"What if he gives me in charge?" I protested.
"Not Convers. He'll want only his money."
After a short walk, we came within sight of Convers's little shop. Pons bade me wait and went on ahead. The shop was hardly more than a hole in the wall, one of no great depth, with outside racks. I observed that though people stopped at the racks to scan the headlines of newspapers, comparatively few went in to buy.
Presently I followed Pons into the shop. Convers was alone behind the small counter which separated his customers from the shelves of tobacco. He sat on a stool, a short, powerfully built man, roughly clad. He chewed at a match held between his thick lips, and his small, dark eyes, which had been following Pons around, turned frankly to me as I entered. His glance was suspicious, and his face wore a look that indicated a profound distrust of the world.
I thought it best to buy a cigar, before looking over the rack of magazines. Finally I selected the most recent issue of The Strand, and, carrying it in plain sight, walked casually over to the door and out.
"Guv'nor!" I heard Convers cry.
I pretended I had not heard and walked rapidly away from the shop down the street.
"You —Guv'nor!" I heard him call out angrily.
Then there was the sound of the stool being kicked over. Three doors past Convers's shop, I paused to look into a display window, keenly aware of Convers's running footsteps.
He came up and took me roughly by one shoulder. "Guv'nor!"
I turned, feigning surprise. "Eh? What is it?" I asked.
"You didn't pay me for the magazine," Convers said belligerently.
"Magazine?"
He pulled The Strand almost savagely from my grasp and waved it before my face. "This one! This one! See?" he shouted.
"Upon my soul!" I said. "So I did."
I reached into my pocket.
"You must forgive me," I said apologetically. "I'm a little absent- minded."
He was somewhat mollified. "I could see you wasn't too sharp," he said grudgingly.
I took as much time as I could fumbling about among the coins I had pulled from my pocket before I managed to find the proper amount. He took the money, favoured me with a darkly suspicious glance from narrowed eyes, and turned back toward his shop.
I walked on slowly, until Pons once again fell into step at my side, carrying an ounce of shag he had bought.
"That fellow's a bad man to cross," I said.
"I believe he would be difficult," agreed Pons. "He is not yet sixty, very vigorous, and dourly suspicious."
"You'll remember that little deduction of my own," I said. "I find it extremely gratifying to learn that Mr. Adrian Convers keeps a newsagent's shop. How simple it is for him to have access to the printed letters he would need for the warnings posted to Mr. Dorrington! Or have you overlooked that significant point?"
"Not at all. Indeed, you will be happy to learn that your drawing him out of the shop gave me the opportunity to rummage through a pile of papers beneath his counter. I found these."
He drew from inside his coat three newspaper pages and held them up before me. I saw at a glance that letters and words had been carefully cut out of them.
"Aha!" I cried, with a glance, I fear, of undoubted triumph.
"It would indeed seem to be suggestive," admitted Pons.
" 'Suggestive'!" I cried, not without a touch of scorn. "I should
say it is the strongest possible circumstantial evidence —particularly as the dates seem to correspond on these papers with the approximate time of the posting of at least one of the letters to Mr. Dorrington."
"I have given the matter some thought," replied Pons. "Yet I remain troubled about one or two little details, and I am loath to charge Convers with authorship of this singular persecution until I am settled in mind about him. For one thing, Bartholdi and Convers are in touch with each other, and Bartholdi has access to Convers's counter and newspapers. Access, in fact, is rather public. For another thing, the attack on our client's father bespeaks the hiring of professional thugs."
"Then it could be either Convers or Bartholdi —or both!"
"I fear it could. Yet the studied crudeness of the method does not ring true."
"You have not said they were literate men."
"They are not. But neither are they illiterate. I submit that the method stands in odd contrast to the letters themselves."
"They may have employed someone to prepare the letters."
"Quite true," agreed Pons. "It is also eminently possible that there is a group of them working toward a common end. There are other Convers heirs."
"Have you traced any of them?"
Pons shook his head. "I understand they are as much in need of money as Mr. Adrian Convers."
"A clear motive, then."
"For money, Parker, yes. Not for Dorrington's death." He hailed a cab and we stood waiting for it to swing to the kerb. "I think it is time to have a talk with Mr. Dorrington. We shall look forward to dinner."
We were not destined to share dinner with our client and her father that evening, however. In the late afternoon Miss Dorrington sent frantic word that her father had been run down and gravely injured; moreover, her fianc6 had just barely escaped a similar fate. Both men had been pushed into the path of a speeding car, and Count di Sepulveda had also been bludgeoned. Miss Dorrington was close to hysteria, and Pons lost no time setting out for the Park Lane home of our client.
Miss Dorrington herself met us at the door. Though she had been weeping, she was now composed.
"Both father and Carlo are in bed. Carlo is not too badly injured —he was struck on the head by what must have been a sandbag, but he managed to avoid the car which ran down my father. Both were knocked down, and they failed to take the number of the car. Carlo remembers only that it was a large black Daimler, and that two swarthy men drove it."
"Where did the attack take place, Miss Dorrington?"
"At the Embankment Gardens, near Charing Cross tube station. My father had made a visit to his solicitor, who is ill at his home. Carlo was with him. As the two of them crossed the street, someone who must have been following them pushed them into the path of a car that came around the corner and raced down the street. Carlo was agile enough to twist away from the car before he fell, but my father fell in its path. But you will want to talk to Carlo."
"If he can talk comfortably."
Count Carlo di Sepulveda lay in a double bed in a room at the head of the stairs. He was a pleasant, open-faced young man, not without trace of a certain elegance in his manner, even in his prone position. His head was bandaged over a dressing behind his right ear. At our entrance, his brown eyes widened in surprise.
"You didn't tell me you had visitors, Constance," he said in mild reproof.
"This is Mr. Solar Pons, Carlo —Dr. Parker is with him. Mr. Pons has come at my request to look into the persecution to which father has been subjected."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said heartily. "We urged him to go to the police weeks ago, Mr. Pons."
"Miss Dorrington has given me most of the facts," said Pons. "Can you tell us more? Where, for instance, could your assailant have been concealed?"
"I didn't see him —or them, Mr. Pons. But an appreciable amount of shrubbery grows at the Embankment Gardens, and I suppose, having followed us, he had hidden himself there and run out upon us as soon as he saw his confederates' car approaching. There were two men in the car; both seemed to me quite dark, almost foreign-looking. I had the impression, from the brief glimpse of them Mr. Dorrington had, that he recognized them."
"Ah," murmured Pons. "Yet they seemed to you foreigners?"
"Either that, or men long exposed to sun."
"You yourself were struck with a sandbag?"
"I took it to be that."
"Yet you managed to prevent being flung after Mr. Dorrington?"
"Yes, Mr. Pons. I twisted to one side, since I was aware of the car's approach. I don't think Mr. Dorrington
saw it coming until he was pushed. I lost consciousness as I fell."
Pons's keen gaze drifted from the bed and its occupant to look at the appointments of the room. He bent casually and picked up a pair of highly polished shoes, now slightly scratched.
"Your shoes, Count Sepulveda?"
"Yes, Mr. Pons."
"They certainly retain a high degree of polish."
"I stop at Claridge's, Mr. Pons," answered Miss Dorrington's fianc6, with a mild trace of hauteur.
Pons replaced the shoes and went on. "Was there no other traffic at the hour of the accident? Half-past three, I believe, was the time."
"That's correct, Mr. Pons. As bad luck would have it, there was very little traffic at that time. Just the same, the car evidently didn't dare to return so that the driver could make sure of our condition. Pedestrians had seen the accident, though no one has come forward to offer information."
"Did you happen to see any pedestrians other than yourselves as you started to cross the street?"
"No, sir, I can't say that I did. One doesn't think of those things —one tends to one's own affairs, is it not so?"
Pons turned to our client. "Perhaps Dr. Parker might have a glimpse of Mr. Dorrington?"
"By all means," agreed Miss Dorrington. "Dr. Duell has left strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed, but we can go quietly and need not wake him."
Mr. Dorrington lay in the room across the hall, also in a large double bed. There was a nurse in attendance. At a sign from Pons. I stepped up and made a cursory examination of the old man who lay there. He was a stocky, muscular man, just short of being corpulent. Our client watched with some apprehension, and the nurse favoured us with a coldly disapproving stare. The patient was still unconscious, but his breathing was regular, and his pulse only a trifle fast.
In the hall, afterwards, I said, "His condition is grave, but he has a good chance."
"That is just what Dr. Duell said," replied Miss Dorrington.
We descended the stairs. All the way down, Pons was extremely thoughtful and very silent. At the foot of the steps he took hold of
Miss Dorrington's arm firmly but persuasively and drew her close to him.
"I'm sure you are very fond of both your father and your fiance, Miss Dorrington," he said in a low voice.
"Of course," she replied, mystified.
"I fear I must tell you I expect a final attempt to be made on your father's life tonight."
"Here! In his own house!" She was incredulous.
"In his own room," said Pons. "I took the opportunity to look out of the window. The room is relatively easy of access from outside."
"Mr. Pons, you must be joking."
"I assure you, I have never been more serious. Count Sepulveda himself suggested as much when he said he thought your father had recognized the men in the car which ran him down. If they, too, felt that he did, they have no alternative but to silence him before he can speak."
"Then I'll notify the police at once."
"Stay, not so fast," cautioned Pons. "The police have been known to bungle. Let me suggest that, unknown to anyone, Dr. Parker and I conceal ourselves in the room where your father lies, to spend the night on guard beside him."
"Mr. Pons, I could not ask you. ..."
"Miss Dorrington, you have retained me to save your father's life. I mean to do so by every avenue at my disposal. I fancy we will not only be able to save his life, but also to net the author of this scheme."
"The night nurse must know."
Pons looked at his watch. "When is she due?"
"At eight."
"Adjure her to silence, Miss Dorrington."
"Certainly, Mr. Pons."
"Very well. We shall return here at eight — unknown to anyone, mind! Even your father, should he recover consciousness, is not to be told. As long as no announcement of his death has been made, he is in grave danger."
Our client was still hesitant and troubled, but finally she acquiesced. "Very well, Mr. Pons, if that is your wish."
As we left the house, I turned on Pons. "Aren't you subjecting Miss Dorrington to unnecessary worry?" I demanded indignantly.
"I think not."
"How do you deduce that a final attempt will be made on Dorrington?"
"Any other attempt will be too late," said Pons. "You heard Sepulveda say that Dorrington appeared to have recognized the men in the car. Now then —exercise your ingenuity —is it Bartholdi or the Convers heirs behind this persecution?"
I ignored his challenge. "And what, pray tell," I went on, still indignant, "was the point of inquiring about Count Sepulveda's shoes?"
"Ah, forgive me, Parker —I fear I try you. I was interested only in the excellence of their polish, which did not extend to beneath the instep."
"I myself have never worn a pair better polished," I said.
"Ah, you have never stayed at Claridge's, Parker," answered Pons, with a little smile.
"And now?" I asked.
"We shall take the precaution of carrying weapons tonight. You may have the revolver, Parker. I will content myself with my leaded stick. Unless I am much mistaken, we shall have the opportunity of bringing this matter to a successful conclusion before the night is done."
Shortly after eight o'clock, Pons and I were concealed in Amos Dorrington's room. The patient was still unconscious, and the night nurse was rather relieved than not at the presence of a doctor in the room, since it lightened her task, however mystified she was that we were there. The room was quiet, but for some time there was considerable movement in the room across the hall; servants and —I had no doubt —our client herself, came and went at the wish of the patient, who would be up in a day or two, since the nature of his wound did not necessitate our client's fiance's staying abed.
The night wore on. Pons had set me to watch the windows, but to stay out of line with them, so that I might not be seen against the faint frame of light. He himself had taken his stand behind the door. The room was lit only by a small bedside lamp, which threw a glow over the patient where he lay, but cast a very faint illumination about the rest of the room. Sounds from outside diminished, and gradually the house itself quieted down in sleep.
As the night deepened, Pons sent the nurse on one aimless errand after another —quite as if he actually wished her out of the room —
until I became so indignant that I restrained my protests only with the greatest difficulty. At half-past twelve, Pons urged the nurse to go downstairs to brew us some fresh tea, promising that I would watch over the patient.
She had hardly gone, when there was a quick rustling sound outside the door. I turned expectantly. The door opened, slowly at first, then swiftly, and closed again as someone slipped into the room. Almost at once I was aware of the odour of chloroform as a dark figure moved quickly toward the bed, his intention patent.
Before I could cry out a warning, Pons had crept up behind him. Just as the intruder bent above the patient, Pons raised his leaded stick and struck him down. He crumpled to the floor without a murmur.
"Arouse Miss Dorrington, Parker," said Pons. "I'll stopper that chloroform."
I hastened out.
When I returned with our client, even more attractive in her negligee and gown than in ordinary clothes, Pons stood before the door of the room. He caught hold of Miss Dorrington's hands and looked earnestly into her startled face.
"My dear lady, if you could free your father from the danger which hangs over him with but one diamond," he said, "would you do so?"
"Indeed I would!" she cried passionately.
Pons turned his hand so that Miss Dorrington's left hand rested lightly on his. He touched the diamond on her finger.
"This is the stone, Miss Dorrington. Return it."
So saying, he threw open the door of Amos Dorrington's room, and switched on the light. There, still where he had fallen, lay Count Carlo di Sepulveda.
"I fear I have had to add to the blow he so calculatingly bestowed u
pon himself," said Pons.
Our client cried out and ran over to him. She came to her knees beside his still form.
"Mr. Pons, you've killed him!"
"I think not."
Then she grew aware of the odour. "Chloroform!" she exclaimed. She shot a glance at Pons, her eyes wide with revulsion and apprehension. "Oh, Mr. Pons —you can't mean . . . ?"
Pons nodded gravely. "I do, Miss Dorrington. The author of all
your troubles and your father's persecution is none other than your fiancd — who is as bogus a count as I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. No one staying at the best hotels could fail to have his footwear as highly polished below the instep as his shoetops.
"There would seem to have been some slight misunderstanding in this little problem, Miss Dorrington. It was by design, but no one coming to your difficulty with an open mind could fail to be aware of it. There was only one diamond that was important —that is the stone you are at this moment removing from your finger—since it provided the motive for your fiance's deeds. The motive was not in seeking to gain part of your father's inheritance, but all your own."
Later, as we stood in the street waiting for a cab, Pons could not forego the chance of scoring over me.
"My dear fellow, the entire matter was as plain as a pikestaff. The crudely done but grammatical warnings were a lesson in developing the power of observation. The first of them was nothing less than a feint; it dredged up more than the rumour which had inspired it. But Sepulveda did not listen closely; in his second note he made the error of referring to Bartholdi as the other deceased member of the trio who once owned the Dorrington mines. His attempt to implicate Mr. Adrian Convers by placing the cut-out papers under his counter was merely fatuous, for neither the Convers heirs nor Bartholdi had any valid reason for waiting so long after Alexander Dorrington's death to press any claim they felt they had.
"In the third warning, Sepulveda gave the game away by referring to the elder Dorrington as the 'Old Man,' which could have been known only to Dorrington's associates or to someone who had sat at the family councils. If we eliminate the former associates and their heirs, only Sepulveda is left with motive and opportunity, however improbable he might seem as the likeliest suspect. Who else but he sat at those councils?
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 73