August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "An ingenious little puzzle, Parker, however elementary in final analysis."

  The Adventure of the Retired Novelist

  THOUGH SOLAR PONS does not consider it among his best adventures, the case of the late famed man of letters, Mr. Thomas Wilgreve, has always held for me a fascination of which I cannot rid myself. It was late one night in October 1926, when Pons and I were returning from Covent Garden that Pons gripped my arm, not far from our lodgings in Praed Street, brought me to a halt, and pointed upward to our windows, bright with light. Silhouetted against one of them was the profile head of a man. Pons studied it for a moment; then he turned to me with raised eyebrows.

  "Do you recognize that profile, Parker?"

  "Well, it is certainly not John Barrymore's — unless he is in disguise," I answered. I shrugged and admitted that I did not recognize him, despite the feeling that there was something very familiar about the silhouette.

  "In his own field he is a distinguished gentleman. That long, singularly lean face, that straight nose, those bushy eyebrows, and that affected mane of hair all suggest a picture reproduced in photogravure by the metropolitan papers at least once a month. What would you say if I were to suggest the author of Victoria.?"

  "Thomas Wilgreve! Of course —I knew I had seen that profile somewhere."

  "It does suggest Barrymore," admitted Pons, smiling dryly.

  In spite of his leonine and impressive appearance, Thomas Wilgreve was very taciturn and almost humble in bearing, as is the case with so many men of genuine stature who have little inclination to be pompous and self-important, and no stomach at all for arrogance. He apologized for taking the liberty to invade our rooms, singling out Pons by the same means used by Pons to identify him, and explained that it was very seldom that he left his home in St. John's Wood and that, once having left it, he was loath to return without accomplishing what he had set out to do. He waited while Pons and I took off our outer clothing, and then a little diffidently resumed.

  "What I came to see you about was to ask whether you can investigate a small matter that seems to concern me in some inexplicable manner."

  Pons hesitated, avoiding Wilgreve's inquiring eyes. "I should say it depends upon the nature of the affair."

  "I've an idea that this matter will interest you, Mr. Pons," said the retired novelist. "It takes a bit to stir me, for I'm used to the most intricate subtleties and variations of writing and the imagination, and ordinary events appear to me for the most part singularly banal."

  The novelist paused and took from his wallet a piece of paper. He put on his pince-nez, and read it over very carefully to himself, as if to make certain beyond question that he had got the right paper. Then he passed the paper on to Pons, who read it and handed it over to me, after which he took it back and studied it, an enigmatic smile playing over his saturnine face. The document was a short, informal note, an invitation —

  "MY DEAR WLLGREVE,

  "I am briefly up from the country, and have but a limited time at my disposal. Yet I do want to see you very much. I find it absolutely impossible to run out to St. John's Wood, but I hope you will not find it too much trouble to join me for dinner and perhaps the evening on Friday, the seventh. I will wait for you at Claridge's, the usual place.

  "LAKIN."

  "Lakin is the Essex novelist and poet," said Pons thoughtfully. "I take it you went, he was not there, he had not been there, he was not up from the country."

  "Yes, yes, exactly," said Wilgreve, smiling delightedly. "Your talents are amazing, sir —but of course, it is elementary, is it not? It would almost have to be so, would it not? Well, that is the way things turned out; I went, he was not there, he had not been there, no word had been left, I waited a reasonable time, I returned home. I made no attempt to solve the riddle; I was annoyed, I thought someone had taken the opportunity to make a joke at my expense. Yet I had to admit that it was well done; the writing was very much like Lakin's —I had never a doubt of it when I read it. It was, in sort, precisely the kind of note Lakin would have written; next day I telephoned him, and discovered, as you guessed, that he had not been in London at all."

  He became a little more animated, taking off his pince-nez and leaning forward to tap Pons's knee. "Now then, Mr. Pons —almost two weeks later, that is, last night —an extraordinary event took place. I had come out to the front steps for a breath of air, when I was a witness to a sudden accident —or rather, to what appeared to be an accident. Before I quite knew what had happened, two gentlemen came running to where I stood and insisted that I accompany them as a material witness, the child's life might be in danger, not a moment was to be lost. I did not hesitate, despite my reluctance; I stepped back into my house, turned out the light, and pausing only to take my hat, I accompanied them. I see now on mature reflection that it was a foolhardy thing to do; but in the excitement of the moment, what more natural! In any case, I was hustled into a waiting car and driven a short distance, where I was taken into what appeared to be a small waiting-room, where one of the gentlemen very courteously asked me to stop, an officer would be along to take my statement as soon as possible. Then, in a very agitated manner, he vanished into an inner room. I saw no one for an hour; then I got up and tried the inner door; it was locked; my knocks brought no response. I tried the outer door in some alarm, thinking that I was the victim of some scheme; but it was open, I was free to go. Naturally, I did not know what to do; I confess that 1 waited a while longer, and then took my departure, utterly mystified.

  "When I let myself into my house, Mr. Pons, I took off my hat in the darkness and then went over to turn on the lamp. Now, sir, my reading light is a table-lamp with a green shade; it throws a strong light within the room, but seems to throw only a subdued glow to anyone outside. As I reached down for the switch, I was aware of a warm glow; I touched the bulb —it was warm —as warm as if it had just been put out. Yet I had turned it out approximately two hours before! Hurriedly I checked all the doors and windows, but nothing was amiss; all were locked save the front door through which I had come."

  "Ah!" exclaimed Pons, his eyes narrowing, the smile on his lips persisting.

  "I thought you would be interested, Mr. Pons. Now, then, after I had made this search, I observed that the door to the attic stood open. I live in a one-storey bungalow with an attic of good size. I do not keep much in the attic —some books, papers, magazines —the natural accumulation of anyone in my profession; and some of the old furniture that was in the house when I bought it. This furniture had been pulled around, despite some manifest effort to conceal the fact."

  Pons touched his earlobe thoughtfully. "When did you buy the house?"

  "About ten and a half years ago."

  "You bought it furnished, apparently. From whom?"

  "From the executors of an estate."

  "Whose estate?"

  "I believe it was a widow's —a Mrs. Paul Greenbie."

  A smile touched Pons's lips, and his interest manifestly grew. "You say you kept 'some' of the old furniture in the attic. What did you do with the rest of it?"

  "I sold it to a dealer in Cheapside. As far as I know, he still has it."

  "The address of your place, if I recall it correctly, is Seven Cavendish Road."

  Wilgreve nodded.

  "I take it you are aware of no enemies who might choose this way of troubling you?"

  Wilgreve shrugged. "None. People who differ from my ideas, of course, and who can be bitter; but no one who could be called an enemy."

  Pons produced the letter once more. "Do you have the envelope in which this was posted?"

  Apologetically, Wilgreve surrendered it.

  "Now, just let us see what we can make of this," pursued Pons, scrutinizing the paper and envelope carefully. "The writing is effortless; so that it is not too much to suppose the gentleman an accomplished forger. It is certainly no task to find samples of Lakin's writing, but more of one to copy it expertly enough to take in an old friend. We may a
ssume that the writer, aided by a confederate, is anxious to obtain entrance to your house without needlessly setting you on his track. If this were not so, he could very easily have invaded your home, bludgeoned you, and gone about his nefarious business without troubling about the consequences. No, for a very good reason, he did not wish you to know that he had an interest in your premises, and he went to considerable pains to deceive you — witness this forged note, and even more, the obviously staged accident.

  "Moreover, he has studied your habits; he will have known you are of a retiring and sedentary nature, and so contrived ingeniously to decoy you away from the house. Whatever it is he wants there remains to be discovered."

  "But that is what is puzzling," interrupted Wilgreve. "I own no valuables, I do not keep money in the house, my manuscripts are given to charitable institutions for sale —I have nothing of value."

  "Does not then the possibility suggest itself that you may possess something of value without being aware of it?" asked Pons.

  "No, sir," answered Wilgreve with alacrity. "I am fairly well informed in the matter of antiques and the like; I own nothing of value save a few signed first editions —and these, you will admit, have at best a fluctuating value."

  Pons nodded, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He held paper and envelope up to the light. "Posted in St. John's Wood, I see. This would suggest that you or your house at least have been kept under observation. A good grade of paper, too."

  "Yes, it is precisely the kind Lakin uses."

  "Indeed! What care!" said Pons, shaking his head. "Tell me, Mr. Wilgreve, how many people would you say were involved in the 'accident' you supposedly witnessed?"

  "Why, I suppose five or six — "

  "The writer, his confederate, and perhaps four cronies —or actors employed for the occasion. Most likely actors. Could you identify any of them?"

  "I doubt it," replied Wilgreve. "The two gentlemen who approached me, perhaps, but no more."

  Pons was now silent for so long that Wilgreve was finally moved to inquire whether or not he would undertake to investigate the matter. But clearly Pons had already made his decision; he nodded and asked for the name and address of the dealer to whom Wilgreve had sold the furniture.

  "T. Woodly & Sons, 231A Cheapside."

  "Now, then, Mr. Wilgreve, I shall want to examine your attic."

  "I will expect you tomorrow, Mr. Pons."

  "The matter may be more urgent than you think. There is no time like the present, Mr. Wilgreve. Come along, Parker."

  He came to his feet with animation, brushing aside Wilgreve's doubt, and reached for his Inverness.

  The novelist's home was easily identified from his description of it, not so much because his description had been so explicit, but because it was the only house on the street which was obviously of one storey. It was tastefully but simply furnished, but Pons scarcely glanced around him, merely flicking his eyes toward the lamp which Wilgreve said was warm to his touch; he went directly to the attic stairs and vanished into the darkness of that room under the roof, both Wilgreve and myself following to the threshold, from which we observed Pons using his pocket-flash to make the most careful examination of the furniture stored there, painstakingly scrutinizing piece after piece, without a word in our direction, until he had finished almost an hour later.

  "Have you discovered anything?" asked Wilgreve when he came toward us.

  "Yes. Within a few days you may expect an inquiry about that part of the furniture you sold."

  "Shall I answer it?"

  "By all means," said Pons, smiling cryptically.

  Then, pressing the novelist to lose no time in notifying Pons if any further suspicious circumstances designed to take him from his home took place —though clearly he doubted that anything further would happen —he bade him good-night, and we left the house.

  Upon reaching our lodgings once more, Pons sat for some time in cogent silence. He looked at the letter which he had retained, examined the envelope repeatedly, observing casually that the writer had been in dress-clothes, for a smear of ink carried the impression of a weave with which he was familiar, and finally ended his period of thought by telephoning the director of Actors' Services, late as the hour was, and asking that four or five actors who could reenact a street accident — preferably someone who had done similar work before —be sent to Praed Street in the morning. Saying nothing further about Thomas Wilgreve's curious narrative, he then retired.

  Promptly at nine o'clock the following morning, three men and a woman from Actors' Services presented themselves at Number Seven. Pons was waiting for them, and lost no time in examining them. Had any one of them done anything of the sort before? Three had not, but one gentleman said that he had been required to take part in the re-enactment of an accident in St. John's Wood only two nights ago. Clearly, this was what Pons had expected; he dismissed the other three with their fees, and bade Mr. Nickerton, the fourth member of the group, to sit down.

  "Now, sir, I want to place before you six photographs. I want you to study them. I want you to tell me whether you have ever seen any one of those faces before."

  Nickerton's lined face betrayed his perplexity, but he did not demur while Pons went to the cabinet where he kept his files of data on crimes and criminals, a practise fairly common among both professional and amateur detectives in London, as well as the custom of the police. From his files he took the photographs in question and, without a word, came back to the table and arranged them before Mr. Nickerton.

  The actor thereupon studied them in silence for some time; four of them he discarded immediately; of the other two, he was clearly not certain. Pons began to fidget a little, tugging at the lobe of his ear, and finally he could contain himself no longer.

  "Well, it is perfectly obvious that you detect some similarity, Mr. Nickerton. Perhaps it would help if you looked at those faces as if they wore moustaches or beards —whatever it is that impedes your identification."

  Mr. Nickerton's response was prompt. "If this gentleman wore a moustache, I would say it was he who directed the re-enactment of the accident in which I took part last Wednesday."

  "Capital!" exclaimed Pons, obviously pleased.

  Forthwith he permitted Mr. Nickerton to take his leave, while he put all but the identified photograph back into his files. I reached over and took up the photograph; it was that of a distinguished- looking man of middle age, wearing a monocle, full-faced and keen of eye.

  "And who is this?" I asked.

  "You may well inquire," answered Pons, chuckling. "It is none other than the author of Mr. Wilgreve's curious tale —Guy Pilkington, one of the most accomplished forgers in England, if not, indeed, in Europe. He was released from prison only a few months ago. He had forged a cheque on the Bank of England, and would have got away scot-free if he had not had the bad fortune to become involved in an accident on the road to Dover."

  "What can he want of Wilgreve?"

  "I think that is reasonably elementary, Parker," said Pons shortly. "He was a one-time associate of Culross Parey, who died in prison about eight years ago. You will remember Parey as the star performer in many a celebrated and daring theft. He was imprisoned for the theft of the Peacock's Eye; you will remember he went boldly to the house of its owner, presented a demand in its owner's writing, and made off, in the character of a diamond merchant, with the stone. A child's chance photograph of the house while he stood on the steps was the one piece of evidence too damning for him to overcome. Parey was a brother of Mrs. Paul Greenbie. But come," he said, suddenly animated, "we have work to do. Let us be off."

  We had not far to go, for Pons led the way to the Praed Street station, and there we took the Underground. At Moorgate we came up once more into the morning's now thinning mists, and walked down Princess Street to Cheapside. Pons had no difficulty locating Number 231 A, and briskly entered the shop.

  A rotund little man wearing a skullcap and octagonal glasses rose from his place behin
d a counter, and came around to confront us.

  "Mr. T. Woodly, I presume?" inquired Pons.

  "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

  "I am Solar Pons, Mr. Woodly. Some time ago you purchased some furniture from Thomas Wilgreve, the novelist, of St. John's Wood. If you are still in possession of those pieces, I should like to examine them."

  "They are very ordinary pieces, Mr. Pons," said Woodly dubiously. "I can show you many better things."

  "No doubt. But it is these pieces I wish to see. I take it you still have them?"

  "Lot forty-seven, Mr. Pons. You'll find it ticketed if you go down the shop and turn into the room at the right. There are only four pieces —an old armchair, a sofa, and two occasional chairs."

  "Thank you. I'll just go along and look at them."

  Forthwith Pons strode into the darkness of the shop's rear, turned to the right at the end of the little more than passage which made up the width of 231A, and found himself in a sizable storeroom. With the aid of his pocket-flash, he located lot number 47, and thereupon he began to scrutinize the furniture with the same microscopic care with which he had looked at those pieces remaining in Wilgreve's attic. Not a sound escaped him, save only a small cry of interest, followed by the appearance of his head above the back of the armchair, to caution me to watch for Mr. Woodly. I saw him take from his pocket the ponderous pocket-knife which was all things to Pons and begin to work at the fastenings of the chair, but what he did there, I could not see; however, in a few moments he left his place and came whispering to me for a scrap of paper, which I tore from my notebook and gave to him. I saw him last writing something on the paper, after which he completed his work on the furniture and joined me.

  Mr. Woodly waited for us. "Well, sir, you found it as I told you, eh? Quite ordinary. I have some good Sheraton. ..."

  "Thank you, Mr. Woodly, but I am not interested at this time. However, I daresay you will shortly have a further inquiry about this furniture, and unless I am very badly mistaken you will have a handsome offer for it. By all means get as much as you can for it; the purchaser will be very anxious to possess the lot."