Solar Pons stared at me, his mood changing to the serious.
“And I need only a few moments with him, Parker, in order to arrive at a considered assessment of his character. My own obscure nom-de-plume will be Horace Johnson.”
“I still feel uneasy about the whole matter, Pons. Will Foy not know all the leading European collectors?”
“Certainly, Parker, which is why you are assuming the persona of Eugene Sheffield.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“Eugene Sheffield, Pons?”
“None other. He is one of the greatest experts in the field.” I put the books down at the small occasional table at my side.
“It is surely foolhardy in the extreme, Pons. Will he not know me for an impostor?”
“Tut, Parker, you really disappoint me. Sheffield and Foy have never met. To the best of my knowledge the former has never had his photograph published. And I have it on the best authority that he is at present travelling in South America studying the full-scale railway systems there.”
I rose to my feet and try as I would I could not keep the irritation from my voice.
“But we know so little of model engineering, Pons!”
Solar Pons smiled thinly.
“Ah, there you are certainly inaccurate, Parker. I have spent the greater part of the day studying and memorising material and data from these reference works and if I cannot, by tomorrow morning, sustain an intelligent conversation on the subject for a quarter of an hour without arousing suspicion in an expert mind, then I shall retire as a private consulting detective.”
-4-
I was up early next day and by dint of hurrying my calls and thereby scandalising some of my more elderly and querulous patients was able to return to Praed Street at a little after eleven o’clock. Pons was in excellent spirits, his manner alert and dynamic and by half-past we were in a taxi on our way to Kensington. Though I had spent some hours the previous evening studying and, as I thought, memorising salient points of the complex engineering manuals and catalogues on the model steam locomotive world, I found to my horror, that much of what had seemed simple the night before had simply slipped my memory.
Pons immediately sensed my problem and came to my rescue with a reassuring smile and his usual sound advice.
“Try not to think of specific points, my dear fellow, but the subject in general. After all, Foy may simply accept you at your face value.”
I must confess I was cheered at his attitude but as we grew nearer to our destination and the driver took a side-turning, I felt a growing apprehension. This was not assisted by the sight of the imposing-looking mansions with which we were now surrounded.
The driver drew in to the curb and looked at Pons curiously. “You didn’t specify any particular address, guvnor.”
Pons nodded affably.
“Indeed. You are perfectly correct. This will do admirably.”
We got out and I waited while Pons paid the driver. It was a superb summer’s day such as we had been enjoying for some while and the brilliant sunlight sparkled blindingly off white-painted plaster and reflected back in myriad points of dazzlement from windows, brass door-knockers and from the shimmering surfaces of coach-lamps which projected from walls and hung over doorways of the impeccably-kept mansions about us.
The Palladian porches, elaborate balconies and statued entrances of the mansions stretched in an elegant curve, each separated by high hedges and immaculately tended gardens from its neighbour. I followed Pons along the pavement and through an elaborate wrought-iron gate, up a flagged walk under an archway to a severe flight of steps which led to the entrance porch. There was an agreeable scent of roses and, above the faint murmur of traffic, came the gentle, soothing beat of a lawn-mower.
“It’s another world, Pons,” I said, casting an appreciative eye on this green, shadowy place which spoke of unobtrusive wealth and luxury.
“Is it not, Parker,” said Pons ironically, but I could see from the keen, penetrating glances he was shooting from side to side, that he was as coolly detached as ever; totally unimpressed by the milieu, which in truth he probably thought over-ornate, but alert at the same time to every nuance which might tell him something about the life-style and private problems of Hugo Foy.
We were, however, somewhat rudely interrupted by a piercing screech and so harsh and obtrusive was this in such a quiet place that I started involuntarily. Pons was smiling, however, and almost immediately I noticed what his keen eye had already picked out, a plume of white steam above the tree-tops and a few moments later came the thundering rumble of steel wheels sliding along metal rails.
“I fancy our man is not far off,” said Pons drily. “Let us just follow this path.”
He strode on down a winding, rustic by-way that led among tangled masses of flowers in rockery beds at either side and this shortly brought us to a secluded part of the garden where small gauge steel rails had been laid out, their shining ribbon sparkling in the sunlight as they gently curved and wound until they were lost to sight among the trees.
As we gained the lower level we came in full view of a remarkable spectacle. Here, laid out and back-grounded against luxuriant vegetation and thickly clustered trees was a complete scale model of a large suburban railway station with miniature chocolate machines, waiting room and even electric lighting on the platforms. Miniature signals showed red as in correct railway practice and even as we drew closer there came the sharp, repetitive clanging of the repeater bells of an electric telegraph.
Pons’ eyes sparkled with approval and he bent down at the edge of the asphalt platform, admiring the craftsmanship of the station roof with its glass panels discoloured by soot as in full-scale practice.
“Our Mr. Foy is nothing if not thorough, Parker,” he said crisply. “Let us just wait here a moment. If I mistake not the through express for Scotland should be drawing in quite shortly.”
As he spoke the signals outside the station changed to green and there was a heavy thudding vibration on the line which rose to thunder as the gleaming dark red livery of a steam locomotive broke from the heavy shadow of trees about a hundred yards away and flashed and sparkled into the sunshine. Behind it was a van and then six brown and chocolate coaches, their bright enamel and heavy brass fittings flashing and winking as the sunlight caught them. I was lost in admiration so that the strange apparition of the silver-haired man in blue dungarees, crouched in the engine cab, almost escaped me. But I was roused from my reverie by Pons removing his hat and giving the engine-driver a courtly bow.
“Forgive the liberty. Mr. Foy, is it not? My name is Horace Johnson. May I present Mr. Eugene Sheffield. One steam enthusiast meets another. Quite an historic moment.”
The dark cloud of suspicion which had gathered on the millionaire’s face — for I had recognized Hugo Foy from his newspaper representations — cleared immediately and he edged the beautiful machine gently into the station where it grunted to itself and emitted dense clouds of steam. He wiped his hands on an oily rag and leaped nimbly to the ground.
“Mr. Sheffield! I am truly honoured.”
It was only then that I remembered my assumed role.
“Beautiful, my dear sir, beautiful,” I observed. “A magnificent example of a four-six-four locomotive. Sir Nigel Apthorpe if I am not mistaken, at the head of a six-coach unit representing a King’s Cross-Edinburgh express.”
Foy moved away from the locomotive, revealing the nameplate, which I was relieved to see I had identified correctly, a smile of enthusiastic approval on his face.
“I had thought you were abroad, Mr. Sheffield,” he said, holding out his hand. “I do not usually welcome being disturbed at this hour of the day, when I indulge my hobby, but fellow enthusiasts are always welcome. Pray introduce your friend formally.”