“You devil, Pons!” he croaked with ashen face, his trembling lips hardly able to articulate the words. “Everything you said was true.”
“I regret the Grand Guignol conclusion,” said Solar Pons evenly, “but it was entirely necessary. I hope you got everything, Jamison?”
To my astonishment a large cupboard at the side of the kitchen opened and the solid form of the Scotland Yard man. together with a burly constable appeared in the opening.
“I am obliged to you, Mr Pons,” said Jamison. “We could never have cracked this without knowing events at this end. As you suggested, we watched the stations and managed to shadow our man without arousing his suspicion. He stayed at the Green Dragon long enough for us to beat him here, with the help of Mrs Bevan.”
“You were perfectly correct, Roseacre,” said Solar Pons coolly. “The corpse of the real Marcus was not buried in the rose-garden. Or rather in the spot to which you had carefully drawn Miss Brentwood’s attention. We dug there tonight and found nothing but the dog, just as you intended if suspicion ever fell upon you. It was a considerable blow to me, I can assure you.”
Solar Pons paused, his implacable gaze fixed in the ashen face of the murderer.
“But then I remembered something that Miss Brentwood said. Even in death your littlest victim, your niece’s pet dog which you poisoned, pointed undeniably to your guilt. Miss Brentwood said that the rose-bushes had been dug up. So they had, but not from the area where you had deliberately laid the new terrace. Your niece said that the dog had been scratching about among the border up at one end. You had buried the corpse in quicklime in a place no-one would ever think of looking. It was beneath the bench on which you sat day after day in summer-time staring no doubt ironically, at the spot where you had buried the dog. I might never have realised it but for the fact that this ordinary wooden garden bench was secured at each end in two massive slabs of masonry. Something so out of the normal that it aroused my suspicion. You could not feel safe unless you were actually sitting on the corpse of your victim. One would pity you were your crimes not so atrocious.”
Roseacre gave a muffled cry and pushed past us with extraordinary strength and agility, scooping up my revolver from the floor as he ran. I rushed after him but he had already slammed his heavy study door behind him. Pons put his hand on my arm.
“No matter, my dear fellow. It is better this way.”
The heavy thunder of the explosion sounded astonishingly loud in the silence of the night. As Jamison and the constable put their shoulders to the panel Pons led me through the hallway. The fair, frightened face of our client looked over the banisters.
“What does that mean, Mr Pons?” she said tremulously.
“It means, my dear young lady, that henceforth you can live your life in the sunlight. If you will be good enough to fetch Mrs Bevan. Parker, we will escort these ladies back to town. The Priory is no place for a young heiress with such a happy future.”
The Adventure of the Baffled Baron
1
“Ah, Parker, I see that our old friend Jamison is in difficulties again.”
“You have the advantage of me, Pons.”
“Naturally. You do not command a very good view of the window from your position at the breakfast table. And the casements opposite are making an excellent reflector for the sunshine, which penetrates even into the interior of the police car.”
It was a beautiful morning in early June and my friend Solar Pons was standing smoking a reflective after-breakfast pipe at the window of our sitting room at 7B Praed Street.
I remained sitting at the table and spread some more marmalade on my second slice of toast.
“He is exploiting your talents, Pons.”
“Possibly. Parker, possibly. Though it would not do to underestimate the doggedness of Inspector Jamison. Obtuse he may be occasionally; and plodding certainly; but method and devotion of duty usually get him to his destination in the end.”
“You are being unusually generous this morning, Pons.”
“Am I not, Parker?”
Solar Pons smiled amiably.
“But then it is such a superb morning and London has been extremely dull of late. Jamison’s arrival may mean action and opportunity. I have been chafing at the bit this last week and our somewhat heavy-footed colleague may unlock the gates for us. You have no objection, I take it?”
“I, Pons? Most certainly not. I am taking a sabbatical today in any case.”
“Excellent, Parker. You are usually on your rounds by this time. Ah, here is Mrs Johnson at the door now.”
The beaming, well-scrubbed face of our excellent landlady had indeed appeared round the panel and at Pons’ crisp summons to enter she ushered in the worried- looking figure of Inspector Jamison. Pons had already thrown off his old grey dressing-gown and donned his jacket and now he strode forward, his face alert and quite transfigured from its languid expression of a few minutes earlier.
“Welcome, Jamison. Will you not have some coffee?”
“Thank you, Mr Pons. It has been a week and a half I can tell you.”
The Scotland Yard man sank into an armchair indicated by Pons and mopped his brow with a polka-dot handkerchief. His sallow face was beaded with perspiration and his complexion looked grey.
“You need a holiday, Inspector,” I suggested.
Jamison gave a wry smile as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket.
“You will have your little joke, doctor.”
Mrs Johnson had withdrawn to her own quarters and Pons passed the big cup of black coffee over to Jamison who seized it as though he had not taken nourishment for a fortnight.
“Trouble?”
Inspector Jamison nodded, a gloomy expression on his face.
“Difficulties, Mr Pons. I should be glad of a little help.”
“This agency exists to assist the forces of law and order, Jamison. Pray be more specific.”
Solar Pons drew up a chair to the table opposite the Inspector and tented his fingers before him, while his deep-set eyes searched our visitor’s face.
“It is a crime of capital dimensions; it has happened within the past twenty-four hours; and there is great pressure on you from above.”
Jamison’s face turned a mottled colour.
“How did you know that, Mr Pons?” he snapped.
Solar Pons smiled.
“It is obvious, Jamison. You would not seek my advice unless it were important. Similarly, the same set of criteria apply if you are stuck in your investigations. I estimate it would take you no more than twenty-four hours to conclude that the matter is beyond you. So with pressure on you from above — perhaps from Superintendent Heathfield or even the Commissioner himself- you come to me.”
There were dull red patches burning on Jamison’s cheeks now.
“You have an unfortunate way of putting it, Mr Pons,” he mumbled. “But basically you are correct.”
Solar Pons leaned back in his chair, a thin smile on his face.
“What is the problem?”
Jamison out down his coffee cup on the table with a thin clink in the silence.
“Romane Schneider is dead. Mr Pons.”
Pons looked at Jamison in silence, his brows drawn, while my own astonishment must have shown on my face.
“The sculptor, Inspector? The one who has the International Exhibition on in London at the present time?”