"I am not at all sure that my supposition is correct," objected Pons. "I merely consider possibilities. There are more to examine."
Pons reached for the telephone and called Scotland Yard. I heard an answering voice which, from my place close to Pons, I recognized as Inspector Jamison's. Pons asked for information concerning Scott McFallon, and we sat in silence while Pons waited until Jamison had given him the data he wanted.
He turned from the instrument smiling cryptically. "Apparently death was an escape for McFallon. The day before the bog claimed him, an order for his arrest was signed. He would be in prison today if he had come alive from the fens."
"Good God, Mr. Pons!" exclaimed Manton. "My wife must never know that —she can't have suspected anything bad of McFallon."
Pons nodded and rose to dress for the long ride before us.
Norcross Towers was a large rambling structure, a typical English country-house, not far from the highroad, which connected with the road Manton had had constructed across the fens to Acton. The two-storey building was surmounted at the rear by twin turret-like towers, from which the estate no doubt derived its name. The house was of old grey stone, made extremely attractive by great masses of ivy that flung its vines far up along the old walls. As we came up the flagstone walk toward the house, I noticed that all the windows within range were set very low, close to the ground.
Mrs. Manton was the type of woman most often described as ash- blonde. Her features were thin, well formed, and her body was very lithe. She had lost neither the dignity of bearing nor the singular beauty which had helped to make her a leading member of society before her marriage. We met the lady in Manton's study, where we were introduced under our own names as brokers, for Pons considered it unlikely that Mrs. Manton would recognize either of us.
It was dusk when we arrived at Norcross Towers, and the first duty before us was dinner, over which we spent an hour, chatting about stocks and bonds, a subject about which Pons knew much more than I had given him credit for, and, for the benefit of the lady, the news of the day. However, Pons and I excused ourselves immediately after dinner and retired to our room on the ground floor, where Pons had insisted it be, for he planned on some nocturnal reconnoitering, and had no wish to be forced to descend the stairs each time he wanted to prowl about.
In our room, Pons gave a sigh of relief. He changed into an old shooting outfit, complete with a rifle, and stepped out of the low window to the adjoining terrace. I watched him make his way over the lawns to the road leading across the fens, and saw him at last trudging away down the road. I settled myself to read and await his return.
But it was after midnight when Pons came back, and I was dozing in my chair, book in my lap, when he slipped into the room. I awoke with a start to see him standing before me, removing his shooting jacket, and regarding me with a tolerant smile.
"You examined the ruin, I suppose?" I guessed.
Pons nodded. "There's certainly some kind of patient there. The fellow is in an improvised bed, and if I'm not mistaken, he won't last long; he is quite wasted by disease. He looks sixty, but cannot be much over forty."
"And his keeper?"
"A burly fellow, but never a countryman. I daresay I should not be wrong in asserting that he is not unfamiliar with Limehouse or Wapping. The patient's doctor is there, too —a great hulk of a man, who shows some traces of culture. He is well dressed, wears pince-nez on a gold chain, and has fascinating—that is to say, hypnotic —eyes. There is nothing definite to be said about him, save that under pressure, he might well become a very ugly customer. I should not like to cultivate his acquaintance.
"All in all, it has the appearance of what it is meant to be: a case of experimentation on the health, mental or physical, of the patient, though he seemed to protest his imprisonment. Unfortunately, I could hear nothing of the conversation, for the room was tightly shut —they are occupying but one room, incidentally — and the three spoke in low voices. It's entirely possible that we may be assuming too much in suggesting a connection between the trio and the unknown blackmailers, but there is something very suspicious about them. I have the feeling I have seen the three before, but I'm hanged if I can place them at the moment."
"They must be in it," I put in. "I see no reason for this kind of treatment of a patient, lunatic or not. The man is exposed to consumption in this atmosphere; it is perfectly ridiculous."
"Consumption!" exclaimed Pons. "Yes, the patient out there strikes me as a consumptive; if he is, then his doctor is no more a physician than I am, and the patient's presence there is vitally necessary to the blackmail plot. It may be that the patient is the directing genius, but that is unlikely, for he would not endanger his life by staying out there." He shrugged. "Ah, well, let us just sleep on it."
The next day Pons drew Manton aside. "Do you think it possible for me to have a few words with the servant who accompanied McFallon on the day of his death?"
"Why, the fellow has been dead for years. He had a stroke two days after his master was drawn under by the mire out there," said Manton.
For a moment Pons stood as if petrified, his eyes fixed on our host in open astonishment, his pipe hung loosely from his mouth. Then he clapped his hand to his head and exclaimed, "What a fool I have been!"
Without a further word, he astounded Manton and me by stepping from the study window and vanishing into the mists of early evening in the direction of the ruin on the fens.
"Do you think he has discovered something?" asked Manton guardedly.
"Unless I'm greatly mistaken, he has. Pons displays every sign of being off on a strong and perhaps conclusive trail!"
Pons's face on his return was jubilant. His easy grace had
returned, and his attentions were all for Mrs. Manton. He managed to seat himself next to her at the table that night, and he chatted with her amiably throughout the meal. It was as she was rising to retire that Pons bent to assist her, and muttered into her ear five words, which, however lightly they were said, I managed to overhear.
"He died tonight of consumption."
I think Mrs. Manton would have fallen, had not Pons been at her side. Manton, however, noticed nothing; for her recovery was instant, and there now passed between our hostess and Pons a glance of understanding which had our host as its object.
Sometime after Mrs. Manton had left us, Pons turned to Manton and said quietly, "I think your charming wife will no longer be bothered by the rascals out there on the fens."
"You've cleared up the matter, then?" asked Manton eagerly.
"I have."
"In heaven's name, what could they have held over Anna?"
"Forgery, my dear sir. And what an elaborate forgery!"
"Poor Anna!"
"But they will be well on their way to the coast by now," continued Pons.
"What!" cried Manton, springing to his feet. "You didn't let them off?"
"In the circumstances, I thought it best," said Pons calmly. "The rascals would be certain to drag up the scandal of McFallon's questionable activities, with which they are thoroughly familiar."
Manton nodded glumly.
"But sit down, my dear sir, and let me tell you the clever story the fellows had forged to deceive your wife."
Manton sat down expectantly.
"Two blackmailers, familiar with McFallon's history, met a young man whose resemblance to your wife's first husband was very remarkable. These two persuaded this third man to fall in with their plan and impersonate McFallon in order to blackmail the present Mrs. Manton. Their plan was this: they were to go to Mrs. Manton with the clever story that her first husband had not been lost in the bog, but had fled to the Continent to escape the consequences of his stock juggling—'certain unpleasant circumstances,' they told your wife. Now these fellows were supposed to have encountered McFallon on the Continent, persuaded him to return to England with them some time ago, and forced him to reveal his presence to his wife through his writing, carefully copied from the
real McFallon's. Then the blackmailing was to begin, to rise from small sums to larger and ever larger sums, forcing the lady to give and give under fear of the exposure of her first husband's presence here on the fens, and the scandal of a bigamous marriage.
"How long this might have kept up, it is difficult to say; for all went well for them at the beginning over a month ago. Your wife believed their fantastic story, and fell prey to them. Unfortunately for the villains, the fellow they had chosen to play the part of McFallon was a consumptive. The damp air of the fens brought about a quick collapse in his constitution, and only tonight he died and was buried in the bog. The rascals are gone, and my advice to you, Mr. Manton, is to say no word of the affair to your wife. She will soon know that her trouble is over, and she will feel better if you know nothing of it." He sighed. "And now let us get to bed, for I should like to be in London early tomorrow."
"What a curious tale," I said, when we were once more alone in our room, "and yet, in a way, very clever. The idea of having McFallon vanish with the servant as accomplice is perfectly logical in the circumstances of McFallon's imminent arrest; his supposed stay on the Continent and his meeting with those rascals when he could no longer return to England because his wife had remarried after the unexpected death of his accomplice prohibited her from knowing the true state of affairs; those fellows forcing him to aid them, for he was noble enough to keep away all these years and now fell victim to them—why, every step is perfectly logical!" I exclaimed in admiration.
I stopped suddenly and looked at Pons, whose face looked grey and gaunt in the dimmed light of the room. "Why, Pons!" I cried. "It was true!"
"Every word of it!" Pons nodded. "Except that McFallon killed himself rather than be instrumental in his wife's suffering. He rests now in the bog, and no one will ever know he has not been there all these years!"
"Good God! And you let those scoundrels get away?"
Pons turned his inscrutable eyes on me. "I had all I could do to keep my hands from their throats —but there are better ways of handling these matters. I sent a wire to Jamison before lunch; they'll be taken at Dover."
The Adventure of the Late Mr. Faversham
WHEN I LOOK over my notes on the cases that engaged Solar Pons's attention during the decade begun in 1919, I find many amazing adventures whose details ought to be placed before the public. There were in that time, for instance, the perplexing affair of the Mumbles, known to the public for many months as the Swansea Mystery; the curious interlude of the Sotheby Salesman, who was found dead in an empty house; the adventure of the Black Cardinal, that unbelievable conspiracy which threatened to undermine the Papacy and overthrow half the governments of Europe. But few of the problems of that decade so fascinated me as the affair of the late Mr. Faversham.
The facts of the case were utterly baffling when Pons first read of it in the Daily Mail, where it appeared under the head: "Amazing Mystery in Strand." I saw his eyes gleam, and I observed that he read the account twice before he turned to me.
"Now here's a pretty mystery, Parker," he chuckled. "Professor F. V. Faversham of Merk College, has walked into his house and disappeared."
"Of course there's some mistake in the report."
Pons shook his head thoughtfully. "That seems hardly likely at first glance. The word into is in black type, and while the matter is treated rather lightly, the fact remains that Faversham's disappearance into his house is unmistakably emphasized."
"No doubt there are any number of ways he might have got out."
"It does not seem so. Observe: the house was boarded up during the extent of the professor's six months' leave; his front door, the only entrance not so treated, was under observation. Faversham had returned to London from Scotland and was to spend a five-day interval in London before completing his vacation in Germany."
"Aha!" I laughed. "Secret passages!"
Pons smiled. "Perhaps we shall walk over in that direction this evening."
"It will certainly do no harm. But I daresay the matter is much more simple than the papers would have it."
"That is quite possible, Parker," returned Pons. "But at least this gentleman, Mr. Faversham, has done us a favour in so radically departing from precedent as to walk into his house and vanish. So many persons walk out of their houses and are never seen again; the occurrence is so common that it seldom attracts my attention, unless, of course, its salient features are so strange that I cannot help feeling drawn toward the matter."
"His name is familiar to me," I said presently. "It occurs to me that I have seen it in connection with Lincoln's Inn Fields —a barrister, I believe."
"So? Then doubtless he holds classes in law at Merk College."
He said nothing more, and apparently the matter of the lost Mr. Faversham was relegated to the past, for Pons did not again touch upon his suggestion of walking to the house in Slade Street that evening.
But our attention was shortly recalled to the case of Mr. Faversham, for an hour afterward, there was a sharp ring at the bell, and in a few moments Mrs. Johnson ushered two elderly gentlemen into the room. I recognized one of them immediately as Dr. Joseph Dunnel, President of Merk College. He took precedence over his companion and bowed to Pons, introducing himself, and then his companion, Dr. Hanley Fessenden, likewise of Merk College.
"Be seated, gentlemen," said Pons.
"Thank you," replied Dr. Dunnel gravely, nervously fingering his sideburns. "We've come to consult you professionally about a matter deeply concerning our college —a very delicate matter, Mr. Pons."
"Indeed?" Correctly interpreting their glance in my direction, he introduced me, and almost instantly diverted their attention from me by observing that if they insisted upon walking, they might better have made a diversion up Portland Place and along Marylebone Road to Praed Street, rather than going more directly along Oxford Street where major road excavations were taking place. The dust on their trousers clearly indicated the basis for Pons's deduction, which served his purpose in bringing their attention back to him. Pons leaned back, bringing his fingertips together, and waited, suggestively.
Dr. Dunnel coughed. "You may have seen the account of the disappearance of Professor Faversham, of our faculty?"
"Walked into his house and vanished," said Pons, reaching again for the paper he had only a little while before put to one side.
Dr. Dunnel nodded. "Then you know the primary facts of the matter. Professor Faversham has always been a man of the most upright character, Mr. Pons; he is highly respected at the college, with a reputation for extraordinary wit and a very pleasant personality. His life has always been very regular, and therefore his strange disappearance is all the more amazing. We cannot help but suspect foul play."
"You have someone in mind, perhaps, gentlemen?"
"No one," answered Dunnel.
"Then obviously you have some specific reason for believing that someone has made away with Professor Faversham. May I know it?"
"Certainly, Mr. Pons. It is this. Professor Faversham is our treasurer; for the last year he has had complete charge of ten thousand pounds of our money. Five days ago Professor Faversham returned to London from a three months' vacation in Scotland; he is on six months' leave at present. On his return, he saw fit to draw our money from the bank. We did not question his motive, confident that his action would be to our ultimate benefit."
"When was the money drawn out?"
"Yesterday morning, Mr. Pons. It was to have been returned today, for Professor Faversham was to leave for Berlin tomorrow morning to complete his leave of absence."
"He notified you that he was drawing out the money?"
"Certainly. Everything was done in the proper order."
"How many people knew of the transaction?" asked Pons, after a momentary hesitation.
"I fear you will gain nothing in that direction, Mr. Pons. I admit that we were rather indiscreet about the matter, and it came out; virtually all the tutors and lecturers in the college kne
w of it. And then there are, of course, the bank officials."
Pons contemplated his pipe thoughtfully. "You asked no questions of Professor Faversham?"
"None. We suggested as a matter of course that he give us some clue to his intention, but he did not do so."
"Surely that is an unusual, not to say irregular, procedure?"
"Oh, most irregular, Mr. Pons, admittedly. But we have done it before, and we have never lost anything through any of Professor Faversham's transactions. He has a good eye for investments, and in every case previous to this time, his investment has proved a very good thing."
"As a barrister, Mr. Faversham may have known prominent people in other fields —brokers, perhaps. Is there any possibility that he might have invested your money in stocks?"
Dr. Dunnel looked uneasy; his austere features coloured a little. He glanced at his companion before he admitted at last that it had been suggested that Professor Faversham might have dabbled in the market.
His statement was reserved almost to coolness. Pons said nothing for a moment, but a keen look came into his eyes. "Did Professor Faversham spend his London interlude at his home in Slade Street, or at a hotel?"
"That we cannot say. He spent a part of each day at his home; but it is equally certain that he did not spend his nights there."
"Do you know whether he at any time entertained visitors at his home?"
"We know of one man, Mr. Pons, of whom he spoke to us. Dr. Hans von Ruda, a professor retired from the University of Bonn."
"You saw them together?"
"We saw von Ruda enter Faversham's home. My own home is just across the street from number 27."
Pons sat for a few moments, his eyes contemplative. "I take it you want me to find Professor Faversham and the ten thousand pounds," he said presently.
"Quite so, Mr. Pons. We would not like the members of the college board to know that we had been in the practise of following so irregular a procedure in regard to our funds. Dr. Fessenden and I are making this our personal concern, and you will have carte blanche —vie will cover all your expenses in addition to your fee."
August Derleth - The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 Page 75