As we were announced he excused himself to his companion and came striding down the room toward us. So massive was he that the studio seemed to tremble as he advanced. Solar Pons’ eyes had a mild twinkle as he gazed at the Inspector. Sir Hercules Kronfeld was close to us now, looking from one to the other with an inquiring expression on his face. He gave a wry chuckle.
“My accountant.”
He jerked his thumb in the direction of the figure by the statue. “All the same these young fellows nowadays. They seem to think we’re in this for art’s sake.”
He chuckled again and pumped Inspector Jamison’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Inspector, though I don’t know why I should be so honoured.”
“I am sorry for the intrusion, Sir Hercules. This is Mr Solar Pons and Dr Lyndon Parker.”
The deep brown eyes swivelled and studied us closely.
“It is always interesting for a master in one field to meet a maitre in another, Mr Pons.”
“You are too good, Sir Hercules.”
“We will not keep you a moment, sir,” Inspector Jamison broke in without further preamble. “We have come in the matter of Romane Schneider.”
Sir Hercules Kronfeld looked at the Inspector in silence for a moment. His manner was distinctly cooler and little flecks of anger were dancing in his eyes.
“I do not care to hear anything of that unmitigated charlatan, Inspector, and I will thank you not to mention that man’s name within the walls of my house.”
Jamison reddened but pressed on stolidly.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to mention it, Sir Hercules. This is a Scotland Yard matter.”
“Oh.”
There was intense curiosity on the sculptor’s face.
“What has he been up to now? I should be glad to hear you are on the point of arresting him. but that is too much to hope for.”
“You did not like him, then, Sir Hercules?”
“I? I detest him.”
“You need do so no longer,” interrupted Solar Pons quietly. “He has been murdered in the most brutal and horrifying manner.”
A remarkable change had come over Sir Hercules. Pons’ words seemed visibly to deflate him. He staggered. His face went white and he moved over toward a wooden stand supporting one of his sculptures, bracing himself with a thick, fleshy hand. His lips moved once or twice but he was unable to articulate the words.
“It seems to be a shock to you,” went on Solar Pons calmly. “I have often observed that the removal of an object of hatred may be as traumatic as that of a loved one.”
Sir Hercules had recovered himself by now. He cleared his throat harshly.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” he murmured. “It was a shock, I must admit. I hardly know what to say.”
“You are unable to help us, then, in the matter of Mr Schneider’s death?” muttered Jamison.
Sir Hercules fixed him with a stern glance.
“I? How on earth could I help? I have not even seen him for three months.”
“A pity,” the Inspector went on. “I had hoped you might have thrown some light on the matter.”
“You must disabuse yourself of that, Inspector. Like me, Schneider had many enemies. It is inevitable in the art world, I am afraid. How did he die?”
“Struck on the head with tremendous force with one of his own mallets. His skull was completely shattered and he must have expired instantaneously.”
Sir Hercules Kronfeld drew in his breath with a shuddering sigh.
“Horrible, Inspector. Just horrible. I did not think I could feel so drained.”
“I am sorry to be the first to bring you the news. Have you anyone in mind who might have done this dreadful thing?”
Sir Hercules, obviously moved, now had his back turned but faced us again. His lips were trembling and his features were still bleached of all colour.
“No-one, inspector. He had no specific enemies that I know of.”
He gave a short, cynical laugh.
“Except myself.”
“Pray do not punish yourself, Sir Hercules,” said Pons quietly.
The sculptor shot him a shrewd glance.
“You are a remarkable man, Mr Pons. I can see that the true situation has not escaped you.”
Pons smiled wryly.
“We have many examples in the arts. Gilbert and Sullivan in more recent times, of course.”
Inspector Jamison had watched this exchange with obvious bewilderment.
“I do not see how this helps us, Mr Pons,” he said heavily.
“Of course not, Inspector,” said Solar Pons. “We must be going. We can do no good here and I am sure Sir Hercules has much to occupy him.”
He rested his hand lightly on the sculptor’s shoulder as he passed. Sir Hercules recollected himself with an effort.
“Good day, gentlemen. You will forgive me for not showing you out.”
We were silent as we walked back through the house, preceded by the same parlour-maid who had let us in.
“Well, Mr Pons,” said Inspector Jamison as we regained the street. “A giant of a man. One with strength enough and opportunity enough to commit such a crime. I shall have him carefully watched.”
Solar Pons raised his eyebrows.
“Take my advice, Jamison, and direct your attention elsewhere,” he advised.
Jamison frowned.
“Come, Mr Pons,” he said. “You are not omniscient. We know Sir Hercules and the dead man were bitter enemies. There is reason enough for the committing of such a crime, surely…”
“You have still to explain how Sir Hercules got in and out of that studio like a puff of smoke, Jamison. It really will not do.”
Jamison’s face assumed a stubborn aspect which I knew of old.
“Nevertheless, Mr Pons, you must allow me to pursue this affair in my own way.”
“Certainly, Inspector. That is your prerogative. I think we have done all we can for the moment, Parker. Allow us to bid you good day, Jamison.”
5
“What do you make of it, Parker?”
We were seated in our comfortable sitting-room at 7B Praed Street. Pons had been silent for the last hour, after the tea-things had been cleared away, and the upper air of the room was blue with pipe-smoke.
“You already know my feelings, Pons. It is baffling indeed.”
“Nevertheless, I should like to have the benefit of your observations in the matter.”
I put down my newspaper and regarded my companion sceptically but there was nothing but concerned interest in his face. Beams of evening sunlight, striking through the windows that overlooked Praed Street, made a scarlet mask of his face as he waited for my reply.
“We have no motive, Pons.”
“Exactly.”
“We have a studio which was locked and to and from which no-one apparently came or went.”
“The salient points have not escaped you, my dear fellow.”
“The murderer, according to your conclusions, must have been over six feet tall.”
“Agreed.”
“His greatest enemy, Sir Hercules, fits that physical description.”
“So do a great many men.”
“His secretary, Godfrey Horrabin, for example, Pons?”
Solar Pons gave a dry chuckle and looked at me mockingly.
“You now have two suspects, Parker. I suggest we may find a third — or even a fourth — before this case is over.”
He rose, stretched himself and walked casually across toward the window.
“Are you free to accompany me this evening?”