August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "Not at all, sir. If we can be of service, do not hesitate to call on us."

  Though he spoke earnestly, it was patent that Kearton was not anxious to detain us. Thanking him, Pons made his way from the building; in every gesture and mannerism, he was the picture of what he pretended to represent. Once outside, he did not call a cab, but set out on foot, his expression one of cogent thought. He did not speak until several minutes and several streets had been passed.

  "What did you make of him, Parker?" he asked at last.

  "He appeared to be somewhat agitated and preoccupied," I ventured.

  "Yes, yes —so much was immediately apparent. And to such a degree that he seemed unable to remember that the article about which I made inquiry was published in the Journal seven months ago. What else?"

  "I fear that nothing else of significance was evident to me."

  "Indeed! For my part, I thought it obvious that he has not always been employed in this kind of position. His hands indicated that they had at one time been quite severely callused. Yet he was presumably in 'the Colonial Service,' according to his wife. Surely that is ambiguous, is it not? One hardly conceives that someone in 'the Colonial Service' should be doing menial work. More likely he was employed in some capacity other than that which his wife assumes him to have been; we are not told that these were his words. Very well. He was employed in Calcutta at some occupation rougher than his present one. A man of some sensibilities, so much is clear. His return to London is followed by his courtship of and marriage to the lady who is now his wife. She maintains that he has been a 'perfect husband,' to use her own words. Now, then, either she is right or she is not."

  "She could have been deceived."

  "You think him a man who could readily deceive his wife?"

  "A woman in love," I said, "and later in life, at that. . . ."

  Pons smiled. "Have you ever tried to deceive a woman for any length of time, Parker? I daresay you would not find it so easy as to justify your glib assumption. No, I think Mrs. Kearton has basis for her statement. He was in every respect a perfect husband; yet he did something last night which was grotesquely out of character. We are left to assume that if he reflects for her the same feelings she reflects for him, he was compelled to take the course he did in order to protect her from some knowledge he believed must be inimical to her or to both of them."

  "A past robbery, perhaps —or murder?"

  "Dear me!" exclaimed Pons, smiling wryly. "Those are harsh words, Parker. I should hardly have thought him capable of either. No, I fancy it is something a little more complicated. I should like at the moment to have a look at Mr. Kearton's bank account, and particularly his withdrawals of the past forty-eight hours."

  "Blackmail!" I exclaimed.

  "Ah, you are astute, Parker. We shall see. However, since that seems out of my ken for the present, I shall doubtless have to content myself with an examination of the past week's ship registry."

  With this enigmatic statement he was silent. Presently he tired of walking, summoned a cab, and we were driven back to Number 7B, Praed Street, where Pons immediately lost himself in a careful examination of the ship registry of the Journal of Commerce.

  Next morning, when I rose, I found that Pons had preceded me. He sat at the breakfast-table studying the Daily Mail, his breakfast half eaten and the dishes pushed aside. His ascetic face was intense, he fingered the lobe of his left ear, as he customarily did when preoccupied, and he did not look up at my entrance. Yet he had noticed me.

  "Ah, good-morning, Parker. Just step round and take a look at this, will you?"

  I did so. Looking over his shoulder, I found myself gazing upon a photograph of a dark-haired woman. The caption read: Mystery Woman Dead in Thames. Is She Lilli Morrison?

  "An interesting face, is it not?" pursued Pons.

  I agreed. "Black hair, swarthy —a half-breed, perhaps?"

  "I believe so."

  "Those are foreign earrings, too. Gold bands or bars —or imitation."

  "Exactly," said Pons, chuckling. "Now pray cast your memory back to yesterday morning's visitor, Parker."

  "Mrs. Kearton?"

  "Allow me to recall her words to you. When she described the woman with whom she saw her husband she said —'very dark of complexion, almost swarthy, with black hair and something gold or imitation gold in her ears. She seemed somewhat foreign. . . ."

  "It would be more than a coincidence," I protested.

  "No, no, not at all," answered Pons at once. "It is the natural sequence of events. It is she. I have had Mrs. Kearton on the telephone; she has identified her. I should add that she and her husband saw the picture almost simultaneously."

  "Aha! And she watched his reaction!"

  "You are leaping ahead of the story. She did. There was no reaction. But she observed, as he set out for the office, that his step seemed considerably lighter and that he had relinquished somewhat the burden which he had carried secretly since the day before yesterday." He pushed the paper away from him and got up, beginning to take off his dressing-gown. "I fancy another visit to Mr. Kearton is in order as soon as you have had breakfast —and if I am not mistaken, here is Mrs. Johnson now with your eggs and bacon."

  Even as he spoke the pleasant, homely face of our landlady appeared in the doorway, followed by her plump person. She greeted me, as usual, and eyed with grave disapproval the remains of Pons's breakfast, while depositing my own before me. But, wise woman that she was, she made no protest, save for the sigh with which she gathered up the dishes and took her departure while I fell to with a hearty appetite.

  Pons once more assumed the guise of the inquiring beekeeper of yesterday, and, so appareled, he sallied forth. "Unless I am much in error," he said in the cab which carried us to Bouverie Street, "we shall find Mr. Kearton a man of somewhat altered mien from the gentleman we encountered yesterday."

  In this, Pons was not mistaken. The man into whose presence we were ushered this morning was an entirely different individual from the somewhat agitated and unkempt man of yesterday. He was immaculate in dress, his hair was combed, and the moment we appeared on the threshold, he leaped to his feet and advanced upon Pons with an extremely apologetic manner.

  "My dear sir—I am glad to see you back," he said without

  preamble. "I fear I did you a grave disservice yesterday when I told you that we had published no such article as 'The Role of the Queen in the Swarm.' We did indeed publish it, and within the year."

  "I have it, Mr. Kearton, thank you," said Pons. "This morning, however, I have a slightly different problem."

  "I am at your service, sir."

  "It is something I am most desirous of knowing, if you can remember."

  A faint frown appeared on Kearton's forehead, but he did not interrupt.

  "This morning," said Pons, with the same dignified and fusty air, "I want to know if at any time on the evening before last, you observed anyone following you and the lady who was in your company at that time."

  The effect on Robin Kearton was instantaneous. He had seated himself, but now he half rose from his chair, his lower jaw dropped, and the colour drained from his face. This reaction, however, lasted but a moment. He pressed his lips firmly together once more, sat down slowly, and eyed Pons with intent interest.

  "You have the advantage of me, sir," he said finally.

  "I confess I am more accustomed to a deerstalker and Inverness than to pince-nez and ascot, Mr. Kearton."

  "Mr. Solar Pons!" cried Kearton.

  "It is I who am at your service, Mr. Kearton. How did you pay the woman —in currency or by cheque?"

  "I gave her a cheque."

  "Sizable, no doubt?"

  "Two hundred pounds. Yet not as large as it would have been had she known that I had married again."

  "Your first wife, then. You were not divorced?"

  "Mr. Pons, I thought her dead. She left me two years before I left Calcutta. A year later I received a note by the hand of the m
an with whom she had run away. He wrote that she had died in Ahmedabad, and returned an inscribed watch-fob which was my property. I do not know whether she had managed to deceive him by some means or whether she had been believed dead. My life with her was somewhat worse than hell."

  "So I would have assumed."

  "Enough so to make me appreciate Lucy. I wanted to spare her."

  "I think, though, that there is now no longer any danger to your marriage from your first wife. I should lose no time, therefore, in

  telling Mrs. Kearton everything without a moment's further delay. You paid the woman by cheque. I submit that in all probability she had not cashed it by the time of her death. If the cheque was found on her, the Metropolitan Police will shortly be around to ask you some questions. It seems inevitable that your relationship with her will be uncovered in good time. Quite possibly, before many days have passed, you will be arrested for her murder. Mrs. Kearton, therefore, should be forewarned."

  "Great Scott!" exclaimed Kearton in alarm.

  "Let me remind you —I asked you previously whether or not you were followed when you were with your first wife."

  "Of course. Lilli had someone keep an eye on us. A brute of a fellow with a scarred lip and a dark moustache. I took him for a sailor or a dock-worker, as I myself once was. She would hardly trust me, knowing what she meant to threaten."

  Pons got up. "Very good, Mr. Kearton. Let us not detain you longer."

  "I am going straight to Lucy and tell her everything. But if I may ask, Mr. Pons —how does it happen — " A light broke in upon him. "I see! I see it all —Mr. Pons, it was Lucy! Lucy came to you!"

  "You are blessed with a most devoted wife, Mr. Kearton. She merits your trust."

  "Indeed, I know she does!" cried Kearton, reaching for his hat.

  "Now, then," said Pons, once we had returned to Praed Street, "I shall have to devote a little time to a more onerous kind of inquiry, and in somewhat less reputable attire.

  So saying, he began to rummage about for the most disgraceful old clothing he could find. I watched him in silence for a few moments. He looked up, his eyes twinkling, and added, "I daresay it would take a hell of living with a she-cat to turn a man into a perfect husband, eh, Parker?"

  "If the woman was what he suggests she was, I can't blame him," I said. "But he ought to have made sure he got his cheque back."

  Pons laughed heartily, while he divested himself of his clothes. "What a wonderful trust of your fellow-men you betray, Parker! Between you, you and Inspector Jamison will have him in irons by nightfall!"

  When Pons returned that evening, he was silent as to where he had been. Nevertheless, it was evident that he had been in Limehouse or Wapping, or some area close to the Thames and the sea, for there was about him an indefinable odour of damp which is never quite dissipated for some hours after leaving the seashore, a kind of moisture which permeates clothing and thus heightens the natural smells of cloth.

  He changed clothes and made himself comfortable in his dressing-gown and slippers. He assured Mrs. Johnson, who made anxious inquiry, that he wanted no meal; he had eaten and was content. She went back downstairs, lamenting that he was determined to starve himself, that he grew thinner every day—which assuredly he did not —and that someday she would find him emaciated in his bed.

  Pons's amusement at this proprietary concern of our landlady was cut short by a sudden assault on our front door, the rattle of footsteps on the stairs, and the unceremonious entry of Mrs. Robin Kearton, pale, disheveled, and tearful.

  "Oh, Mr. Pons," she cried, "forgive me —but they have taken Robin away."

  "Do sit down, Mrs. Kearton, and dispel your alarm. Have they arrested him?"

  "No —not yet. They've detained him for questioning."

  "And the detaining officer?"

  "An Inspector Jamison. Is it possible —do you know him?" she asked hopefully.

  "My dear lady, I assure you Mr. Kearton is in no danger. May I ask —has he explained the circumstances to you?"

  "He has told me all about the wretched woman. But he did not kill her, Mr. Pons, I swear he did not. I would know, if he had."

  I looked at her with pity. Nor did Pons say anything further to her. He looked at me and suggested that I telephone Inspector Jamison and tell him that he might learn something to his advantage if he would step around to Number 7B. "You might add that it concerns the murder of Lilli Morrison. That will fetch him."

  In less than an hour Inspector Jamison made his appearance — bluff and hearty as ever, his carefully trimmed moustache fairly bristling with suspicion, which was heightened at sight of Mrs. Kearton, who sat now, pale but composed, at some distance from the fireplace, where Pons himself waited upon Jamison.

  "Pray draw up a chair, Jamison," said Pons. "Will you have a cup of tea? We have just been having some fine Darjeeling, Mrs. Kearton, Parker, and I. No? You know Mrs. Kearton, of course."

  "I have the pleasure of her acquaintance," said Jamison, not without a faint trace of embarrassment.

  Mrs. Kearton nodded politely, but did not trust herself to speak. She sat with her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

  "I'm afraid, Pons, this time you're a little late," began Jamison.

  "Dear me," murmured Pons imperturbably, "do not say so. I hope you have not given out anything in the nature of a statement in the Lilli Morrison matter?"

  "Not yet."

  "Ah, how wise to be cautious!"

  "Pons, it is absolutely wide-open, cut and dried," said Jamison. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kearton."

  "Of course it is," agreed Pons. "But it is not cut quite the way you have cut it. Kearton did not murder Lilli Morrison. I concede that it was he who had the obvious motive, certainly; who would deny it? Not he, I venture to guess. But not even he would be so muddled as to allow her to retain the cheque by which you traced him. No, the murderer of Lilli Morrison is a man named Amos Sakrisan, a half-breed, like herself, first mate of the Prince of Hyderabad, scheduled to set out from the East India Docks tomorrow morning. He is a dark man with a moustache, black and unkempt, a scar on his lower lip at one corner of his mouth, and he walks with a slight limp. He is excitable and dangerous. He carries a knife and will not hesitate to use it just as he did on Lilli Morrison when he found out she had no intention of coming back to the ship which brought her here.

  "You see, Robin Kearton was not the only man Lilli Morrison ran away from. He was only the first. Once back in London, she found Kearton, who thought her dead. I daresay it was simple enough to do so, since his name is listed in the telephone book at his office as well as his home. She telephoned his office, where she correctly assumed he would be. She meant to blackmail him and had no intention of returning to Sakrisan, who had brought her from India as his wife. Kearton, now married, knew that the pressure she could bring upon him if she found out how happily married he was would be unbearable, took every means to keep her from discovering his marital status, even to the extent of cutting his wife dead when he met her face to face while he was in the woman's company. Kearton saw the man who murdered Lilli Morrison in fury and jealousy, but he assumed it was some creature of hers, guarding her, to keep her from any possible harm Kearton might do her."

  Pons turned to Mrs. Kearton. "I am sure, Mrs. Kearton, though Inspector Jamison has no time to lose, he can find it possible to see you home so that you will be there when your husband returns. I

  understand that perfect husbands are an increasing rarity in our time."

  Jamison came to his feet with alacrity. "I am in your debt, Pons." He turned to Mrs. Kearton, somewhat awkwardly, and offered her his arm. "If I may, madam?"

  A month after the successful prosecution and conviction of Amos Sakrisan, Pons received an exquisitely carved plaque, showing a pair of doves in the traditional billing pose, surmounted by a queen bee and the initial "K."

  The Adventure of the Dog in the Manger

  "No, PARKER," said Solar Pons quietly, without turning around, "I fanc
y you will not find him in Burke. He might conceivably merit a few lines in some theatre directory. But it is a tribute to the energetic self-adulation and self-seeking publicity habits of the late Ahab Jepson that you should think of looking for him in the Peerage."

  Despite years of experience with the astonishing deductions of my friend, Solar Pons, the private inquiry agent who has become known as "the Sherlock Holmes of Praed Street," I had not learned to conceal either my surprise or my sometimes nettled admiration. I protested. "I've not spoken a word in the last hour. You can't even see me now. How did you know I was about to look up Ahab Jepson?"

  Pons made a clucking sound of disapproval. "Dear me, these elucidations seem so needless. At breakfast you read with manifest interest The Times's account of the murder of Ahab Jepson, a minor actor on the London and sometime provincial stage. An hour later, you tossed away the Daily Telegraph, folded to the page of new plays in review. You rose and walked to the shelf where I am accustomed to keeping the Peerage. No other conceivably useful reference book is kept there. Surely it is most elementary to infer that the reviews in the Daily Telegraph reminded you of Ahab Jepson's murder and sent you to attempt the expansion of your knowledge in regard to the victim?"

  "The paper's account was extremely sparse."

  "I could not help observing it." He turned with a twinkle in his keen, dark eyes. "I doubt that Mr. Jepson would have liked his 'notice.' "

  "You speak of him as if he were an unsavoury fellow," I protested.

  "Not at all. He was hardly more than a troublesome poseur. Our American cousins have a most apt word to describe an actor of Ahab Jepson's histrionic pretensions; in both of its forms, it is a major item in the American diet. The word is 'ham.' "

  " 'Troublesome'?" I repeated.

  "He made trouble for almost everyone who had dealings with him. As the son of the distinguished tragic actor, the late Sir Hesketh Jepson, young Ahab conceived that he had a proprietary right not only in such plays as his father wrote, but also in his late father's methods of delivery on stage, his ideas, even his gestures. Ahab, if I recall correctly, once tried to write a play himself—a poor thing, and alas! his very own. Surely you remember the number of actions Jepson instigated against fellow actors whom he accused of invading his proprietary rights by using gestures and methods of delivery similar to those common to his late father? He won none of them, of course, but he was no less a nuisance in chancery with his 'dog in the manger' attitude."