August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "No."

  Pons sat for a few moments with his eyes closed, touching the lobe of his left ear thoughtfully with his thumb and forefinger. Presently he gazed at the apprehensive baronet once more. "I wish you would instruct Kennerly to answer any questions I put to him."

  "It shall be done."

  "Further, I would like to have you show me approximately the space in the hallway covered by the apparition at such times as you have seen it."

  Without a word the old man got up. Pulling his steamer rug around him, he walked a little unsteadily over to the door, threw it open, and stepped hesitantly into the hall. He turned up the light and pointed to the skirting-board along the farther wall.

  "Beginning there, Mr. Pons —and going for a distance of twenty to thirty feet —I cannot be sure which, but in any case it varies."

  "At which end?"

  "It is usually at this end."

  "Who occupies this floor besides yourself?"

  "My daughter's rooms are across the hall. Down the hall —

  Geoffrey Saring, next to him my brother Ransom, then my sister Megan's room; and then across, a guest room of some dimensions; Kennerly has got it ready for you and Dr. Parker."

  Pons stood in the hall, hands clasped behind him, gazing thoughtfully along the wall where it joined the floor, which, for a distance of approximately a foot from the wall, was not covered by carpet. He stood thus for perhaps three or four minutes; then he turned abruptly, as if dismissing the hall, and said that except for one thing, there was nothing further he could do tonight. "And that one?" inquired the baronet.

  "I want to have a talk with Kennerly, if you will send him to our room."

  "Certainly." The baronet hesitated briefly; then a look of great anxiety crept into his eyes; he put one trembling hand on Pons's shoulder, and said, "I hope you will be able to explain this strange mystery, sir. I am close to the edge."

  "We shall see," said Pons imperturbably.

  We entered our room and found everything laid out for us with the skill and comprehension possessed only by someone who had served in the capacity of an orderly for many years. Pons threw himself into a chair without pausing to remove anything but his raincoat and his cap; he looked quizzically over at me, but his mouth was grim.

  "This is devil's work, Parker."

  "You attach no importance to the curse, then?"

  "I attach every importance to it, on the contrary; it is the most important single factor in the matter."

  "Indeed! You did not let Sir Alexander think so."

  "There is time for that, Parker."

  I was about to say more when Pons cautioned me to be silent, rising from his chair and moving with cat-like quiet toward the door.

  "Kennerly," I whispered.

  "Kennedy's slight limp is distinctive in his walk," replied Pons in an equally low voice. "It is not Kennerly."

  There was a quick, rustling tap on our door. Pons threw it open.

  A young woman stood there, her ash-blonde hair wild, one hand almost protectively in the pocket of her dressing-saque, the other holding it close about her neck. Her dark eyes darted from one to the other of us before she stepped into the room, closed the door, and stood with her back against it, her mouth working a little, a frown heavy on her brow.

  "It is Mr. Solar Pons, isn't it?" she said, looking at Pons.

  "At your service," replied Pons.

  "I have seen your picture in the papers often enough," she said bitterly. "Oh, Mr. Pons —surely you are not going to make my poor father's madness the subject of scandal? I beg you to go away, to say nothing. ..."

  "I am not in the habit of announcing myself to the press, Miss Rowan."

  "I'm sorry. But it is a painful thing to witness the decay of a man like my father —quite apart from his being, after all, my father."

  "You are convinced his mind is going?"

  "I wish I were not. But there is no other explanation. He has seen things neither Uncle Ransom nor Geoffrey saw when he was with them; it isn't the mere hallucinations alone, but the added fact that they prey upon his mind and fill him with fear. He has for some years suffered from a heart weakened by coronary trouble, and now that his mind has given way, the end is only a matter of time."

  "Perhaps I may be able to relieve him," said Pons.

  "If only you could!" she said earnestly. "But I'm afraid it is too late. I feel only that your being here will give him a false hope which, when it is destroyed, will affect him all the more adversely."

  "I understand that he suggested calling in outside help and that the members of his household opposed this."

  "Yes, I did. So did my brother, who was visiting us at that time. So did my aunt. Only Geoffrey and Uncle Ransom seemed to think it a good idea, and I could see that my uncle was none too keen, for all that."

  "Well, then, I promise you I shall not be here long."

  Thus assured, Miss Rowan left us. Pons glanced at me curiously.

  "Would you say she was sincere, Parker?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "So I thought."

  "Perhaps, after all. . . ."

  Pons smiled. "Did Sir Alexander strike you as a man who was mentally deranged?"

  "Oh, you cannot make such generalizations, Pons. He is certainly under great mental stress. But many madmen are perfectly normal to all but the experienced eye; my eye is hardly experienced to such a degree."

  "Let us just ask Kennerly what he thinks," suggested Pons.

  The sound of Kennerly's footsteps paused, he knocked on the door, and, in response to Pons's invitation, came in. Like Miss Rowan, he stood with his back against the door until bidden to come forward and sit down.

  "I was told to answer some questions, sir," he said in a voice that was courteous without being servile, and toneless without being colourless.

  "Why, Dr. Parker has a question to put to you first of all, Kennerly."

  Pons turned to me, and thus prodded, I put the question: did Kennerly think that Sir Alexander was losing his mind?

  Kennerly favoured me with a hostile, stony stare. "I do not think so," he said coldly.

  Pons said nothing to this. "Now, then, Kennerly —to what extent does Ransom Rowan live on his brother's bounty?"

  Kennerly was clearly taken aback by the personal nature of Pons's question, but in a moment, reflecting that he had been instructed to answer any questions Pons asked, he rallied. He spoke cautiously. "Sir Alexander does give Mr. Ransom money from time to time."

  "How does he spend it?"

  Kennerly looked squarely at Pons. "He gambles."

  "Ransom is constantly in need, then. What about Miss Rowan?"

  "She adores her father sir, and he is very fond of her. But not so fond as to be blinded by her."

  "Intimating that he stands in her way occasionally. How?"

  "He has not yet given his consent to her marriage."

  "She hardly needs his consent, does she?"

  "Not necessarily. But Miss Winifred is that kind of girl, she will not do anything against her father's wish."

  "He does not trust Mr. Saring?"

  "Sir Alexander is a hard man to please."

  "And his son?"

  "Mr. Philip is wilful and determined to have his own way. Sir Alexander is difficult to get along with in many ways, though I have always managed to do my best for him, and have no reason whatever to complain."

  "Philip wishes his own way about what?"

  "His inheritance, sir. He has devised some way of obtaining it before his father's death so that he will not have to pay so much duty to the Crown." "And Sir Alexander's sister?"

  "Miss Megan is a very strong-willed woman."

  "They do not get along?"

  "I think they get along as well as any sister and brother do, sir."

  "You have seen none of these phenomena reported by Sir Alexander?" inquired Pons then.

  "Nothing whatever. But the dog is missing."

  "Yes, the dog is missing. Si
r Alexander says he did not make a sound."

  "Aye. So he thinks. But he did call once —it wasn't pretty, sir."

  "Yes, it is plain that he was lured off by someone whom he had no reason to fear, and killed. He cried out when he was slain. That is what you want to say, is it not, Kennerly?"

  "It might be."

  "Come, come, Kennerly. We are both working toward the same end. But enough —you may go."

  I could not help observing after he had gone, that Kennerly was not only reluctant to speak but singularly uncommunicative.

  "Say rather he is very loyal," replied Pons. "He has managed to say enough. Sir Alexander is no martinet, but he is difficult. On the other hand, his brother Ransom is a wastrel, his son Philip is none too honourable, his sister has aspects of the termagant. Sir Alexander is crotchety, distrustful, neurotic: so much is plain. Only for Winifred does Kennerly have the same kind of respect and devotion he has for the old man."

  I observed that Kennerly had said nothing whatever about himself.

  "There was no need to. I had already seen all that I needed to see about him; and he was well aware of that. Now then," he went on, "let us just step out into the hall for a moment."

  "The light-switch is up the hall a way," I said, remembering its place.

  "If it were light I wanted, we could well wait until after dawn," said Pons cryptically.

  Accordingly, we went out into the darkness of the hall; there we stood for a few moments until our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Then Pons walked up toward Sir Alexander's rooms, got down on his knees, and began to scrutinize the skirting-board of the wall with great preoccupation.

  "What in the world can you hope to see without a light?" I demanded in a whisper.

  "I can see very well," replied Pons imperturbably.

  I came down on my knees beside him. "What is it?"

  Here and there the skirting-board and the floor showed obvious colour changes which, observed at this proximity, were curious and startling, for the effect of these strange streaks and marks was as if a faint illumination were given off into the darkness.

  "Elementary, my dear Parker," said Pons, rising and walking slowly down the hall, only to sink to his knees again to crawl from one of the doors to another opening off the hall there.

  I was nettled, but it was not until we had returned to our room that I asked Pons what he made of it.

  "You know my methods, Parker. The whole problem is as plain as a pikestaff, and it only remains for us to obtain sufficient evidence to convince Sir Alexander. I fancy that our presence will bring matters to a climax rapidly enough."

  "You have seen something that has escaped me!" I cried.

  Pons chuckled. "Perhaps you have not pursued the facts to their obvious conclusion. Or, even more likely, you have started out on a wrong premise. We shall see in good time. Now let us get a little sleep, for I daresay we have a busy day ahead of us."

  Our day began before breakfast, when Pons woke me and suggested that we might walk out upon the gorse and bracken-grown rolling country surrounding the estate of Sir Alexander. Clouds loured in the heavens, but the way was pleasant enough despite the absence of the sun. It was soon clear, however, that Pons was not idling away time. We slipped out of the house and left the estate behind us by way of the north gate, from which point Pons began what initially appeared to be an aimless angling away, but proved ultimately to be only one of a series of concentric circles which he described with the utmost casualness, while he sought diligently for broken ground, so that it soon became obvious to me that he was on the track of the missing dog.

  The country away from the north gate was fairly open, apart from the gorse and bracken which covered it, and a kind of heather with which I was unfamiliar in these latitudes, and it was not long before our peregrinations ended at the edge of an abandoned quarry in the foothills.

  Gazing down into the dark water which filled a large part of the quarry, Pons said, "I have no doubt that the mastiff lies down there. In the absence of any place which might serve as a burial ground for the dog, and presuming the need to be rid of him as quickly as possible, this is the likeliest place; we may therefore assume with ample justification that this is the spot to which the dog was lured and slain. In all likelihood, too, the body was weighted, so that it will not rise."

  We had hardly taken our leave from this spot when we were suddenly confronted by a burly individual dressed in shooting clothes and carrying a gun; he stepped out from behind a small gnarled tree down the slope (having also partly been hidden by a projecting wall of rock), and appeared before us with a decidedly menacing air, his eyes narrowed, his mouth turned down so that his face had a surly expression. Nevertheless, his resemblance to Sir Alexander was so marked, that his identity was no mystery.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded gruffly.

  "That is a question I should be more inclined to put to you than to answer, Mr. Ransom Rowan."

  Rowan looked closely at Pons. "Mr. Solar Pons, is it! So Alec sent for you after all!"

  "Against your advice?"

  Rowan shrugged and stood off to one side. "No difference to me what he does," he said curtly.

  He eyed us sullenly and with unmistakable apprehension, but said nothing further to us as we walked past him.

  "So that is the gambler," I said when we had passed out of earshot. "He looks like a man caught in the middle of his game and uncertain of the way the numbers are coming up."

  "Yes, doesn't he?" agreed Pons noncommittally.

  At the north gate we had yet another encounter. This time we came upon a young man on his knees beside the gate, who got up, abashed, and stood grinning before us —a husky young fellow of close upon thirty years of age, whose blue eyes regarded us with some chagrin. He introduced himself as Geoffrey Saring.

  "Looking for footprints and such," he explained nonchalantly. "Don't believe myself the dog would simply have walked off."

  "Surely it is a little too long after the event," observed Pons.

  "Well, perhaps. I didn't think of it until now, after Winifred told me you were here."

  "If you discover anything, you might just let me know," said Pons dryly. "I understand that you were with Sir Alexander on the occasion of one of his —shall we say, 'visions?'— and saw nothing."

  "Yes, Mr. Pons. A rather painful few moments, I must admit. I hope they will not be repeated. It was one evening about a month ago. I had just come downstairs to rejoin Winifred, when I heard him shout; I ran back up immediately. He stood there in the hall pointing to the floor along the wall and demanded of me whether I saw 'it.' There was nothing whatever there. Apparently, whatever it was vanished, for he said, 'There —the infernal thing's gone.' Then he turned to me and asked whether I had seen anyone, or anything in the hall or on the stairs; I had not, and said so. He said someone had rapped on his door only a few moments before. That was all there was to it. He seemed gravely upset when I could not see whatever it was he saw."

  "Do you remember where Sir Alexander's brother was at that time?"

  "I believe he was in his room, but I do not know. He had a similar experience — except that he was in Sir Alexander's room at the time, and Sir Alexander thought he saw something moving along the estate wall. Ransom didn't see anything, either."

  Pons's next question was disconcerting. "Have you been long away from the stage, Mr. Saring?"

  Saring laughed pleasantly. "Surely it's not that obvious, Mr. Pons?"

  "Your clothes are by Du Beune, who caters to the profession. Your hands give no evidence of manual or clerical work. It might be either the stage or the cinema."

  "Bit parts, Mr. Pons. I've been off the stage for about a year. I met Winifred as a result of my stage work, and since it was, I believe, the basis for her father's disapproval of me, I abandoned it."

  Pons smiled, wished him good hunting in his search for clues about the dog's disappearance, and went on into the house, only to be met just beyond the entran
ce by Miss Winifred Rowan, who gave us a glance of mute appeal. Behind her, Miss Megan Rowan, Sir Alexander's testy sister, looked upon us with poorly concealed disdain and made it clear and emphatic in her entire manner that she thought us intruders who had taken advantage of a man who was mentally sick. Moreover, her replies to Pons's cursory questions left us in no doubt; she shared her niece's conviction that Sir Alexander was losing his mind.

  Sir Alexander himself, seen in the light of mid-morning, was not a heartening spectacle. His face was lined and haggard, not alone with age and sleeplessness, but with manifest fear. His hands trembled a little, but this morning the slight odour of rum which had permeated his rooms on the previous night was absent; this fortification, however, would not have been amiss. I paid him the closest attention during the conversation Pons and he carried on, and was struck by the curious way in which he looked over his shoulder every little while, as if he feared an attack from behind, and by the troubled manner in which his eyes wandered; so that I did not find it difficult to understand how his sister and his daughter could believe in his derangement.

  After luncheon the sun came out, and Pons again expressed a desire to walk about the countryside. After all, he pointed out, we were too seldom away from London, and we ought to take fullest possible advantage of a day in the country.

  "A day," I cried. "There is no evidence that we won't be here a week."

  "My dear Parker, how you belittle my poor talents! I fancy another twenty-four hours or so will see an end of this business."

  "You have clearly seen more than I have," I said.

  "On the contrary, everything presented to me has been presented to you also. But while you, and Sir Alexander as well, have proceeded along the obvious lines, I have chosen to follow a different course. Either Sir Alexander is the victim of a mental breakdown, or he is not. You have sought every evidence to prove that his is a mental case; I had on the contrary only to look about me to discover every evidence that it is quite the contrary—he is a victim not of his own mind, but of someone else's."

  "You speak as if you knew him."

  "The identity of the culprit is so elementary that it is needless to discuss it. The modus operandi is the moot point. I fancy we shall soon witness a change of method. We are dealing with a clever, unscrupulous rogue, who does not lack for a tremendous egotism."