August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "Pons, this is madness," I protested, once Alfred Peake had gone clattering down the stairs.

  "Ah, I thought it rather ingenious myself," answered Pons. "Now I shall require only Bancroft's assistance. I shall want a government car which is not likely to be stopped between Putney and Praed Street, in case of a flaw in the arrangement."

  A few minutes after nine o'clock that night, Pons, his brother Bancroft, and I, were sitting in a darkened Daimler limousine which bore certain official insignia which would guarantee us uninterrupted passage through London. Waverton Street crossed behind us. Pons's brother had complained bitterly at Pons's tactics, but had interposed no obstruction. Within ten minutes of the time of our arrival at our post, a small army of boys in Guy Fawkes's masks, wheeling guys on barrows and in perambulators, materialized and swept down the street.

  Soon there was a veritable bedlam of noise. Doorbells were rung, the boys performed on various unmusical instruments, and ran shouting and crying from house to house. There must have been easily twenty of them or more. Pons sat unresponsive to Bancroft's muttering plaint about the discomfort he suffered; once, in the glow of my cigarette, I saw Pons's face masked with a Sphinx-like grin.

  The bedlam receded down the street and diminished.

  "Ah, they have got in," murmured Pons. "There was always the off-chance that no one would answer the assault on the door."

  Five minutes passed with interminable slowness. Ten.

  Then the bedlam resumed, sweeping back toward the corner where we waited. The noise increased, exactly as before it had diminished, and abruptly the horde of boys swept around the corner and bore straight down upon the car. In their midst stumbled one who was taller, clad in white, and apparently similarly crowned.

  Pons was out of the car in a flash.

  The boys gave way to him. Within a moment Pons was pushing his quarry into the Daimler. After them came one of the boys, who, when his mask was doffed, was revealed as Alfred Peake.

  "Mr. Stanley Pargeter, I presume," said Pons. "Allow me. Solar Pons, at your service. We are accompanied by my brother, Bancroft, whom you may know, and my companion, Dr. Lyndon Parker. Pray wrap yourself in this blanket."

  The car was already drawing away. Of the Praed Street Irregulars there was no sign; they had melted into the night.

  "They must have torn my skin, taking off those bandages," Pargeter said ruefully.

  "Sorry, sir," said Alfred. "We were in a hurry, and couldn't tell how many more men might be in the house."

  "How many were there, Alfred?" asked Pons.

  "Three, sir —not counting this one."

  "They gave you trouble?"

  "Yes, sir. The last one had a gun. The tall man opened the door. A chauffeur, he was. Whitey hit him and he went down. We met the next one on the stairs. He was fooled, too. But the last one —he was in the hall upstairs —he had the gun. He almost stopped us, but Mick Green —he's the one always reading cowboy stories from the States —he lassoed the gun. We tied him up. Then we found him here, in bed, like you guessed he might be."

  "We will hear more of this from von Grafenstein," murmured Bancroft Pons.

  "I doubt it," answered Pons. "Instruct the driver to go round and drop Alfred at his home."

  Back at 7B, Stanley Pargeter revealed himself as a thin, pale- faced young man who clearly took himself with challenging seriousness. I was able to outfit him with some clothing, and helped clear his head of the bandages which remained, for Alfred had torn away only enough of them to assure himself that he had found his quarry. Bancroft waited with mounting impatience until Pargeter could tell his story.

  He had been abducted in the simplest way imaginable. Hailing a cab, he had got in to find it already occupied. He knew nothing more until he awoke in a strange bed. Since then he had been questioned daily. At first he had been told he had had an accident; he had talked freely. But then, as the tenor of the questions became apparent to him, he had said nothing more. He had not as yet been mistreated, but there had been certain disquieting signs. Nor had he been allowed to see anyone, or even to view those who questioned him, for his eyes had been kept bandaged.

  "Now, Mr. Pargeter," said Pons, when the young man had finished his recital, "let me ask about the direction of your theories. My brother, as you know, is connected with the Foreign Office."

  Pargeter looked somewhat dubious. His pale eyes glanced from one to the other of them. "I've been ridiculed so often, Mr. Pons," he said at last, "I hardly know what to say. I'm convinced that not even this attempt to extract information from me about my line of thought will convince my superiors that it's worth following. I am exploring radical ground."

  "So much seemed apparent," said Pons. "Let me guess. I have examined some of your papers. As perhaps you know, I am not bound by the beliefs of your departmental heads. I do not recognize the impossible until all other avenues have been closed. Judging by the papers left in your home, you are working toward research tending to show that the nucleus of the atom is not necessarily always profoundly stable."

  Pargeter grinned. "Somewhere, Mr. Pons, there must be an atom with a nucleus sufficiently unstable to be fissionable."

  Pons looked toward his brother with dancing eyes.

  "I am afraid the government holds your views untenable, Mr. Pargeter," said Bancroft.

  "I know it, sir. But I'm far from convinced they are untenable. I'm certain they'll give my views no more hearing now than before."

  "I am convinced they will not," assented Bancroft.

  Pons interrupted. "You gave some of these theories to your captors, Mr. Pargeter?"

  "None of any importance, I am sure."

  "Nevertheless, would that not be a treasonable act, Bancroft?" asked Pons.

  "I believe it would," agreed Bancroft, a cunning smile beginning to show at his lips.

  "So that it might be the wisest course to charge Stanley Pargeter with giving information to foreign agents and put him under immediate detention to be held incommunicado and tried under the Official Secrets Act."

  Pargeter looked at him, startled.

  "I will have it done," said Bancroft.

  "Pray do not be alarmed, Mr. Pargeter," said Pons. "I refer to the man who has been occupying your home and your position as your double since your abduction. As for yourself, I fancy there is a gentleman in America who may appreciate your talents. If you have no objection, I will give you his name and address. Our American cousins may be less traditional in these matters than our own scientists."

  Pargeter left for the United States within a fortnight, and, as events in the years that followed amply proved, Pons was correct in his estimate of our American cousins' appreciation of Stanley Pargeter and his radical theories.

  The Adventure of the Praed Street Irregulars

  SOLAR PONS raised his head suddenly from the chess problem he had been contemplating. His feral face was alert.

  "Surely that was the scrape of a cycle against the kerb!" he said.

  "This April wind makes enough noise to drown out everything else," I answered.

  But even as I spoke, the outer door opened and banged shut, and a clatter of footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  "That's one of the boys," said Pons, referring to his Praed Street Irregulars —that little band of street urchins whom he called upon to assist him from time to time. "Alfred —he steps more heavily than Pinky or Roger."

  The door to our quarters burst open. Alfred Peake stood there, a wildness in his eyes.

  "Mr. Pons!" he cried. "The boy's gone. He's been took."

  "Come in, Alfred. Pray compose yourself. What boy is this?"

  "Our orphan, Mr. Pons. He's ours. We adopted him. Now he's been took."

  Pons pushed back his chess game, got to his feet, and went over to close the door behind Alfred. He put an arm around his thin shoulders and drew the ordinarily bright-eyed lad persuasively forward. Alfred Peake, the leader of Pons's little group of Irregulars, was now fourteen; he had grown a
scant foot in height since my first meeting with him in the delightful matter of Mr. Sidney Harris's purloined periapt.

  "Now, then, Alfred," said Pons, once Alfred was seated —even if only on the edge of a chair —and Pons was leaning against the mantel, his keen eyes searching Alfred's troubled face, "let us begin at the beginning."

  "There was this accident, Mr. Pons."

  "Where and when?"

  "In Commercial Road. Six days ago. His uncle and aunt got killed. Angel —that ain't his name, Mr. Pons, but he looks like one —he came rolling out, he seen us, and he asked us to help him. So we did. Pinky and Sid and me took him before the bobbies got there, and we put him into Fox & Sons' warehouse. We kept him there, brought him food and drink. Fair cried —he was so glad to be with us! Then tonight, when we got there —a bit late, we were —he was gone. Looked like he fought, too —things all tore up. All we found was a little spill of shag." He drew a fold of newspaper from his pocket. "Here it is, Mr. Pons."

  Pons took it, opened it carefully, and lifted a pinch of the mixture to his nostrils. "A common tobacco," he observed. "In ordinary use among labourers everywhere in London." He laid it carefully aside. "Go on, Alfred. That would have been last Tuesday. At what time of the day?"

  "Evening."

  "I see. And the accident?"

  "They got out of a cab, Mr. Pons, to cross the street. There was a car waiting there."

  "With a driver?"

  "No, sir. It had a licence plate we never saw before, Mr. Pons."

  "Not British?"

  "No, sir."

  "Go on."

  "Well, Mr. Pons, they'd just fair got out into the street when a car came down at 'em. Hit 'em both. Angel saw it coming. He threw himself backward, rolled under a car at the kerb, and right up to where we were standing. 'Quick!' he says. 'Help me get away.' So we took him right off."

  "And the car that struck his uncle and aunt?"

  "Got clean away. It never stopped, Mr. Pons."

  Pons's eyes glittered with interest. "How old would you say the boy is, Alfred?"

  "It's hard to tell, sir. Maybe eight."

  "Now, Alfred, you'll remember my little lectures on keeping your eyes and ears open. What can you tell me about this boy?"

  "Mr. Pons, he wore good clothes. I mean, a lot better than my Dad or Mum could buy. He don't talk much, but he talks funny."

  "Do you mean he doesn't speak English well?"

  "Oh, Mr. Pons, he talks better English I guess than Pinky or Sid or me. But it sounds queer when he says the words."

  "I see. An accent. Go on."

  "And he won't say anything about himself."

  "His name?"

  "Mr. Pons, Pinky come out and said, 'He looks like an angel.' And then we asked him his name and he says, 'Angel.' Mr. Pons, he's been

  took. He didn't run off. There was a rough scuffle — things knocked over—his bed all tore apart. . . ."

  "Bed?"

  Alfred looked sheepish. "We brought him some sheets and blankets and there were a lot of sacks to use under 'em. They were all scattered around. Mr. Pons, help us find him!"

  "How many of the boys have seen Angel?" asked Pons.

  "Oh, they all saw him."

  "Good. Then call the boys together and put them to work. Find out first whether anyone saw the boy brought out from Fox & Sons' warehouse. Learn if you can what conveyances were seen in the vicinity during the day. Discover whether any suspicious characters have been seen in the neighbourhood within the day before his abduction."

  Alfred grinned. "Mr. Pons, ever since that accident, the place has been fair crawling with bobbies and Scotland Yard men —I can tell them when they look like Inspector Jamison."

  Pons gazed at Alfred for a long, speculative moment, his eyes narrowed. Plainly, that agile brain had seized upon something which escaped my notice.

  "So that the boy cannot have been taken far —with such police activity. Spread out and search through Stepney. There are enough crannies in Stepney to conceal a small army. A boy would scarcely be a problem. Be off with you, set the boys to work, and come back here before midnight."

  "Thank you, sir. I knew we could count on you."

  Alfred left our quarters with alacrity, rattling down the stairs as noisily as he had come up.

  Pons bent at once to the newspapers stacked beside his chair, searching out, I guessed, last Wednesday's papers. He went through one after another, in intent silence, until at last an exclamation of satisfaction escaped him.

  "Here it is, Parker," he said, and read: " 'Fatal Accident in Stepney. A middle-aged couple were struck and killed by a speeding car in Commercial Road East late yesterday. The driver of the car involved in the accident failed to stop. The identity of the couple could not be learned. They appeared to be foreigners. A calling card picked up at the scene bore the name, Alexander Obrenovic. A police inquiry is under way.' " That tells us very little."

  "Perhaps subsequent reports will say more. Here, Parker," —he

  seized several of the week's papers arid handed them to me —"go through these, while I search the others."

  We set to work with diligence, but at the end of half an hour neither of us could discover another mention of the accident in Stepney.

  "Most singular," murmured Pons.

  "I'm not surprised," I said. "The press of international events crowds out purely local news."

  "Are we then becoming so callous that the snuffing out of two lives is of no more concern than a few casual lines in a single newspaper? I fancy not. No, Parker —there is far more to this than meets the eye."

  "Oh, come, Pons! Accidents like this take place every day."

  "I am not persuaded that it was an accident," retorted Pons. "Most of the evidence in hand is to the contrary."

  I started at him, I fear, in some astonishment, but I waited in vain for any enlightenment.

  "I submit this is a matter for my reclusive brother," he went on. "I daresay I can send him a wire that will bring him here before midnight."

  "Pons, you're joking."

  "I assure you —if ever I was so, I am serious at this moment. There is no time to be lost."

  So saying, he scrawled a message on a slip of paper, pushed it into his pocket, and came to his feet. Reaching for his deerstalker and his long grey coat, he said, "I'll take it to Edgware Road myself."

  During Pons's absence, I read over several times the brief account in the Daily Express which had evidently conveyed to my companion some intelligence I could not discover, and I hunted, again in vain, for further reference to the accident.

  When Pons returned and had doffed his outer clothing, he turned again to the little mound of tobacco Alfred Peake had brought him, busying himself briefly with magnifying glass and microscope, which told him little more than he had known before, if his expression could be taken for index to his findings.

  "A shag as strong as my own, but of greatly inferior quality," he said. "Quite possibly carried by a seaman or dock-worker —which is the most significant fact to be learned from it."

  "I don't follow you in that," I said.

  "What is important is that the boy's abductors were not foreigners, like himself. The tobacco was evidently spilled in the scuffle, or else Alfred would not have brought it here. We are thus reasonably enabled to deduce that his abductors were fellow Englishmen whose instructions were to take him alive and unharmed.''

  "You are going well beyond the boundaries of ratiocination," I cried.

  "Softly, Parker. I submit, in view of the circumstances as we are able to reconstruct them, that the elderly couple were not the prime target of the automobile that killed them, but that it was the death of the boy that was desired. It follows, then, that the abductors of the boy were not the same people who ran down his relatives, for if their goal had been the boy's death, he might as well have been killed at the warehouse!"

  "But that is monstrous, Pons!" I cried. "Who would want to kill a little boy?"

&
nbsp; "I can think of several people who might like to do so," said Pons enigmatically. He looked at his watch. "My message will be delivered by this time. It is half-past ten. It will take Bancroft less than an hour to get here."

  "Pons, perhaps I am especially obtuse this evening, but I fail to understand your conclusions."

  "Pray do not apologize. I am accustomed to it," said Pons. "Yet Alfred plainly told us that this was no ordinary accident when he said that the place swarmed with police and Scotland Yard men. Why —if not in search of the boy? The curious absence of any further mention of the accident in the papers suggests interference. I submit that only the strongest representation on the part of the government could have imposed silence upon the London newspapers. Finally, the name on the calling card. It means nothing to you?"

  "Except that it is foreign, nothing."

  "I am always happy to discover the burgeoning of deductive powers in you, Parker," said Pons dryly. "Obrenovic was the family name of the Serbian rulers in the nineteenth century; perhaps its most illustrious representative was Prince Michael III, who was assassinated in 1868."

  "As usual, it is simple when you explain it," I admitted.

  "Is it not? It should then, also, be obvious to you that the boy is now being held neither by those who have designs on his life nor by those who wish to save him, but by a third party interested solely in selling him to the highest bidder."

  "Because he isn't dead?"

  "Because, on the one hand, he was not killed on the premises," said Pons. "And on the other, he would not have struggled if friends had come to take him. His abductors were Englishmen hired by someone who correctly interpreted the events which took place in Commercial Road East six days ago."

  So saying, he lapsed into silence.

  Scarcely half an hour had passed when the door to our quarters opened noiselessly and disclosed the impressive figure of Bancroft Pons, his customary sleepy eyes glittering with anticipation, his proud, sensuous lips pressed grimly together. He walked cat-like into the room, but Pons was aware of him without turning.

  "So the Foreign Office was sufficiently interested to send you under escort," he said. "You could not have got here so quickly in any other manner."