August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "All the more pity since it puts us in so delicate a position," Pons went on.

  Bancroft Pons's eyes narrowed. "Continue," he said dryly.

  "What are we to do with the boy? Or are you suggesting that the Embassy is willing to pay us?" Pons's eyes danced mischievously.

  "Solar! You cannot mean — ! But, of course, you do mean it!"

  Pons came to his feet, strode to the bedroom door, opened it, and stood aside. "Gently, Bancroft —he sleeps. Let me introduce you to the Crown Prince."

  Bancroft looked in and withdrew. Pons closed the door again.

  "How on earth did you manage it, Solar?"

  "I fear I had to employ agents of whom you would not approve. Necessity, you know —and the urgency of the moment. Can we take Sarpedon?"

  Bancroft Pons shook his head. "No scandal. The Embassy would hope to avoid it."

  Pons sighed. "I feared as much. Another time, then. He will not forget."

  Bancroft settled himself into Pons's favourite chair. I'll just wait until he wakes, and restore him to his uneasy throne myself."

  "That may be hours, Bancroft," protested Pons, "and I don't know that I can survive the strain."

  "I'll wait," repeated Bancroft. "If we are both silent from time to time, and you can keep away from that infernal violin, we should be able to stand it. Perhaps far easier than that poor lad will find it to face his future!"

  Bancroft Pons's words were prophetic. The Crown Prince, safely returned to his parents, lived only to go into exile —but not before Pons had received a handsome gift from the Royal Family.

  The Adventure of the Penny Magenta

  FROM HIS PLACE at the window one summer morning, Solar Pons said, "Ah, we are about to have a visitor and, I trust, a client. London has been oppressively dull this week, and some diversion is long past due."

  I stepped over to his side and looked down.

  Our prospective visitor was just in the act of stepping out of his cab. He was a man somewhat past middle age, of medium height, and spare almost to thinness. He affected a greying Vandyke and eyeglasses in old-fashioned square frames. He wore a greening black bowler and a scuffed smoking-jacket, beneath which showed a waistcoat of some flowered material, and he carried a cane, though he did not walk with any pronounced impediment.

  "A tradesman," I ventured.

  "The keeper of a small shop," said Pons.

  "A drapers?"

  "You observed his clothing, Parker. His square spectacles and his walking-stick are both old-fashioned. I submit he is in antiques or something of that sort. The nature of his business is such as to permit the casual, since he evidently wears his smoking-jacket at his work."

  "Perhaps he came from his home?"

  "On the contrary. It is now ten o'clock. Sometime after he arrived at his shop this morning something occurred that has brought him to us."

  But our caller was now at the threshold, and in a moment our good landlady, Mrs. Johnson, had ushered him into our quarters. He bowed to her, and, his glance passing over me, he bowed to Pons.

  "Mr. Solar Pons?"

  "I am at your service. Pray sit down."

  Our visitor sat down to face Pons, who was now leaning against the mantel, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

  "My name is Athos Humphreys," said our client. "I have a small shop for antiques, old books, and stamps in Hampstead. Other than that I doubt your need to know."

  "Save that you are a member of the Masonic order, a bachelor or widower accustomed to living alone, without an assistant at your shop, and with insufficient business to demand your unremitting attendance there," said Pons. "Pray continue, Mr. Humphreys."

  Our client betrayed neither astonishment nor displeasure at Pons's little deductions. His glance fell to his Masonic ring, then to the torn and worn cuffs of his smoking-jacket, which no self- respecting woman would have permitted to go unmended, and finally to the lone key depending over the pocket into which he had hastily thrust his key-chain after locking his shop.

  "I'm glad to see I've made no mistake in coming to you, Mr. Pons," he continued. "The problem doesn't concern me personally, however, as far as I can determine, but my shop. I must tell you that for the past three mornings I have had indisputable evidence that my shop has been entered. Yet nothing has been taken."

  A small sound of satisfaction escaped Pons. "And what was the nature of your evidence that the shop had been entered, if nothing was taken, Mr. Humphreys?" he asked.

  "Well, sir, I am a most methodical man. I maintain a certain order in my shop, no matter how careless it looks —that is by design, of course, for an antique shop ought to have an appearance of careful disorder. For the past three mornings I have noticed — sometimes not at once on my arrival —that some object has been moved and put back not quite where it stood before. I have never discovered any way of entry; all else, save for one or two objects, remains as I left it; so I can only suppose that whoever entered my shop did so by means of the door, to which, I ought to say, I have the only key."

  "You are fully aware of your inventory, Mr. Humphreys?"

  "Positively, sir. I know every item in my shop, and there is nothing there of sufficient value to tempt anyone but a sneak thief content with small reward for his pains."

  "Yet it is patent that someone is going to considerable pains to search your shop night after night," said Pons. "A man in your business must lead a relatively sedentary life, Mr. Humphreys. Did you, immediately prior to this sequence of events, do anything at all to attract attention to yourself?"

  "No, sir."

  "Or your business?"

  "No, sir." But here our client hesitated, as if he were about to speak otherwise, yet thought better of it.

  "Something caused you to hesitate, Mr. Humphreys. What was it?"

  "Nothing of any consequence. It is true that a week ago I was forced to insert a small personal advertisement in the national press asking that relatives of the late Arthur Benefield should come forward and call on me at the shop."

  "Who was Arthur Benefield?"

  "A patron of mine."

  "Surely an unusual patron if you knew neither his address nor his heirs," said Pons. "For if you did, you would hardly have had to extend an invitation to his heirs through the columns of the papers."

  "That is correct, Mr. Pons. He left no address. He appeared at my shop for the first time about a month ago, and brought with him a manila envelope filled with loose postage stamps. He had posted the envelope to me —apparently at a branch post-office — but had then immediately retrieved it from the postmaster, evidently someone whose acquaintance he had made —and brought it in person. He appeared to be an American gentleman, and asked me to keep the stamps for him. He paid a 'rental' fee of five pounds for that service during the month following his visit. He also bought several stamps from my collection and added them to his own.

  "Mr. Benefield was run down and killed in a motor accident ten days ago. I saw his picture in one of the papers, together with a request for relatives to come forward. Let me hasten to assure you, Mr. Pons, if you are thinking that the entry to my shop has anything to do with Mr. Benefield, I'm afraid you're very much mistaken. I took the liberty of examining the contents of Mr. Benefield's envelope as soon as I learned of his death. It contains no stamp worth more than a few shillings. Indeed, I doubt very much if the entire lot of mixed stamps would command more than ten pounds."

  Pons stood for a moment in an attitude of deep thought. Then he said, "I fancy a look at the premises would not be amiss. Are you prepared to take us to your shop, Mr. Humphreys?"

  "I would be honoured to do so, Mr. Pons. I have a cab waiting below, if you care to return with me."

  Our client's was indeed a little shop. It was one of those charming, old-fashioned places not uncommon in London and its environs, standing as if untouched by time from 1780 onward. A pleasant, tinkling bell announced our entrance, Mr. Humphreys having thrown the door wide and stood aside to permit us to
pass. Then he in turn passed us, hanging his bowler on a little rack not far from the door, and throwing his keys carelessly on to his counter. His shop was crowded, and wore just that air of planned carelessness which would intrigue the searcher after curios or unusual pieces for the household. Shelves, floor, tables —all were filled with bric-a-brac, knick-knacks, and period pieces. One wall was given over to books of all kinds, neatly arranged on shelves which reached from floor to ceiling. At the far end of the shop — next to a curtained-off alcove which was evidently a small place in which our client could brew himself tea, if he liked, for the sound of a boiling kettle soon came from it —stood Mr. Humphreys's desk, a secretaire of Chippendale design.

  Our client was eager to show us how he had discovered that his shop had been entered in the night. He went directly to a Chinese vase which stood on top of a lacquered box on a table not far from the counter.

  "If you will look carefully, Mr. Pons, you will see that the position of this vase varies by a quarter of an inch from the faint circle of lint and dust which indicates where it stood before it was moved. I have not had occasion to move this piece for at least a week. Of itself, it has no value, being an imitation Han Dynasty piece. Nor has the lacquer box on which it stands. The box, I have reason to believe, has been opened. Of course, it is empty."

  Pons, however, was not particularly interested in our client's demonstration. "And where do you keep Mr. Benefield's stamps?" he asked.

  Our client went around his counter and placed his right hand on a letter-rack which stood on his desk. "Here, Mr. Pons."

  "Dear me!" exclaimed Pons, with an ill-concealed smile twitching his lips, "is that not an unorthodox place for it?"

  "It was where Mr. Benefield asked me to keep it. Indeed, he enjoined me to keep it here, in this envelope, in this place."

  "So that anyone whose eye chanced to fall upon it would think it part of your correspondence, Mr. Humphreys?"

  "I had not thought of it so, but I suppose it would be true," said Humphreys thoughtfully.

  "Let us just have a look at Mr. Benefield's collection of stamps."

  "Very well, Mr. Pons. It can do no harm, now the poor fellow is dead."

  He handed the manila envelope to Pons. It was not a large envelope — perhaps four and a half inches by six and a half or thereabouts, but it bulged with its contents, and it had been stamped heavily with British commemorative issues of larger than common size. It had been addressed to Mr. Humphreys, and the stamps on its face had been duly canceled; manifestly, if Mr. Humphreys's story were true, Mr. Benefield had had to apply to someone in the Post Office for its return to his hand, so that he could bring it in person to our client's shop. Pons studied the envelope thoughtfully.

  "It did not seem to you strange that Mr. Benefield should make such a request of you, Mr. Humphreys?"

  "Mr. Pons, I am accustomed to dealing with all manner of strange people. I suppose the collector is always rather more extraordinary in his habits and conduct than ordinary people."

  "Perhaps that is true," pursued Pons. "Still, the circumstances of your possession of this envelope suggest that it contains something of value —of such value, indeed, that its owner was extremely reluctant to let it out of his sight long enough for the postman to deliver it, and left it here only because of dire necessity."

  "But if that were true," objected our client reasonably, "what had he to gain by leaving it here?"

  "In such plain sight, too, Mr. Humphreys," said Pons, chuckling. "I submit he had to gain what he most wanted — effective concealment. There is a story by the American, Poe, which suggests the gambit —a letter hidden in a torn envelope on a rack in sight of anyone who might walk into the room. What better place of concealment for an object —let us say, a stamp —than in the letter- rack of a man who carries on a small philatelic business?"

  "Mr. Pons, your theory is sound, but in fact it doesn't apply. I have gone over the stamps in that envelope with the greatest care. I assure you, on my word as a modest authority in philately, that there is not a stamp in that collection worth a second glance from a serious collector of any standing. There is most certainly nothing there to tempt a thief to make such elaborate forays into my humble establishment."

  "I believe you, Mr. Humphreys," said Pons, still smiling. "Yet I put it to you that this is the object of your malefactor's search."

  "Mr. Pons, I would willingly surrender it to him —if he could prove he had a right to it, of course."

  "Let us not be hasty," said Pons dryly.

  So saying, he calmly opened the envelope and unceremoniously emptied its contents on to the counter before us. Then, much to our client's amazement, he bestowed not a glance at the stamps but gave his attention again to the envelope, which he now took over to the window and held up against the sunlight. The manila, however, was too thick to permit him any vision through it.

  "It would seem to be an ordinary envelope," he said. "And these stamps which were to have paid its way here?"

  "Just ordinary postage stamps, Mr. Pons."

  Pons lowered the envelope and turned to look toward the curtained alcove. "Is that not a kettle, Mr. Humphreys?"

  "Yes, sir. I keep hot water always ready for tea."

  "Let us just repair to that room, if you please."

  "It is hardly large enough for us all."

  "Very well, then. I will take the liberty of using it, and you and Parker may guard the door."

  Our client flashed a puzzled glance at me, but I could not relieve his dubiety nor inform him of Pons's purpose. That, however, was soon clear, for Pons went directly to the kettle on Mr. Humphreys's gas-ring, and proceeded without a qualm to hold the stamped corner of the envelope over the steam.

  "What are you doing, Mr. Pons?" cried our client in alarm.

  "I trust I am about to find the solution to the initial part of our little problem, Mr. Humphreys," said Pons.

  Our client suppressed the indignation he must have felt, and watched in fascinated interest as Pons finally peeled back the stamps.

  "Aha!" exclaimed Pons, "what have we here?"

  Beneath the stamps lay revealed, carefully protected by a thin square of cellophane, a shabby-looking stamp of a faded magenta colour. Indeed, it was such a stamp that, were I a philatelist, I would have cast aside, for not only was it crudely printed but it had also been clipped at the corners. Pons, however, handled it with the greatest care.

  "I daresay this is the object of the search which has been conducted of your premises, Mr. Humphreys," said Pons. "Unless I am very much mistaken, this is the famous one-penny magenta rarity, printed in British Guiana in 1856, discovered by a boy of fifteen here in our country, and originally sold for six shillings. After being in the collection of Philippe Ferrari for many years, it was sold to a rich American at auction for the fabulous price of £7,500. Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Humphreys."

  Our client, who had been staring at the stamp in awe and fascination, found his voice. "You have made no error of fact, Mr. Pons, but one of assumption. There is only one penny magenta known to exist, despite the most intensive search for others. That stamp is still in the collection of the widow of the American millionaire who bought it at the Ferrari auction in 1925. This one can be only a forgery —a very clever, most deceptive counterfeit — but still, Mr. Pons, a forgery, with only the value of a curiosity. The original would now be worth close to ten thousand pounds; but this copy is scarcely worth the labour and care it took to make it."

  Pons carefully replaced the stamps on the envelope, keeping the penny magenta to one side. Then he returned to the counter and put the loose stamps back into the envelope.

  "If you have another, larger envelope, Mr. Humphreys, put this into it, and label it 'Property of Arthur Benefield,' " instructed Pons. "I am somewhat curious now to know more of your late customer. Was he a young man?"

  "Mr. Pons, I can only show you the cutting from the Daily Telegraph. It conveys all I can tell you," replied Humphreys
.

  He went back to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out the account.

  Pons bent to it, and I looked over his shoulder.

  The photograph was that of a young man, certainly not over thirty-five. He was not ill-favoured in looks, and affected a small moustache. He appeared to be of medium build. The story beneath it indicated that the photograph had been found in his wallet, but that no address had been discovered. From the presence of American currency on him, the authorities had concluded that Benefield was an American tourist in London. They had had no response to official inquiries at the usual sources, however.

  Benefield had been found in the street one night. Evidence indicated that he had been struck and killed by a fast-traveling car; police were looking for one which must have been severely damaged by the force of the impact. Car and driver had vanished, as was to be expected.

  Pons read this in silence and handed it back to our client.

  "Our next step," he said, "will be to catch the intruder. I have no question but that he will return tonight."

  Athos Humphreys paled a little. "I should say, Mr. Pons, I am not a wealthy man. I had not inquired about your fee. . . ."

  "Say no more, Mr. Humphreys," replied Pons with animation. "If you will permit me to retain this little stamp for its curiosity value, I shall feel amply repaid."

  "By all means, Mr. Pons."

  "Very well, then. Parker and I will return here late this afternoon prepared to spend the night in your shop, if that is agreeable to you."

  "It is indeed, sir."

  We bade our client farewell and repaired to our lodgings.

  We returned to Athos Humphreys's antique shop just before his closing hour that evening. It was not without some patent misgivings that our client locked us into his premises and departed. Clearly he was doubtful of our success and perhaps concerned lest our venture result in a scuffle in the narrow confines of his premises, and concomitant damage to his stock.

  Pons had insisted that both of us be armed. In addition, he carried a powerful electric torch. So protected, we took up a cramped position concealed behind the curtain in the little alcove leading off the shop. Once we were alone, Pons warned again that our quarry was likely to be more desperate than I had imagined, and adjured me to keep my eyes on the door of the shop.