"CONSTANCE DORRINGTON."
"What do you make of it, Parker?" asked Pons, as I lowered the letter.
"Well, it is certainly admirably clear," I ventured. "Written by a lady of purpose."
"And quality, for the stationery is expensive."
"Determined."
"Not to be crossed with impunity."
"Refined."
"Of such sensibilities as one would like to see in all women, true —and which one finds, alas! too seldom. She writes a fine, flowing hand, but with a certain restraint; she has an eye to the proper balance —note how well she has arranged her letter on the paper! —and she promises us an intriguing little puzzle on which to sharpen our wits."
"Her father's life threatened," I murmured.
"Ah, more than that, I fancy. There is more here than Miss Dorrington intended to meet the eye. 'As if he feared some scandal.' Dorrington. Does not that name ring a familiar chord?"
"None whatsoever."
Pons turned to his voluminous notebooks and went rapidly through them, pausing now and then with the ghost of a smile at his thin lips, or the faintest twinkle in his keen grey eyes as memory of some success was jogged by the passing pages. Finally he paused.
"Ah, here we are," he cried. " 'Dorrington, Alexander- Discovered and long part-owner of the Premier Diamond Mine, Kimberley. Owner of the Maracot Diamond.' And so on. He had one son, Amos T., presumably our client's father. He belonged to a great many clubs and societies, and died only three years ago. Evidently Amos T. was his only heir." He closed the book and looked calculatingly at me. "I thought I knew that name. The Maracot takes rank with the Koh-i-noor and the Hope diamonds for size and value. Where there is treasure, Parker, there is also likely to be tribulation." He cocked his head alertly toward the windows. "Was not that the sound of a cab? I daresay our client is at the door."
The ringing of our bell came hard upon his words.
"Rung with decision and determination," murmured Pons. "There is no hesitation there."
Within a few moments, Mrs. Johnson showed into the room a surprisingly beautiful young woman in her mid-twenties. Though she wore a long cape which came almost to her trim ankles and accentuated her height, she had no covering on her head, despite the raw weather, and her thick, lustrous, chestnut brown hair, snow-flecked and touched with raindrops, gleamed and shone in the light of the room. Her eyes seemed both green and blue; her mouth was small in appearance, but full; her cheekbones were high; and her eyebrows had the look of being brushed up, untouched by any shaping instrument, which lent her face the challenging and breathtaking beauty of an aroused madonna's.
She came straight toward Pons and extended one long slender arm.
"Mr. Pons, it's good of you to see me. I am Constance Dor- rington. I hope you'll forgive my precipitate coming, but I could withstand my impulse no longer."
"I trust I shall always be at home to a beautiful lady," said Pons, with unaccustomed gallantry. Then, turning to me, he added, "This is my companion and friend, Dr. Lyndon Parker, who —I see by that look of soft and yielding interest — would like even more to be at your service."
She flashed him a charming glance of gentle reproach for thus having brought a touch of colour to my own cheeks as well as to hers.
"Pray sit down, Miss Dorrington," Pons went on. "Dr. Parker, I see, is already waiting on your cape."
The removal of our client's cape disclosed a figure which in every way complemented the beauty of her features. Moreover, she was modestly and inexpensively dressed. Apart from a diamond on her engagement finger, she wore little jewelry—though, truthfully, no gems could have enhanced her appearance.
She sat down in Pons's favourite chair, and, while he stood with one elbow on the crowded mantel, listening, she began with unusual directness to tell her story.
"My father, as you may know, is the only son of the late Alexander Dorrington, who was in the diamond business in South Africa. He left my father a considerable inheritance, but I've begun to believe that father's inheritance includes something more sinister than the pecuniary rewards of diamond mining. My father has admitted that there was some question about the fairness of the arrangement by which grandfather bought out his partners. To put it as plainly as possible, Mr. Pons, I'm afraid grandfather cheated his partners badly. These gentlemen, who were named Bartholdi and Convers, did make some ineffective protest at that time, but grandfather appears to have had the law —such as it was —on his side. If this is indeed the case, I suggested to my father that he make restitution to the families of his father's partners —Mr. Convers is dead, but Mr. Bartholdi still lives in Kensington — but he will not hear of it."
"You made the suggestion because his life had been threatened?" asked Pons.
"Not alone that, Mr. Pons. Because it seemed to me only honest. I hadn't learned of the matter before."
She opened a small bag she carried and removed three envelopes from it. These she gave to Pons, explaining that they were the warnings her father had received. I stepped to Pons's side and peered over his shoulder.
All had been posted in Kensington. Each was addressed to our client's father by means of a sequence of letters cut from newspapers, crudely pasted together. The letters enclosed were similarly made. The first of them had been sent seven weeks previously. It read simply: "Your days are numbered. " The second, posted three weeks later, read:
"Grown fat on stolen diamonds! How fat was B. when he died—a pauper? Put your affairs in order."
The third, posted but a week ago, was in similar vein: ' Count your days. The Old Man failed honour and justice. We will not fail again."
Pons read these with tight lips and narrowed eyes. He made no comment, however, other than to signal our client to continue her story.
"When father received the first of these warnings, he was with us."
Pons interrupted her. "You speak of 'us,' Miss Dorrington. You have neither brother nor sister, and your mother is dead."
"Forgive me. My fiance, Count Carlo di Sepulveda, was with us at the time. Being Spanish, he is excitable, and he wanted my father to summon the police at once. Father was so reluctant to even consider doing so, that my fiance was astonished. Then father admitted that grandfather's enemies might still hope to gain a part of his inheritance, and told us about the advantage grandfather had taken of his less educated partners. I suggested at that time that restitution might be made, but both my father and my fiance agreed that the method of approach selected by these people merited no such consideration, and I suppose, in a way, they were right, for I'm sure father would have listened to any straightforward plea. Besides, we had no way of knowing whether the warnings came from Convers's heirs or from Bartholdi —or from someone close to them who might have learned about the affair.
"When the second letter came, father guessed that Bartholdi or some close associate of Bartholdi, was behind it. He believes that the reference to 'B.' as being dead was meant to misguide him, for it's Mr. Convers who is dead, and it's true that Mr. Convers died in unhappy circumstances. Exactly ten days after this note was received, the first attempt was made on my father's life. He narrowly escaped being shot or bludgeoned to death that evening when he was accosted and held up by two masked men carrying weapons. Only the fortunate arrival of a policeman prevented the success of the ruffians, who had begun to beat father, though he had offered them his wallet and watch. He didn't connect them with the warnings at that time, even though it appeared to be deliberate. It wasn't until he received the third warning, with its reference to not failing 'again,' that he realized an attempt had been made. Even then he wouldn't call the police. Now that the third letter has come, I've grown increasingly fearful for his life, and I cannot simply sit idly by waiting and wondering how they will strike next time.
"I've come here as a compromise between my wish and my father's. You are not the police, Mr. Pons, and I would like you to prevent anything happening to my father. I've thought that if some intermediary
could approach Mr. Bartholdi —or the heirs of Mr. Convers —and suggest that restitution for any wrong might be made without the necessity of resorting to violence, father could be persuaded to agree. I have Mr. Bartholdi's address here, but I don't know Mr. Convers's heirs."
Pons hesitated a moment before replying. "I do not usually act as such an intermediary, Miss Dorrington," he said presently, "but there are points about your problem that interest me."
"You'll act for us, then, Mr. Pons?"
"Say rather, I will act for you, Miss Dorrington. I have no commission from your father. I shall, however, have to meet him. Perhaps tomorrow evening might be convenient?"
"Certainly, Mr. Pons. Perhaps you and Dr. Parker could come to dinner?"
Pons glanced at me, his eyes twinkling. "Dr. Parker would be delighted. As for me —we shall see."
"Seven o'clock then, Mr. Pons," she said, rising.
"Dr. Parker will see you to your cab."
I escorted Miss Dorrington to her cab with pleasure, and returned to find Pons seated in the chair she had just vacated. His long legs were stretched out before him, his chin was sunk to his chest, his lips were pursed, his eyes closed, and the fingers of one hand played with the lobe of an ear. He did not make any sign at my return, and did not, in fact, speak until some time had elapsed.
"If you had a moment, Parker," he said then, "to stray from your admiration for the form and features of our client, did you observe anything of unusual moment about her story?"
I admitted I did not.
"It does not strike you as highly ingenuous?"
I laughed, I fear, somewhat brittlely. "Not half so much as many of the problems you have taken in hand."
"She is a courageous young lady. Engaged to a foreigner, too. We would be happier with more of her kind at home."
"Married to a fishmonger, no doubt, so long as he is an Englishman."
Pons glanced at me with a droll raising of his eyebrows. "Or a doctor —who knows?" he said. "Let us just have a look at the Almanack de Gotha."
I gave him the book and waited.
" 'Sepulveda,' " he murmured presently. "Certainly an old Spanish family, with or without the 'di.' But somewhat more at home in the New World than in the old during the last century or two. The Sepulvedas were among the founding families of Spanish California, and there are still streets, settlements, and byways in Californian cities named in their honour. The Spanish line appears to have all but vanished." "An American then."
"I know of no such anomaly as a titled American. He is not that. Either he belongs to the last remnants of the Spanish line or he is an American who affects the title to which he has a right when abroad. But his name is less familiar than that other — Bartholdi."
"Was there not a German government officer of that name?"
"Indeed there was, Parker. The name, however, is Swiss."
"Will you call on him with our client's offer?"
"I should be inclined to delay that a little. I submit that I would put myself in an incongruous position indeed were I to make an offer I could not subsequently support. I shall have to talk with Amos Dorrington first." He shook his head. "Just the same, I may stroll about the vicinity of the address Miss Dorrington left with me. In the meantime, let us look once more at those little missives sent to Mr. Dorrington."
I handed these to him and replaced the Almanack.
"What do you make of these, Parker?"
"Is there anything to be made of them but what is so clearly set forth?"
"There are certain points of interest," Pons answered. "Do they not seem curiously vague to you?"
"No more so than many of which I have read."
"Ah, in the fiction of detection, no doubt. But this, I remind you, is life."
"Oh, come, Pons, they are simple enough in their meaning."
"I regret to say I do not find them so. The first one, for example, makes no mention whatsoever of the reason why Mr. Dor- rington's days should be numbered. If he were willing to make restitution for his father's sins, there is not even a hint that the business of the sale of the diamond mine is the raison d'etre for the warning. I submit this is a strange approach indeed."
"It was meant to frighten Dorrington into a receptive state of mind."
"One would have thought his father's old associates could have guessed that something of the old man's ruggedness might come down to his son."
"The second warning is indicative enough," I said. " 'Stolen diamonds.' Could you ask for more?"
"Indeed I could. Is it not singularly odd that Mr. Dorrington should be given time to put his affairs in order?"
"Clearly that is an invitation to make restitution."
"You think so?"
"I am positive of it."
"Pray remember that the late Ambrose Bierce held that to be positive meant to be a fool at the top of one's voice." He shook his head. "To whom, then, ought he to make restitution? No name is signed. There is nothing to show whether it is Bartholdi or Convers's heirs who pursue him. I submit that the invitation is not nearly as simple as you make it out to be."
"And the third?" I asked.
"In this matter the third is somewhat more explicit. The mention of 'B.' in the second note might well have been intentionally misleading. ..."
"It could not have been anything else."
"On the contrary," retorted Pons, "it could have been a simple error. The mention of the 'Old Man,' the name by which the senior Dorrington was known among his staff at Kimberley, suggests a wider knowledge of the possible motive for this persecution of our client's father. Does it not strike you as curious that 'honour and justice' can be served only by Dorrington's death?"
"However strange it may seem, that is precisely what the warning does suggest."
"Gently, Parker, gently," said Pons. "I agree. You need not raise your voice to make your point. However, there are other points. The grammar is flawless —yet Dorrington's partners were referred to as 'less educated.' This suggests nothing to you?"
"Nothing but the elementary—that it is not Bartholdi who is behind this, but one of Convers's heirs."
"That is surely the most obvious conclusion," agreed Pons soberly. "I am not quite happy with it at this stage, however. Let us sleep on it. Perhaps tomorrow will bring us new insight."
I did not see Pons again until noon of the next day, for he was up and about long before I rose. He came in to find me at a frugal lunch. His eyes were dancing, and he had about him an air that suggested an ill-kept secret. He wore ordinary clothes, and was obviously going out again for he did not remove his hat.
"I called in to discover whether you were free to come along," he explained.
"By all means," I replied.
"I've been making a few inquiries in Kensington and have managed to trace Convers's son, Adrian. He has a small newsagent's business."
"Ah, you've talked with him?"
Pons shook his head. "I reserved that pleasure for this afternoon. I wanted your help, since I hope to be able to look around a little free of his surveillance."
Since he could scarcely conceal his impatience to be away, I rose from table.
We set out immediately by cab, and in good time found ourselves in Kensington. There Pons walked through the warm winter sunshine toward a little park. He walked with purpose, but presently slowed and drew my attention with an inclination of his head to an old man sitting on a park bench not far ahead of us.
"He has a wide circle of friends among the pigeons of Kensington," murmured Pons.
The old man was even now feeding pigeons. He appeared to be the epitome of amiability. His lined and bearded countenance was benign, and his uncovered white hair caught the sunlight and seemed to make a kind of halo about his head. He was well dressed, almost expensively so; it was evident at a glance that he was not a poor man, and sat there not by necessity but by choice. A silver- headed can lay against the bench at his side.
We drew abreast of him and stopped sho
rt of disturbing the pigeons.
Slowly the old man grew aware of us. He raised his leonine head and regarded us out of pale hazel eyes.
"Forgive us if we disturb you," said Pons. "The picture you make among the pigeons is one of such serenity it catches the eye."
The old man smiled, but a certain sharpness seemed to come into his glance. "At my age, young man, nothing disturbs me," he said in a confident voice, "and everything is a part of my world —of which so little is left to me."
"These birds would seem to know you, sir," said Pons.
The old man chuckled. "They should! I've been feeding them for ten years or more."
"Ah, retired," said Pons.
"Long ago," said the old fellow.
Though the food had now been exhausted and devoured, the pigeons showed no inclination to leave the old man. They perched on his shoulders and knees, sat on his shoes, and walked all about before him as if expecting more largesse from his hand.
"I fancy," said Pons, "these birds would willingly go into your pot if you were of a mind to take them."
The old man's eyes turned suddenly cold. "Sir, the things of this earth were put here for man to enjoy—not to destroy."
Pons apologized handsomely, after which we took our departure.
"Bartholdi," said Pons, once we were out of earshot.
"I thought as much," I answered.
"An amiable fellow, well over eighty years old."
"Such a harmless guise may well conceal a black heart."
"I have known it to do so," said Pons thoughtfully. "However, Mr. Convers is a man of quite another stamp. His shop is only two streets away. We will not go in together, however, Parker. I will go first. You will follow within a few minutes, in just long enough time to enable me to examine what is obvious. I intend to look about a little, and I want him out of the place for a short while, if you can manage it. When you come in, ignore me. Look around for a magazine to buy. When you find it, edge toward the door without paying for it and walk off down the street. Make sure Convers sees you. I want him to pursue you. Delay him as much as you can."
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 72