August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "That's the same sum Ruthel paid."

  "I observed it," said Pons dryly. "Bresham's death would appear to have had a salutary effect on the others. It strikes me as very likely that the three were in touch with one another, and all were implicated in the matter that served as the background of the blackmail. Bresham may have got word of the demand to Stoner and Ruthel; his death certainly prompted payment of the initial sum demanded of Stoner and Ruthel. Neither would meet a second demand, so both died. We are dealing with someone utterly ruthless, and I hope to uncover him tomorrow night."

  "You know him?"

  "Say rather I have certain suspicions."

  More than this he would not say. He put out the light and retired to his chamber.

  Well after darkness had fallen next evening, Pons proceeded once more to assume his disguise of the previous night. Moreover, he laid out similar clothing for me to wear.

  "We are swimming in dangerous waters tonight, Parker," he explained. "We shall be required to go armed."

  "We are two against one, surely," I said.

  "Would that it were so!" he answered.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the East India Docks. It will not surprise you to learn that our goal is an importing office near the site of an excavation."

  "Nothing any longer surprises me, Pons."

  "I found the place last night after considerable searching," Pons went on. "I looked for the excavation. The fragments of soil in the dust edging the print in the carriage were not surface earth. The importing business is quite legitimate, but it also serves as a cover for something other. Last night thirty-one people entered that office; twenty came out. The other eleven were unaccounted for when the place closed. The manager also failed to emerge when the lights went out. Even though it may not be manifest to the eye, there is another exit below ground."

  "Ah, the excavation!"

  "The excavation has nothing to do with it. It is merely incidental to my discovery of the place, no more. I suspect that it will lead to a tenable solution of this interesting problem."

  "Why do you say so?" I asked.

  "It is elementary that only a comparatively widespread organization could produce, on demand, a lascar or dacoit to serve as a professional assassin. There is only one such in London, to my knowledge. It is part of a worldwide organization, headed, I am informed, by an ageless Chinese doctor of far more than average intelligence —a legendary figure not only throughout the underworld but also the political world. Perhaps you have never heard of the Si-Fan?"

  "If I have, it has long been forgotten."

  "The doctor's audacity is unbounded. His organization gives its name to that of the addressee to whom the late Lionel Ruthel was directed to send his money. 'Simon Fance' —it was no credit to my powers of observation that I failed to see it at once. The doctor's fine hand is surely in this. Though he has been reported at various times in Hanoi, Rangoon, Beirut, Cairo, Peking, New York, Rome, and elsewhere, the police now put him in London. His minions, however, are everywhere, and if he is not directly involved in this triple murder, he may very well know which organization is behind it. It is imperative that I find him."

  We found ourselves presently in Limehouse, concealed in the shadows from a vantage point in which we could watch the entrance to an old building that carried a poorly lit sign announcing it as Sam Lee Ltd., Importers.

  It was nine o'clock when we reached Limehouse. For the next forty-five minutes we observed visitors going into the importing office, and coming out again; but never quite as many emerged as entered. It was possible to see a man at a desk; he was approached by every visitor. Sometimes he unfolded brochures before callers, sometimes there appeared to be only curt, brief discussion. Now and then a visitor armed with brochures left the building; but just as frequently visitors repaired to the rear of the office, disappeared from sight, and were not seen again. There was obviously some kind of exit at the rear of the room, perhaps leading into an inner chamber.

  Before ten o'clock, a shutter was closed over the wide window facing the street and the light went out in the importing office. As Pons had seen the previous night, the manager did not emerge. The street was wanly lit, but the glow of the street-lamp was sufficient to have disclosed anyone coming from the building, which rose but two storeys above the ground level. No light appeared anywhere else in the structure; nor had any shown earlier, suggesting that the upper floor was untenanted.

  Pons made no move to leave our place of concealment even after the building had been darkened, and when I leaned toward him to speak, exerted a gentle pressure on my shoulder as if to bid me be silent. So we waited on time to pass. The night deepened; the activity along the street diminished and fell away to nothing but the occasional appearance of a constable on his round.

  It was after midnight before Pons stirred. Then he led the way, drifting noiselessly across the street into the shadows beside the building we had been watching. Well back from the street, a side window invited his attention. He paused, dug down into the bulging pockets of the threadbare coat he wore, and produced, from under the nondescript items he had assembled to carry with him, a small tool.

  "Lend me your back, Parker," he whispered.

  I bent down.

  From above I heard the rasping sound of glass being cut —then, after an interval, of the window being raised.

  Pons climbed into the building. He leaned out to give me a hand up.

  Once we were both inside, Pons produced a torch, the light of which revealed that we were in a room behind the front office — evidently only a waiting-room of some kind. A few chairs, a lounge, a full-length mirror could be seen. Disappointingly, though the room patently ran the width of the building, there was no door to be seen but that leading to the front office.

  "It must be the mirror," murmured Pons.

  He strode over to it. He ran his fingers along its edge, examining, probing, until he found what he sought; then the mirror slid noiselessly to one side, disclosing steps leading down into a passageway dark save for one dim light above the foot of the stairs.

  Without hesitation, Pons plunged noiselessly down the steps, his torch lighting the way. Less than fifty feet from the stairs, we found ourselves confronted by a honeycomb of passages, all of which showed evidence of frequent use. Pons dropped to his knees to scrutinize the stone flooring laid there, judging by its appearance, decades ago, for any clue to persistent use along one passage more than any other; but this proved non-rewarding. Nor was it necessary to lead us into the most used passage. Pons stood upright, flashing his torch around. He lifted his head and inhaled deeply.

  "Do you smell it, Parker?" he asked in a whisper.

  "The damp of the Thames," I said.

  "Try again."

  I took a deep breath. "Yes, I smell it now. Incense. Sandalwood."

  "This way," said Pons, as he pressed on along a passage that led sharply right down a further trio of steps deeper beneath the surface.

  It was presently evident that we were approaching occupied quarters, for there were occasional sounds ahead of us. Pons proceeded with greater caution, turning off his torch ever and anon, lest our progress be marked. The scent of sandalwood had grown much stronger; it now seemed to pervade the entire passage, as well as lesser passages which now and then led away from what was clearly the central corridor.

  Doors began to show in the walls. At each of them Pons paused to listen. I too pressed an ear to three such doors, and heard the even susurrus of breathing behind it.

  "Someone sleeping," I whispered.

  Pons tried each door until at last he found one that was not locked. He opened it noiselessly, at first but enough to assure him that all was dark within; then he widened the aperture and flashed his torch inside.

  The light swept over a small bed-chamber, and fell finally upon a sleeping woman, lingering only long enough to show that she was Caucasian, not Oriental, however much the appointments of the room and our gene
ral surroundings were Oriental, and that she was perhaps younger than her worn appearance suggested. Then Pons turned off his torch and withdrew.

  Not far down the passage another unlocked door opened upon a similar chamber. In this room, too, a woman of indeterminate age slept. Something of Pons's excitement communicated itself to me. Could these be two of the women he sought? But indeed, I did not know precisely what he was searching for. Withdrawing from the second room, he stood briefly in an attitude of deep thought.

  Ahead of us, dimly visible in the wan light of the passage, loomed a door covered with what looked like green baize with a satin sheen. To this Pons now moved with cat-like caution. Manifestly, this door led to some central place in these elaborate underground quarters.

  He pressed one ear to it. He sought in vain for any knob; it had none. Its mechanism was hidden. Pons explored its frame.

  From somewhere behind it came the faint sound of distant bells —a tintinnabulation reminiscent of temple bells that evoked the Orient even more effectively than the scent of incense, which was now almost overpowering and apparently emanated from the room behind the door. Then all was still once more, save for what seemed to be the sound of a generator, which had pulsed steadily throughout the time we had spent in these subterranean passages.

  Pons continued to probe the green baize door with his slender fingers —and once again the tinkling of bells sounded behind it. Pons withdrew his fingers abruptly.

  "I may have set off an alarm," he whispered.

  Suddenly that instinct —primitive in every man —of being observed, welled up in me. I turned —to come almost face to face with a dark-skinned, half-naked Oriental, lithe and muscular—and saw others behind him, coming in from both sides of the corridor. I had time but to cry out, to reach in vain for the gun Pons had given me to carry, when they were upon us. I saw Pons go down. I felt simultaneously a leather thong descend over my head and begin to tighten on my neck.

  Just before consciousness slipped away, I saw the green baize door sink inward and slide to one side, and heard a sibilant voice issue a sharp command in Chinese. Then I heard and saw no more.

  I came to with Pons bending over me, chafing my wrists.

  "Ah, Parker, thank heaven you're not hurt!" he cried. "I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you."

  I looked around dazedly. My neck burned from the friction of the thong that had come close to snuffing out my life. I saw that Pons's neck bore an angry red bruise to show that he too had almost been strangled, and had no doubt that I too carried such a bruise.

  We were in a sumptuously appointed room of considerable size. Handsome Oriental rugs covered the floor; draperies of brilliant red, purple, and blue hung down the walls. I was lying on a divan; an impression beside me indicated that Pons must have been lying there too until he recovered consciousness. On a teakwood table nearby stood two glasses filled with liquid.

  As Pons helped me to my feet, a sibilant, almost hissing voice arrested us; it came into the room evidently from a speaking tube behind one of the curtains.

  "You will find something refreshing on the table, gentlemen. I am happy that I recognized you, Mr. Solar Pons, in time to save your life —in spite of that somewhat outr6 disguise you have effected."

  "Doctor. ..." began Pons. Our host's voice stopped him.

  "We are nameless here, Mr. Pons. Pray refresh yourselves. I assure you it is the best obtainable Scotch. It contains none of those diabolical poisons which have been credited to my use."

  Pons drank, and I followed suit, knowing as well as Pons that had our deaths been desired the speaker need only have kept from interfering when his dacoits were garroting us.

  "What or whom do you seek here?"

  "Elena," answered Pons.

  There was a sharp hiss of indrawn breath. Then, "I am not unfamiliar with your reputation, Mr. Pons."

  "Nor I with yours. 'Simon Fance' indeed. Was that not unworthy of you, Doctor?"

  "That was not my hand. Someday, Mr. Pons, our paths may cross."

  "I am here," said Pons.

  "But not now. There are certain social considerations in this affair no English gentleman could ignore." There was, I thought, not only suppressed laughter in his voice, but more than a hint of scorn, if not contempt. "Evidence would be too difficult to bring out. I need hardly tell you that. You know little; you suspect much."

  "Why only seven women, Doctor?"

  "There were only that number in Marrakesch. There were others in Mexico, still others in the Middle East. Certain American, French, and German men have paid. It has been and no doubt will continue to be, a profitable undertaking. Of course, the victims of these gentlemen will be reimbursed, but it is only honest to say that an organization like mine is constantly in need of funds. You are well aware, Mr. Pons, that your national system of justice leaves very much to be desired, though the British sense of fair play frequently effects a balance. Disclosure would fall most heavily upon the unfortunate young women who were the victims of such men as Ruthel, Bresham, and Stoner, but they, apart from lending me their means without their knowledge, are completely innocent of my campaign on their behalf, and were set free from their brutal service and brought here on my direction."

  "A campaign even more in your interests," said Pons.

  "True," said our hidden host imperturbably. "I do not think, Mr. Pons, that this fact will in sum trouble you overmuch. You are a private agent, not responsible to the police. I too am a private agent, responsible to no one but myself—as you know. I am not a philanthropist, I am too old —far older than you can believe —to subscribe to the quaint idealism of the Caucasians, and I am imbued with the philosophy of the East, which does not hold to the same veneration for life that saturates your effete civilization."

  "What will happen to the women you — rescued?"

  "They will be returned to the world — perhaps not the world from which they were lured, unless they wish it. They will go free to choose their own courses, and with adequate funds to live on comfortably for a while. I am not philanthropic, Mr. Pons, but I am not without compassion, despite my known ruthlessness, more compassion than British justice would afford them —merciless exposure, sympathy, but little coin of the realm."

  "Eventually the Yard will reach you, Doctor."

  "I think not. Tomorrow the importing office will be abandoned; the passage is even now being closed, filled in and sealed. Do not discount my thoroughness."

  "I would not forgive myself for underrating an opponent," said Pons.

  "Do not mistake me. We are not yet that. Had I thought we were, you would be dead. I am more familiar with your nature and your character than you can imagine, Mr. Pons." There was now a pause, during which our host's sibilant voice could be heard issuing orders in his native language to someone at his side. "Attend me now," he resumed. "You will presently fall asleep. Do not be alarmed. Do not struggle against it; that would be needlessly futile. You will be transported from here by another exit, and you will wake in familiar surroundings far from Limehouse. Farewell, gentlemen. Until we meet again."

  Even as he spoke, I became aware of a cloying perfume, fragrant as the exhalation of heliotrope or mimosa, masking the scent of a powerful sedative pouring into the room from behind the curtains. I could not identify it, but suspected it to be Asiatic in origin.

  "We're being drugged," I said.

  Pons made a gesture of calm assurance, as if submitting unafraid to whatever ordeal lay ahead. "We have no alternative but to take the Doctor at his word." He sat quietly, his eyes closed, waiting.

  I felt myself growing drowsy. Though I fought against yielding, I knew I could not remain awake. As I fell asleep, I felt Pons's body settling against mine.

  I woke to familiar surroundings indeed. We were back in our own quarters at 7B, Praed Street. Pons was just emerging from his chamber, already clad in his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, and not in the least lacking in his customary alertness, though I f
elt groggy and dazed.

  "Ah, Parker," he said, "you are uncommonly sensitive to the Doctor's sedative. I have been up and about for some time."

  "How came we here?"

  "We were obviously brought. The Doctor leaves nothing to chance. It would not serve his purpose to have us discovered in a state of torpor in a public park. A remarkable man! A pity that his life is given to crime and intrigue —and worse, to a megalomaniacal desire for world power!"

  Struggling to shake myself free of the sluggishness that held me, I said, "I must admit I understand little of this."

  "You will, Parker. I hear our client's step on the stairs even now. I sent for him."

  "At this hour! Why, it is almost four in the morning!"

  "Any hour will do, Parker. If we are to move, we must move quickly."

  " 'If?' "

  Pons regarded me soberly for a silent moment. "I said 'if advisedly. I submit there are other considerations but those of simple justice."

  Norris Ruthel's knock fell upon the door.

  Pons crossed the room and threw the door wide. "Come in, Mr. Ruthel, come in. Pray forgive me for bringing you out at this hour, but events have come to a head. Sit down, sir. I need your advice."

  Our client, who had walked across and seated himself, looked at Pons with an air of surprised inquiry. "My advice?" he asked in an uncertain voice, as if he had not heard aright.

  "I did not mis-speak, Mr. Ruthel," Pons assured him. "I have uncovered certain facts. Before proceeding in the matter of your brother's murder I felt it incumbent upon me to consult you."

  "Me, sir?" asked our client in unfeigned astonishment.

  "You, indeed. As my client, you must be informed before anyone else. Specifically now, I must know whether to proceed or whether to lay such facts —I stress facts as I know them, other than what I surmise — before Scotland Yard for them to carry on."

  Ruthel's pale blue eyes widened.

  "Your late brother," continued Pons, "was, with his partners, engaged in an enterprise other than the importing of art objects. It was a kind of exporting venture, if I may put it so crudely. My esteemed companion has suggested that there could hardly be a stronger motive for blackmail than murder; I submit that there are stronger motives, and one in particular that carries a deadly social obloquy that affects all the parties to it."