Solar Pons: The Final Cases

1

“Ah, Parker, I see that our old friend Jamison is in difficulties again.”

“You have the advantage of me, Pons.”

“Naturally. You do not command a very good view of the window from your position at the breakfast table. And the casements opposite are making an excellent reflector for the sunshine, which penetrates even into the interior of the police car.”

It was a beautiful morning in early June and my friend Solar Pons was standing smoking a reflective after-breakfast pipe at the window of our sitting room at 7B Praed Street.

I remained sitting at the table and spread some more marmalade on my second slice of toast.

“He is exploiting your talents, Pons.”

“Possibly. Parker, possibly. Though it would not do to underestimate the doggedness of Inspector Jamison. Obtuse he may be occasionally; and plodding certainly; but method and devotion of duty usually get him to his destination in the end.”

“You are being unusually generous this morning, Pons.”

“Am I not, Parker?”

Solar Pons smiled amiably.

“But then it is such a superb morning and London has been extremely dull of late. Jamison’s arrival may mean action and opportunity. I have been chafing at the bit this last week and our somewhat heavy-footed colleague may unlock the gates for us. You have no objection, I take it?”

“I, Pons? Most certainly not. I am taking a sabbatical today in any case.”

“Excellent, Parker. You are usually on your rounds by this time. Ah, here is Mrs Johnson at the door now.”

The beaming, well-scrubbed face of our excellent landlady had indeed appeared round the panel and at Pons’ crisp summons to enter she ushered in the worried- looking figure of Inspector Jamison. Pons had already thrown off his old grey dressing-gown and donned his jacket and now he strode forward, his face alert and quite transfigured from its languid expression of a few minutes earlier.

“Welcome, Jamison. Will you not have some coffee?”

“Thank you, Mr Pons. It has been a week and a half I can tell you.”

The Scotland Yard man sank into an armchair indicated by Pons and mopped his brow with a polka-dot handkerchief. His sallow face was beaded with perspiration and his complexion looked grey.

“You need a holiday, Inspector,” I suggested.

Jamison gave a wry smile as he put his handkerchief back in his pocket.

“You will have your little joke, doctor.”

Mrs Johnson had withdrawn to her own quarters and Pons passed the big cup of black coffee over to Jamison who seized it as though he had not taken nourishment for a fortnight.

“Trouble?”

Inspector Jamison nodded, a gloomy expression on his face.

“Difficulties, Mr Pons. I should be glad of a little help.”

“This agency exists to assist the forces of law and order, Jamison. Pray be more specific.”

Solar Pons drew up a chair to the table opposite the Inspector and tented his fingers before him, while his deep-set eyes searched our visitor’s face.

“It is a crime of capital dimensions; it has happened within the past twenty-four hours; and there is great pressure on you from above.”

Jamison’s face turned a mottled colour.

“How did you know that, Mr Pons?” he snapped.

Solar Pons smiled.

“It is obvious, Jamison. You would not seek my advice unless it were important. Similarly, the same set of criteria apply if you are stuck in your investigations. I estimate it would take you no more than twenty-four hours to conclude that the matter is beyond you. So with pressure on you from above — perhaps from Superintendent Heathfield or even the Commissioner himself- you come to me.”

There were dull red patches burning on Jamison’s cheeks now.

“You have an unfortunate way of putting it, Mr Pons,” he mumbled. “But basically you are correct.”

Solar Pons leaned back in his chair, a thin smile on his face.

“What is the problem?”

Jamison out down his coffee cup on the table with a thin clink in the silence.

“Romane Schneider is dead. Mr Pons.”

Pons looked at Jamison in silence, his brows drawn, while my own astonishment must have shown on my face.

“The sculptor, Inspector? The one who has the International Exhibition on in London at the present time?”

“One and the same, Dr Parker. Though I know little of such matters he is described as the greatest sculptor this country has ever produced.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were sparkling and he looked at our visitor piercingly from beneath the lids.

“How did he die, Jamison?”

“Murdered, Mr Pons. In his own studio in Hampstead. Done to death with one of the mallets he used for his sculpture work.”

There was something so evocative in Jamison’s hushed tones as he came to the last sentence that an involuntary shudder passed through me.

“When was this?” asked Solar Pons, opening his eyes.

“The early hours of this morning, Mr Pons. It will be in all tomorrow’s editions.”

He paused and looked uncomfortable.

“It was a sore point with me. Mr Pons. I will be quite frank. It took me only a few hours to see that the matter presented certain difficulties.”

“Which has brought you here at breakfast time?”

“Exactly.”

Jamison took out his handkerchief again and mopped the nape of his neck with it.

“I have seldom seen a more pointless sort of crime, Mr Pons. There was no robbery as far as we can make out: no-one had a motive: and the studio had not been broken into.”

Solar Pons shook his head, a reproving expression on his face.

“Come, Jamison. How many times have I told you. No visible motive. There is always a motive for every crime, however pointless it may appear to the casual bystander.”

“You are undoubtedly right, Mr Pons. But I have seldom been faced with such difficulties. Could you spare the time to step around?”

“Certainly. But first I should like to know a little more about the details. We have time for that. I should imagine?”

“Certainly, Mr Pons,” said Jamison gloomily. “Whoever murdered Romane Schneider will be miles away by now.”

Pons held up his finger reprovingly.

“We do not know that, Inspector. And it is useless to speculate without sufficient data.”

He looked across at me with satisfaction.

“And as the crime was committed only a few hours ago it means that the trail is fresh.”

“You may well be right, Mr Pons,” Jamison went on lugubriously.

“Come, Jamison,” said Pons cheerfully. “I have never seen you so down. Pray favour us with some facts.”

Jamison put his handkerchief away for the second time and frowned at me before turning his attention to my companion.

“A patrolling constable found the body of Mr Schneider at three o’clock this morning, Mr Pons. He saw the light from the skylight. Mr Schneider lives in a big house in the Vale of Health, which is just off Hampstead High Street.”

“Yes, yes, Jamison,” said Pons irritably. “I am tolerably familiar with the area. Get to the facts and leave the guide-book details to friend Parker here when he comes to write up the case.”

He smiled wryly, ignoring Jamison’s frown of discomfiture.

“Very well, Mr Pons,” he continued in a weary voice. “P.C. Daniels would not normally have bothered about a solitary light at that time of the morning except that he knows the area; knows the house; and also knows that Mr Schneider rarely works by artificial light; and never after ten o’clock in the evening. He is a man of very fixed personal habits. Or was.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were very steady and piercing as he stared at the Inspector.

“So he decided to investigate the light, Mr Pons. He did not want to arouse the house, which was in darkness. It is a Georgian building and he walked to the back, through the extensive garden to where the studio stands. It is a detached building of some size. It has a garage and store-rooms at the bottom and a timber staircase and balcony which give access to the studio on the first floor.”

“I think I know the house, Pons,” I put in. “Cheneys, is it not?”

Inspector Jamison nodded.

“Correct, Dr Parker. You have an excellent memory.”

“It is improving, Jamison,” said Pons. “I give you that. You were saying?”

“P.C. Daniels walked up the stairs, Mr Pons, and knocked. He received no reply. The door was locked so he went round the verandah. There were thick curtains over the windows on the far side. What he saw through a chink in the coverings brought him back to the front where he broke the glass-panelled door in to gain admission. What he found inside made him so sick that he had to come out again for air.”

“Heavens!” I exclaimed. “Shocking, was it?”

Jamison nodded.

“Horrible, doctor. Mr Schneider had been badly battered about the head with one of his own mallets as though by a maniac. So ferocious was the attack that there was blood all over the room; on the base of a statue on which he had been working; and the handle of the mallet itself, though of thick wood, had been clean snapped off. There were no finger-prints, as the murderer had worn gloves.”

Solar Pons leaned forward in his chair, thin plumes of smoke from his pipe ascending to the sitting-room ceiling in the still June air.

“You intrigue me, Jamison. I take it the body is still in situ?”

Jamison nodded.

“Nothing has been disturbed, Mr Pons. Our own people have been there, of course, but we have used extreme care.”

Solar Pons rubbed his thin hands together “Excellent, Jamison. To what conclusion did your constable come?”

“He very wisely telephoned his own station, Mr Pons, and the C.I.D. were soon out there under a very experienced man named Mooney. He got on to the Yard within the hour, not only because Schneider was such a famous man but because of the extraordinary circumstances.”

“Pray tell me about them.”

Jamison shrugged.

“I hardly know where to begin, Mr Pons. We did not arouse the household at that time of the morning and carried out our preliminary investigations as quietly as possible. Our police doctor confirmed that Schneider died earlier that evening, of shock and haemorrhage when the skull was crushed with the first blow. The door of the studio was locked and there was no key; we found no signs on the staircase or door that would indicate forcible entry. The skylight is more than twenty feet from the floor and was locked. Moreover, there are no other entrances and exits and the only key to the door known to be in existence was in the dead man’s waistcoat pocket.”

“You intrigue me, Jamison.”

“I am glad you are able to feel so light-hearted about it, Mr Pons. This, on top of all my other current cases, beats everything.”

“If you did not rouse the household, how did you know that Schneider had the only key?”

Inspector Jamison looked smug.

“For the very good reason, Mr Pons, that we kept details of the house in a book at the local police station. It is standard routine where there is much valuable property on a particular premises. Mr Schneider asked our local people to keep an eye on the house and studio, and he always notifies them when he goes on holiday. They asked for a spare key but though he supplied them with one for the house he refused in the case of the studio, emphasising that he had the only one, which was never off his person.”

“I see. What about the floor of the studio. Jamison?”

“We thought about that. Heavy tongued and grooved pine throughout, highly polished; with a platform for sitters up at one end.”

“Hmm.”

Solar Pons rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“And the garage and store-rooms underneath?”

“Nothing, Mr Pons. I looked through the garage window with a torch soon after I arrived on the scene but it has a solid cement ceiling. So far as I can make out, the storehouses are crammed from floor to ceiling with crates and packing cases.”

“So you have not yet appraised the household of Mr Schneider’s death?”

“That is correct, Mr Pons. But my colleague, Inspector Buckfast, intended to do so. At a reasonable hour, of course, when the occupants were up and about. Mr Schneider was a bachelor and had only a secretary and housekeeper living on the premises.”

Jamison glanced at his watch.

“He would have done so by now at any rate. And we may well learn more from them. Schneider had enemies, I should imagine.”

Pons’ face bore the alert and keen look that I had observed so often.

“Ah! Whom, for example?”

The Inspector shook his head.

“Every man in the artistic world and especially a pre-eminent man like Mr Schneider had them, Mr Pons. Ranging from the critics to fellow artists.”

Jamison had a self-satisfied expression on his features as he sat facing Pons and I could see my companion had a small crease of humour at each corner of his mouth.

“I am much obliged to you for the lecture, Inspector. I had no idea that you were so well-informed in such matters. But you no doubt discovered something in his studio to give you that impression?”

Inspector Jamison looked uncomfortable.

“Well, that is so, Mr Pons. I took the opportunity of perusing the brochure of Mr Schneider’s current Exhibition while I was there. It had fully documented notes on his career,”

Solar Pons smiled.

“You have been most frank, Jamison. It does you credit.”

He looked across at me.

“Well, Parker, as it is your day off and you have nothing better to do. perhaps you would care to step around with me? It is not often that Inspector Jamison is at such a dead end and I am feeling unusually public-spirited on such a beautiful morning.”

2

A short drive through relatively traffic-free streets brought us to the scene of the tragedy. We turned off Hampstead High Street and drove uphill for a short distance through the Vale of Health. The entrance to Cheneys was in a small lane and the house itself, trim and sparkling with white paint and yellow front door looked prosperous and cheerful across the soft arc of the green.

Jamison ordered the driver to stop a little distance away and we walked in the welcome shade of leafy trees up to a driveway which led down the side of the house. There was another police car parked nearby and a thin, sandy-haired man in a dark brown suit, with a worried expression on his face came hurrying down toward us as soon as we were seen.

“This business gets stranger every minute, Inspector,” he said curtly.

His faded blue eyes looked curiously at us.

“This is Mr Solar Pons and his colleague, Dr Lyndon Parker,” said Jamison by way of introduction. “My associate, Inspector Buckfast.”

“Delighted to meet you both, gentlemen.”

Buckfast’s expression was cordial and friendly but the worried look remained. He fell into step with us as we walked along the side of the house, ignoring the salute of the constable stationed in the driveway.

“Something wrong?” queried Jamison.

The other man scratched his head.

“I went to the house about an hour ago. Apparently Schneider rented it to some people called Gantley six months ago. They have no connection with him. They have the use of the building below the studio but Schneider naturally retained the latter for himself. From what I gather Schneider suffered some financial reverses and decided to let. He himself now rents a smaller house on the other side of the Heath.”

Jamison raised his eyebrows.

“That puts a different complexion on the matter. Have the Gantleys anything to tell us?”

Buckfast shook his head.

“They see Schneider come and go from time to time, of course. They were most helpful but they neither saw nor heard anything last night. I have not told them of the tragedy, of course. They think there has been a burglary.”

Inspector Jamison nodded his head in satisfaction.

“I should like a look at the rest of the studio block, nevertheless.”

“There is no difficulty about that. I have the keys.”

Jamison turned to us.

“Which would you like to see first, Mr Pons?”

“Oh, the studio, of course. The garage can come later, though I fancy it will tell us little if you have already examined it.”

The studio block itself was a handsome, timbered structure, built of stone in rustic style for the lower portion and with mock Tudor beams in the upper. Jamison led the way up the wide teak staircase, pointing out the massive doors to the garage and store-rooms as we ascended. After a short distance the staircase turned at right- angles, terminating in a covered landing with glass windows.

A constable was on guard at the carved oak door and we went through into a large lobby which contained some coats and hats, together with dusty smocks hanging on pegs; a heavy door-mat; and some canes and walking sticks in a rack. There was a large, gilt-framed mirror, full-length, hanging on the far wall.

Jamison pushed open the inner door and we were soon able fully to realise the horror of the situation which had confronted P.C. Daniels in the small hours of the night.

The studio was a high, long room with white walls and oak beams set diagonally. It was lit from a vast circular skylight about twenty-five feet overhead and there were several hanging lamps of antique pattern but wired for electricity, suspended from the ceiling. The floor was made of heavy pine planking, as Jamison had said, and was evidently buttressed from the store-rooms below to take the enormous weight of the masses of sculpture set about on metal plates and in various stages of completion.

There was a large platform up at one end of the room, approached by shallow steps, and with a polished hand-rail round it. There was an easel on the platform and a drawing board with a hanging lamp above it. There was also a camera on a tripod but my eyes passed over all this at a glance.

Everyone who entered had riveted their gaze on the thing that was sprawled before a piece of white marble sculpture in front of the platform and just a few feet away. The beauty of the statue was in such marked contrast to the awful, bloodied creature lying in an agonised posture beneath it that I think we were all momentarily struck dumb. Even Pons’ iron nerve was visibly shaken.

“Venus Aphrodite,” he murmured. “This would have been an exquisite piece of work had its creator lived.”

Inspector Jamison cleared his throat.

“I don’t know about that, Mr Pons,” he murmured. “But she is certainly a beautiful lady.”

I caught the faint glimpse of a smile in the mocking glance Pons turned on me at the Inspector’s gaucherie; that and the marvellous expression on the face of the naked goddess rising from the astonishingly sculptured spray had lightened the moment and I stepped forward briskly as Pons said, “Your department, Parker, I think.”

I was already on my knees by the remains of Romane Schneider. He lay with his knees drawn up, his arms outstretched. The fury of the attack had been so great that the whole of the front of the skull had been caved in; death must have been instantaneous. Blood was thickly encrusted in the hair and face and was running from the ears, eyes, mouth and nose.

Great gouts of blood were splashed for yards about the floor and up the base of the statue and the heavy mallet with the broken handle which lay upon the planking was smeared with blood and brains.

I had difficulty in finding a suitable spot in which to kneel with safety but rapidly concluded my examination.

“I agree entirely with the police surgeon’s conclusion, Pons,” I said. “I can find nothing further.”

I rose and dusted my trousers. Pons had already produced the powerful pocket lens, which he habitually carried, and was making a minute examination of the statue, the floor and the immediate area of the body. Jamison and Buckfast stood, a thoughtful group, at the edge of the platform and watched in silence.

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.

“What is in these boxes, Inspector?”

“I understand from Buckfast that Colonel Gantley, the gentleman who has leased Cheneys, is an antique dealer and importer of curios. Some of the stuff is very valuable, according to Buckfast; while other material is oriental workmanship of no very great value imported into the country for the Colonel’s business. He has a shop in Hampstead High Street, which was why he wanted to move nearer his premises.”

“Just so,” said Pons languidly, looking through half-closed eyes at the legends stencilled on the wooden boxes immediately in front of us.

“The gentleman certainly seems to have very extensive sources, Parker. Hong Kong, Manila. Singapore, Peking and Hangkow are just a few of the names I see before me.”

He stepped round a bundle of straw and looked sharply at a small porcelain Buddha which had been unpacked on a rough wooden bench.

“Rather charming work, wouldn’t you say so, Parker?”

“Excellent, Pons,” I agreed.

Indeed, the workmanship was first-rate and I was surprised to see that the label bore a price of only seven guineas.

“It is astonishingly cheap, Pons.”

“Is it not, Parker. But then labour is plentiful in the East, as you are no doubt aware.”

“I should not mind that on the mantel at 7B, Pons.”

“As you say, Parker, a nice piece. No doubt you may make the Colonel an offer for it when we see him in a moment.”

Pons moved away and as he did so his shoes made a harsh, gritty noise on the cement floor of the store-room. Jamison had already turned back to the open air as the thin form of a man came hurrying down the garden toward us, visible through the half-open door. To my astonishment Pons was on his knees, scraping with his fingernails at some white substance on the cement.

My amazement was increased when I saw him tentatively taste it with the extreme tip of his tongue. He put his hand back in his pocket, turned to me and then we were walking up the garden to meet the hurrying figure, before I had time to make any comment on this strange behaviour.

Colonel Gantley turned out to be a tall, fussy-looking man in his early sixties with whitening hair and a frayed silver moustache. He had deep furrows at the corners of his mouth that made his yellow face look like something out of one of those plays set on tropical islands which were becoming the vogue in the West end. He wore a lightweight drill suit with military-style buttons and his brown eyes twinkled benevolently from behind silver-rimmed spectacles.

“A disturbing business, gentlemen,” he said briskly, as Jamison introduced us. “I hope that nothing has been stolen from my premises.”

“They were all secure, sir,” said the Inspector. “And thank you for letting us look around.”

“Always anxious to assist the police,” said the Colonel, clasping my companion by the hand. “Mr Solar Pons. It is a pleasure, my dear sir. But you are surely not interested in this trifling affair of my neighbour’s burglary?”

Pons gave a dry laugh.

“Not at all. Colonel. I am assisting the police in another matter and needing to consult Inspector Jamison, was told I could find him here.”

“I see. Well. I am at your disposal, gentlemen, but I do not think I shall be of much help.”

“One never knows,” said Jamison mildly. “You heard nothing at all during the night, I understand?”

“Nothing, Inspector. But then I am a very heavy sleeper and my room is at the side of the house. Of course, anyone could have approached the studio by way of the drive. The gates are never locked. Mr Schneider sometimes leaves at a late hour. I hear his car during the night on occasion.”

“Indeed,” said Pons casually.

We were strolling back down the garden now in the bright sunlight, the faint hum of the traffic coming from the main road which passed through the Vale of Health.

“You have not contacted Mr Schneider, then?” said Colonel Gantley.

Inspector Jamison shook his head.

“We have rung his house, of course. But I understand from his secretary that Mr Schneider is away at present.”

“I see. Well, I hope you catch your man. Now, if there is nothing further, I must get back to my business.”

“By all means, Colonel. I am sorry to have taken your time.”

We shook hands with the Colonel and watched as he strode back down the driveway to where his car was parked in the side road. A few moments later its engine faded into the general traffic noise.

“So much for that, Pons,” I observed.

Solar Pons had been silent, idly drawing patterns in the dust at his feet with the toe of his shoe.

“As you say, Parker.”

Jamison frowned, screwing up his eyes against the strong light.

“What next. Mr Pons?”

“I really think a call at Mr Schneider’s private residence is indicated, Jamison.”

“Just as you say, Mr Pons.”

Schneider’s new address proved to be a narrow-chested three-storey house of mellow red brick, just off the bustle of Hampstead high Street. The brass fittings of the red front door sparkled in the sunlight and in the small front garden I recognised a granite phoenix created by Schneider, which had once been exhibited at the Paris Exposition.

The door was opened for us by Inspector Buckfast, who had preceded his colleague. He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.

“I have just told his secretary, Godfrey Horrabin. He has taken it badly. The housekeeper, Mrs Biggins, is resting in her room.”

Jamison nodded without speaking and a moment later Buckfast led the way down a thickly carpeted corridor to a well-appointed study where the secretary was waiting.

Godfrey Horrabin turned out to be a dark-haired man of about thirty, with an ashen-white face and full lips from which the colour had now fled. He rose from his employer’s desk as we entered and I then realised he was of an enormous height, well over six feet tall. I shot a significant glance at Pons but he appeared to be occupied in looking about him at the contents of the study as Buckfast introduced us.

“I am sorry, gentlemen, but this has been a dreadful shock. A dreadful shock.”

Horrabin slumped back into his chair and passed a handkerchief over his face. Pons sat down opposite him at the other side of the desk and looked at him sympathetically.

“I quite understand, Mr Horrabin. These things tend to fell one at the time. You’ll forgive me, Jamison, for asking the questions.”

“Go ahead, Mr Pons.”

Jamison and I sat down in padded leather chairs which were set near the desk and I looked round curiously as Horrabin fought to control his feelings.

“You have been with Mr Schneider how long?”

“For the past five years, Mr Pons.”

“So that you know him and his habits fairly well?”

“As well as anyone could, I should imagine.”

The secretary replaced the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his blue jacket and appeared more composed.

“Was he a tempestuous man? One who would have made many enemies in the course of his career?”

The secretary gave a faint smile which momentarily lightened his features.

“Like most artists he was extremely temperamental. He had been involved in some tremendous arguments and on occasion in actual physical violence.”

Pons’ eyes were fixed on the secretary’s face. He tented his fingers before him and leaned back in his chair, his whole figure expressing dynamic energy.

“Tell me about it, Mr Horrabin.”

The secretary shrugged.

“It is a well-known story, Mr Pons. A famous rivalry between two sculptors. I have known them take each other’s mallets and actually demolish portions of each other’s work with which they were offended.”

“Indeed.”

Solar Pons’ eyes were sparkling now.

“You are referring to Sir Hercules Kronfeld, I take it?”

Horrabin looked surprised.

“You knew about it, Mr Pons?”

My friend chuckled.

“One could hardly avoid it. I would not say that the world of sculpture is one with which I am entirely au fait. But I do read the newspapers assiduously and I do seem to remember an item about two years ago when the couple were engaged in a fracas at the Paris Salon.”

“You are perfectly right, Mr Pons. They were once good friends but their rivalry developed to such an extent that one could say that only hatred kept them together.”

“An extremely apt summing-up,” said Solar Pons. “And one that might well apply to many marriages. Eh, Parker?”

“No doubt you are right, Pons.”

Solar Pons cupped his lean fingers round his right knee and rocked to and fro as he regarded the secretary keenly.

“You have opened up a fruitful field for investigation, Mr Horrabin. Are there any other people to whom you would particularly wish to draw my attention?”

The secretary shook his head.

“I cannot think of any, Mr Pons. There were a number of rows, of course. Various critics and journalists displeased Mr Schneider from time to time. But the feud with Sir Hercules is the one which stands out.”

Pons nodded, tugging at the lobe of his right ear.

“Is Sir Hercules in London, do you know?”

“I believe so, Mr Pons. He actually telephoned Mr Schneider a few days ago. He lives in Chelsea. I will get you the address.”

“Thank you, Mr Horrabin. And now, if you will excuse us, I would just like to look around this study for half an hour or so.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. You have only to press that button there if you require my services. It is connected directly with my quarters.”

He pointed to a brass bell-push set into the surface of the desk and quitted the room. Solar Pons sat quietly for a moment, before searching in his pocket for his pipe. He turned to the Inspector as he lit it.

“What do you make of that, Jamison?”

The Inspector wrinkled his brow. The three of us were alone in the room now, Inspector Buckfast having left us at the door. I could see him through the window, painstakingly quartering the garden outside, scrutinising every inch of pathway and turf.

“You mean his size, Mr Pons?”

Jamison’s face lightened for the first time since he had requested Pons’ help.

“Well, he is certainly big enough, Mr Pons. He fits the bill.”

“I did not say he did it, Inspector. But it is a possibility which we must not overlook. It is motive which interests me at the moment. And after all, London is full of men who are more than six feet tall. It is the ones who have been in contact with Mr Schneider who interest us. What say you, Parker?”

“Just what I was thinking, Pons.”

Solar Pons smiled faintly.

“You are ever the receptive listener, Parker. That is an invaluable quality and one consistently underrated by the world.”

“You are too good today, Pons.”

“It is the weather, Parker. I find the combination of such a day and a case of this complexity irresistible.”

Inspector Jamison threw up his hands and looked at me helplessly but Pons was already on his feet, his smile intensified, as he went rapidly back and forth across the shelves of the dead man’s study.

We waited silently as he continued with his examination. He paused in front of a row of letter files and lifted one out. He put it down with a grunt and started to go through the contents. Soon he had three open on the desk before him. He threw a bundle of envelopes over to me.

“What do you make of those, Parker?”

I scanned the contents with rising agitation, passing them to Jamison before I had finished.

“Why, these are love-letters, Pons!” I said with indignation. “And not to put too fine a point on it, the man sounds an unmitigated swine!”

“Does he not, Parker,” said Solar Pons with a dry chuckle. “Letters from a wide variety of different women, most of them with a grudge. And significantly, the studio has been used as a rendezvous, it seems clear.”

“A deplorable business, Pons.”

Solar Pons pulled at the lobe of his left ear and regarded me thoughtfully.

“You take an altogether too moralistic view of the world, Parker, if you do not mind me saying so. An artist of Mr Schneider’s calibre and one barely into his fifties would be bound to attract the attention of women. A famous name is like a magnet to a certain type of feminine personality.”

“For a bachelor you seem to know quite a bit about it, Mr Pons,” put in Jamison sourly.

Creases of amusement appeared at the corners of Solar Pons’ mouth.

“A touch, a distinct touch, Jamison,” he murmured. “But as Dr Johnson once said, a man does not have to be a carpenter to criticise a table. These letters raise a number of interesting possibilities.”

I stared at Pons as he went on sifting through the correspondence in the files in the desk before him.

“Surely, Pons,” I began. “You do not mean to say a woman committed this crime?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“I hardly think so, Parker. It is not a woman’s type of crime. The female mind is far more subtle, which is why we have so many lady poisoners in the annals of murder. And I hardly think a woman would have had the strength to strike Schneider in that fashion. She would have had to have been an Amazon indeed. And as I have already indicated, there would have been a multiplicity of blows in the case of a jealous rage. Even Inspector Jamison here referred to a battering when he consulted me. Yet we have one blow only.”

“That was an error on my part. Mr Pons,” Jamison put in. “It is still difficult for me to believe such damage could be inflicted on the human frame with a single stroke.”

Solar Pons put the files back on the shelves and sat down at the desk.

“Nevertheless, these letters are of considerable interest.”

Light broke in.

“You mean a jealous husband might have killed his wife’s lover, Pons!”

“It is not outside the bounds of possibility, Parker. I have not yet made up my mind. But now, if you are ready. Inspector, we shall see what Sir Hercules Kronfeld has to say for himself.”

4

Our destination was one of those tall, elegant and extremely expensive houses in Cheyne Walk, which command a magnificent view of the Thames frontage and Chelsea Bridge from the topmost windows. Our driver pulled in from the traffic stream and we walked up the leafy crescent to a large house in the middle which, to gather from the white trellis-work sparkling in the sunshine, boasted an extensive roof-garden.

“Sir Hercules appears to live in some style, Pons,” I observed.

“Does he not, Parker. It would seem that his star is in the ascendant whereas, if Colonel Gantley’s information be correct, Mr Schneider’s was waning. If not from an artistic, certainly from a financial point of view.”

“It is often the case, Pons, in the world of the arts.”

“You astonish me with your knowledge of such matters, Parker,” said Solar Pons gravely.

His ring at the front door bell brought a trim little maid in her early twenties, an appealing sight with her lace collar and cuffs and bobbed dark hair; and we were speedily shown through an elegant suite of rooms to Sir Hercules’ studio. This was a spacious room on the second floor with a huge skylight and large oval window to admit the north light.

Sir Hercules himself was a gigantic figure with a beard heavily flecked with grey. Contrary to my expectations he was elegantly dressed in a light grey suit and blue bow-tie and his fresh complexion and careful grooming completely belied the conventional picture of the artist. He was leaning carelessly against a winged female nude, evidently one of his own works, while he carried on a murmured conversation with an elegant young man with patent leather hair and a soulful expression.

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?”

“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?”

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.”

I took the flashlight from him and steadied it up on the wooden structure. Pons bent to it with a grunt. His hands moved about, seeking a purchase and then he had thrown his whole weight against it as though it were a point-lever in a railway signal cabin.

“There is a counter-weight, evidently,” he said thoughtfully as there came a perceptible rumble. I was so startled that I almost dropped the torch when a black hole suddenly appeared in the flooring of the platform, growing longer until it reached almost to my feet.

“Brilliantly ingenious,” said Solar Pons, taking the torch from me and casting its beam down the stairwell.

“As you will see the boarding was not tongue and groove up here, but fitted flush. It was the only possible explanation to the mystery.”

I now saw that the heavy pine planks of the floor had separated to form steps; they were held from beneath by flat pieces of metal screwed to them and which from below I had taken as strengthening bands for the ceiling. The whole thing resembled nothing so much as a gigantic piece of trellis-work.

“But why all this elaboration, Pons?”

“Supposing some of Mr Schneider’s lady-friends were illustrious names, who could not afford a scandal, Parker. What simpler than the pretence of renting a garage in this quiet spot. The lady could simply drive her car in, lock the door behind her and ascend to the studio from the interior of the store-room and no-one the wiser.”

I gazed at Pons in mute admiration.

“You are undoubtedly right. You knew this all the time, Pons!”

Solar Pons slowly shook his head.

“I knew there had to be an entrance. The motive for it did not cross my mind until we found those letters in Schneider’s study.”

He put his hand on my arm, his head on one side.

“Have your revolver ready, friend Parker. Something is moving in the garage below. I fancy I have just heard the outer door softly close. Take no chances but if you have to shoot try to wound rather than kill. I will just get to the light-switch yonder.”

He moved silently away, extinguishing the torch. I had the revolver in my hand when the staircase trembled to a furious tread and a gigantic shadow rushed toward me in the bleached moonlight.

7

There was a savage cry which made my nerves jump but my hand was steady enough as I levelled the revolver. The huge figure reached the top of the stairs and turned toward me with incredible speed, the heavy mass of timber held threateningly over its head.

“For heaven’s sake, man!”

Pons’ voice, crisp and incisive rang out as there came the click of the light-switch and the studio was bathed in incandescence. I stood as though paralysed but I came to myself at Pons’ cry.

“Fire for your life, Parker!”

The vast man with the yellow face distorted with hatred was almost on me when I squeezed the trigger. He grunted and turned aside, scarlet spreading on his shoulder. I jumped back to the edge of the platform as he fell with a crash, the heavy billet of wood flying from his hands. Pons was beside me in a flash, pinning the fallen giant.

“Help me with this rope, Parker. A flesh wound only. I fancy, but he will be formidable indeed when he recovers from the shock.”

I swiftly helped him to pinion our prisoner’s hands and when we had secured him, I urged him up with the revolver. The heavy yellow face was sullen, the eyes burning viciously with pain and anger.

“Take no chances. Parker.” said Pons coolly. “If he tries anything further shoot him in the leg.”

The Chinese, who was dressed in blue chauffeur’s livery, with white gloves.

turned to Pons.

“I no understand.”

“I think you understand well enough,” said Pons equably.

He helped the groaning man into an armchair which stood just below the platform. He crossed over to me to take the revolver.

“Now, Parker. Your department, I think.”

He covered the Chinese while I made a rapid examination and roughly bandaged the wound with my handkerchief. I pressed it back and bound it with an old trunk strap I found in the corner of the room.

“A flesh wound only, Pons. It has gone right through.”

Pons smiled slightly.

“You have been fortunate, my friend. Dr Parker here is an excellent shot. Though I fear you have been spared merely to provide work for the hangman.”

The chauffeur shook his head stubbornly.

“I no understand. I see light. Think burglars.”

Solar Pons’ smile widened.

“I think not. It really will not do. This man is undoubtedly the murderer of Romane Schneider, Parker. Thought obviously the tool of others.”

“I do not understand, Pons.”

“You will in due course, Parker. We are nearly at the end of the road. But here, for a start, is the big man we were looking for.”

“He is certainly that, Pons.”

“Is he not?”

Solar Pons had a mocking smile on his face.

“We will just have a few words with his employer.”

“His employer, Pons?”

“Certainly. Colonel Gantley.”

I stared at Pons in puzzlement.

“Come, Parker. It does not take very much reasoning. This is Colonel Gantley’s chauffeur and general factotum or I will give up my title to whatever reputation my modest talents have earned me.”

“But what has Colonel Gantley to do with this, Pons?”

“Everything, Parker. He pays one hundred pounds a week for Cheneys, as a start. And by the time we have crossed the strip of lawn which separates this studio from the house, I shall no doubt have thought up a few more questions for him.”

He prodded the bound giant to his feet. With me following behind we descended the outer stairs of the studio and picked our way through the garden to where the lights of the Colonel’s house burned dimly before us.

A dark-clad servant answered Pons’ insistent ringing at the bell and stared in disbelief at the bloodstained form of the groaning chauffeur.

“Kindly announce us to your master,” commanded Solar Pons.

As the man still stood there Pons pushed him aside unceremoniously.

“On second thoughts we will announce ourselves. Where is the Colonel?”

“In the drawing room, sir,” the man stammered.

But our dramatic entrance had already been heard and before we were halfway across the luxuriously appointed hallway with its hanging brass lantern, a mahogany door on the far side opened and Colonel Gantley came out, his hair shining silver in the lamplight.

“What is the meaning of this outrageous violation of privacy, sir?”

“It means. Colonel Gantley, that your little charade is over. Unless you wish the entire household to hear, I advise that we adjourn somewhere private to talk.”

The Colonel’s face was suffused with rage as he took in the state of the chauffeur.

“Chang! What have you been up to?”

Then a shock passed across his face. It was cleverly done but I could have sworn he was acting.

“Why, It’s Mr Pons, is it not? We met this morning.”

“You would have a short memory indeed, Colonel, if you had forgotten already.”

The Colonel was leading the way into the drawing room. A tall, dark man who was sitting neat the fireplace with a glass of brandy in his hand made as though to jump to his feet but the Colonel signalled to him with a lowering of the eyelids and he relaxed on to the divan again.

“This is my associate, Mr Belding.”

Solar Pons inclined his head curtly and turned back to our reluctant host.

“You will be pleased to hear that we have found the man responsible for the death of Romane Schneider, colonel. Your chauffeur here.”

Colonel Gantley gasped and took a step toward the big Chinese, who stood with impassive, if pain-wracked features.

“Romane Schneider? Murdered? How terrible!”

“I said nothing about a murder. Colonel,” said Pons blandly. “Though I see you know all about it. Remarkable in view of the fact that we mentioned only a burglary.”

The Colonel’s face went ashen and he made a choking noise. The man by the fireplace leapt up but I already had my revolver out.

“I think not,” said Solar Pons gently. “Dr Parker here is a crack shot and we have already had enough violence for one evening. If you have a weapon in your inside pocket there, Mr Belding, I sincerely advise you to drop it.”

Colonel Gantley’s forehead was beaded with sweat and he seemed to sag suddenly.

“Do as Mr Pons says,” he advised his colleague.

“Pray collect it, Parker. I will look after these two. Now, Colonel Gantley, I urge you to make a clean breast of things. You are already an accessory to murder and the other charges I will prefer should assure you at least twenty years in prison. It is in your interest to co-operate.”

I took the heavy calibre pistol from the dark-haired man and motioned him over to join Gantley and the Chinese on a divan at the other side of the fireplace. Gantley sank into the cushions and passed a handkerchief over his face.

“I see it is useless to dissemble, Mr Pons. Just what exactly do you know?”

“That is better, Colonel Gantley,” said Solar Pons crisply. “When there is truth between us, we may progress. If you assist the authorities in this matter, they may be inclined toward leniency. Otherwise, I can promise nothing.”

A groan trickled out from beneath Gantley’s tight-pressed fingers.

“You are right, Mr Pons. I did know about Schneider’s murder. But I want you to believe I had nothing to do with it: it was not ordered by me and I was appalled and horrified when I learned what Chang had done.”

Solar Pons’ expression was grim and stern as he looked down at the abject figure of the Colonel.

“I am inclined to believe you. And it may be that you have been more of a dupe than anything else, though there is little excuse for you. You have been engaged in a foul and inhuman trade and must take the consequences.”

“I do not understand you, Pons,” I began, when my friend silenced me with a gesture.

“You must realise, Colonel Gantley,” he went on, “I can promise nothing, though my recommendation to the police authorities might carry some weight if I were able to present them with a watertight case.”

We were interrupted at that moment by a aloud rapping at the door.

“Are you all right, Colonel? Do you wish me to call the police, sir?”

“Certainly not!”

The Colonel’s voice was a strangled squawk and Solar Pons gave me a thin smile as the Colonel hurried over toward the door. I noticed that Pons remained close behind him while I kept my pistol trained upon the second man before me. There was a muffled colloquy at the door and then Gantley was back.

“I will tell you everything. I hardly know where to begin, Mr Pons.”

“Let me tell you what I have learned, Colonel. Then you can fill in the missing pieces.”

“Very well, sir.”

Solar Pons went over to stand at a point midway between the two men. He made a subtle gesture to me with the thin fingers of his left hand and so I continued to cover the dark man, Belding. The chauffeur, Chang, sat silent and impassive, nursing his wound, his face white despite his yellow pigmentation. His eyes burned vindictively into mine.

Solar Pons faced me in a contemplative mood and began to speak to me as though we were alone at 7B Praed Street.

“There were two baffling mysteries about this case, Parker. The murder of Romane Schneider in a sealed room and the lack of motive. You now know how the murderer gained access.”

“But I still do not know why, Pons.”

“Precisely, Parker. I shall proceed to tell you if I am allowed freedom from interruption. The puzzle in the sealed room was the method of entry and exit. There had to be one because the murderer could not just vanish into thin air. He had also to be a huge man, as I had already demonstrated because Romane Schneider was about six feet tall and had been hit squarely upon the crown of the head with shattering force. As the skylight, the obviously solid walls and the main door were ruled out for the reasons we have already discussed, there remained only the flooring.

“I had already noticed from the building below that it would have been impossible for anyone to have gained entry from the garage as it had a solid cement ceiling. That left only the store-room and a number of interesting possibilities emerged. There were various buttresses and pillars which, to my mind, ruled out a staircase in that portion of the building. It had to be a staircase or ladder because of the height of the studio from the ground. There was only one possible place and I immediately saw that it corresponded with the position of the raised platform in the studio above.”

Solar Pons paused and looked at the crushed form of Colonel Gantley with glittering eyes. The man Belding held himself coiled tightly like a spring but I held the revolver ready and the expression on my face evidently deterred him.

“You may recall that I paid particular attention to the studio flooring. Parker. And that I found traces of the murderer which petered out near the foot of the shallow stairs leading to the platform. That merely reinforced my suspicions and I soon saw that though the floor was apparently solid, there were faint cracks between the pine planking at various points, instead of the tongue and groove joints which obtained elsewhere. I was convinced that an entrance would be found there and so it proved. We then had the problem of why the staircase existed and who had used it.

“I had only to see Godfrey Horrabin and Sir Hercules Kronfeld to eliminate them from my inquiries. Though both physically fitted the requirements it was obvious, from the frank and open way in which he answered my questions and my reading of his character, that Horrabin would not have destroyed his own livelihood as the dead man’s secretary. Similarly, Kronfeld was genuinely moved at his old enemy’s death: as I observed, there was a similar love-hate relationship between Gilbert and Sullivan. Sir Hercules had been a personal friend until the two men quarrelled: in my opinion the feud between the two men, real or supposed, added salt to life for both.

“Two vital pieces of information emerged from my examination of Schneider’s study, both of which had been overlooked by Jamison. Or rather, no proper conclusions had been drawn from them. The existence of the staircase which led only to the store-room and garage was far more plausible when it became clear that the dead sculptor was a notorious womaniser. Discretion was assured when a woman had only to drive her car into the garage, using a key supplied by Schneider, and gain access to the studio secretly and privately by using the staircase.

“Though we have not had time to find it, there is obviously a button or some mechanism down below which operates the thing from the store-room. The motive for the crime was supplied by my finding among Schneider’s papers that Colonel Gantley here was paying the incredible sum of £100 a week for the privilege of renting Cheneys. It would have to be a profitable antique business indeed which could support such an outlay.”

Colonel Gantley gave another groan and turned a haggard face toward Pons.

“Shall I tell you why Colonel Gantley paid Schneider £100 a week, Parker?”

I nodded.

“Because so much money was being made by the Colonel and his associates that money was no object. There were certain pressures on them and they had to get a respectable address with storage facilities immediately.”

Colonel Gantley spoke.

“The police had just raided our headquarters in Limehouse, Mr Pons. I had instructions from above to evacuate all our supplies from Deptford. I brought them here just in time.”

Solar Pons started tamping tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

“I suspected something of the sort. I remembered the newspaper reports a short while ago. And my suspicions became aroused when I saw the crates which had come from such places as I long Kong and other cities in the Far East.”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about. Pons,” I protested.

“Tut, Parker, it was a simple deduction,” said Solar Pons, lighting his pipe. “Following the murder some of the crates had been hastily moved and part of the contents spilled. You may remember I tasted some white powder which was on the floor. As a doctor, Parker, the implications should have been obvious.”

“Drugs, Pons!”

“Of course, my dear fellow. Cocaine and opium, mainly, I should imagine. Hong Kong is one of the great clearing houses for the trade in the Far East. Furthermore, all the crates we saw were marked with red stars. I felt certain in my mind that these would be sure to contain genuine antiques or souvenirs. Colonel Gantley here was only a tool, part of a large ring. I have a shrewd suspicion who was at the centre of the web.”

“I beg of you, Mr Pons,” said Gantley. in a shaking voice. He looked quickly at Belding, bit his lip and turned away again.

“But what has all this to do with the murder. Pons?”

“Everything, Parker. Let us just reconstruct the matter. Romane Schneider was in financial difficulties, we already know. He decided to let his house and rent a less expensive one. He was naturally delighted when Colonel Gantley turned up at the estate agents and made his extravagant offer. But may we not conjecture that after some weeks of tenancy, his curiosity got the better of him? Why was an antique dealer like Colonel Gantley, a man with a relatively modest income, so keen to pay £100 a week?

“Why did he store so many things from the Far East inside the rooms below the studio? And why did he employ Chinese almost exclusively among his outside staff. That was so, was it not, Colonel Gantley?”

“You are guessing, Mr Pons, I imagine. But you are right, yes. A number of Chinese have been here. I have told my superiors about it, but these men are experts at the trade. Mr Belding was their supervisor.”

“You fool!”

Belding had sprung up with a white face before I could stop him and struck the Colonel in the mouth. I caught the dark man across the skull with the barrel of my pistol and he dropped noiselessly on to the divan.

“Well done, Parker,” said Pons drily. “I see that your reflexes have lost nothing of their hair-trigger reaction. You had best examine him. I do not think we need fear trouble from Colonel Gantley.”

I gave the dark man a cursory examination while Pons took the pistol and covered the chauffeur.

“He will be out for half an hour, Pons,” I said.

“Excellent. That should be time enough. Where was I? Ah, yes, Romane Schneider’s fatal curiosity. As the months went by the movements and actions of his intriguing neighbours aroused his suspicions. Two nights ago he stayed in his studio after dark, keeping all the lights off.

“When he judged it was safe, he let down the staircase. I submit he had already looked through the store-room window and noted that there were no crates in the area beneath. He crept down in the dark and made a thorough examination. What he discovered we shall never know. But the contents of the warehouse were so vitally important that the intruder could not be allowed to live. Or that was the reasoning of this man here.”

Pons looked thoughtfully at the sullen Chinese.

“I fancy we shall hear nothing from his own lips. He is certainly inscrutable enough for that, though there is enough circumstantial evidence to ensure him the hangman’s rope. Schneider was in the store-room when he heard a sound. It might have been the Colonel’s car returning. At any rate Schneider, thoroughly frightened, ran back up the staircase and regained the studio.

“He dared not return the staircase to its original position because of the noise. He decided on boldness. He put on the light in his studio as though he had just come in and started work on one of his sculptures. Unfortunately for him the Chinese must have seen the light shining down through the staircase and went to investigate. He saw at once how things were and being a man of action took the decision into his own hands to eliminate Schneider.

“He crept quietly up the staircase — perhaps under cover of the car engine he had left running below — and struck Schneider down from behind with his own mallet. He then retreated to the ground floor and informed the Colonel of his action.”

“Brilliant, Pons,” I said.

“It is a reconstruction only, Parker,” returned Solar Pons. “We shall need the Colonel’s verification.”

“It is correct in every detail, Mr Pons,” said Colonel Gantley. looking at my companion with something like awe. He had a handkerchief to his face and staunched the blood from his cut lip.

“Of course, my horror at the crime can be imagined, but it was all too late. We made a thorough search of the store-room and found a small lever at floor level which operates the staircase from below. After I had made an examination of the studio and made sure there was nothing incriminating left behind, we put the stairs back, left the lights on and piled up crates and boxes to ceiling level. We spent another hour in removing the remaining drugs to the cellar of this house.”

“You did admirably well under the circumstances,” said Solar Pons ironically. “I am sure you will correct any details in which I have gone wrong.”

Colonel Gantley shook his head.

“I have only myself to blame, Mr Pons. Easy money was my downfall, as it has been for so many others. I had been cashiered from the Indian Army. I returned to the old country but nothing I touched prospered. I started an antique business but that was foundering. I was desperate for ready money when I met Belding in a public house one evening about a year ago.

“He told me of a way I could make money and I slowly became enmeshed. My business, which had legitimate contacts in the East was useful, you see, and the men behind the trade found I provided a respectable facade. There is no excuse for me, I know; I have helped to ruin countless lives — and now this.”

“There is one way you can redeem yourself,” said Solar Pons, a stern look upon his features. “The names and addresses of every contact and as many men as possible higher up in the organisation.”

Gantley shook his head.

“Belding was my only major contact. And the Chinese we employed. I will give what help I can.”

“Be sure that you do.”

Solar Pons stood deep in thought for a moment, pulling gently at the lobe of his left ear, while a thin column of blue smoke ascended from his pipe to the ceiling.

“It was too much to hope for, Parker. As I said before, the trembling of the web, but the spider remains concealed in the shadow.”

“You surely do not mean your old enemy, Pons?” I cried.

“It is possible, Parker. No crime is too despicable for that scoundrel. And he would need such enormous profits as that generated by the drugs trade to fuel his infamous criminal empire. Just ring Jamison, will you? We must make sure he has not inadvertently arrested Sir Hercules or Schneider’s unfortunate secretary.”

8

“It was a remarkable case, Pons.”

“Was it not, Parker?”

We were at lunch in our comfortable sitting-room at 7B Praed Street a week later and Mrs Johnson had just brought the midday post up. It was a beautiful June day and the window curtains stirred gently in the cooling breeze. Pons chuckled and passed me a copy of the Daily Telegraph. I found a large item on the front page ringed ready for cutting out and pasting into the book in which he kept records of his cases.

“Jamison has excelled himself. At least one drugs rings has been smashed and a stop put to the traffic in that quarter. Belding himself led to some of those higher up. It was more than might have been hoped for.”

“Thanks to you, Pons.”

Solar Pons smiled wryly.

“Ah, Parker, you were ever generous in your evaluation of my work. In my humble way I seek to alleviate some of the ills of mankind.”

“You have certainly done a good deal here, Pons,” I said.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“It is just plugging holes in the dyke, Parker. There is such great profit in this foul trade that it is almost impossible to stamp out. One does what one can. My major satisfaction in this particular case is that Baron Ennesford Kroll has been robbed of considerable profit in the matter. You will see that Heathfleld, through Jamison, has made a clean sweep of the Limehouse area, and now that Gantley, Belding and the Chinese are going for trial, this will mean a considerable, if temporary setback, in the baron’s plans.”

“I do not see how you can be so sure about the baron’s part in this, Pons?”

“One develops a sixth sense, Parker. Hullo. Here is something interesting. Postmarked Switzerland, I see.”

He tore open the thin blue envelope which Mrs Johnson had just brought up with the other letters. He studied it in silence, his eyes narrowed. Then he put it down with a low chuckle.

“Talk of the Devil, Parker.”

“What is it, Pons?”

By way of an answer he passed the single sheet of paper the envelope contained across to me. It bore just two lines, written in block capitals with a thin-nibbed pen.

Solar Pons sat back at the table and lit his pipe.

“He is the most dangerous man in Europe, Parker. I would give a great deal to have netted him.”

And his eyes looked beyond the homely commons of our room and gazed bleakly into the void.