  Pons unrolled the canvas and held it up. "A Cdzanne, I believe. Its theft may not yet have been discovered, because the copy Lowell left in its place was designed to deceive the experts for whom Lowell had nothing but contempt."

  On our way to our quarters in the police car —once Adam Forsyth had been given into the custody of the men from the Yard for whom Jamison had sent —the Inspector grumbled, "That w^s a long shot, Pons — as long a one as I've ever known you to make."

  Pons demurred. "I think not. The coincidences in the problem were too many to be accounted for by any other explanation. It was rational conjecture. Spilsbury's conclusion that the crutch was probably not the murder weapon struck me as crucial. If not —and the crutch seemed to me fundamentally too light a weapon for such use —why was it torn apart? —if not because someone expected something to be concealed in it. What was most likely for an art copyist to conceal in a hollow crutch but a rolled-up canvas? And if that were indeed the object of his murderer's search, what more likely than a stolen canvas of some value, particularly since London has been plagued for some time by thefts and substitutions of excellent copies for the genuine canvases?

  "I fancy you will find that Lowell was engaged for a long time in more than just copying art masterpieces; he was also forging them, and with singular skill. He was certainly not operating alone, and his murder may very likely have been a matter of thieves falling out. What turned Lowell to this kind of criminal activity suited to his talents? Very probably vanity. I submit it was his rejection by the 'experts'— those so often self-appointed arbiters of taste and quality whom the history of art, literature, and music have so frequently proved wrong. Lowell played a kind of game that pleased his vanity —but his collaborators were not playing a game. I suggest, Jamison, that you take along one of those experts —Duveen, perhaps —Sidney Lowell so heartily despised, and examine all those 'copies' bought recently by collectors here and abroad. I daresay you will find that many are genuine, and that the works hung on the walls of many a gallery in their place are copies, to be stolen only when suspicion of their authenticity arises.