“One and the same, Dr Parker. Though I know little of such matters he is described as the greatest sculptor this country has ever produced.”
Solar Pons’ eyes were sparkling and he looked at our visitor piercingly from beneath the lids.
“How did he die, Jamison?”
“Murdered, Mr Pons. In his own studio in Hampstead. Done to death with one of the mallets he used for his sculpture work.”
There was something so evocative in Jamison’s hushed tones as he came to the last sentence that an involuntary shudder passed through me.
“When was this?” asked Solar Pons, opening his eyes.
“The early hours of this morning, Mr Pons. It will be in all tomorrow’s editions.”
He paused and looked uncomfortable.
“It was a sore point with me. Mr Pons. I will be quite frank. It took me only a few hours to see that the matter presented certain difficulties.”
“Which has brought you here at breakfast time?”
“Exactly.”
Jamison took out his handkerchief again and mopped the nape of his neck with it.
“I have seldom seen a more pointless sort of crime, Mr Pons. There was no robbery as far as we can make out: no-one had a motive: and the studio had not been broken into.”
Solar Pons shook his head, a reproving expression on his face.
“Come, Jamison. How many times have I told you. No visible motive. There is always a motive for every crime, however pointless it may appear to the casual bystander.”
“You are undoubtedly right, Mr Pons. But I have seldom been faced with such difficulties. Could you spare the time to step around?”
“Certainly. But first I should like to know a little more about the details. We have time for that. I should imagine?”
“Certainly, Mr Pons,” said Jamison gloomily. “Whoever murdered Romane Schneider will be miles away by now.”
Pons held up his finger reprovingly.
“We do not know that, Inspector. And it is useless to speculate without sufficient data.”
He looked across at me with satisfaction.
“And as the crime was committed only a few hours ago it means that the trail is fresh.”
“You may well be right, Mr Pons,” Jamison went on lugubriously.
“Come, Jamison,” said Pons cheerfully. “I have never seen you so down. Pray favour us with some facts.”
Jamison put his handkerchief away for the second time and frowned at me before turning his attention to my companion.
“A patrolling constable found the body of Mr Schneider at three o’clock this morning, Mr Pons. He saw the light from the skylight. Mr Schneider lives in a big house in the Vale of Health, which is just off Hampstead High Street.”
“Yes, yes, Jamison,” said Pons irritably. “I am tolerably familiar with the area. Get to the facts and leave the guide-book details to friend Parker here when he comes to write up the case.”
He smiled wryly, ignoring Jamison’s frown of discomfiture.
“Very well, Mr Pons,” he continued in a weary voice. “P.C. Daniels would not normally have bothered about a solitary light at that time of the morning except that he knows the area; knows the house; and also knows that Mr Schneider rarely works by artificial light; and never after ten o’clock in the evening. He is a man of very fixed personal habits. Or was.”
“I see.”
Solar Pons’ eyes were very steady and piercing as he stared at the Inspector.
“So he decided to investigate the light, Mr Pons. He did not want to arouse the house, which was in darkness. It is a Georgian building and he walked to the back, through the extensive garden to where the studio stands. It is a detached building of some size. It has a garage and store-rooms at the bottom and a timber staircase and balcony which give access to the studio on the first floor.”
“I think I know the house, Pons,” I put in. “Cheneys, is it not?”
Inspector Jamison nodded.
“Correct, Dr Parker. You have an excellent memory.”
“It is improving, Jamison,” said Pons. “I give you that. You were saying?”
“P.C. Daniels walked up the stairs, Mr Pons, and knocked. He received no reply. The door was locked so he went round the verandah. There were thick curtains over the windows on the far side. What he saw through a chink in the coverings brought him back to the front where he broke the glass-panelled door in to gain admission. What he found inside made him so sick that he had to come out again for air.”
“Heavens!” I exclaimed. “Shocking, was it?”
Jamison nodded.
“Horrible, doctor. Mr Schneider had been badly battered about the head with one of his own mallets as though by a maniac. So ferocious was the attack that there was blood all over the room; on the base of a statue on which he had been working; and the handle of the mallet itself, though of thick wood, had been clean snapped off. There were no finger-prints, as the murderer had worn gloves.”
Solar Pons leaned forward in his chair, thin plumes of smoke from his pipe ascending to the sitting-room ceiling in the still June air.
“You intrigue me, Jamison. I take it the body is still in situ?”
Jamison nodded.
“Nothing has been disturbed, Mr Pons. Our own people have been there, of course, but we have used extreme care.”
Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together “Excellent, Jamison. To what conclusion did your constable come?”
“He very wisely telephoned his own station, Mr Pons, and the C.I.D. were soon out there under a very experienced man named Mooney. He got on to the Yard within the hour, not only because Schneider was such a famous man but because of the extraordinary circumstances.”
“Pray tell me about them.”
Jamison shrugged.
“I hardly know where to begin, Mr Pons. We did not arouse the household at that time of the morning and carried out our preliminary investigations as quietly as possible. Our police doctor confirmed that Schneider died earlier that evening, of shock and haemorrhage when the skull was crushed with the first blow. The door of the studio was locked and there was no key; we found no signs on the staircase or door that would indicate forcible entry. The skylight is more than twenty feet from the floor and was locked. Moreover, there are no other entrances and exits and the only key to the door known to be in existence was in the dead man’s waistcoat pocket.”
“You intrigue me, Jamison.”
“I am glad you are able to feel so light-hearted about it, Mr Pons. This, on top of all my other current cases, beats everything.”
“If you did not rouse the household, how did you know that Schneider had the only key?”
Inspector Jamison looked smug.
“For the very good reason, Mr Pons, that we kept details of the house in a book at the local police station. It is standard routine where there is much valuable property on a particular premises. Mr Schneider asked our local people to keep an eye on the house and studio, and he always notifies them when he goes on holiday. They asked for a spare key but though he supplied them with one for the house he refused in the case of the studio, emphasising that he had the only one, which was never off his person.”
“I see. What about the floor of the studio. Jamison?”
“We thought about that. Heavy tongued and grooved pine throughout, highly polished; with a platform for sitters up at one end.”
“Hmm.”
Solar Pons rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“And the garage and store-rooms underneath?”
“Nothing, Mr Pons. I looked through the garage window with a torch soon after I arrived on the scene but it has a solid cement ceiling. So far as I can make out, the storehouses are crammed from floor to ceiling with crates and packing cases.”