August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  Pons let us into the house.

  "About time you came." Inspector Jamison's voice came to meet us out of the dusk inside.

  "I trust you got in without being observed," said Pons.

  "Came in from the rear, as you suggested," said Jamison. "Now, what's this?"

  Pons dropped the sack he carried, opened it, and reached in for the leather-wound casket. He handed it to Jamison.

  Jamison reached for it, then drew his hand back. "It's dirty!"

  "What else could you expect, being buried for seven years?" asked Pons. He put it down on a sideboard against one wall and unwrapped it carefully. "Handle it with care, Jamison. There may still be prints on it. Unless I am very much mistaken, this is Lady Canevin's jewel casket."

  An exclamation escaped Jamison.

  "Buried where Archie Prior told Aubrey he'd put it," Pons went on. He took out his watch. "Nine forty-five," he murmured, looking up. "Are the police standing by?"

  Jamison nodded curtly.

  "Good. We may expect that an attempt will be made to collect the jewel case tonight. The house has been under observation ever since we first reached it yesterday. ' 'Ware the horrid hent' means nothing less than that the jewel box, once recovered and brought here by someone not likely to be under police surveillance, will be lifted —'hent' —by dark or night —'horrid.' "

  "You broke the code!" cried Jamison.

  "There was no code, but more of that later. For the nonce, let us just put out the light and wait upon events, without talking. We ought to be somewhat concealed. There's a spot under the shelving over there, and one of us can be concealed on the far side of the sideboard, and yet another behind the couch in the alcove."

  Pons put out the lamp and we took our positions.

  There began an interminable wait, which, to judge by his frequent movements, was most trying for Jamison, whose bulk made crouching stance difficult to maintain for any length of time. The room gradually came back to life —objects took on a shadowy existence in the wan light that filtered in from outside. Clocks ticked, at least half a dozen of them from Aubrey's collection of antique timepieces, and an overpowering, occasionally musky atmosphere of very old things became manifest. Not a sound escaped Pons, and I held myself far quieter than I had thought I might.

  It was after midnight when the sound of glass being cut fell to ear. Evidently our nocturnal visitor cut out a piece only large enough to enable him to slip his hand in and unlatch a window, for presently there came a sound of a window being cautiously raised. Then, after a few moments of silence, a thin beam of light invaded the room, flickering rapidly from one place to another, and coming to rest at last on the silver casket.

  The beam converged upon the casket as our visitor closed in upon it. Just as he put forth a hand to seize it, Pons's hand closed like a vice on his wrist. At the same moment I turned on the light.

  "Goldie Evers," said Pons. "Not long out of Dartmoor."

  "And aching to go back," said Jamison, coming out of his hiding place.

  Goldie Evers, a slight, short man, with very blond hair, was literally paralyzed with surprise. "I ain't done nothing," he said at last.

  "Breaking and entering," said Jamison. "That's enough to begin on."

  He went into the adjoining room to the open window and blew his police whistle.

  "We'll need that key, Pons," he said, "so the window can be repaired and the house locked up again —until we have time to make an inventory here."

  "You'll find, I think, that Aubrey has been serving as a fence for stolen goods for a long time," said Pons.

  Jamison's constables came in by way of the front door, which had not been locked.

  "Here he is, boys," said the Inspector. "Take him to the station, and take that silver casket along. Wrap it carefully, and take care not to touch it. Come along, Pons —we'll take a police car back to Number 7B."

  "There was very little mystery to the problem," Pons said, on the way back to our quarters, "though Archie Prior's note delighted me for its use of so many long-forgotten English words. Your code men were looking far deeper than they need have looked, for the message was plain. Can you repeat it, Parker?"

  " 'Aubrey, thou fribbling dotard, get thee to thy pinquid pightle to dabble and stolch about next rodomel tosy in dark. And 'ware the horrid hent,' " I repeated.

  "Capital!" cried Pons. "Well, now, let us look at it in the light Aubrey was expected to read it, with his knowledge of the language. The adjuration is perfectly plain to anyone versed in philological matters. 'Thou fribbling dotard' is of no consequence — it means only 'you trifling old man' —and is not related to the direct message, which instructs Aubrey to go to his plot of pastureland — 'pinquid pightle' and look around in the mud next to bees and wild roses —the 'rodomel' of the message, where he might expect to find something 'tosy in dark' —or snugly hidden in a safe, dark place — obviously in the ground before the beehives, which was just where we found it. Finally, of course, Aubrey is told that the casket, once retrieved, would be taken in the night. Presumably Aubrey would in some way be repaid for his services, though Prior makes no assurance of it.

  "Now, then, obviously Prior, if released, will be kept under observation for some time. He cannot go to Lincolnshire, without immediately tipping his hand. Nor can someone who, like Goldie Evers, had been confided in, for he might also be watched."

  "He wasn't being watched," growled Jamison.

  "No matter. When you were hot on Archie's heels, he had to hide the Canevin jewels. Since he was near Aubrey's land, of which he knew, he managed to bury them there. He very likely did not know the extent of your evidence against him when you took him at the Colby house, for he certainly contemplated retrieving Lady Canevin's jewel casket long before this. He finally hit upon the ingeniously worded message we have seen, and probably smuggled it out of Dartmoor with Goldie Evers."

  He chuckled. "He'll be a long time enjoying the fruits of his ingenious labours —and I daresay, Aubrey, if he recovers, will have ample time to perfect his knowledge of philology."

  The Adventure of the Seven Sisters

  WHENEVER INSPECTOR Seymour Jamison was annoyed by my friend Solar Pons's obvious deductive skill, in the earlier years before he was ready to acknowledge that skill without reservation, he made some sly reference to the complex circumstances surrounding the death of Lionel Ruthel, a crime which remains officially unsolved in the annals of Scotland Yard. Presumably, since Jamison had once pointed to the case as Pons's "greatest failure," this unsubtle reference was intended to unsettle him. Pons, however, took a different view of that singular matter, and with reason; he invariably maintained an inscrutable silence, wearing a tolerant smile, which nettled Jamison. But the affair had more ramifications than the Inspector knew.

  It began one autumn afternoon not long after Pons's successful solution of the adventure of the Obrisset Snuff-box. I had come into our quarters to find Pons pasting cuttings into his scrapbook of criminal events. As I divested myself of hat and ulster, Pons sat back with a report in his hand, an expression of bemusement on his lean, hawk-like face.

  "Now here is a curious matter, Parker," he observed. " 'Murder on the Underground,' " he read. "But see for yourself."

  He handed the extract to me.

  I found it to be nothing more uncommon than an account of the strangling of an as yet unidentified man whose body had been discovered in a compartment of the Underground at the Willesden Green Station the previous night.

  "I see nothing unusual in this," I said, handing it back.

  " 'Garroted,' " he said. "A point seems to have been made of that. In itself, perhaps it is not curious. I seem to remember, however, that this is the third garroting in London within the past seven or eight months."

  "That may put a different face on the matter," I conceded.

  "Does it not!" He smiled. "I should not be surprised if the case is brought to my attention before very many hours have passed."

  So say
ing, he reached into the pocket of his mouse-coloured dressing-gown and thrust at me a piece of obviously expensive notepaper, across the top of which, once unfolded, I read the name Norris Ruthel, and below it, "Lord Warden of the Pontine Marshes."

  "Dear Mr. Pons," I read, "I trust it will be convenient for you to see me this afternoon at four, regarding the death of my brother. If you have not sent word by two o'clock to deny me this privilege, I will take the liberty of presenting myself at the hour named." Message and signature were in a crowded, if legible, script, each letter pressing close upon the other. I looked up. "It came by messenger?"

  Pons nodded. "Not long after you stepped out this morning. What do you make of it?"

  "Other than the manifest conclusions to be drawn from embossed rag paper," I said, "it is surely highly ambiguous."

  "He may assume that I know about his brother s death."

  "Do you?"

  "There is no mention of it in the press at this moment," replied Pons, "but I've not seen the afternoon papers. Lionel Ruthel — presumably the brother to whom he has reference, for I find no other Ruthel on the telephone —was a wealthy art collector living in the West End. Unmarried, reclusive. His specialties lay in the domain of ancient African and Chinese art."

  "And you think his the body on the Underground?"

  "I daresay it is likely. The victims of the past week's other capital crimes have been identified."

  "And our client? Where are the Pontine Marshes?"

  "Oh, come, come, Parker."

  "Not Italy?"

  "Why not? I submit that Mr. Norris Ruthel may well have been until recently one of the numerous British expatriates belonging to the English colony in Rome. That appellation may be only a fanciful affectation. However, he writes a good clear hand —nothing affected about it, and keeps a precise, even line. I look forward to his visit."

  "Ah, but if he has but recently come back to England, his brother's death may have taken place years ago."

  "That is a non sequitur, Parker," said Pons sharply. "You know my interest in the criminal activities in Britain, and you have seen my files many times. There is no Ruthel murder in that compilation."

  So saying, he resumed the filing of his cuttings.

  Promptly at four a motor drew up at the kerb and discharged our client, who was preceded to the door of our quarters by Mrs. Johnson, who brought up his card. Like his notepaper, it too was embossed. Our client himself followed hard upon her announcement and came into our quarters past Mrs. Johnson, diffident almost to the point of apology for having invaded Pons's domain. He was a slender man of middle age, thin of face, with an air of inquiry in his pale blue eyes. His long fingers fondled a cane crowned by an ivory head, and he was impeccably dressed, with that taste which conceals the costliness of clothing and yet permits its quality to show.

  He took a seat at Pons's invitation and waited on Pons to open their dialogue.

  "I take it, Mr. Ruthel, that your brother's was the body found last night on the Underground."

  "Yes, Mr. Pons. My brother, though a wealthy man, was somewhat eccentric and parsimonious; he chose to use the Underground rather than his car. Quite naturally, when I learned of his death, I assumed —very probably like the police —that its motive was robbery. I am no longer so certain of that. I began to go through his things this morning—I should say, Mr. Pons, that I've been all over the world in the past twenty years, and never once back in England in all that time; so, actually, I know very little about Lionel's life during that period, save only what he chose to write to me —and he wrote sparingly —or what I read in the papers of his purchases at some auction at Sotheby's or elsewhere —and I found something very puzzling. I am frank to say, Mr. Pons, it unsettled me."

  He handed Pons a purple envelope. "This was stuck away in a locked desk drawer. It came from Marrakesch —that is, the first one did, since that is its envelope."

  Pons drew from it two fragile pages of purple stationery. I went around to look over his shoulder.

  The messages on the pages bore no superscription of any kind. Each was brutally terse. The first read: "Ten thousand pounds. In currency P.O. Box 8, West Central Post Office. Addressee, Mr. Simon Fance will call. You have thirty days. Remember Elena." The second was almost precisely similar, except that the name "Elena" had given way to "Jasmine." Each was signed with a curious little cluster of what appeared to be asterisks. Neither was typewritten and, curiously, each was in calligraphy; the asterisks were clearly brushed in with singular delicacy. Glancing at Pons, I saw that his eyes were aglow with interest.

  "Scented, I observe," he said. "Very probably these came at different times, though your brother preserved but one of the envelopes. A pity."

  "I suppose that is the case," said our client.

  "The obvious course would be to examine his accounts."

  "I have done so, Mr. Pons. I found that ten thousand pounds had been withdrawn on June the second. I could find no record that a second such sum had been withdrawn. I could not but conclude that Lionel must have died after failing to submit to this second threat. For it is a threat, is it not?"

  Pons nodded.

  "And not reported to the police," Mr. Ruthel went on. "That is certainly most odd. I can only surmise that there must have been a very strong reason why Lionel should have wanted to avoid their existence. I do understand that collectors are sometimes tempted to use unorthodox methods in pursuit of their enthusiasms —but frankly, if I may say so, this matter would seem to have something to do with the fair sex."

  Pons was noncommittal.

  "And what passes for signature —those asterisks. ..."

  "Stars, I submit, Mr. Ruthel," said Pons reflectively.

  "I can make nothing of it —nothing," said our client, throwing up his hands. "I trust you will be able to do so, Mr. Pons."

  "I will look into it, Mr. Ruthel."

  Our client promptly came to his feet. Still, he hesitated for a moment. "Ought I turn these messages over to the police?"

  "I will undertake that task, all in good time," said Pons. "You may expect to hear from me."

  "I am at my brother's home," said Ruthel. "I have no residence of my own in London, and have been with him for the past month."

  "Did he seem to you in any way disturbed during that time?" asked Pons then.

  "I couldn't say so, no. Preoccupied, perhaps. To tell the truth, Mr. Pons, there was no very great communication between us. He never mentioned these messages, and he certainly didn't seem worried about them. Indeed, the only event to quicken his interest was an auction at Sotheby's, offering a Ming piece he hoped to add to his collection." "Were you ever in Burma, Mr. Ruthel?"

  If our client was startled at Pons's abrupt change of subject, he concealed it well. "It is strange you should ask, sir. I spent six months of this year in Rangoon."

  "Thank you, Mr. Ruthel. Pray wait upon word from me."

  Our client bade us a formal good-bye and took his leave.

  Pons immediately handed to me the notes received by Lionel Ruthel. "What do you make of these, Parker?"

  "Well, for one thing, there is a sort of Oriental air about them," I said.

  "Capital!" cried Pons. "But why do you say so?"

  "They are perfumed."

  "Ah, do you think that scent perfume? Try again."

  I raised one of the sheets to my nostrils. There was no mistaking its fragrance. "It's sandalwood," I said.

  "I cannot recall in all my experience another blackmail letter so fragrant," Pons said, chuckling. "But it is surely incense, rather than perfume."

  "Of course!" I agreed. "That but underscores its Oriental flavour. Add to it the calligraphy, the texture of the paper which is certainly like that light paper used for the making of prints in Japan and China."

  "What do you make of the signature?"

  "Brushed in, plainly."

  "Elementary," he said impatiently.

  "A pattern of asterisks against what appears to be a
darker background," I reflected. "I cannot imagine what they stand for."

  "Do you make them asterisks?" Pons asked, with that annoying air of knowing very well what they were, and patiently waiting for me to discover their identity.

  "They are certainly asterisks," I said stoutly.

  "Very well, then. I concede that they look like asterisks. Their pattern suggests nothing to you?"

  I looked at them again and shook my head.

  "Oh, come, Parker —the washed-in background is distinctive."

  "Ah, they're meant to be stars," I interrupted. "But why precisely seven?"

  "I submit that the exact number which occurs on both notes signifies the involvement of seven women in the matter."

  "My word, Pons! How can you say so? Why not men?"

  "These seven stars appear to be similarly grouped in each case, do they not?"

  "Yes. Almost like a distorted figure."

  "If indeed they represent stars, does nothing further follow for you?"

  I shook my head, I fear, impatiently, well aware of Pons's little game.

  "But perhaps astronomy was not one of your studies, Parker. Surely you must remember something of Greek mythology."

  "I have learned more of myths of various kinds since I took up quarters here than I ever knew before," I retorted.

  "A distinct touch, Parker!" said Pons, smiling. "Atlas and Pleione had seven daughters —Alcyone, Asterope, Electra, Kelaine, Maia, Merope, and Taygete —all of whom were translated into the heavens as stars by Zeus, supposedly to escape the amorous designs of the hunter, Orion, who with his dog, also became stars. They are to be found in the constellation Taurus, appearing in the autumn and setting again in spring. They have been estimated at a hundred parsecs from our own planet and appear as a little cloud of luminosity in the winter sky —six of them are clear enough to the eye; the seventh — presumably Electra mourning for Troy —is always dim, sometimes invisible. Of them Alcyone is the brightest. They do indeed appear to the eye in the shape of a crude dipper, clustered closely together, and thus tiny by comparison with Ursa Major, commonly known as the 'big dipper.' I submit, therefore, that seven women are allied in this matter."