August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1

by August Derleth

  "And now the room upstairs, if you please," he said.

  In a few minutes we stood in a gracious, sunlit bedroom which was the very antithesis of a murder chamber. The room contained a large double bed immediately adjacent to the window; if this were the position of the bed at the time of the death of the two Grice- Patersons, I could not help thinking how immoderately convenient it was for any murderous dacoit. Pons must have been thinking along similar lines, for he crossed at once to the window and leaned out to test the strength of the creepers, the heady perfume of the flowers of which wafted into the room as soon as he opened the window.

  "They look as if they would bear the weight of a small man," I could not help saying.

  "They would bear an eight-stone man," replied Pons.

  "My grandfather planted them when he inherited the estate, just after grandmother's death in Malaya. He was on his first visit home," explained our client. "We naturally thought of someone's climbing them to come in through the window, but there was no mark on them, and the creepers would surely carry some sign of having been climbed, Mr. Pons."

  "It is reasonable to assume so —in all but an exceptional case. These windows, too, were open on those lethal dates?"

  "I believe so, Mr. Pons. I remember the questions that were asked when my uncle was found. I was seventeen then, as I told you."

  "And your brothers?"

  "They were sixteen and fourteen."

  Pons stood looking about, but there was nothing to be seen, for the room was spotlessly clean. Then he appeared to come to a sudden decision. "Can it be arranged for us to spend the night in this room, Miss Grice-Paterson?"

  "Why, yes, Mr. Pons. I had expected to put you into the west wing —but perhaps you would have greater privacy here."

  "Thank you. We'll try this room for a night or two."

  For the next few hours, Pons wandered through The Creepers, questioning the servants and making a vain attempt to inquire about certain events of the Grice-Paterson brothers, who remained patently unwilling to be of any assistance, a circumstance I regarded with the gravest suspicion, though Pons shrugged it off. He walked about the gardens and lawns, marveling at the variety of exotic plants, shrubs, and trees which abounded there —the fruit of the late Colonel Sir Ronald Grice-Paterson's industry. Indeed, so overgrown was the estate that it seemed almost as if the one-time Governor-General of Malaya had sought to create here on this island off the coast of Cornwall a home reproducing, as far as the climate permitted, his residence in the Malay States. Nor was Pons content with the environs of the house; he wandered all over the island, pausing in the little harbour village, quite as if he were on holiday instead of busy at an inquiry into as dreadful a crime as either of us had encountered for a long time.

  Our lunch we had eaten alone. Our dinner was taken with the family. This proved to be an extremely uncomfortable meal for all but Pons, for the Grice-Paterson brothers took no pains to conceal their animosity to us. Pons, however, affected not to notice. Now and then he turned to one or the other of them with a question.

  "Tell me," he said to Avery on one occasion, "were you aware of the terms of your late grandfather's will?"

  "You're fishing for motive, aren't you, Mr. Pons?" answered Avery hostilely. "You should realize, sir, we've had enough scandal without your meddling."

  "The question, Mr. Grice-Paterson," insisted Pons, his enthusiasm for the leg of lamb on his plate not at all diminished by Avery's manner.

  "Answer him," said our client angrily.

  "I was," said Avery sullenly.

  And to Richard, later, Pons said, "I cannot escape the impression that neither of you cared very much for Lt. Hanwell."

  "Oh, we didn't," answered Richard. "We're solitaries, my brother and I. And you'll find, if you dig deep enough, Mr. Pons, that when I was a boy I could get up and down those creepers like a monkey. Without trace," he added with heavy sarcasm.

  Pons thanked him gravely, and continued to show no annoyance when all his other questions were similarly treated by the brothers.

  Not until we were once more in the room in the east wing, following that stiff, uncomfortable meal, did Pons relax his insistent casualness.

  "Now, then, Parker, have you given up that fancy of yours about the stolen idol and the dacoit?"

  "No, Pons, I haven't," I answered firmly. "I can think of no other theory which fits the facts so well. Yet I concede that there is the little matter of the succession — I've failed no more than you to notice that, except for Miss Grice-Paterson's fiance —and perhaps he, too, indirectly —each of these deaths has furthered the succession of the estate."

  "Ah, death always furthers something of the kind," said Pons. "Would that not make the ultimate author of these murders, to your mind, then Aram Malvaides?"

  "Who else? Mark this —he alone of all the parties who have an interest in the Grice-Paterson estate was present on the occasion of each murder. The boys were not."

  "Ah, that is well reasoned, Parker," admitted Pons.

  Thus encouraged, I went on. "If Miss Grice-Paterson had married, there might be still more heirs to dispose of."

  "You conceive of his wanting to eliminate everyone who stood between him and the inheritance?"

  "Would it not have to be all or none?"

  "Indeed it would, if your theory were tenable. But why wait so long between crimes, when he is not growing younger?"

  "No one knows the dark mind of the murderer."

  "And just how did he manage to gain entry without leaving a clue?" pressed Pons. "Pray spare me that dacoit, Parker. I find it inconceivable that a convenient dacoit would be standing by on call to suit the whims of so reluctant a murderer."

  "I have not yet come to any conclusion about his clueless entrance," I was forced to admit.

  "I fear that is the flaw in most armchair rationalization — particularly when it is based so largely on romance."

  Once again I knew Pons was laughing at me; I was irritated. "No doubt you already know the identity of the murderer?"

  "I suspected it before we left London."

  "Oh, come, Pons. I am a patient man, but. . . ."

  "I never knew a more patient one, to tolerate my idiosyncrasies for so many years," replied Pons handsomely. "But there are several salient factors which, I submit, may have some bearing on the matter. I am no lover of coincidence, though I am willing to concede that it takes place far more often in life than could be justified in fiction. It has not occurred to you that it may be significant that all these deaths should have taken place at approximately the same time of the year?"

  "Coincidence."

  "I feared you would say as much. The family occupies the east wing only in winter. Why? I have made certain inquiries, and understand that this practise was inaugurated by Sir Ronald; the family only followed his custom. This does not seem meaningful to you?"

  I confessed that it did not.

  "Very well. I may be in error. Yet I suggest that there may be a connection to certain other curious factors. I fancy we are in agreement that ingress was accomplished through the open window in each case?"

  With this I agreed unreservedly.

  "It does not seem to you curious, if that is so, that there was no mark to be found on any occasion? —no footprint below the ground-floor window, though there is a respectable area where one might be impressed on the ground there; no abrasion of the creepers to indicate the presence of a climber to this room — nothing?"

  "Someone sufficiently light —and trained —could accomplish all that was done without leaving a trace."

  "Surely that would be almost insurmountably difficult," protested Pons.

  "Richard has admitted that as a boy he did it."

  Pons smiled. "Richard was joking." "You may think so, if you like," I retorted hotly. "But hasn't it occurred to you that these murders may have been started by someone else, and only carried on in this generation by another hand?"

  "It has indeed," answered P
ons. "Let us for the moment concede that it may be possible for undetected entry to have been made by way of the creepers. Let us look at another aspect of this strange little horror. Why should there be so long an interval from one crime to the next?"

  "Obviously to diminish attention."

  "If diminishing attention were of importance, surely some less dramatic manner of committing the crime might have been found?"

  "Except to one specially trained in the chosen method."

  "Ah, we are back once more to the dacoit. I had no conception of the depth of your devotion to the sinister Doctor."

  "You're making sport of me, yet I'm in deadly earnest," I said. "Is there any other solution which so admirably fits all the facts?"

  "Manifestly."

  "What is it?"

  "That which was in fact the method and motive for the crimes."

  "That is a riddle unworthy of you, Pons."

  "Surpassed only by the true solution of the curse of the Grice- Patersons."

  "If you're so sure of the solution," I cried, "why are we dawdling here? Why haven't you arrested the murderer?"

  "Though I am sure, I want a little more verification than my deduction alone. I am entitled to wait upon events for that verification, just as you are for the dacoit to make a return engagement, for our presence in this room this hot summer night will duplicate the superficial aspects of the situation prior to each of the three crimes which have been committed."

  "Except for one," I hastened to point out. "We are not heirs to the estate."

  "You have your revolver with you, I notice," Pons went on. "That should be adequate defence against your dacoit. I have asked that the Colonel's old sword be sent up; that, in turn, should serve me long enough to sever any cord which may loop about us."

  "Surely you're not expecting another attack!"

  "Say, rather, I am hoping for one. We shall hope to catch the murderer in the act."

  "Pons, this is absurd. An attack on us would be completely without motive; it would be a basic flaw in our concept of the motive for this sequence of events."

  "Pray permit me to correct you —your concept of the motive, not ours."

  "If I were to act, I would have Malvaides under arrest without delay."

  Pons smiled grimly. "Yet it is no less logical to suppose that somehow our client's late father killed his brother; that she herself killed her father; that her brother, Avery, likewise developed enough agility to make away with Lt. Hanwell — they, too, were directly or indirectly in line to inherit.

  "And now, Parker, it's past the dinner hour; night will soon be upon us. In hot latitudes, people take siestas after lunch; we did not. It is almost hot enough here for the torrid zone, and I for one am going to take a little rest before what I hope will be a strenuous night."

  A strenuous night, indeed!

  How often since that time have I recalled the singular events of that evening spent in the twice-fatal room of The Creepers on the Island of Uffa! We retired together at a late hour, despite our tiredness, but I was soon drowsily aware that Pons had left our bed and had gone to sit instead in a large, old-fashioned rocking-chair which stood opposite the open window, so that he could face them and still keep an eye on the bed.

  Behind him, the door to the room was locked. We had prepared, as he put it, the identical situation which had obtained on the occasions of the two previous murders which had taken place in this room. Had I not been so exhausted after our long night drive and the difficulty of following Pons about during the day, I would not have slept, for the room and the night were cloyingly hot and humid; but the distant roar of the surf was lulling, and I was soon asleep. My last memory was of Pons sitting grimly on guard, the late Sir Ronald's sword ready to hand, even as my revolver lay beneath my pillow, ready for instant firing.

  I do not know how many hours I slept before I was awakened, gasping for air, trying to call out, in the grip of a deadly menace. Before I could reach for my revolver — before I was sufficiently awake to grasp what was taking place—I felt myself being drawn bodily from my bed.

  I had a horrified glimpse of Pons whipping away with the sword, even as the life was being squeezed out of me, and I felt a dozen pinpoints of pain upon my throat, my wrists, my face. Briefly, I was aware of a distorted picture, inexplicably terrible, filled with the imminence of death, of Pons's desperation against an enemy I could not see but only feel, of the tightening cords wound so insidiously about me. . . .

  Then I swooned.

  When I came to, Pons was bending above me, bathing my brow.

  "Thank God, Parker!" he cried. "I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you in my anxiety to satisfy my suspicions!"

  I struggled dazedly to a sitting position. "The murderer?" I gasped, looking vainly for him.

  "The murderer —if murderer there was —has been dead these twelve years," answered Pons. "Colonel Sir Ronald Grice-Paterson. Only his unique weapon remains."

  Then I saw all around me on the floor the severed, fleshy creepers from the plant with the crimson flowers that covered the east wall of the house, and knew what it was that had sought to clasp me in its lethal embrace, even as it had taken the Grice- Patersons and Lt. Austen Hanwell in their sleep.

  "I believe it to be an experience without parallel," said Pons, helping me to my feet. "I had slipped into a doze and woke to a sound from the bed. The creepers had come through the window seeking the prey they sensed lay there —indeed, the entire opening was filled with the waving tendrils and limbs. I shall never forget the sight!"

  In the morning, in our compartment of the train making its way from Penzance to London —for Pons would not permit our client to have us driven home, remaining only long enough to assist in the destruction of Sir Ronald's deadly creeper—Pons spoke reflectively of our strange adventure.

  "The localized circumstances of the deaths suggested a limited agent from the beginning," he said. "Each death had taken place in a room on the east side of the house —the same side on which the dogs and cats were found dead at various times of summer mornings—and each at the height of summer. 'How shall I ever again survive the month of August!' cried Miss Grice-Paterson. Furthermore, each had taken place at night, while the victims slept,

  thus enabling an insidious and silent killer to transfix its victims in a fatal embrace which a waking man would readily have escaped.

  "The creeper was unquestionably a mutation developed by Sir Ronald himself, a relative of the upas tree, and, like certain other plants, was carnivorous, becoming especially active at the height of its growth, which was its time of flowering —midsummer. An importation from Malaya, beyond question. Curiously, no one seems to have thought of examining the dead men or animals for loss of blood, for the creeper was, quite literally, vampiric.

  "Sir Ronald knew its properties, there can be no doubt. He knew very well why he avoided the east wing in summer, and only the family's habit of following his custom explains their survival. Otherwise they might all have died long before this.

  "Sir Ronald's motive in planting and cultivating the creeper on Uffa is obscured by time. Did his misanthropy indeed compel him to lay so effective and mortal a trap for those who succeeded him in the ironic intention that his one-time orderly should come into the estate? Or did his hatred of mankind unbalance him? We have had repeated reference to the old man's dislike of the human race, which included his own family. Perhaps in that lay the root of the evil that was the curse of the Grice-Patersons. It makes an interesting speculation, though we shall never really know."

  The Adventure of the Dorrington Inheritance

  IT WAS ON a wild winter night of the ninth year I shared with my companion, Solar Pons, at his quarters, 7B Praed Street, that there came to his attention a singular matter which was to have a more profound and lasting effect on me than on him. For to Pons the affair of the Dorrington inheritance was but another in a long sequence of challenging problems, while to me —ah, but that
is a different matter, extraneous to this account, which is primarily concerned with the unique talents of the private inquiry agent who did me the honour of suggesting that I share his rooms.

  Pons had been more than usually restless that night. Nights of storm and bad weather tended to stir him, as if the wind's rune along Praed Street, and the occasional patter of rain or whisper of snow at the panes were a path to the memory of more exciting times. He was pacing to and fro, filling the room with the fumes of the strong shag he smoked, when there was a pull at the bell below. Pons paused and turned toward the door. In a few moments the outer door could be heard opening and closing, and a step fell upon the stair.

  "Our good landlady is coming up with a message," said Pons.

  A tap on the door was followed by Mrs. Johnson's troubled face looking in at us. She held an envelope in her hand.

  "I do hope this won't take you out on such a night as this, Mr. Pons," she said.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I am always at the service of those who call upon me. We shall see."

  As she withdrew, he tore open the envelope and took a short letter from it. He read it with sparkling eyes and tossed it to me.

  "We are about to have a visitor," he said cheerily, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

  The letter was straightforward and direct, simplicity itself.

  "DEAR MR. PONS,

  "I beg you to see me at half-past eight tonight. My father refuses to take steps for his own protection, as if he feared some scandal. I am convinced that unless such steps are taken, his life will be forfeit to the scoundrels who are hounding him, but, fortunately, have so far failed of accomplishing this goal. I am, sir, yours sincerely,