Pons straightened up with a grunt.
“The murderer was a man over six feet tall; of enormous strength; but at the same time able to walk as quietly as a cat. The death of Schneider was obviously a matter of great urgency and carried out with technical precision. The motive, when it can be discovered, was so important that it was necessary to eliminate Schneider as rapidly as possible.”
I glanced at the two detective officers who were standing open-mouthed upon the platform.
“Come, Pons,” I protested. “That the murderer was a man of enormous strength, is fairly obvious. But how do you arrive at your other conclusions?”
“It is surely elementary, Parker,” said Solar Pons quietly. “From a careful examination of the body I estimate that Schneider was a man of some five feet eleven inches, perhaps six feet. The single shattering blow that snuffed his life struck him squarely on the crown of the head, carried on into the brain pan and caved in the front of the skull at the same time. To do that the man of normal height, were he tremendously strong, would have to stand upon a box or some form of support. No, Parker, the man who took Schneider’s life would need to be at least six feet four inches in height to inflict such a blow. What say you, Jamison?”
The Inspector scratched his head.
“You are certainly correct, Mr Pons, now that you have pointed it out. We have established Mr Schneider’s height as being five feet eleven.”
Solar Pons gave me a thin smile as he turned back to look at the statue of Aphrodite.
“Very well, Pons. But the cat-like qualities?”
“The murderer came from the direction of the door, Parker. To do that he would have to walk a long way. It was obvious that Schneider was at work upon the statue, with his back to the door. Therefore, it was not until his attacker reached him that he became aware of his presence. Will you stand over here, Parker? There, that is correct. Your shadow, as you will notice, is now thrown across the base of the statue. Schneider whirled to receive the mallet blow upon the crown and front of the head. He died instantly.”
“That is undoubtedly right, Mr Pons,” said Inspector Buckfast quietly. “But how did his attacker escape?”
“We have yet to establish that, Inspector. But it is obvious that he walked back toward the door. And equally obvious that he dried his shoes at a point here. There was a light rain last night.”
Pons walked rapidly to a spot below the railed platform where the two police officers stood and examined the planking minutely with his lens.
“Here, you see, he has wiped his shoes upon the planks. When they were sufficiently dry to leave no marks, he then left. Let us just see…”
Pons moved from board to board, his movements intent and bird-like, his ascetic face alight with concentration. Impressed despite themselves, Jamison and Buckfast remained silent.
“There is a little dust but not enough,” said Pons presently, rising from his bent posture. “The traces become illegible halfway between the door and the platform.”
He glanced upward at the skylight far above our heads.
“It is possible that he was lowered by a rope from above, though unlikely. We shall want that skylight carefully examined, Jamison.”
“We have already done so, Mr Pons.”
“I am aware of that. But the operative word is carefully. I suggest it was done cursorily in the early hours of this morning. Incidentally, why was not P.C. Daniels aware that Schneider had let his house and moved?”
“I have already asked him that, Mr Pons. He is on nights and would not have been aware of any such move. He usually saw Schneider at the studio or thereabouts. Daniels was sometimes in the habit of trying the studio door in the small hours on his beat.”
“Hmm.”
Pons stood frowning, tugging at the lobe of his right ear as was his habit in moments of great concentration.
“You have not yet told us why the act was so important, Pons, and how you arrived at the conclusion that Schneider had to be eliminated as soon as possible.”
Solar Pons turned his piercing glance upon me.
“Tut, Parker, it is self-evident. Learn to use your own ratiocinative faculties. The blow proves that. One colossal, shattering stroke that extinguished life in a second. Schneider had to be killed as quickly as possible. That stands out clearly. The murderer obviously seized the nearest tool to hand; the mallet undoubtedly came from this table here, halfway between the door and the statue.”
“You are right, Pons, as always.” I muttered.
Solar Pons smiled thinly.
“Right on this occasion, Parker. I am not always so, as I would be the first to admit.”
“But could it not have been jealousy or some mad rage, Pons?”
My friend shook his head.
“A jealous rival you mean? A feud in the artistic world? It is barely possible. A person in a mad rage would have gone on battering at the body long after life was extinct. But this was one devastating blow. One would say a clean blow if it had not left such an abattoir-like aftermath.”
He looked round with distaste, turning his gaze up at to the two silent men in front of us.
“You are right in one thing, Jamison. This is a case which presents a number of baffling aspects. We will just look at the store-rooms below before questioning the occupants of the house.”
3
“There is little to see here, Pons.”
“I am inclined to agree with you, my dear Parker. But even a negative result tends to eliminate the possibility of error.”
We stood in the garage below the studio, Inspector Jamison gloomily behind us. Inspector Buckfast had excused himself and gone back to Cheneys to warn the occupants of our impending arrival.
As Jamison had already told us, the roof of the garage was made of metal girders and cement and there was obviously no way into the studio from the ground. As I moved aimlessly about the floor, noting the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost and the other opulent touring car in the interior, my mind was overcome by the obvious difficulties in reconciling the facts of Romane Schneider’s death. There was no way into the studio; there was no reason to believe there had ever been a second key to the front door: and Pons had already ascertained that the door in question had not been tampered with.
Even as the thought crossed my mind there was a shadow at the garage entrance and a plain-clothes man reported to Inspector Jamison, “The skylight has obviously not been opened for several years, sir. It is secured with heavy bolts from the inside and when we tried to open it, we found the framing screwed down.”
Inspector Jamison thanked his subordinate and turned to Pons, his lugubrious features even more grave.
“It just gets more difficult. Mr Pons.”
“On the contrary, light is beginning to show, Jamison. By blocking it out we must eventually arrive at one compact beam which will illuminate the truth for us.”
Jamison frowned at me.
“Very picturesquely put, Mr Pons. Let us just hope you are right.”
He led the way through a connecting door in the wall of the garage to a large storage area on the right. This was divided into brick bays and the place was. as Jamison had already told us, jammed from floor to ceiling with crates and boxes. Pons looked keenly about him in the shadowy light. It was difficult to see the thick pine boarding but it was evident that the ceiling was solid and heavy. Moreover, the crates in the bays extended to within an inch or so of the woodwork overhead.
“Just as I told you, Mr Pons,” said the Inspector.