"Sisters?"
"I should be inclined to doubt it. Very probably they are simply banded together in this common aim."
"That is surely unique in the annals of blackmail. What would be their motive?"
"Whatever it is, their names must have had some significance to Ruthel. The evidence is that he paid the first levy made on him without any obvious attempt to avoid doing so. There is nothing in either note to suggest why the demand was made —except a woman's given name. This must then have been of immediate significance to him —and of such meaning that he was impelled to pay without question."
"But he balked at the second."
"Evidently." Pons's eyes danced. "I cannot remember when such a curious combination of challenging facts has been laid before me."
At this point, unhappily, I was called to attend a patient. I left Pons sitting at the cluttered table, caressing the lobe of one ear in that familiar attitude of contemplation, the late Lionel Ruthel's scented notes under his eye.
When I returned two hours later, I found Pons once again at work on his scrapbooks —but now poring over them, rather than arranging his cuttings. He looked up at my entrance.
"I am sorry to see by your revealing expression that your patient is in a bad way," he said.
"He is recovering from an apoplectic seizure, but his condition is not good and the prognosis not promising," I replied. "And what progress are you making in the case?"
"I have not been idle," he said, waving one hand toward the columns laid before him.
I leaned over and glanced at the extracts. "What possible clues can you find applicable to Ruthel's murder in papers dated four and five years ago?"
He answered by tapping one of the reports pasted into the scrap- book under my eye. It was a mere paragraph setting forth the fact that the police confessed themselves baffled by the disappearance of a young lady, Miss Elena Brown.
"I have also found a Miss Jasmine Struthers, similarly vanished, without any record of her reappearance. Surely it is more than a coincidence that two young women, among the many who disappear every year, seldom to be seen again, should bear such comparatively uncommon names as 'Elena' and 'Jasmine'?"
"Ah, I see," I said. "They were murdered and someone has traced the crime to Ruthel. That would account for his paying the first blackmail levied upon him with such speed."
"That is certainly possible," agreed Pons, though with a manifest lack of enthusiasm. "However, I could find no evidence that their bodies have been recovered. That seems to me significant. Both young women appear to have had difficulties at home. One vanished without any trace. The other—Miss Jasmine Struthers — confided to a companion that she was off to Paris to meet a friend. Neither was ever seen again. Of course, there are scores of similar cases recorded annually, and I may be being led astray—but the coincidence cannot be overlooked."
"What other motive —if not the threat to disclose murder—could have prompted such swift payment from Ruthel?"
"That remains to be disclosed. You will recall my reference to the other two men who were murdered in similar fashion — Henry
Bresham and George Stoner. I have looked back into accounts of these crimes in my files. Both were murdered at night, one on the street, one in his home. Both were wealthy men. And in the accounts that dealt with Stoner, mention was made of Stoner's onetime association with the ownership and management of a rather extensive importing business, conducted under the heading of 'Ruthel's, Inc.' This was sold four years ago. That the method of death should have been precisely the same is unmistakably significant, particularly in view of the character of the warnings sent."
"Why?"
"It suggests nothing to you?"
"Except that the same agent must have been behind each."
"You may have struck closer to the central point than you know," Pons said, with an enigmatic smile. "Nothing more?"
I shook my head testily. "If there is something other to be observed, I fail to see it."
"I submit that both warnings and method of murder are distinctly Oriental."
"But both of the women —if indeed you have established a connection between them and the references in the notes—were English."
Pons raised his eyebrows. "You are convinced they are dead, then?"
"Well," I said doggedly, "there is no stronger motive than the threat of exposure of murder. Moreover, the warnings sent to Ruthel were certainly not written by them."
"Calligraphy is predominantly an Oriental art," agreed Pons.
"Oh, yes, but one of the women —you hold for seven—might have learned the art," I protested.
"And presumably also the skill required in garroting. One of them must then be of exceptional strength."
"It is not impossible."
"A skill much practised in Asia, in such countries as Burma and Indo-China. The only source we know for the warnings, however, is Marrakesch."
"It is certainly a mixed bag of facts," I said.
"Is it not!" cried Pons with manifest delight. "And we shall hear more of them in a matter of minutes, for if I am not mistaken, the street door has just opened and closed. It is no doubt Inspector Jamison. I asked him to step around if time permitted —and, as usual, his curiosity has impelled him here without delay."
Inspector Jamison's heavy tread on the stairs was indeed audible as Pons spoke. In a brief space, he tapped on our door, then opened it to permit his portly body entry into our quarters.
"What is it this time, Pons?" asked the Inspector, looking at Pons suspiciously, his face somewhat flushed from the effort of climbing the stairs.
"Pray sit down, Inspector. A little problem has come to my attention and I need your help."
"A bit of a turn, that," said Jamison as he took off his bowler and laid it on the table. He sat down, smiling. "The Yard does have its uses, eh, Pons?"
"Indeed it does," Pons agreed.
"What is it, then?"
"Last night the body of Lionel Ruthel was discovered on the Underground at Willesden Green. Garroted."
Jamison nodded. "Spilsbury's examined the body. In his opinion Ruthel was strangled with a braided leather thong."
Pons considered this information thoughtfully. "In April, Henry Bresham was killed. In July, George Stoner. Both garroted." Hard on Jamison's brusque nod, he added, "Motive?"
"We've not uncovered any. It wasn't robbery, as far as we know — in any of these three murders. If there is any connection among these men, we've not come upon it yet, though they knew one another. Stoner was a partner in Ruthel's, an importing business that sold out four years ago. Both Stoner and Ruthel belonged to a social club —'Hunters & Anglers' —but seldom attended."
"Was there ever made to the police by any one of these victims any complaint of blackmail?" asked Pons then.
Jamison's eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at?"
Pons leaned forward and tapped the notes Ruthel had received.
Jamison picked them up.
"Lionel Ruthel received these prior to his death. You'll note the date on the envelope. He paid the first demand. He failed to pay the second. He died. Presumably, since he had thirty days, the demand was made at least a month ago."
"Marrakesch," mused Jamison.
"The Yard can institute inquiries there," said Pons. "It would be interesting to learn whether Bresham and Stoner withdrew any substantial sums of money at any time during the past year."
"If they received any demands like these, we found no trace of them."
"Destroyed, no doubt."
"I'll have to take these, Pons," said Jamison.
"I have no further need of them. You'll have noticed their Oriental character. Further to this matter —it might be instructive to look into the disappearance of two young ladies —Miss Elena Brown of Fulham, and Miss Jasmine Struthers of South Norwood. I have the newspaper accounts; there may be further details in your files. I've come upon no continuing reference to either girl. No word of bodies. No
thing. I put it to you, Jamison, that there is surely some connection between these missing girls and the garrotings."
"Possibly," agreed the Inspector. "There could be a connection. But bodies aren't always discovered, you know."
"That's what I pointed out," I put in. "Somebody knows —or found out. That would be motive enough for no one's complaining of blackmail."
"I submit that the character of the demands made on Ruthel hardly supports the contention," said Pons. "It is quite possible that these demands were preceded by letters setting forth details known to the blackmailer, designed to leave the victim in no doubt about the blackmailer's knowledge, though no such letter was discovered by Norris Ruthel, the dead man's brother, who applied to us."
"Nor was anything of that sort found at either Bresham's or Stoner's," added Jamison.
Pons sat for a few moments in contemplative silence. "Has the Underground carriage in which the body was found been put back into service?" he asked then.
"It's still being sequestered, but I believe it will be released in the morning."
Pons came to his feet with startling suddenness. "Then there is no time to be lost. I shall want to examine it."
As Pons threw off his dressing-gown and got into his Inverness, Jamison reached for his bowler, complaining indignantly that Pons could hardly hope to learn anything more than the Yard had already learned, for the compartment had been thoroughly gone over, nothing had escaped the experts from the Yard.
"We shall see," said Pons. "Come along, Parker."
Still under guard on an unused line at the Willesden Green Station, the scene of Lionel Ruthel's death in the carriage was indicated by Inspector Jamison, still visibly disgruntled. There was nothing to be seen to set it out for the inquiring eye. Since Ruthel had been strangled, no blood marked the spot. Indeed, the strangling had evidently been done with singular efficiency, for no disturbance whatsoever marked the area where Ruthel had been sitting.
"Had he fallen?" asked Pons.
"No. The body was in this corner, up against the window. Propped there, we made it."
Pons, having scrutinized the seat, now gave his attention to the floor. This seemed to me equally as futile as examination of the seat had been, for countless feet had walked there both before and after the crime and, except for dust, the floor was clear; not even so much as a shred of paper was visible. Pons, however, was not daunted; he went down on his knees and explored with narrowed eyes the area of the floor around the place where the body had been found.
At one spot he peered intently. "Let me call your attention to this portion of a footprint, Jamison."
The Inspector bent, baffled. He got cumbersomely to his knees beside Pons and stared at the spot Pons indicated, muttering, "Hundreds of footprints. What can they tell us? Nothing."
"This one is the print of a bare foot."
So saying, Pons handed the Inspector the magnifying glass he had been using.
"Why," said Jamison after but a minute's scrutiny of the small print Pons had discovered close up to the base of the seat, "that is the print of a child's foot."
"Do you say so?"
"I do. You may not know it, Pons," Jamison continued, getting heavily to his feet, "but there are still children in London who are without shoes all year long. It is to be regretted, but there is simply not enough wherewithal to take care of all the indigent in our capital. They fare better in the country, though equally bare of foot."
"A much worn, deeply callused foot," said Pons. "Could a child's be that?"
"Compared to that of the average Londoner, I may say," said Jamison pompously, "that you lead a relatively reclusive life, Pons. You have no concept of the hardships the poor endure."
"Indeed," said Pons, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Then, if this print has no meaning to you, the Yard will not object to my scraping up some of the dust from around it."
Jamison hesitated, cannily aware of Pons's intuitions. "No, I'd say it won't matter. Spilsbury hasn't seen it, of course, so, if you do find anything, we'll count on your letting us know. In any case, the carriage goes back into service tomorrow."
"I will measure it first."
"It isn't even a complete print," Jamison said, as if excusing his permitting Pons to disturb the scene in any way.
"The ball of the foot and toes can be seen; the heel part has been trodden upon," agreed Pons. "But there is enough here to give us the dimensions."
He took from the capacious pockets in the lining of his cape a tape measure and went about his task. From outside the guard looked curiously in. Jamison watched tolerantly. The dimensions taken and set down in the little pocket notebook with pencil attached that Pons had fallen into the habit of carrying, Pons next brought out a small envelope into which he scraped the dust outlining the print on the carriage floor.
"I fancy that will do," he said, coming to his feet.
We left the carriage and mounted to the street, where Jamison's police car waited. The Inspector, thoughtfully silent now, had us taken back to our quarters and took his leave of us there.
For some time after our return Pons busied himself with the dust scrapings he had taken from the sequestered Underground carriage, working with his chemicals. He pored intently over the infinitesimal particles, saying nothing, though from time to time a small sound of discovery or pleasure rose from his corner. I sat impatiently waiting on him to finish his analysis, unable to concentrate on the evening paper, though the Standard did carry a further paragraph on what was now being called "the Underground murder," in which the only additional information given the public was the identity of the victim and some biographical details concerning him.
But at last Pons finished, put away his microscope and chemicals, and washed his hands.
"I suppose you can now give me a description of Ruthel's murderer," I said as he came over to lean against the mantel while he stuffed his pipe with the abominable shag he smoked from time to time.
"Oh, that is elementary, Parker," he replied. "He was a man of considerably less than average height, dusky skin —perhaps yellow- brown in colour, bare of foot, Indo-Chinese or Burmese. In London he lives somewhere along the Thames, in the region of the East India Docks. A fragment of hemp which very probably came from his foot suggests as much, and there is alluvial soil peculiar to an area of excavation there. Limehouse, I fancy."
"You are joking!" I cried.
"That fragmentary footprint was certainly not a child's," Pons continued. "It was too broad for its length, for one thing, and its lines were too deeply etched. Its callused character, too, indicated age. Moreover, there was just visible in part along the ball of the foot on the left edge —you will have observed that the print was of the left foot —a scar long ago healed. No doubt you also saw that the print had been made with some force. ..."
"Ah, a heavy man!"
"No, no, Parker," said Pons impatiently. "He was light, slender of frame — the impression was forcefully made because he put more than his ordinary weight on it during the act of strangling his victim."
"Fantastic!" I protested. "We began this inquiry with seven women, as I recall. This does not sound like the crime of a woman."
"The murder was committed by a man, Parker."
"A hired killer, then?"
"A professional."
"A professional assassin — perhaps from Burma," I ventured. "Was not our client in Burma? Six months in Rangoon, I think he said. Would it not be instructive to learn who is the late Lionel Ruthel's heir?"
"I daresay it will turn out to be our client."
"I need hardly point out to you, Pons, that murder for gain is the strongest of all motives."
"And for the murder of the previous victims?" asked Pons. He shook his head. "I am much inclined to doubt it. Did our client seem to you the kind of fellow who would make so bold as to deceive me? I think not. No, I fancy we will have to look farther afield."
He sat for a while in an attitude of deep thought, tugging at t
he lobe of his left ear, a habit with which I had grown familiar early in our companionable relationship, his gaze into some distance from our quarters. He rose presently and began to pace back and forth in front of the mantel, arms folded across his chest, saying nothing. Now and then he glanced at the clock, as if estimating some matter of time, though it was not yet eight and darkness had not long come to London. For perhaps ten minutes longer he paced the floor; then he came to a stop with a sudden exclamation.
"Simon Fance!" he cried. "How blind I can be!"
Then he strode across the room and vanished into his chamber, from which came the sounds of a hasty change of clothing.
In a few minutes he reappeared. He was transformed. He wore the garments of a beggar, from a battered and torn bowler down to broken shoes. The pockets of his overlong coat bulged with the kind of refuse that could be found in the gutters of many London streets in the East End. He had even stained his face and, since he habitually disliked to shave, however often he did so, he had not today done so, with the result that a stubble was clearly visible along his jaws and chin. In one hand he carried a worn paper sack, evidently filled with more of the trash the kind of man he purported to be would gather.
"I am constantly amazed at your penchant for disguise," I said. "If I hadn't seen you go into that room, I would never have recognized you."
He made me a small, albeit ironic bow. "Ordinarily I do not respond to flattery, but in this case. ..."
"You have certainly changed," I cried.
"Touch.6!" he replied. Then, sobering, he said, "I am going out," and, without any further word, he took his leave.
It was past midnight when Pons came in. Through the open door of my bedroom I saw him loom over the lamp I had left burning on the table, where I had propped up a message sent in by Inspector Jamison during his absence. I called out to him to make sure he did not miss seeing it.
"I see it," he answered.
His face in the light was a study in contrast. Clearly, what he read was neither unexpected nor wholly satisfactory.
"Jamison has looked into the accounts of the previous victims," he said at last. "Bresham withdrew no funds that could not be traced. Stoner drew out ten thousand pounds. No trace of it can be found."
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 33