The constable shook his head.
“It is being handled very discreetly, Mr Pons. Inspector Jamison has not made any announcement as yet, though I have no doubt the newspapers will have got hold of it by this time tomorrow.”
“No doubt. Well, I must not keep you, Daniels. Goodnight to you.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
The constable touched the brim of his helmet again and moved off in the dusk, like an amiable but potentially dangerous bear. I looked after him thoughtfully, conscious of Pons’ eyes on me.
“Formidable is he not, Parker?”
“Yes, Pons. Gracious, you surely do not suspect him of the crime?”
“It has been done before, Parker. Notably in a work by G.K. Chesterton. But I do not think that nature is imitating art in this case. I am merely pointing out that we begin to have a plethora of huge men in this case. Daniels is the third. Perhaps we may have more luck with the fourth.”
“I am becoming more and more confused, Pons,” I said. “One would have thought the singularity of the crime in the locked studio, let alone the height of the murderer, would have simplified matters. Indeed, we have a multiplicity of suspects.”
Pons chuckled drily.
“Have we not, Parker. But I think light is about to break.”
6
And he said nothing more until we had skirted the bright windows of Cheneys and were standing within the deep shadow of the back garden. We cautiously crossed the lawn and once again came out on the paved concourse fronting the garage and storeroom block below the studio. The moon was shining brightly and reflected a metallic sheen from the great domed skylight of the studio.
“I would give a great deal to have been at that skylight when Schneider was attacked, Pons,” I whispered.
Solar Pons nodded.
“Each to his own last, my dear fellow. You would have robbed me of a most fascinating problem had you done so.”
He put his hand on my arm and drew me over toward the garage door. To my surprise he produced a metal instrument from his pocket and bent over the padlock. A minute or two passed and then there was a faint click. Pons turned to me.
“Now, inside with you, Parker, and be quiet about it.”
I slipped through the door and waited until he had softly closed it behind us, leaving the padlock hanging from the hasp outside.
“I thought we were going into the studio, Pons,” I whispered.
“Later, Parker. You forget the crates in here. It would not do to wreck the Colonel’s precious imports.”
I nodded, following close behind as Pons tip-toed through the garage, past the bulky forms of the two automobiles it contained. As we had seen that morning, there was a connecting door to the store-room, which was unlocked. Solar Pons led the way to the far wall and gazed up through the gloom at the piled boxes which climbed toward the ceiling.
“This will be a difficult job, Pons.”
My companion shook his head.
“I think not, Parker, if my suppositions be correct. Just place that large box at the foot here, will you.”
I helped him slide the crate over. Solar Pons fingered the lobe of his left ear and looked at me reflectively in the gloom.
“Just as I thought, my dear fellow. A natural staircase.”
I soon saw what he meant, for he simply marched up the slope of heavy boxes, which were arranged in tiers, rather like steps. I followed and joined him on the topmost crate.
“What now, Pons?”
“Nothing could be simpler, Parker.”
So saying he pulled at the large boxes in front of him. which stretched from the crates to the ceiling. I gasped, for the enormous pile, at least ten feet high, came away with the utmost ease. Pons holding the lowest between the tips of his fingers. He chuckled at my expression.
“As I suspected. Mere cardboard. Parker, glued together. You will see that there is nothing between the crates on which we are standing and the floor yonder. Just help me with these other piles.”
In a few minutes we had removed all four piles of boxes, and placed them lower down. We now had a clear space from floor to ceiling, revealing a large expanse of concrete at the rear of the wooden crates. Pons glanced keenly at the slatted wooden ceiling revealed.
“We can learn nothing further here, Parker. The answer must lie in the studio above. Come.”
Gaining the outside and first making sure that there was no-one else in the garden. Pons crept quietly up the staircase to the studio. I followed quickly, just in time to see the lean form of my friend glide through the door, which he had swiftly opened with the duplicate key. I moved toward the light switch but Pons instantly stopped me.
“I think not, Parker. It is annoying. I know and will make the task doubly tedious but we must work without the benefit of the main light.”
He moved over cautiously through the studio into which silvery moonlight was filtering from the skylight above. The body of the unfortunate sculptor had been removed, as P.C. Daniels had told us, but the tarpaulin which covered the spot where he had lain and the gouts of blood upon the statue of Venus Aphrodite were a vivid reminder of the brooding horror of that moment when we had first entered the chamber of death.
Pons had a small flash-light out now and was moving cautiously across the planking of the floor. To my surprise he ignored the main studio and went up the shallow staircase to the platform where the easel stood. Pons remained musing for a moment, his right hand stroking his chin, while the beam from his torch played quickly up and down the flooring.
“Why do you feel any entrance must be here, Pons?” I whispered.
“Simply because there is no other place, Parker,” said Solar Pons. “The crates below are solid, except for those we have just removed. The corner of the cleared area corresponds to this platform here. Besides, the buttressed sections below would not allow it.”
“I saw no buttresses, Pons.”
“Because you were not looking for them, my dear fellow. There were several steel beams, against which boxes and crates had been stacked for the purposes of Colonel Gantley’s antique business. We must not forget the enormous weight of these sculptures.”
“But I cannot possibly see how there could be an entrance, Pons. As we have just noted the ceiling below here is solid.”
Solar Pons turned to me. In the dim light of the torch his eyes were twinkling.
“I have already pointed out, Parker, there must be an entrance. Otherwise, Romane Schneider would still be alive. You really must learn to eliminate all inessentials.”
He turned from me and gave an experimental tug on the cord by which the overhead light was suspended. Satisfied, he moved over to the polished wooden railing that surrounded the platform and examined it carefully. When he had concluded his scrutiny he turned to the camera and tripod. He next went over the floor, section by section. All this took more than twenty minutes and I must confess my heart sank as the time passed without his discovering anything out of the ordinary.
He straightened up eventually and dusted the knees of his trousers. I was surprised to see an expression of alert excitement on his features.
“This does not bode well, Pons?”
“On the contrary, it tells me everything, Parker.”
He moved over to the heavy wooden easel which stood in one corner. There was no canvas on it and I would not have given it a second glance. But as Pons grasped it he gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
“As I suspected, Parker. The whole thing is fastened to the floor.”
“To the floor, Pons?”
“Yes. Parker. If I am not much mistaken it is used as a lever. Just hold the torch will you and stand close by me.”