“Certainly, Pons.”
Pons came back from the window and sat down again.
“It is a pity it does not get dark until almost after ten o’clock at this time of the year. It would be better to go there after dark. It would not do to let Colonel Gantley see us in his garden at night. He might suspect us of being burglars.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Pons?”
“Nothing, Parker. It is just that I have a mind to look at that studio again. I fancy Jamison will not have the body removed until after dark. Discretion is one of the virtues of the British police, after all.”
“But how will we get in, Pons?”
“I took an impression of the key when we were at the studio this morning, Parker. I have had it made up this afternoon.”
I stared at Pons in astonishment.
“I fail to see…”
“You fail to see, my dear fellow, because you do not draw the correct conclusions from the data before you. You remember the letters we found in Schneider’s study?”
“It will be a long time before I forget them, Pons.”
“Exactly. Yet those letters told you nothing?”
“That the sculptor was a cad and an unscrupulous cheat where women were concerned.”
“Tut, Parker. We are not concerned with moral strictures. Murder has been done.”
“I realise that, Pons.”
“The studio was a quiet, discreet place. Schneider was not known to use it at night. He sculptured female nudes there. And he would not give the key to his local police-station.”
I stared at my companion for a long moment.
“I see your reasoning, Pons, but I cannot quite grasp the conclusion.”
Solar Pons made an irritated clicking noise with his tongue.
“I am bluntly suggesting that Schneider, a successful and well-known sculptor was quite patently a secret womaniser on an heroic scale. What more likely rendezvous for his amorous intrigues than the studio?”
“I follow that, Pons, but where does that lead us?”
Solar Pons’ face expressed sorrowful resignation.
“The studio is altogether too open and simple, like the face of an ingenuous man. There has to be something else beneath it. What more likely a secret entrance so that his lady friends could come and go without being suspected? And also that they might be kept from seeing one another if one ever came to the front door? Or their husbands. Do I make myself clear?”
I gulped.
“Good heavens, Pons. It is crystal clear, now that you put it like that. The skylight, perhaps…”
Solar Pons laughed. It was not an unkind laugh but it cut nevertheless.
“We must look to the ground, not skywards, Parker. Though it seems unlikely from the solid construction of the studio, there must be a way in from below.”
“Ah, the garage?”
Pons shook his head.
“The ceiling was of solid cement. Most likely the store-room.”
I smiled.
“You mean that Schneider’s style was cramped by his letting Cheneys to Colonel Gantley? Necessity compelled him to do so. Perhaps he hoped to continue his liaisons but the stacking of the crates for the Colonel’s business prevented the use of the secret entrance?”
“It may well be.” said Pons airily. “There are a number of intriguing possibilities. Linked, I have no doubt, with the extortionately high rent charged by Schneider for his house.”
“I do not follow you, Pons.”
“It would not be the first time, Parker. Nevertheless, while going through Schneider’s papers today I found some interesting documents, obviously overlooked by Jamison and his colleagues. The late Romane Schneider was charging the Colonel one hundred pounds a week for the use of Cheneys.”
I stared at my companion in stupefaction.
“You cannot mean it, Pons?”
“The figures are there, in black and white, Parker. Intriguing, is it not? However, I suggest we set off. A walk in this agreeable weather will not come amiss. It should be dark by the time we arrive.”
A few minutes later, having appraised Mrs Johnson of our departure, we were walking through the streets of London in the pleasant warmth of a perfect summer evening. It was cool in the shadows of the buildings after the intense heat of the day and my spirits rose as we walked up Gloucester Road in the direction of Hampstead. Traffic was light at this time of the evening and there was a good sprinkling of cyclists so that dust, the plague of the London summer, was at a minimum.
Solar Pons strode out at a great pace, discoursing on a wide variety of topics and I listened with interest, interpolating a question or a monosyllabic remark from time to time. So absorbed were we that I hardly noticed the closing in of dusk but the lamps had just been lit when we at last turned into Hampstead High Street and on to the Vale of Health.
To my surprise Pons stepped aside and led me to a public house, where a few chairs and benches were set outside on the green turf. It was a cool and pleasant spot while we waited for the last of the light to die from the sky. There were but a few bars of blood red lingering in the west and the hill was a lime-yellow glow of gaslights before Pons rose from his seat and started off across the turf.
I was at his heels as he circled round, keeping a sharp eye on Cheneys in its quiet cul-de-sac. There were lights in the upper rooms of the house but so far as I could make out, the studio building at the rear was in darkness.
“Is this likely to be dangerous, Pons?” I asked, as we gained the road at the far side of the green and continued our walk onwards.
“Most decidedly, Parker, if my calculations be correct,” said Pons.
“The police appear to have withdrawn and conditions are ideal.”
“For what, Pons?”
“For our purpose, my dear fellow.”
“Perhaps I should have brought my revolver?”
“I had not overlooked it, Parker. Thinking that you might need it I took the liberty of bringing it along.”
And Solar Pons produced the weapon from the inside of his jacket pocket with a thin smile.
“Really. Pons!” I protested, thrusting it into my pocket. “I sometimes think you must be clairvoyant.”
“Hardly, Parker. Merely thoughtful, but I do sympathise with your feelings.”
We had turned again now and I was aware of a gigantic figure silhouetted against the gas-lamps in front of us.
“Good evening, Mr Pons. Thought I might find you here, sir.”
The police constable touched the peak of his helmet and came to a stop in front of us. So huge was he that he towered over Solar Pons, despite his own not inconsiderable height.
“Ah, P.C. Daniels, is it not? The man who found the body?”
“Nasty business, Mr Pons. I understood from Inspector Jamison that you had been consulted. I have not seen you, sir, since that murderous affair in Paddington. Right on your own doorstep.”
“Ah, the anarchists,” said Pons, his keen eyes searching the giant’s face. “I have not forgotten your services on that occasion. And in any event your remarkable physique makes you a difficult man to forget.”
The constable laughed shortly. He was a man of about thirty with a heavy black moustache which stood out like a great bar of shadow on his alert, intelligent face.
“I must admit there are not many things I fear on night beat, Mr Pons, but that business of Mr Schneider gave me a nasty turn.”
“I can well imagine, constable. Tell me, has the body yet been removed?”
“Not twenty minutes since, Mr Pons. You have just missed Inspector Jamison. Did you wish to gain entry to the studio, sir? The Inspector has the only key.”
“It is no matter, Daniels. I was merely mulling over some problems in my mind. By the bye, I have not yet seen anything of the murder in the early editions this afternoon?”