August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  Once at Jowett Close, Pons lost no time in finding the two Jowett brothers and the late Lawrence Jowett's solicitor, who were waiting in the study.

  "Mr. Pons wishes to return to the moor, gentlemen," boomed Sir Roderick. "Will you all be good enough to come along?"

  The Jowett brothers seemed almost surly in their assent, while Heyle only looked at his watch and said, "I'm due in court tomorrow, and I want to take the night train from Exeter. Can that be managed?"

  "It should not take us long, Mr. Heyle," said Pons.

  He led the way out of the house to the edge of the moor, which was once again in sunlight and shadow, alternately bright and sinister in appearance, with an east wind blowing still, and occasional thin droplets of rain riding it.

  "Now, if you'll all keep to my right," he said, "I will make an attempt to reveal what must have happened here two nights ago." He came to a stop. "At this point two men came walking on to the moor at an hour near midnight. It was a moonlit night, you will recall, and the sky was clear."

  "Right," said Sir Roderick. "Clouded at sunset, clear by mid- evening."

  "As it was in Cornwall," said Pons. "One of the men who walked here was undoubtedly Jowett. His companion and he walked a little way out on the moor. See here —and there —the remains of footprints, though some attempt has been made to conceal them, and who walked here with Jowett deliberately stepped wherever there was little chance of leaving prints whenever he could do so. Jowett walked along without thought of where he walked for three- quarters of a mile."

  He fell silent, while a constable came up from behind us and whispered to Sir Roderick.

  Pons went on for a quarter of a mile without speaking, then paused.

  "Now at this point —as you can see by the staked prints, something happened to start Jowett running briskly toward the rock-formation ahead."

  "The dog," said Sir Roderick.

  "Ah, I think not," said Pons imperturbably. "Mrs. Jowett said of her husband —and you corroborated it, Sir Roderick —that he was not a man to run out of fear. Let us assume that he ran for some other reason. His companion was no stranger to him. They were walking here as companions of some standing. Let us suppose that Jowett's companion said something like this to him —'Larry, have you lost any of your hardness these past two years? Do you think you can race me to that tor?' So Larry ran, and the other after, taking from his pocket the claw hammer concealed there, with which he struck him down."

  Pons was now moving rapidly ahead. He came to the site of Jowett's death. "Now, then, let me call your attention to the imprint of fingers left by Jowett's right hand. Here, in the middle of the imprint, under the palm, the soil is disturbed —broken and pushed a little to the left. How came it to be so?"

  "The reproduction of that seal he carried," said Sir Roderick. "When he fell. ..."

  "I submit that Jowett carried no seal," said Pons crisply. "Even if he had carried it in his hand for some obscure reason, it would not have made such a mark as this. No, this mark was made by Jowett's murderer who pushed the reproduction of the crouching dog seal under the dead man's hand, and then stood back and bayed like a hound, after which he completed his preparation of the scene by returning to obliterate his own running footprints, and manufacture the paw-prints we all see, by means of a three-tined garden tool with which he also tore the dead man's clothing and mutilated his body."

  "We have both it and the hammer," announced Sir Roderick.

  "But in God's name, why?" burst out Harold Jowett.

  "Because he hoped to prevent your brother from discovering his peculation with his money, and to hide it forever by marrying your sister-in-law, Mr. Jowett," said Pons. So saying, he wheeled upon Anthony Heyle, and asked, "How did you lose it, Mr. Heyle?"

  For a long, silent moment Heyle met Pons's grim eyes, while a fine line of perspiration began to gleam upon his brow; then he broke and began to run back toward the house. With a few running steps and a great leap, John Jowett brought him down. Harold Jowett was close behind him.

  "Tony Heyle!" cried Sir Roderick Ramsey for the twentieth time as we rode through the late afternoon toward London in his car. "I'd never have guessed it. What happens to a man to bring him to such a pass?"

  "The unlimited control of Jowett's money was too much for him," said Pons. "But I suspect that there was another factor. Sybil Jowett is, as you pointed out, Sir Roderick, an unusually attractive woman —and in a sense a dominating one, a mover. I should not be surprised to learn that Heyle's passion for her turned his head."

  "You had your eye on him from the beginning," said Sir Roderick. "Why?"

  "An elementary matter," replied Pons. "Heyle said that Jowett spoke of the curse of Tutankhamen 'frequently.' He said it 'seemed to be on his mind.' But he was the only one in Jowett Close who said so. Mrs. Jowett said just the contrary; yet if this superstition had preyed upon Jowett's mind, surely she would have been the very first person to whom he would speak of it at length, rather than Heyle, whose coldly analytical mind he must have known. They were, in your own words, old friends. So Heyle built up Jowett's superstitious fear carefully —deprecating it himself. But, of course, there was something more.

  "When Jowett came home, he was like a stranger to his wife. He had treated her in rather a cavalier manner, had he not? But he could not have been home long when he learned that someone had been paying court to her. His first suspicion fixed upon the housekeeper's son; he ordered him from the house, however unjustly. He must have discovered how unjust he had been, and he must finally have learned that the culprit was not the housekeeper's son, but his old friend, Tony Heyle. There was an argument in the study, and it was doubtless there that the plan to murder Jowett was formed in Heyle's mind. What Mrs. Jowett heard was not a reference to the necropolis seal of Tutankhamen, though this was the context suggested to her. What she heard her husband shouting at Heyle was an accusation —that Heyle was the 'dog couching'— not crouching at the door—which is to say, courting his wife while he was in Egypt. Heyle's, alas! was a fine mind destroyed by passion and greed. A pity his literary interests were not on a somewhat higher plane! That Baskerville tale was his undoing.

  "An interesting problem, Sir Roderick. You may stop my train any time for another like it."

  The Adventure of the Perfect Husband

  "ANY STREET in London is capable of offering an adventure in human travail," observed Solar Pons from the window at which he stood looking down into Praed Street. "It is extraordinary what a gamut of emotions the human face is capable of expressing."

  "Whom do you see, Pons?" I asked.

  "A prospective client, I fancy. A woman in her middle thirties, obviously in a quandary, and quite agitated. Having come this far, she is no longer so certain that she wants to go all the way. She may have chosen unwisely; her trouble would appear to be marital, if I can be permitted a long shot."

  I came up beside him and looked down.

  "Come, what do you say, Parker? You know my methods."

  A well-dressed woman walked up past the entrance to Number Seven, turned several doors away, and walked back, once again passing the entrance, and, as before, glancing uncertainly at it. She appeared to be wringing her hands from time to time and was, clearly, as Pons had said, in her middle thirties.

  "A woman of more than modest means, though not necessarily wealthy," I ventured.

  A brief smile appeared on Pons's thin, eager face. "Elementary, my dear Parker. Would you not also say that she has not been too long married? Say —within three years?"

  "Next you will be telling me she is having trouble with her mother-in-law who insists on spending five days of each week at her home," I said, not without asperity.

  "No, I daresay she could handle her mother-in-law or her husband in any ordinary difficulty," replied Pons tranquilly. "Her marital trouble is of some less common kind. Surely the ring she removes from her finger from time to time, clenching it in her fist, only to replace it, can be none other than
her wedding ring? And if she has reached her middle thirties without the need of a private inquiry into her husband's affairs, she would not be so agitated if she had been long married." He paused, leaning forward until his high brow almost touched the pane. "Ah! She has made up her mind. She is coming in."

  In a few moments Mrs. Johnson ushered our visitor into our quarters.

  With but a fleeting glance in my direction, she introduced herself immediately to Pons. "Mr. Solar Pons? I am Mrs. Lucy Kearton."

  "My dear lady, I trust your little difficulty with your husband has not progressed to so serious a stage that you find it necessary to resume your maiden name."

  "Forgive me, Mr. Pons. But I am so upset, and I have an embarrassing habit of falling back upon my Christian name. I have not been married long enough to lose the habit. It's Mrs. Robin Kearton."

  Pons smiled and introduced me, assuring our visitor that she could speak freely before me. I observed that she was no sooner seated than she once again began to twist the wedding ring on her finger.

  "It is odd that you should mention my husband, Mr. Pons. It is about him I came to see you. I hesitated for hours, but I knew I must see someone who might be able to help me. You must understand, Mr. Pons, that until this time I could not in truth have uttered the most inconsequential criticism of my husband's conduct toward me. We have been married now slightly over two years, and in all honesty I must admit that he has been a perfect husband. Last night however, an extraordinary thing occurred, and I cannot quite yet credit my senses."

  "Pray compose yourself, Mrs. Kearton. If I can help you, be assured I will do so. I think I should say, however, that I am not in the habit of looking into marital difficulties."

  She gazed at him for a moment in manifest distress, her lower lip drawn in and caught by her teeth. "Oh, but this isn't what you might think, Mr. Pons. I am not looking for evidence for a divorce; I wouldn't dream of divorcing Robin. You see, as I told you, Robin has been a perfect husband. I wanted for nothing; he has always been as attentive to me as he was before our marriage, when first I met him almost two-and-a-half years ago.

  "Ever since our marriage, he has been punctual at all times. He is employed as an associate editor of the Beekeeper's Journal, with offices in Bouverie Street, and I could be sure enough of his return from the office to set the clock by him. Last night, however, he telephoned from the office that he would be detained over the supper hour. I could not guess what might be the cause of this change in his custom, but I did not ask, and he did not offer an explanation.

  After he had rung off, however, it occurred to me that his voice sounded strained —it seemed to me in retrospect the voice of a man who was gravely disturbed but was trying his best to prevent anyone's noticing it. Mr. Pons, the more I thought of it, the more upset I grew. Finally, I called a cab and drove around to the office.

  "But before I reached it, I saw my husband walking down a street with another woman. I was so astounded that I could hardly believe what I saw; so I had the driver go around and let me off in advance of where he walked, so that I could walk toward him and assure myself that it was not, after all, he. I had plenty of time in which to examine both of them carefully as they approached me; the woman was a complete stranger to me —very dark of complexion, almost swarthy, with black hair and something of gold or imitation gold in her ears. She seemed somewhat foreign, and had mean eyes, I thought. She walked with a swagger. The man, of course, was Robin. In view of my knowledge of Robin, I could not be mistaken; I would have been quite willing to believe that I had made a mistake, but the fact is, Robin has a very noticeable wen on his left ear, and while there might by some amazing coincidence be two people who looked enough alike to be mistaken for each other, it is surely beyond the bounds even of coincidence that both should possess such a distinguishing mark.

  "Mr. Pons, I put myself directly in his path. I was not angry, but I admit I was bewildered and hurt. I expected him to be embarrassed, to stop and offer some explanation. But judge if you can, my utter astonishment to have him give me a little push and say, 'Please watch your step, madam.' That was all. I was literally rooted to the spot. I could not have spoken to save my life. I looked after him, open-mouthed, I do not doubt, until he was out of sight; by the time I thought of calling a cab and following him, it was too late; they had vanished, and besides, it was almost twilight and a mist was coming up. So I went home and waited for him.

  "But he did not come until long after midnight, and I had gone to bed by that time. I tried to talk to him at once, but all he said was, 'Please, Lucy, I'm very tired, very tired.' And indeed, he sounded very tired; so, feeling confident that he would explain in the morning, I lay waiting for dawn, while he slept. This morning I asked him right out for an explanation. Mr. Pons, he denied everything. He said I must have mistaken someone else for him, that I could not have seen him where I said I saw him —in short, he treated me with a kind of severe stiffness which was utterly unlike him. Mr. Pons, I am convinced that only the most serious kind of trouble would induce my husband to deny me. He does not know I have consulted you, and I do not wish him to know, lest he think I doubt him. But I must know, so that if necessity arises I can help him."

  Pons sat for what seemed a long time with his chin sunk to his breast and a frown furrowing his brow. Presently, without looking up, he asked, "Mr. Kearton has always been employed in the offices of the Beekeeper's Journal?"

  "Ever since I knew him, Mr. Pons."

  "And before that?"

  "I understand he was in the Colonial Service."

  "Where?"

  "Stationed in Calcutta. He returned to London about three years ago."

  "A man of continent habits, I take it?"

  "Yes, Mr. Pons."

  "Very well, Mrs. Kearton. I shall look into the matter."

  After she had taken her leave, Pons turned a quizzical eye on me. "What do you make of it, Parker?"

  "Clearly a case of mistaken identity."

  "What a pity you were not a police-officer, Parker! You have a distressing tendency to fall back upon the easiest solution, which is always to reject the premise. No, I think we have in Mrs. Kearton a woman of intelligence, discrimination, and determination. Such a woman is not likely to make an error in a matter which is one of such manifestly vital concern to her. We must assume then, that her story is true in every particular."

  "Well, then, it is the old story —a triangle."

  "Surely a most singular one, if so," said Pons. "Indeed, I might almost suggest that it is too unusual to be quite probable. Here is a man of the most regular habits who is suddenly found with a woman his wife does not know, and who not only by no sign betrays his wife's identity to the other woman, but denies completely all that has taken place. We can take Mrs. Kearton's word for it that her husband is in most respects a model husband; his actions of last night and this morning, then, are profoundly out of character. Why?"

  "I defer to your judgment."

  "I submit that Mr. Kearton is acting to protect one of the ladies."

  "Elementary," I said. "Why not both?"

  "I think if you will re-examine the facts, Parker, you will discover that this is no common triangle. Mr. Kearton is acting in what he conceives to be the best interests of his home."

  "Indeed, and why should he not?" I demanded. "It would be in any case the indicated course of action."

  Pons chuckled. "I think we might sound out Mr. Robin Kearton." He took out his watch and looked at it. "It is just past the lunch-hour, and I daresay he will be at his desk by the time we reach the offices of the Beekeeper's Journal. However, it would be as well if I undertook a few minor transformations, since it might give Mr. Kearton a touch of unease were he to see me in my customary garb; it is almost too much to expect that an associate editor of the Beekeeper's Journal, who would certainly be familiar with my illustrious prototype's famed monograph on bees, would not be likely to detect a slight resemblance. Let me see —a Hom- burg in place of the
fore-and-aft, pince-nez, perhaps an ascot. Come, this will do."

  We descended to the street, where Pons hailed a cab and gave the Bouverie Street address. Pons sat in thoughtful silence, his eyes half-closed, his lean face in repose. His chin was sunk in the familiar attitude, touching his breast, which was the sign of his preoccupation with the problem of the moment. I had no hope that Mrs. Kearton's puzzle was other than the customary unpleasant triangle.

  The offices of the Beekeeper's Journal were a compact suite of rooms on the second storey of a modern building. Pons had no sooner stepped across the threshold than he became a fusty bee enthusiast. He inquired after Mr. Robin Kearton, and we shortly found ourselves ushered into a small cubicle of an office, which was occupied by a man of about forty years of age. He had got up at our entrance and stood, I saw, somewhat shorter than Pons, almost by a head, which made him of medium height. He was neatly dressed, but his cravat was askew, and his hair disheveled. He was not ill-favoured in looks, with sharp grey eyes, a thin-lipped mouth, and a Roman nose. He seemed somewhat nervous.

  "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he inquired in a rasping voice.

  Pons introduced himself as a beekeeper, and me as his neighbour. He went on to say that he was in search of an article entitled, "The Role of the Queen in the Swarm"; he was under the impression that it had been published in the Beekeeper's Journal, but could not find it. A friend had mentioned Mr. Kearton's name —perhaps Mr. Kearton could help.

  "I'm afraid you have come in vain, sir," replied Kearton. "No such article has appeared in our periodical at any time during the past four years. "

  Pons affected disappointment. "I shall have to look elsewhere, then. I am sorry to have troubled you."