Miss Stuart smiled and gazed at Pons with undisguised admiration.
“It is amazing, Mr Pons. I do not know how to thank you.”
Solar Pons chuckled.
“It has been reward enough, taking such a pleasant holiday in Grassington in such admirable weather. But I fear we must break things short and return to town tomorrow. Jealousy is one of the major passions and I should not like to risk a confrontation with the Major…”
The girl blushed a becoming pink and the Rector’s teeth glinted whitely in his beard.
“I do not know what you mean, Mr Pons.”
Solar Pons glanced at me, his eyes dancing.
“I think you do, Miss Stuart. The Major’s admiration for you is undisguised and I would not like to think my presence here would give him cause to fear a rival.”
He moved toward the door.
“We will make arrangements tomorrow to get the Cresswell valuables back to their rightful owners, though as the line has died out they may be regarded by a Coroner’s Court as treasure trove.”
“In that case I think Father would wish me to share the money with the church,” said Miss Stuart, turning to the Rector with a ready smile.
“Well, well. Parker, it would appear that poetic justice has been done,” said Solar Pons. “In the meantime a good night’s sleep would not come amiss before facing the rigours of the metropolis.”
The Adventure of the Ignored Idols
1
“Have you ever heard the name of Charles Brinsley LaFontaine, Parker?”
Solar Pons threw the newspaper over to me with a grunt.
“I believe I have heard you mention him. Pons. A clever forger and all-round- villain is he not?”
Solar Pons smiled approvingly at me as he sat opposite in his old grey dressing- gown in our comfortable sitting-room at 7B Praed Street.
You are constantly improving, my dear fellow. One of the most consummate scoundrels who ever lived yet his audacity is so unbounded and his villainies perpetrated with such style that one cannot help admiring him.”
Pons reached for his pipe and tamped tobacco into the bowl as I unfolded the paper.
“Nevertheless, I think he has overreached himself on this occasion. To commit a crime is one thing. To announce it beforehand is quite another.”
I gazed at my companion in astonishment as he sat looking into the flickering flames of our well-banked fire. It was a cold, dry day in October and we had just finished our lunch on this sunny Saturday afternoon.
“You do not mean to say so. Pons.”
“I was never more serious. Kindly peruse the news item I have ringed on the front page, if you would be so kind.”
I turned to the article he had mentioned. It was headed: THREAT TO MENTMORE MUSEUM. Precious Idols in Danger.
It began, “The Mentmore Museum in London, one of the depositories of the nation’s rarest art treasures, is threatened by a mysterious scoundrel who has indicated his intention of stealing the famous Baku Idols, a set of gold effigies, reputed to be worth a fortune.
“The Curator of the Museum, Colonel Francis Loder said last evening that a letter he had received indicated that an attempt would be made to steal the Idols within the next two or three weeks. The Colonel would not particularise on the text of the letter and said that he had been asked by Scotland Yard not to divulge the exact contents.
“The Museum staff is being strengthened, with double guards at night, and Superintendent Stanley Heathfield of Scotland Yard, who is in charge of the case, told this newspaper that the police authorities were taking the threats seriously. The letter received by the Museum Director was not signed but the distinctive handwriting, in copper-plate, ended with a question mark.”
There was much more in the same vein but very little additional information and I put down the journal with a puzzled expression.
“It says nothing here about LaFontaine, Pons.”
Solar Pons looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes.
“It says very little there about anything. Parker.”
“That is true,” I conceded, “but you must have good reason for your statement.”
“Indeed, Parker.” said my companion. “The item has all the hallmarks of LaFontaine. I have made some study of the man and the copper-plate writing is a speciality of his. He has never yet been convicted of anything.”
“Why is that, Pons?”
Solar Pons smiled thinly.
“Apart from the obvious fact that he has never been caught, the reason the police have never been able to secure a conviction is that he is a master of disguise. We have crossed swords only once and on that memorable occasion he escaped.”
“You astonish me, Pons.”
“I trust not, Parker. I am by no means infallible.”
Solar Pons leaned forward in his chair, tenting his fingers before him, the aromatic blue smoke from his pipe rising lazily to the ceiling.
“The conclusion arose quite simply because the man who laid the groundwork for the theft and forgeries was different from the man seen by witnesses, while the man held in the street by a policeman was different again. When questioned at the police station it was found that the third man was genuinely innocent and that the real miscreant had escaped.”
He smiled reminiscently and directed his gaze toward the newspaper.
“If you will kindly hand me that back, I will cut it out and add it to my file on Mr Charles Brinsley laFontaine. He is a considerable artist, seldom uses violence, robs only large institutions and organisations which can well afford it and I must confess I have a grudging admiration for him.”
“It is the first time I have heard you approve of a criminal. Pons.”
My companion looked at me sharply.
“I did not say that, Parker. Far from it. I am, as you know, implacably opposed to crime and its workings in any shape or form. But one cannot always withhold respect from an adversary, however misguided.”
“If this man has never been caught how do you know his name is LaFontaine?”
“A good question, Parker. I am sure it is not his real name but it was the nom-de-plume he used when writing letters of credit in the case I mentioned. They were also in copper-plate handwriting and the theft was extremely ingenious in its planning and execution. This affair of the Museum has the same stamp about it. Until we lay the man himself by the heels the nom-de-plume will have to do.”
I watched while Pons cut out the item and placed it in one of his neat box-files.
“You think we shall hear more of this, Pons?”
“I am convinced of it, my dear fellow.”
Solar Pons turned his deep-set eyes on me reflectively.
“Superintendent Stanley Heathfield is an extremely competent police officer and a gentleman who attained a high rank in the British Army in Flanders in the last war. He has a wide experience of life and we both respect each other.”
“You think he will consult you?”
Solar Pons shook his head.
“Not consult, Parker. He will confer with me. There is a deal of difference in the terms.”
“I do not quite follow, Pons.”
Solar Pons crossed his thin legs and sat back in his chair.
“Let me put it another way. Friend Jamison, though plodding and capable in his own way is extremely limited in imagination and the higher reaches of intelligence. As befits his rank, Heathfield is a man of deep education and culture with a wide grasp of both the world and human nature. Whereas Jamison would fumble about, well out of his depth, and only consult higher authority when the case was going badly, Heathfield is of a different school. He would sit down first, shrewdly assess all the factors and then, when he had made his decision, either bring in outside help or proceed on his own lines.”