Solar Pons: The Final Cases

1

“You cannot mean it, Pons!”

“I was never more serious in my life, Parker.”

Solar Pons looked at me with tightly compressed lips. We were sitting by ourselves in a first-class railway carriage passing through the rolling countryside beyond Dorking. It was a cold winter’s day and frost sparkled in the tangled grass of the fields, yielding diamonds in the hard light of the pale, wintry sun.

“Cedric Carstairs is in mortal danger, unless I seriously miss my guess.”

“Not the famous actor?”

Pons nodded, blowing out plumes of fragrant blue smoke from his pipe. He looked moodily at the landscape noiselessly passing the window, the telegraph wires making a jerky background pattern to our conversation.

“What do you make of that?”

He handed me the crumpled telegram form. The message was succinct and baffling.

I glanced at the date. It had been handed in at Dorking the previous night.

“I do not understand, Pons.”

Solar Pons looked at me sympathetically, the cold winter light making rapid patterns across his lean, feral features.

“Forgive me, Parker. When I asked you to come with me to Surrey it was in the nature of an emergency and there was little time for explanation. There are a few minutes left before we arrive at our destination and I shall endeavour to put you in possession of the salient points.

“As you have already stated, Cedric Carstairs is the well-known stage and cinema actor. He first wrote me at Praed Street some three weeks ago, when he was on tour in the West Country. The tenor of his letter impressed me as being that of a man at the end of his tether. In short, he was in fear of his life.”

I must confess I looked with astonishment at my friend sitting in the far corner of the carriage, his luggage and overcoat thrown carelessly about him. He fixed his eyes on a coloured lithograph of Broadstairs above my head and blew out another plume of aromatic smoke.

“Surely, Pons, that it one of the penalties of the actor’s life,” I began. “They are either idolised or loathed. And when a man like Carstairs spreads his talents so widely, on both stage and screen, there are bound to be adherents in both camps.”

Solar Pons shook his head with a somewhat mocking smile.

“It is something a little more than that, my dear fellow. And if you would just have the patience to hear me out…”

I mumbled an apology and sank back into my comer, watching the sun sparkle on the frozen surface of a stream we were passing.

“It is a bizarre business and one that intrigues me considerably.”

Solar Pons leaned forward and tented his thin fingers before him.

“When he was appearing at Edinburgh in Othello, he received a small parcel, posted from London. It contained a skilfully crafted effigy of himself, in Shakespearean costume, lying dead with a phial of poison in his hand.”

I shook my head.

“Lamentable lack of taste, Pons.”

My companion inclined his head.

“You have got the heart of the matter with your usual unfailing perspicacity, Parker.”

Pons was silent for a moment and then continued.

“The first parcel, which arrived some months ago, was in the nature of a warning, he felt. Nothing happened and he quite forgot the incident. But in October, you may recall, he appeared with some success at Drury Lane in a revival of The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“As Sir Henry Baskerville, Pons. It was an excellent performance. I saw it myself.”

“Did you indeed?” said Pons with a thin smile. “About a week before the play opened he received another parcel. This time it contained a cunningly fashioned model, in coloured wax, of himself as Sir Henry. He was lying on the ground, his throat torn out. with the gigantic Baskerville hound standing over him.”

“Good heavens, Pons!”

“You may well raise your eyebrows, Parker. The case presents a number of points of interest. This second parcel was also posted from London but despite all inquiries he was unable to discover anything about it, though he contacted the postal authorities. I have gathered all this from Carstairs himself in a series of telephone conversations during his tours.”

“Nothing happened on this second occasion, Pons?”

Solar Pons sat back in his seat and looked reflectively at the passing telegraph wires.

“There was an accident on the opening night. A chandelier which was part of the Baskerville Hall set in the prologue collapsed on to the stage. It narrowly missed Carstairs and did in fact slightly injure the actor who played Dr Watson. The chandelier was not a stage property, but one of the original massive fittings of the theatre, which is often used in opera.”

“So that Carstairs could have been killed?”

“Very easily. The police were called and found that the cable holding the chandelier had been eaten through with a powerful corrosive that would have taken about ten minutes to do its work.”

“You were not called in, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“My services were only solicited more recently. But that is the story I had from Carstairs. He was in a considerable state of nerves by this time.”

Pons tapped thoughtfully with the bowl of his pipe on the brass door-fitting of the carriage, tipping fragments of tobacco into the metal ash-tray.

“He was in Liverpool a few weeks ago, starring in a modern thriller called The Arrow of Fate. This time he received a third parcel, also posted from London. It contained another skilfully contrived wax model of himself in evening dress, this time hanging from a beam.”

“There was no message?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“There was never a message of any kind.”

“But something happened?”

“Most definitely, Parker. D’Arcy Stanwell, the second male lead, who was of the same build and appearance as Carstairs was killed on the first night as he made his entrance, just after the curtain went up.”

I blinked.

“Good heavens. You think he was mistaken for your client, Pons?”

“I am certain of it, Parker. It was a combination of the lighting and the resemblance between the two men. who both wore evening dress for this particular scene. The manner of the killing was bizarre in the extreme. Stanwell was killed by a steel arrow which came from somewhere in the theatre, probably from an empty stage-box high up. It was a matinee, you see. The murderer made his escape undetected.”

“But he must have had some sort of bow, Pons.”

“Exactly. Which is what makes the problem so intriguing. The show closed at once, of course. And naturally the police were unable to trace the murderer.”

“Why do you say ‘naturally’, Pons?”

“Because this case is a hundred miles outside the ordinary type of police work, Parker. You have noticed one important factor?”

“What is that, Pons?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“Tut, tut, Parker. You disappoint me. I had thought more highly of your ratiocinative faculties.”

“I am afraid I do not follow, Pons.”

“Why, the warning and its execution, Parker. In each case the potential victim received a sinister warning in the shape of a wax effigy. You will remember that in the case of Othello he was lying dead, poisoned. But Othello himself strangled Desdemona in that distinguished work. The second warning depicted him with his throat torn out but instead a chandelier descended.”

“I see, Pons!”

I sat up in my seat.

“The third time he was depicted hanging but his unfortunate colleague was shot with an arrow.”

“You have hit it, Parker.”

Solar Pons looked at me dreamily from under lowered eye-lids.

“He was warned of his impending death but in each case the method of death was something totally unexpected. The murderer wanted to frighten, even terrify, but not to indicate the manner of death precisely or his victim might escape.”

“But nothing happened after the first warning. Pons.”

“There you have me, Parker.”

Solar Pons pulled reflectively at his right ear-lobe. “Though it is impossible to prove at this distance in time I would submit that the person menacing Carstairs’ life intended some sort of coup at the theatre during the performance of Othello but was prevented by circumstances on the actual night he intended to commit his crime.”

“But why did he not try again?”

Solar Pons smiled.

“Perhaps he could only be in Edinburgh for one night. There are a number of interesting possibilities. Or he may have merely intended to frighten this first time, so that the second, real attempt would be completely unexpected.”

I nodded.

“And now there has been a fourth parcel?”

Pons had a worried expression on his thin, ascetic features.

“According to my client’s telegram. He is currently preparing for an ambitious new play at the Negresco Theatre in London.”

He looked moodily out of the carriage window at the fleeting images of the countryside.

“It is unfortunate, but could not have been better from the point of view of the person who is threatening his life.”

“Why so. Pons?”

Solar Pons stood up, gathering his coat and case.

“Ah, here we are at our destination, Parker.”

He looked at me sombrely as I buttoned my own overcoat.

“The play is a modern piece called Death Comes to Thornfield. Carstairs himself plays the victim of a particularly diabolical murder!”

2

The day. if anything, seemed even colder when we descended at the small station near Guildford. The cab our client had engaged was waiting in the station forecourt and a drive of some fifteen minutes brought us to a handsome, Edwardian house of three storeys, standing in well-wooded grounds of about five acres. Pons was silent as our vehicle crunched over the gravel of the drive between the handsome lodges with their overhanging eaves of red tiles which flanked the white-painted gates.

We were evidently expected for the gates were open and as we drove through I could already see a white-haired man in a green-baize apron who hurried from the entrance of the larger lodge and locked the tall iron gates behind us. The drive wound up between sombre banks of rhododendron whose lighter green did little to relieve the deep shadows of the heavy pines and firs which bordered the carriageway.

But the house itself, with the pale winter sun sparkling from its well-kept facade and reflected back from a multitude of white-framed windows had a cheerful aspect and I could see the two tennis-courts through a gap in the trees and, across the broad lawns and the rose-garden, desolate now in winter, could be glimpsed the metal framework of a diving stage and the heavy boarding covering a large swimming pool. I glanced at my companion mischievously.

“There is money here, Pons.”

“Is there not, Parker. Ah, unless I am mistaken, here is our client himself.”

And indeed, the handsome, somewhat florid figure of the former matinee idol was descending the steps toward us, a brace of Irish wolf-hounds at his heels. The cab ground to a stop and the driver got down to unload our baggage while the actor effusively pumped my companion’s hand.

“Good of you to come, Mr Pons! I am extremely grateful. And this is your equally celebrated friend, Dr Parker?”

He turned to me with a winning smile and gripped my hand strongly.

“Hardly celebrated, Mr Carstairs.”

“You are too modest, Dr Parker. Boswell and Johnson, eh, Mr Pons?”

Pons glanced at me, sparks of humour dancing in his deep-set eyes.

“The simile is hardly apposite from a physical point of view, Mr Carstairs, but I take it was kindly meant,” he said gravely.

“Indeed, Mr Pons. But come along in. It is dreadfully cold out here on these steps.”

He hurried us up into the shadow of a great porch while a black-coated manservant carried our bags. During the ascent I had time to study my host properly. His features were familiar to me, of course, through cinema performances and stage appearances, but he seemed even taller and broader than I remembered. He must have been over fifty by now but was still handsome in a fleshy way and had tremendous “presence”, as those in the stage profession call it.

His eyes and his flashing smile were his greatest features and though his complexion was ruddy and florid, indicative to me to a long indulgence in alcoholic spirits, he was still a fine figure of a man and would pass for a good while yet, with skilful make-up and stage lighting.

He was dressed in a thick suit of country tweeds with a waistcoat and his theatrical and flamboyant appearance was emphasised by the gaily-coloured silk scarf loosely knotted round his neck, and tucked into the vee of a blue silk shirt. The ensemble was Bohemian and on anyone else would have looked slovenly but it suited him perfectly.

We were let in the large, tiled hall by a striking looking blonde woman of about thirty-eight, and I recognised the actress Sandra Stillwood before Carstairs introduced her as his wife. She came forward with a smile and shook hands, while the wolf-hounds loped about the hall as though they would demolish the furniture in their boisterousness.

A shadow passed across her handsome features as she led the way into a huge drawing-room which contained many oil paintings and drawings of herself and her husband in their various stage and screen roles. Bowls of hot-house flowers were set about here and there and though a large fire burned in the stone fireplace, the room was already warm from the radiators set round the walls.

“Lunch will be served within the hour, gentlemen,” said Mrs Carstairs. “In the meantime may I offer you a sherry?”

“Excellent idea, Sandra,” boomed Carstairs, waving away the butler, who had followed us in and now stood awaiting his instructions.

The big actor went to a silver tray standing at one end of a grand piano and which contained a great many bottles and glasses. He busied himself with pouring the sherry for us and mixing drinks for himself and his wife. Pons went to stand near the fireplace and looked at the lady of the house thoughtfully.

“What do you think of this business, Mrs Carstairs?”

“I prefer to be known as Miss Stillwood, Mr Pons,” the fair woman said, a faint flush on her cheeks.

She glanced across at her husband.

“I have not yet retired, though Cedric sometimes acts as though I had.”

Carstairs gave a somewhat strained smile and brought the drinks over to myself and Pons. We waited until our host and hostess also has glasses in their hands.

“Success, Mr Pons.”

“I will drink to that, Mr Carstairs.”

Solar Pons moved over to a high-backed chair at Miss Stillwood’s invitation and sat down, crossing his thin legs and looking for all the world as though he were at ease in his own drawing-room. Once again I marvelled at the effortless way in which he dominated every gathering without appearing to do so.

“I asked you a question, Miss Stillwood.”

The blonde woman took a tentative sip at her drink, wrinkled her nose at her husband and pondered her reply.

“It seems inexplicable, Mr Pons. Why should anyone want to go to all the trouble of making those wax models?”

“Why indeed?” said Solar Pons politely, his eyes on Carstairs. “But you do not deny the matter is serious?”

The blonde woman’s eyes flashed and I saw for a brief moment the dynamic beauty that had flowered to such remarkable art in innumerable films and plays.

“I deny nothing, Mr Pons! It is damnable. Poor D’Arcy! But the whole thing seems so pointless. And Cedric is making such a fuss of the business. I keep telling him to pull himself together but he is terrified.”

There was an undertone of contempt in her voice as she glanced affectionately at her husband and I saw him redden under her look.

“Damn it all, Sandra,” he exploded. “It is not you who is the target, after all.”

“You have a point, Mr Carstairs,” said Pons soothingly. “We may as well get down to facts at once. I should like first to see those models you have already received. And of course, the latest parcel.”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. They are locked in the safe in my study. We will go there directly we have finished our drinks.”

“Excellent.”

Solar Pons rubbed his hands together and held them out toward the fire. His eyes had a far-away expression in them.

“The wrappings and enclosure were identical to the others?”

“Exactly, Mr Pons. I have them all still.”

“And again posted from London?”

Carstairs inclined his head.

“Yes, Mr Pons.”

Before Pons could say any more there was a rapping at the door which immediately afterward opened to admit a tall, slim young man of about thirty with dark, bushy hair. He paused in some confusion but came toward the group round the fireplace at Carstairs’ command to enter.

“This is my secretary, John Abrahams, Mr Pons. Mr Solar Pons. Dr Lyndon Parker.”

The secretary made a graceful bow and murmured something which I could not make out but took to be a polite acknowledgement of the introduction.

“Mr Abrahams would have received the parcels in the first place, Mr Carstairs?”

“That is so, Mr Pons,” said the young man, with a half-hesitant look at his employer.

“They came in the usual way?”

The secretary nodded.

“With the incoming post from the village. Simons is our regular postman and to the best of my knowledge he brought them both. That is to say, the second and fourth. The first and third parcels were received in Edinburgh and Liverpool respectively.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons was deep in thought for a few moments, the only sound in the room the deep crackling of the log-fire on the hearth. The silence was eventually broken by Carstairs’ wife who put her glass back on the tray on top of the piano with a quick, decisive movement.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will see about lunch. We eat in half an hour, Cedric.”

She glanced sharply at her husband as she spoke.

“Certainly, Sandra,” he said somewhat defensively.

He made a wry mouth as she quitted the room, followed at some distance by the secretary.

“I am notoriously unpunctual, gentlemen. I suppose my wife must find it irritating.”

He grinned and went over to pour himself another drink.

“At least I am always on stage in time for my entrances,” he added. “Which is something. Another drink, gentlemen?”

Solar Pons excused himself.

“Not before lunch, if you please, Mr Carstairs. I am anxious to look at those parcels before we sit down.”

“By all means, Mr Pons. Come along, doctor.”

We followed the big actor out of the drawing-room and into a large connecting room which looked on to the rose-garden, now austere and deserted in the bitter wind. The room was equipped as a study and the series of theatrical portraits were continued on that part of the panelled walls not given over to books. Carstairs crossed to the natural stone fireplace over which hung an oil of himself in one of his more flamboyant film roles. He pushed the painting aside to disclose a small wall safe.

He took from it a large cardboard box and carried it over to the desk, where he placed it in front of Pons. My companion sat down behind the desk, his face keen and alert. Carefully, Carstairs took from the box the artfully fashioned and beautifully coloured figures. There was a brief silence as Pons produced his magnifying glass and went scrupulously over them in minute detail.

“This is highly skilled work, Mr Carstairs. Someone has been to a deal of trouble.”

“Have they not, Mr Pons.”

“Someone who follows your career closely.”

“Evidently.”

Pons turned to me.

“What do you think of these, Parker?”

“I agree with you, Pons,” I said. “These are finely done. The threats to Mr Carstairs seem to me to be unnecessarily elaborate.”

“You are constantly improving, Parker,” said Solar Pons drily. “The same thought had already occurred to me. Let us just see what we can read from these wrappings.”

Our host’s flushed, handsome face had an approving expression as he went to sit on a corner of the desk, glass in hand. Pons went over the wrappings minutely and then threw them down with a grunt.

“There is little here, Parker. The paper, as you no doubt noted, is purchasable in only three major emporia in London. It would be useless to enquire in that direction as each has thousands of customers every day of the week. The lettering, in block capitals, was obviously to disguise the hand. That type of broad-nibbed pen can be bought in London or throughout the country by the thousand. Similarly, the wax seals have been made with the cheap penny stick available at any stationers. The sender has been careful not to press them down on the string and thus leave finger-prints.”

Pons peered again at the lettering of each address.

“However, there is something to be read after all. The superscription has been written by a male, probably in the prime of his life but with a weak character.”

Carstairs. who had been listening to Pons’ monologue with amazement on his features cleared his throat with a loud rasping noise.

“Good Heavens, Mr Pons!” he boomed. “You mean to say you can tell all that from a cursory glance. I came to the right shop!”

“Hardly a cursory glance,” said Solar Pons reprovingly. “A lifetime’s study of such matters has gone into that cursory glance, as you call it.”

The big man flushed.

“No offence meant, Mr Pons,” he rumbled. “But how can you read such things?”

“Characteristics, Mr Carstairs,” said Pons quietly. “They would be too lengthy to go into now but the human hand does not lie even when it comes to lettering of this sort. The characteristics of the weak, indecisive male are unmistakable in this script. I have written a monograph on the subject and would recommend you to peruse it.”

“Touché, Mr Pons,” said Carstairs with a wry chuckle. “You would not presume to teach me how to play Othello, and your art is just as esoteric; am I right? Well, each to his last. But I’m damned impressed, I must say.”

He good-humouredly drained his glass and put it down on a corner of the desk.

“What about the parcel that came yesterday, Mr Carstairs?”

“I have it here, Mr Pons.”

The actor had put down a second package on another part of the desk and he now passed it to Pons. He gave the brown paper wrapping a brief examination and put it aside for the moment. He took from it a small cardboard box similar to that in which the other wax models had been enclosed. From it he carefully removed a wooden plinth on which the miniature and savage drama was being played out. There was a deep silence in the room and I pressed closer to Pons in order to see the model in greater detail.

It was every bit as cunningly fashioned as the others. The unmistakable figure of Carstairs lay on the facsimile of a patterned carpet. He was dressed in evening clothes, with an opera cloak, and his top hat lay beside him. The figure lay on its back with one leg drawn up under it. From the right eye-socket an arrow protruded; the face was distorted with pain and horror and thick blood from the wound trickled down onto the manikin’s shirt-front.

It was an arresting and disgusting sight and I gazed at it with loathing. Solar Pons glanced up at me, a grim smile playing at the corners of his sensitive mouth.

“What say you, Parker?”

“It is disgusting, Pons!” I burst out. “A warped if clever mind is behind this.”

“You may well be right, Parker,” Solar Pons rejoined in casual tones. “As you have already observed, a great deal of skill has been expended on this. Death Comes to Thornfield indeed. Strangely enough this is exactly how the unfortunate actor was killed in Mr Carstairs’ last play, though the warning took the form of a hanging figure.”

He looked across at Carstairs, whose features had grown pale and drawn. His eyes dragged themselves reluctantly from the little series of tableaux on the desk.

“There is no doubt this represents your current play, Mr Carstairs?”

“No doubt at all, Mr Pons. The costume there is identical to the one I wear in the production.”

“And how do you die in the piece?”

“I am strangled in the last act, Mr Pons.”

My companion nodded.

“Death by poisoning; by savage hound: by hanging; and by an arrow. It is bizarre and extraordinary.”

He rubbed his thin hands together and his eyes shone.

“I cannot remember when I have been so taken with a case, Mr Carstairs. When does the play open?”

“Next month, Mr Pons. I will not dissemble. My wife was perfectly right. I am terrified of this business, especially after poor Stanwell. There is something diabolical and inevitable about it. Please save me, Mr Pons.”

There was a pathetic quality in his earnest entreaty and Solar Pons held up his hand, with a comforting gesture.

“Now we know what we are up against, Mr Carstairs, we are forewarned. This person who menaces you obviously wants to punish you in some way in public. Therefore, we have only to fear the actual performances. I would like to attend a few rehearsals, in order to verse myself in the story of the play. And at the same time a thorough examination of the theatre would be of great assistance.”

Cedric Carstairs let out a sigh of relief.

“Nothing could be easier, Mr Pons. I will make arrangements at the theatre.”

“But be discreet. Mr Carstairs. I do not want any outside people to know that I am there.”

Carstairs had a startled look on his face, as Pons made a thorough examination of the wrappings of the fourth parcel.

“You do not think it could be any member of the company?”

“It is quite possible, Mr Carstairs. You have not yet told me anything of the possible motive.”

“Motive, Mr Pons?”

“Come, Mr Carstairs, every man has his enemies; especially is that true of the theatrical profession.”

There were small spots of red burning on our host’s cheeks now.

“Well. Mr Pons. I must be frank with you. This matter is too serious for anything else. I have perhaps been over-fond of the ladies in my time. It is a human failing to which theatricals are particularly prone.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“You mean a jealous husband might be at the back of this? It is a possibility we must not overlook. Have you anyone in mind?”

Carstairs spread his hands wide and there was something irresistibly comic about the gesture; as though his actor’s vanity were saying unmistakably to us that the field was an extensive one and the suspects many. Something of this must have crossed my friend’s mind also because there was a mocking smile on his lips.

“Frankness, Mr Carstairs. We shall be discreet about this.”

Carstairs fidgeted with the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

“There are two names, Mr Pons,” he mumbled. “I will write them down for you.”

3

Gravel gritted beneath our feet as we walked along the path in the grounds, skirting the great sombre banks of rhododendron. The weather was bitterly cold and I swung my arms as I followed Pons’ spare figure. He was in great form and his energetic pace had drawn protests from more than once.

“You ate too much for lunch, Parker,” he admonished me. “You are paying for it now.”

“When I require you for my medical adviser, Pons,” I said with some asperity, “I will inform you of the fact.”

Solar Pons laughed, turning his keen, feral face to me over his shoulder as he strode onward.

“Touché, Parker. You are right to admonish me. But I have much to think about and my pace is but a reflection of my racing thoughts.”

With that he slackened his stride and I drew level with him. It was close to dusk now and we were coming alongside an ornamental lake, the steel-grey sky reflected back from the ice on its surface. Our sombre surroundings and the vastness of the park which surrounded Carstairs’ great house seemed to me to epitomise the grim problem faced by Pons and the more bizarre aspects of the actor’s situation with the unknown menace which threatened his life.

We were walking on grass and the going was downhill and my breathing slowly returned to normal. But the exercise had done me good and a pleasing warmth slowly spread throughout my numbed limbs. Pons had now lit his pipe and he puffed out streamers of aromatic smoke as we walked.

“Let us just have the benefit of your commonsense approach in this matter, Parker. You are an admirable touchstone.”

“It seems very dark, Pons, but there must be an obvious explanation. The person who threatens your client’s life evidently lives in London. He has been frustrated once but he most likely will strike again at the opening of the new play. As for suspects, there must be many people in Carstairs’ professional career.”

The puzzled frown remained on Solar Pons’ face. He shook his head.

“That is all very well so far as it goes, Parker, but it does not take us much farther.”

I looked at my companion.

“I do not quite follow you, Pons.”

“Motive, Parker. Motive.”

Solar Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe to emphasise his points.

“There has to be an extremely strong motive in all this. So far it eludes me. The skilful wax models: the obvious time and trouble they took to create; the familiarity with the threatened man’s life-style and movements; the threats and the differing mode of execution; the failure of the police to uncover the murderer when Stanwell was struck down; even the foreknowledge of the forthcoming plays.”

“An ardent playgoer, Pons?”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps.”

Solar Pons paused and put his hand on my arm. We had skirted the lake, still walking on the grass, and had come opposite a small wooden summerhouse which stood on the bank. It faced the water and naturally the open side was away from us but I now heard what Pons’ sharp ears had already caught; the sound of voices, speaking urgently but in high altercation.

“I tell you, Dolly, I cannot do as you ask in the matter!”

“Cannot, or will not, Cedric?”

There was no difficulty in recognising Carstairs’ voice as the first but the second was a woman’s; a cultured voice which denoted a proud and imperious nature. It was raised in tones of passionate anger and I saw by Pons’ furrowed brow and the flash of his eye that he attached great importance to the conversation. I was about to move away but again Pons’ hand was on my arm restraining me, his lips curved in a half- smile.

“There is nothing between you. Nothing, it is long overdue — we must regularise the situation!”

“You are reading far too much into it, my dear.”

There was a pause and the two actors in the drama had evidently moved to another part of the summer-house for when their voices came again they were farther away and more muffled.

“I must warn you, Cedric, that things cannot go on in this manner. I do not wish to threaten…”

“By God. you had better not do so, Dolly!”

There was black anger in Carstairs’ voice and the wooden wall of the summer- house echoed to a tremendous crash as though he had dashed his fist against it. A moment later there came the crunching of his boots in the gravel and the huge form of Carstairs strode savagely away in the dusk, taking the path that led from us round the other side of the lake. Pons watched until he had faded from view and then led me back to re-join the path some way down.

“The butterflies on the Sussex Downs are gravely threatened this year. I understand, Parker,” he said smoothly.

I looked at him in astonishment. Our feet gritted on the gravel path and I almost made a loud exclamation as my companion pinched my forearm.

“Indeed. Pons,” I said loudly, clearing my throat.

We were almost level with the front of the summer-house when an imperious woman in furs burst from it. She came straight toward us with no attempt at concealment. I had an impression of icy beauty; of upswept blonde hair: and a manner close to tears beneath the anger.

The fur-coat and the expensive toque were utterly out of place in this country park and her blue eyes blazed as she swept past us. Pons doffed his hat and she acknowledged the courteous gesture with the faintest lowering of her eye-lids. A few moments later she had gone. Pons looked after her with a quizzical expression in his face.

“Dolly Richmond has quite a temper,” he remarked mildly. “I should not be surprised if Carstairs has to keep his eyes open on two fronts during the run of this new play.”

“The famous actress, Pons!” I exclaimed. “There is motive enough for murder in what we have just heard.”

“Is there not, Parker. Unless I am much mistaken Miss Richmond is cast opposite our client in Death Comes to Thornfield.”

He drew out a slip of paper from his overcoat pocket and flicked his eyes across it. A sardonic smile curved his lips.

“As I expected, Miss Richmond is not on the short list of Mr Carstairs’

conquests. As you so sagely imply, Parker, this is a situation which merits watching.”

And without referring to the matter again he retraced his steps in the direction of our host’s stately home. Pons was busy on some inquiry of his own on our return and it was not until dinner that we met again. We ate in a luxuriously appointed dining room panelled in oak, and lit by antique chandeliers. The room had two fireplaces, one at each end, and the roaring flames of the liberally banked fires cast a pleasing glow across the china and silver and crystal on the table. There were just the five of us; myself and Pons; Carstairs and his wife; and the secretary, Abrahams.

The food and wine were of excellent quality and the meal passed agreeably, served smoothly and efficiently by maids supervised by the butler who had first greeted us on arrival. Obviously, Pons said nothing of the incident at the summer house and I had only to look at his intent face and his tightly compressed lips when I mentioned our walk in the grounds to see that he felt I might inadvertently refer to it.

After the meal Pons and Carstairs and I adjourned to a small smoking room where we took coffee and liqueurs; later, Abrahams joined us at the request of our host and sat silent, looking from one to the other of us, as though he were secretly terrified of his employer. But Pons appeared in his element. We might merely have been week-end guests staying with old friends.

At dinner my friend had been an agreeable raconteur, keeping the table absorbed with his recitals of his extensive travels and now he discoursed knowledgeably on the theatre and the differing techniques employed by stage and cinema actors. As well as I knew Pons, I was considerably surprised at his knowledge and Carstairs, his troubles temporarily forgotten, obviously warmed to him.

Pons had included Abrahams in the conversation and the young man, his tongue perhaps loosened to some extent by the wine he had imbibed at dinner, grew more relaxed and confident in his manner. He was a good-looking, personable young man who might have made an excellent actor himself and I had noticed that Carstairs kept him working hard, often running about unnecessarily on quite trivial errands. It was one of his less likeable traits and I must confess I was pleased to see that he was inclined now, at the end of the day, to allow him some brief peace.

At length there was a pause in the conversation and Pons leaned forward, clouds of aromatic blue smoke from his pipe wavering toward the ceiling.

“You have not yet favoured us with your opinions, Mr Abrahams?”

“My opinions, Mr Pons?”

The secretary looked startled.

“On this strange threat which hangs over Mr Carstairs?”

“Oh, that.”

Abrahams gave a somewhat placatory glance toward his employer, as though he might have some objection to the answer, but Carstairs merely cleared his throat, an encouraging expression on his face.

“I am completely baffled, Mr Pons. It is a dreadful business, of course, but I so not know what Mr Carstairs could possibly have done to merit such enmity. Perhaps it is someone mentally deranged.”

“Perhaps,” said Solar Pons carelessly. “Though the case has all the hallmarks of an eminently sane mind.”

“Eigh?”

Carstairs looked across at Pons with a worried frown.

“I do not quite understand, Mr Pons.”

“It is perfectly simple. Everything that I have so far learned leads me in one direction only. Toward a crystal-clear mind which is calculatedly plotting revenge.”

There was an ugly silence and our host stared at Pons, his open mouth a round, blank O in his face.

“You know who is responsible, Mr Pons?”

The question came from the secretary, whose eyes were fixed intently on my companion’s face.

Solar Pons shook his head, a faint smile in his lips.

“Not yet, Mr Abrahams. But I have some indications. I would prefer to say nothing more at this stage.”

“What are your plans, Mr Pons?”

Pons turned toward Carstairs.

“I shall return to London tomorrow afternoon, Mr Carstairs. I have learned enough here for the moment and I am convinced you are in no current danger. If the actions of your unknown persecutor run true to form, he will strike on the opening night of the new play.”

The famous actor looked disappointed and sat frowning into his liqueur glass. Pons noticed his downcast mood and rose from his seat.

“I shall not be far away, Mr Carstairs, and you can reach me in a moment by telephone. I will be at the theatre as soon as you begin rehearsals, and we will make plans.”

Our client got up too and clasped my friend’s hand impulsively.

“You are right, of course, Mr Pons. You could do little by hanging about here, though I must say I derive a good deal of comfort from your presence and that of Dr Parker. In the meantime, what do you wish me to do?”

“Report to me immediately you see anyone — friend or stranger — acting suspiciously about this estate. Be on your guard and impress in your servants the importance of securing the premises properly at night.”

He raised his hand at the expression of alarm on our client’s face.

“It is not that I fear anything specific, Mr Carstairs: it is just that we must be constantly on our guard. For example, if a message were to appear mysteriously on your desk one morning, it would be important to know how it had arrived. Securing the property would narrow down the field for speculation.”

“I see, Mr Pons.”

Relief was evident on Carstairs’ face.

“Anything else?”

“Let me know as soon as you are due in London to begin rehearsals. I will meet you at the theatre. I wish to mingle unobtrusively with the company and the backstage staff. Can that be arranged?”

“Certainly, Mr Pons. You prefer to be incognito?”

“That would be best. You may merely introduce me as Mr Smith, a friend who is obsessed with the glamour of the theatre. I shall be able to gain a good deal of background information in this manner long before the play opens.” Carstairs smiled.

“I see, Mr Pons. It shall be as you wish. Abrahams will keep you fully informed.” “Excellent. And now, I am feeling a little fatigued and the hour is late. We will just pay our respects to our hostess and then retire. Come, Parker.”

4

“I have just received a message from Carstairs, Parker. The company begins rehearsals for Death Comes to Thornfield at the Negresco this afternoon. Are you free?”

“I can make myself so, Pons.”

“Excellent, my dear fellow. In that case I should be glad of your company.”

A week had gone by since our visit to the actor’s home, and though it was now the end of January the bitter weather continued. But snow had held off. Pons had had much to occupy him during the past few days and having concluded some loose ends which had been fretting him in the Alcover swindle case, had now turned his attention back to Carstairs’ affairs.

If had chafed him that there should be such a delay but there was nothing to be done and it seemed obvious, even to me, that little else could happen until the actor’s latest play was put into production, if the pattern evolved by the secret persecutor continued in the same fashion.

We left our comfortable quarters at 7B Praed Street, and it was just three o’clock when we arrived at the Negresco, a palatial gilt rococo edifice in a narrow street near Shaftesbury Avenue. Carstairs himself was in the foyer to greet us and introduced us to Ayres, his business manager, a tall, sardonic man with greying hair. Abrahams was there, standing a little in the background, but he nodded agreeably enough and the statuesque figure of Miss Stillwood came forward briskly to shake our hands.

The rest of the company was already back-stage and the house-lights were on as we hurried down the central gangway of the theatre at the heels of the actor’s party. The curtain was up and a motley-looking crowd of people in ordinary clothes stood about languidly or sat sprawled in chairs on an opulent set with French windows, which represented the drawing-room of a large country house. I saw with amusement that the lay-out was extremely similar to that of the drawing-room of Carstairs’ own Surrey home and the fact was obviously not lost on Pons.

The actor looked back over his shoulder and seemed to read my companion’s thought.

“Appears familiar, does it not, Mr Pons? We have to do this or my wife would not know where she was.”

I saw a momentary expression of irritation pass across the mobile features of Sandra Stillwood and put it down to her husband’s remark but I then noticed that the tall, regal form of Dolly Richmond was standing in the centre of the stage, waiting for our party to come up.

I had never seen a professional play in production before and the next two hours passed in a blur. What seemed chaotic to me seemed natural to Carstairs and his company and in an astonishingly short space of time, the players were reading their lines, the producer was lounging in a front-row seat shouting instructions and exhortations to humbler members of the cast and Carstairs, Miss Stillwood and Miss Richmond were engaged in more dignified conferences with the producer and the play’s backer.

Pons had watched all this for half an hour or so, chuckling now and again at particular pieces of business, but I had noted his deep, piercing eyes raking all round the theatre. Later, I became dimly aware that he had disappeared and when I glanced back saw that his seat was empty. From far off came the hammer of carpenters and all the bustle of a great theatre and I imagined him prowling restlessly about backstage.

I thought it best to remain where I was. as I should otherwise only disturb him, and in mid-afternoon saw his lean form in a stage box looking down somewhat sardonically upon the scene of turmoil below. The play, as our client had hinted, was an exciting affair and I noticed a sort of tension which seemed to grip the cast as they approached the climactic scene in the last act in which Carstairs met his end in the dramatic death which gave the play its title.

I noticed a shadow at the corner of my eye and someone sat down on my right. At first I thought it was Pons but immediately picked him out in another stage box, evidently measuring the distance from it to the stage. I saw immediately what he was at and felt relief; the danger to Carstairs, if any. would undoubtedly come from such a box though I had no doubt that the stage management would let them only to persons known to them on the opening night.

I glanced round and saw that it was Ayres, Carstair’s business manager, who leaned across to me, his eyes gleaming.

“It looks as though we shall have a great success here, doctor, does it not?”

I hastened to agree but added a rider to the effect that it all depended on such events as had happened at Liverpool being prevented in future.

Ayres nodded gloomily.

“You’re right there, doctor. It’s a black business. Unfortunately there are only too many people who would like to see Cedric out of it.”

I turned to him and looked at the worldly face surmounted by the greying hair so close to mine.

“Would you care to enlarge on that, Mr Ayres?”

The business manager shrugged.

“I’ve told Cedric about it, often enough. There’s women… and their husbands. It’s always trouble in the theatre.”

He made an expressive gesture with his hand as though he were cutting his own throat which I felt somewhat lacking in taste.

“Perhaps,” I said cautiously. “But these situations obtain in many other walks of life.”

Ayres nodded grimly.

“Correct, doctor. But you do not know theatricals. If I told you a quarter of what I have seen in my time in the theatre you would be astonished. Jealousy and yet more jealousy! It all passes belief.”

I hesitated and then gave utterance to my thoughts.

“You suspect someone specific?”

The business manager gave a crooked wink.

“It would not be fair to say. But you can take it from me there is a wide choice of both sexes.”

My attention was dramatically drawn back to the stage at this point by some extraordinary noises; the lights were down and the stage bathed in that mysterious half-light which one gets only in the theatre. A monstrous shadow from the French windows had enveloped Carstairs, who, in his character as the heartless philanderer, was dying of manual strangulation. An unseen figure in a cloak had slipped a wire loop round his neck.

Pons’ client was giving a magnificent performance. With his tongue lolling from his mouth and his eyes rolling, he looked an horrific spectacle as he thrashed about helplessly, emitting terrifying choking noises. Presently he dropped to the floor and was then still. There was a thin ripple of applause from the other actors and the technicians and the cloaked figure stepped forward into the light to reveal the beautiful and flushed features of Dolly Richmond. She stood there, her eyes blazing with triumph, as the curtain fell slowly.

I must admit my own palms were sore as a spontaneous burst of applause burst forth. The next moment the curtain had risen again and both Carstairs and Miss Richmond, hand in hand, were ironically acknowledging the acclamation. I found Pons back behind me again.

“Admirable, is it not, Parker?” he commented drily. “The Thespian art has a good deal to commend it in these days of mindless and mechanical entertainment.”

“They are certainly playing well for rehearsal, Pons,” I said. “The effect should be tremendous on the opening night.”

“That is evidently what our unknown friend is hoping for,” said Pons soberly. “In my opinion this would be the exact moment; the lights down, everyone concentrating on the two dim figures. That is our Achilles heel, Parker, and somehow I have to pinpoint the greatest moment of danger and protect our client’s life.”

“It is a fearful responsibility, Pons.”

“Is it not, Parker? But I am convinced that the opening night is what we have to fear and we must make plans accordingly.”

Pons rose from his seat and drew me to the back of the theatre, which was now filled with the buzz of animated conversation.

“Let us just circulate a little, Parker. I have learned an astonishing amount of information about the lives of our client and his wife already, not to mention the other members of the company.”

Pons had sparks of irony in his eyes as he looked at me mockingly. We were in the foyer of the theatre now and he led the way though the empty and deserted bar to a narrow corridor that ran down the side of the building. On one side it gave on to the emergency exits; the other wall was pierced by doors at intervals, which led back into the theatre.

“You seem to know your way around remarkably well, Pons.” I said.

“I have the advantage of a plan of the building supplied through the courtesy of my client. Parker. It will be vitally important to know the lay-out thoroughly by the opening night.”

“You are convinced the killer will strike again, then?”

“Undoubtedly, my dear fellow. The accidental death of the other actor will have made him more determined to succeed than ever.”

“But supposing the whole charade were merely a mask to cover the murder which has already taken place, Pons?”

Solar Pons looked at me shrewdly as he motioned me through the far door of the corridor into a dusty passage beneath the stage.

“You constantly astonish me, Parker. This time you have excelled yourself.”

“I thought my supposition quite ingenious myself, Pons.” I said with a somewhat justifiable glow of pride.

We were going up a narrow spiral staircase railed with an iron balustrade.

“I had already given that matter a great deal of consideration,” said my companion over his shoulder. “To that effect I have been in touch with the Liverpool police. There is nothing at all in Stanwell’s background to merit such treatment. He was an inoffensive bachelor who had few friends and his death would have benefited no-one. The threat to Carstairs is genuine enough.”

He paused as heavy hammering reverberated throughout the building. Two carpenters passed at the end of an aisle, carrying heavy baulks of timber. We were evidently in the scenery store for huge canvas flats bearing the representations of Palladian temples, Arcadian scenery and sky-scrapers were stacked against massive wooden partitions. Pons put his hand against my arm as we moved down softly, and motioned caution with a finger against his lips.

There were other voices becoming sharper from among the distant hum of conversation and the cacophony of hammering.

“I tell you I have had enough of it, Carstairs!”

The voice was a man’s, thick and clotted with anger. There was not only anger but positive hatred in it.

“You must not allow yourself to become swayed by malicious and unfounded gossip, Setton.”

The second voice was obviously Carstairs’; placatory but at the same time with a hard undertone of annoyance and anger. There was a heavy crash from the other side of the flats as though the first man had stamped his foot.

“Rumour or not, it has got to stop, Carstairs. This is my last warning. I am not a violent man but I will do something desperate if you meddle further in our lives.”

There was a sneer in Carstairs’ voice as he replied.

“What would you do, Setton? I could break you in half like a rotten stick if I chose!”

“There are other ways than physical violence. Just remember what I have said. Leave Dolly alone!”

There was the rapid, staccato beat of footsteps and Pons and I drew back into the shadow. I just had time to glimpse a short, thin man with a black moustache pass the end of the aisle.

A door slammed behind him and there was a brief silence apart from the distant clamour. Then there came the unmistakable rasp of a match-head against the box. Flame grew and glowed against the end of the passageway. Carstairs drew on his cigar, for the fragrant, aromatic odour reached my nostrils a few seconds later. Then his heavy footsteps followed his late companion and died out.

“Well, well,” said Pons after a short interval. “The case grows in interest.”

“You have no shortage of suspects, Pons.” I said. “I thought I recognised the gentleman.”

“It was Setton Richmond, the musical comedy star. Parker. As you know, he is married to Dolly Richmond and from what we heard by the lake in the park he has good cause for jealousy.”

He pulled at the lobe of his ear with thin fingers, his face a brooding mask of thought.

“There is little further we can do here, my dear fellow. I think a brisk walk back to Praed Street followed by one of Mrs Johnson’s inimitable high teas will do the trick. I find that a full stomach works wonders in assisting the ratiocinative process.”

5

The orchestra burst into a deafening crescendo as the overture began. I focused my eyes on the footlights of the stage as they slowly increased in intensity. Pons stirred at my side, his sharp eyes stabbing about the theatre.

“There is nothing like the final full-dress rehearsal to give the proper atmosphere, Parker.”

“Indeed, Pons.”

“You see that stage box up there?”

I looked up in the direction he had indicated.

“The one on the right?”

“That is the one. I wish you to go there and keep a careful watch on the stage throughout the performance, if you would be so good.”

I glanced at Pons and my puzzlement must have shown on my face.

“But what am I to look out for, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled a curious smile.

“Be particularly alert at the finale. Parker.”

“The strangling scene. I see, Pons. You wish to pinpoint the vulnerable moments at which this mysterious killer might strike at the opening on Wednesday?”

“Something like that, Parker. Also keep an eye on the other boxes and if you see anything suspicious do not hesitate to shout out or cause a distraction.”

I stared at my companion in amazement.

“You think this creature might be here this evening?”

“It is entirely possible, Parker. You forget that he would need to know this particular theatre, just as I myself have had to learn its lay-out during the past few weeks.”

“I see.”

Solar Pons rose and stretched himself, looking round the half-empty auditorium, which contained a sprinkling of relatives and friends of the artistes, together with technical personnel and members of the national press. So far as I could make out all the boxes were empty.

There was an extremely serious expression on my friend’s face.

“You have your revolver?”

I nodded.

“Certainly, Pons. You insisted on it and I have carried it whenever I have managed to get along to the theatre for these rehearsals.”

Solar Pons smiled and rested his hand lightly on my shoulder.

“You have been a tower of strength, as always, Parker. I am most grateful to you.”

This was high praise indeed and I mumbled something deprecating in reply.

“What will you be doing in the meantime?”

“I shall be about, Parker. I have a few small things to do backstage yet. But it is imperative that you keep alert.”

“I shall certainly do that, Pons.”

I left my friend in the shadowy aisle of the theatre as the overture came to a close and made my way to the box indicated. It was strange and eerie in the half-light as I stumbled up the plush stairs and when I took my place in the box the rectangle of the curtained stage below seemed brilliant in contrast.

I took my seat on one of the comfortable upholstered chairs at the edge of the box and waited for my eyes to adjust to the light. I did not think any danger might come from those in the main auditorium; it was altogether too public and anyone behaving suspiciously would immediately be noticed by his neighbour. The cavernous darkness of the remainder of the vast theatre was another thing altogether. The boxes stretched for tier after tier to the ceiling.

Pons had ruled out the balcony as being too far from the stage to constitute a danger and in any event I soon saw this evening that there was a sprinkling of journalists and photographers spread along the front rows. I decided to concentrate on the stage boxes immediately below me and on those on the left-hand side on the proscenium. I had no doubt Pons was keeping watch backstage.

Naturally. I would watch the progress of the play itself as it unfolded before me but the difficulty was going to be to avoid getting involved in the story and forgetting to watch the surroundings. I determined to remain alert and not to let Pons down, just in case there might be something suspicious taking place this evening.

The curtain was rising on the palatial drawing-room scene and the brilliance of the lighting, the opulence of the decor and the richness of the decorations and tapestries brought a thin smattering of applause from the friends and relatives who had been invited to this preview of the play.

Several of the leading players were making their entrance and I marvelled at the metamorphosis of these somewhat dowdy individuals of the ordinary rehearsals, now transformed by rich costuming, make-up and eyebrow pencil into these colourful, larger-than-life characters who went through their dramatic paces so smoothly and effortlessly.

Only I now knew what a great deal of hard work underlay this perfection and I listened to the dialogue with more than ordinary interest and watched the gyrations of these puppets as though the entire play were something new to me. But so insidious was this spell that I guiltily withdrew my gaze from the lighted rectangle with a jerk, suddenly aware that over seven minutes had passed since curtain-up.

I glanced round the hushed auditorium but all seemed normal. The orchestra leader was in the pit, the mood music from the fifteen or so musicians delicately underlining the events being played out before us. From the additional light emanating from the stage I could see the faded gilt and plush of the other boxes. I raked my eyes over them cautiously. They were all completely empty. I had borrowed a pair of opera glasses from Ayres, the business manager, and when I had adjusted the eyepieces, I examined the boxes, the stage and its surroundings in greater detail.

Something caught my attention as I slowly scanned the stage for perhaps the fifteenth time. The first act had finished, the interval had passed, and the performance was now more than halfway through the second act. Absorbing though the performances were — and Carstairs himself was outstanding, as were his wife and Dolly Richmond — I bore in mind the importance of the service Pons had entrusted to me and I was ever mindful of the great faith he had in my abilities.

Now, as I brought the glasses past the stage curtains a faint smudge of white caught my attention in the shadow. I brought the glasses back, adjusted the focusing ring to give even finer detail on this new subject. I was considerably startled to see that someone was standing silently in the wings, obviously watching the course of the drama. I was certain it was not one of the actors because they would never reveal themselves to the audience in that way.

The smudge of white I had noticed resolved itself into the fingers and knuckles of a hand which was clutching the edge of the curtain. Nothing more. The thin wrist was cut off by the fold of the material. There was something so sinister and brooding in the presence of this silent watcher at the edge of the stage that I was greatly agitated and for a moment considered descending and seeking out Pons.

Then a moment’s reflection convinced me of the folly of this course. It was obviously my duty to observe without doing anything, unless there was any evident danger to our client or the people in the theatre. And if it did transpire that some prompter or stagehand was merely standing in the wings out of idle curiosity I should look foolish indeed. No, it would be better to keep careful watch and make perfectly sure before I acted.

The hand disappeared before a good many minutes had passed but I nevertheless continued my careful watch of the theatre; giving my attention principally to the stage and its surroundings; the boxes I could conveniently keep under observation; and the audience in the auditorium, of course. There was nothing else suspicious that I could see and I therefore naturally concentrated on that side of the stage on which I had seen the hand.

The second interval passed and the third and final act of the drama of Death Comes to Thornfield commenced. There was a deep hush of concentration from the audience in which the voices of the actors came up to me powerfully reinforced by the acoustics and crystal clear. Carstairs was certainly a magnificent actor and he put everything he possessed in the way of talent and personality into the finale of the drama which was now inexorably mounting to its striking high-point.

This made it difficult for me to concentrate on the stage and when I again re- focused my glasses on the left-hand side I saw something that gave me cause for the gravest concern. In addition to the hand which was now back in its old position there was an evil-looking bearded face which was staring at Carstairs and his three companions on stage with rapt attention. I reached into my inner pocket with my disengaged hand and sought the butt of my revolver.

I put it down on the ledge beside me and then, when I had made sure that the intent, bearded figure was still immobile, the profile of the face just clear of the curtains, I put down the glasses and threw off the safety catch. When I again raised the glasses to my eyes I saw that the situation had changed. There were now three objects in view; the clenched hand holding the fold of the curtain; the face: and a black, shiny object which seemed like the barrel of a rifle or shotgun.

The matter looked extremely serious. I glanced at my watch. There was just ten minutes to the big scene in the finale in which Carstairs was strangled with the wire noose. Pons and I had timed the play on so many occasions over the past weeks that I almost felt I could myself act as prompter. There was no time to lose if I were to avert a tragedy. I jumped to my feet, seized the revolver which I held close to my side and quitted the box.

As I ran down the corridor outside which led to the staircase connecting with the ground floor I could hear the orchestral music rising to a crescendo. The moment had almost come. I opened a wrong door at the rear of the stage and was immediately accosted by a little man in a blue serge suit who put his hand to his lips. I showed him my letter of authority signed by Carstairs and his expression changed. When I had whispered my requirements he motioned me toward a small set of railed steps which evidently led up toward the stage area.

I tiptoed quietly up the ladder and as I did so the stage lights were lowered, the two spotlights emphasising the area near the windows in which Dolly Richmond was to strangle Carstair. For one strange moment I wondered if the jealous, passionate actress might indeed strangle her lover in a paroxysm of rage and this thought so startled me that I stumbled and almost fell.

It was dark back here and I moved forward slowly until my eyes had adjusted to the lower intensity of the lighting, my right hand holding the revolver ready. The clear, emphatic tones of Carstairs as he made his final speech in the supposedly empty drawing-room, unaware of the hooded figure behind him, were ringing through the theatre. I estimated I had less than a minute to go. The orchestra were silent except for an insistent, high-pitched crescendo from the violins and, masked by this. I covered the last few yards to the side of the enormous stage.

I could see Pons’ client clearly, the spotlights holding him in an eerie yellow glow. Behind him were the big French doors and, uncannily realistic, the artificial “moonlight” from special lamps spilling in behind and making patterns of the window bars across the floor. The conductor of the orchestra was visible in the feint glow of the lowered footlights and there, right before me, the tense, expectant silhouette of the bearded man, so intently fixed on the drama being played to its horrific conclusion.

I paused for a moment, irresolute. The decision was a difficult one. The man in front of me might be perfectly harmless, yet I had a tremendous feeling of some impending disaster. On top of that Pons had warned me to keep alert and act if I saw anything suspicious. I could now only wait for this last minute or so until the climax of the play approached and see what this bearded stranger intended to do.

Carstairs’ had paused in his soliloquy and was circling the stage, his movements tense and predatory. There was an expectant hush in the auditorium still and I could see the pale ovals of the scattered faces of this extempore audience in the glow of the footlights. I took my attention from the man in front of me for a moment and looked up at the boxes, but the reflected light from the stage made it difficult to pick anything out.

The violins of the orchestra were emitting throbbing notes of menace and Carstairs had ceased his pacing, was slowly drawing back in front of the French windows again, the curtains of which I knew contained the figure of Dolly Richmond armed with the wire noose. My own tension was mounting too in this highly melodramatic atmosphere and I longed for the play to be over, when my responsibility should be ended.

In this novel situation where so many unexpected things could happen I was feeling a little out of my depth. I tightened my grip on the butt of the revolver at my side as Carstairs began his last vocal musings as he expressed his thoughts to the audience. I moved in closer to the curtains, conscious that the man in front of me was slowly raising the black barrel of the weapon he carried. I had not been able to see it before as his back was to me, his body blocking the view. The stage lighting shimmered on the gloss of the barrel and I slowly raised the revolver, conscious of a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and a dry-throated nervousness which was affecting the whole of my body.

The orchestral accompaniment was rising to a crescendo and I could see the intent, strained face of the conductor as he worked up the musicians to the finale. Carstairs had finished his speech and behind him the hooded figure which concealed the famous actress was drawing nearer. The noose was slipped quickly round the throat and Carstairs began his terrifying choking noises.

I was momentarily distracted and lowered the revolver. But at the same time the bearded man in front of me was galvanised into action. He turned and instead of threatening Carstairs as I had expected, he hurled his rifle into the orchestra pit. There was a loud clatter and a peculiar whining noise. As I blundered forward, revolver raised, the man with the beard evaded me and sped across the stage like lightning. He cannoned into Carstairs and the girl and the whole group went down with a tremendous noise.

At the same moment there was a streak of light across the spotlights and something struck the back of the stage with a tremendous crash. I did not wait for any further explanations but hurled myself forward at the bearded man as the auditorium exploded into uproar. I seized the legs of the attacker and attempted to drag him off Carstairs as the house lights went up.

I was stupefied as the thin man’s beard came off in my hands to reveal the mocking face of Solar Pons.

“My dear fellow,” he said ironically, “if you will kindly remove your not inconsiderable weight from my person I should be much obliged to you.”

“Pons!” I stammered. “I thought you were the person who sent those figures to your client.”

Pons shook his head as I helped him to his feet.

“I felt it best to take advantage of the dressing room facilities while I was treading the boards,” he chuckled. “The persons I suspected knew me too well. I realised you were behind me and trusted to your sense of self control not to queer my pitch. Nevertheless, it was a close-run thing.”

He gestured to the back of the stage where the head of a steel-shafted arrow was buried deep in the wooden flat of the scenery.

“Good heavens, Pons! Did you know this would happen? I thought we had to fear only the opening night.”

“I suspected something of the sort, Parker. Which was why I asked you to be alert. But just give me a hand with Carstairs and Miss Richmond, will you?”

The great actor and his companion had remained on the floor as though stunned during this exchange but now the stage was beginning to fill with people and Carstairs had found his voice.

“What the hell do you mean by it, Mr Pons? You have ruined the performance!”

“Something else might have been ruined if I had not intervened,” said my companion dryly, indicating the arrow.

Carstairs turned white and he and Miss Richmond exchanged frightened glances. Pons was casting sharp looks toward the front of the stage but now he relaxed somewhat.

“What were you doing with that shotgun, Pons?” I asked.

“Tut. Parker, it was not a gun but an ornamental walking cane,” he said carelessly. “You no doubt mistook the smooth ebony of the shaft for a gun-barrel in the half-light. I threw it into the orchestra pit to put our friend off his aim.”

“Orchestra pit, Pons?”

Solar Pons gave an enigmatic smile.

“Certainly, Parker. I saw quite early on that it provided admirable cover, particularly as the marksman would have to be close. And he could afterwards go out by the small entrance beneath the stage.”

“I do not understand, Pons.”

“It would not be the first time, Parker,” said Solar Pons mischievously. “It came to me when I counted sixteen players instead of fifteen. A violin case makes an excellent place of concealment.”

“I cannot make head or tail of it, Pons,” I complained.

“Let us just take things slowly, Parker,” said Pons as the secretary Abrahams helped Carstairs and Miss Richmond to their feet.

“You may have wondered why I was talking so much about the case and the dangers of the first night about the theatre. That was merely part of my design. There is no place like the theatre for gossip and by this simple stratagem I hoped to put them off their guard. Ah, Inspector, there you are!”

I was stupefied to see the unprepossessing form of Inspector Jamison, our old acquaintance of Scotland Yard, coming up on to the stage.

“You have the warrants, Inspector?”

“Yes, Mr Pons. I have left them blank as you requested.”

“What does this mean, Pons?” I said.

“It means, Parker, that a nasty little drama is drawing to its close.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the front of the stage all this time, oblivious of the buzz of conversation about us from the solicitous group which surrounded Carstairs and Dolly Richmond. I confess I was puzzled by his attitude but I was even more surprised when he turned to me and said casually, “Come, Parker, we will be better placed at the front of the house. You had better come too, Jamison.”

“As you wish, Mr Pons. I have men posted in the foyer of the theatre and at the exits, as you suggested.”

I turned to my companion with a dozen queries on my lips but he instantly silenced me with an imperative gesture. He led the way to the front of the stalls, where most of the seats had been vacated by the rush of people on to the stage in the confusion following the firing of the arrow. Pons’ alert manner and the way his piercing eyes darted about indicated that he was very much on the lookout for something.

The orchestra conductor, a handsome-looking man with a flowing mane of white hair emerged from a small door at the side of the stage and engaged in conversation with Carstairs and Miss Richmond. The other members of the orchestra were slowly filing out now and I could see the secretary, Abrahams coming up toward us, together with the business manager Ayres and other members of the theatrical company.

“Music has great charms, Jamison,” said Solar Pons irrelevantly, “and as we are told, soothes the savage breast.”

“Beg pardon. Mr Pons,” said the Inspector obtusely.

“For example,” said Solar Pons calmly. “There are all types of instruments but some from which it would be difficult to coax a tune.”

“I don’t follow, Mr Pons,” said Jamison.

Members of the orchestra were still brushing past.

“A bow is of little use without a violin,” said Solar Pons crisply.

He struck suddenly like a snake. A tall, slim man with a white face and a shock of black hair fell heavily to the floor as Pons arrogantly thrust out his foot. He started up with tremendous speed, his violin case falling at his feet. I moved forward in astonishment but I was too late.

Pons had the fallen man’s hair in his hands. The wig came away instantly revealing a soft mass of blonde locks. The woman’s voice was harsh and sibilant with hatred.

“Damn you, Mr Pons!”

As I turned from this astonishing spectacle I saw that the violin case had fallen open and from it protruded a shining bow made of silvery steel set in velvet among a nest of metal-tipped arrows.

“Here is your man, Jamison,” said Solar Pons exultantly. “Or rather woman. It is no use struggling Miss Stillwood. The drama is over.”

Jamison jumped forward and secured the angry actress. Carstairs fell back against the edge of the stage, his face shocked and ashen.

“Sandra! You don’t mean it was you…? All along?”

The woman’s face was white with fury and she almost spat the words out.

“I have hated you for years, Cedric! And I was sick of your constant affairs. If it had not been for Stanwell edging forward that night in Liverpool we would have been rid of you.”

“We?”

The voice was that of Inspector Jamison’s.

“Of course, Jamison,” said Solar Pons languidly. “Mrs Carstairs was not alone in this matter. You had best fill that second warrant in also, Inspector. In the name of Gordon Venner.”

Abrahams’ face was a mixture of fear and surprise. He ducked away but Solar Pons brought him down with a well-aimed kick behind the knee. He gave a howl of pain and then Jamison was on him and I heard the click of handcuffs.

There was an instant hubbub as all the people in the theatre gathered round. Pons looked at Carstairs’ shaken features and from him to the blazing eyes of Dolly Richmond.

“We cannot talk here, gentlemen. I suggest we leave the explanations until a more private occasion.”

“This whole thing is ridiculous!” broke in Sandra Stillwood imperiously. “I demand to know the charges.”

“Murder and attempted murder will do to be going on with,” said Pons.

6

“You will remember, Parker,” said Solar Pons, blowing out a streamer of blue smoke toward the ceiling of our sitting room at 7B, Praed Street. “You will remember that when Cedric Carstairs first called me in I continually spoke of an outside menace threatening the actor. There was a very good reason for that.”

I looked at my companion in amazement.

“You suspected Mrs Carstairs and the secretary from the beginning, Pons!”

“Hardly that, Parker,” Solar Pons corrected me. “But from the very nature of the sinister incidents surrounding the family I knew it had to be very close to him indeed. The person who was sending the parcels had to know his movements intimately; even what plays he was in and the theatres where they were being presented. Furthermore, the model work was done with such skill and the whole thing planned with such sadistic pleasure that it immediately directed my mind to three things.”

“Three things, Mr Pons?”

Inspector Jamison screwed up his eyes as he stared at my companion in puzzlement from the other side of the table. It was the following day and both Sandra Stillwood and the secretary had made full confessions before being committed to cells to await a proper court hearing. Jamison had just come from Scotland Yard to join us for lunch and now we were enjoying coffee and liqueurs while Pons explained his reasoning.

He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe to emphasise the points.

“Firstly, the models were so exquisite that they indicated a high degree of skill on the part of the modeller. This was so unusual that the perpetrator should not have been too difficult to trace. Secondly, the way the whole affair was planned — both to warn and terrify the victim — indicated great hatred. They say murder begins at home and I at once began to look at Carstairs’ domestic circumstances.”

“And the third thing. Pons?”

My companion looked at me quizzically.

“Hatred, subtlety and the atmosphere of a cat playing with a mouse. I saw a woman’s hand at every turn. I was assisted in my deductions almost immediately after our arrival. It had not escaped my attention that Cedric Carstairs was hardly the ideal husband, to borrow another theatrical allusion. His numerous affairs and the scandals concerning his various mistresses were the talk of the town. His attractive wife, Sandra Stillwood, was a fiery, jealous and impetuous woman as one has only to see from the public newspapers.

“I knew she would be the last person to sit down under such treatment. Furthermore, Carstairs was a wealthy man. I already had two good motives for his death; jealousy and greed. I looked for a further ingredient, for I knew that no ordinary skills were involved. Assuming Carstairs’ wife to be the prime mover, then she had to have an accomplice. The secretary was an obvious starting point for my assumption. He was good-looking and had not been with Carstairs all that long. In a brief conversation with Mrs Carstairs I learned that she had herself introduced him to the household.”

“Remarkable, Mr Pons,” Jamison mumbled.

Solar Pons chuckled.

“Elementary, my dear Jamison. So far nothing but logical deduction and simple observation. But I also saw a number of glances pass between Mrs Carstairs and the secretary. Such things are unmistakable to the trained observer. I rapidly came to the conclusion that she and Abrahams were lovers.”

“And you let me go on thinking that Dolly Richmond or her husband might have been responsible,” I grumbled.

“Not at all, Parker,” said Solar Pons sharply. “Those were entirely your own completely unjustified assumptions. You were working altogether on the wrong premises. Oh, there were other suspects enough in the circle surrounding the couple, I give you. But the thing was crystal clear to me almost from the beginning. Method and motive were the things to which I now applied my attention. I was convinced that I had seen Abrahams before and that he was not in the Carstairs’ household under his own name.

“The face seemed familiar and when I returned to London I applied myself to my cuttings volumes. I soon found what I was looking for. though the name beneath the photograph was that of Gordon Venner. He was a somewhat obscure artist and stage designer who had been given a London exhibition some years ago. The photograph in my file showed him with a beautifully modelled maquette and it became obvious that his was the skilled hand responsible for the gruesome little tableaux despatched to my client. And it was he, of course, who put the corrosive on the chandelier cable during the performance of The Hound of the Baskervilles.”

Pons blew out a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling and turned to the Inspector.

“All this was. of course, by way of suspicion and not at all conclusive. I had to trap the pair in the act and that required some finesse. In the meantime I telephoned Inspector Jamison, Parker, and he put some inquiries in hand. He found that Venner had disappeared from his London studio some months ago and when I put the dates together I found that his disappearance coincided with the employment of Carstairs’ new secretary.”

“But would not your retention by Carstairs put them on their guard, or at least make them abandon their plan, Pons?” I put in.

“Ordinarily, Parker, but I was relying on two factors. The first was by putting the couple completely off their guard. I gave it out that I expected any danger to come on the opening night. Therefore, as I conjectured, they moved their murder attempt forward to the final dress rehearsal. And secondly, I also made it plain by my conversation and actions that I believed the menace to come from someone outside the family. I had given a great deal of thought to the method of murder and felt that as the warning and the method had always differed they might for the actual attempt again try the bow and arrow.”

“Why was that, Mr Pons?”

“It was silent, swift and sure and they had a ready method by which they could get close to the intended victim, Jamison. I had seen enough of the Carstairs’ at close quarters to realise that Sandra Stillwood and Venner were very much in love with one another and that her hatred, jealousy and greed in equal proportions would be enough to keep her fixed in her murderous course, despite my presence on the scene.”

“But what about the parcels, Pons?” I put in. “They arrived from distant places when Mrs Carstairs was with her husband. And she was in the play with him last night.”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“We shall find nothing difficult about that, Parker. Venner stayed in Surrey on numerous occasions, to take care of Carstairs’ business affairs. All the parcels were posted in London. Nothing simpler than for him to come up to post them; it is only half an hour’s journey by train. As to Mrs Carstairs’ part in the plot, I had noticed from perusal of scripts that she was always off-stage when these murderous incidents occurred. Last night her final appearance was some twenty minutes before her husband’s strangulation on stage. Ample time for her to retire to her dressing room, disguise herself as one of the musicians with the steel bow concealed in the violin case and take her place at the far end of the orchestra, in the shadows. It took some daring but it was quite simple.”

Solar Pons tented his fingers before him.

“I have examined the stage myself and it would have worked like this. There is another small emergency door beneath the stage which leads to the orchestra pit. She would have undoubtedly used this and there is a small space which is in darkness, near the side of the stage, in which she concealed herself. The cello player sat with his back to her and she was also concealed completely from sight by the bulk of that instrument. She had only to take her place five minutes before the final scene with small chance of detection.”

“Remarkable, Mr Pons!” interjected Jamison again.

Solar Pons shook his head.

“It was a fairly routine matter but one which required considerable patience over the past weeks. I had noticed early on that there were fifteen members of the orchestra and I discreetly checked with the theatre authorities to make certain that this was so. Last night, I disguised myself in order to render myself inconspicuous, but even so I was almost taken unawares. Fortunately, I noticed that there were sixteen members of the orchestra and the hiding place of the assassin was revealed.”

“Despite your modesty, it has been a remarkable affair, Pons,” I said. “I assume that after Carstairs’ death and the escape of the murderer, Mrs Carstairs would have inherited.”

“And a discreet marriage would have taken place between herself and Venner in a year or two, Parker.”

“Instead of which, considerable terms of imprisonment await them both,” said Jamison. “Once again I am indebted to you, Mr Pons.”

He got up to go and shook hands with us. We waited until his heavy footsteps had descended the stairs, followed by the slam of the street door.

“What will happen to them, Pons?”

“Mrs Carstairs will be lucky to escape the rope but she is a brilliant and attractive woman, Parker. My guess is that, as Jamison surmises, they will both draw heavy prison sentences.”

“And Carstairs will be free to marry Miss Richmond when her divorce comes through?”

Solar Pons stared at me, his eyes dancing.

“Your romantic instinct is running wild again, Parker. I have warned you of that tendency before. I shall be very much surprised if your prediction comes true.”

He went to stand at the window, frowning down at the street.

“There is just one point I am not clear about. Pons. Why would Carstairs himself not have recognised his new secretary as Venner the designer?”

Solar Pons shook his head.

“You do not know the theatre, Parker. I said Venner was an unsuccessful designer. Though brilliant. Brilliancy and success do not always go together, unfortunately. Venner was obscure. I know that he has not designed for any major London production. Carstairs is a famous and successful actor who appears only in major plays and films. Their paths would not have crossed. Incidentally, Venner served a short term of imprisonment some years ago, in connection with an art fraud which is why his photograph was in my files.”

“And the fact that nothing happened after the first warning, Pons?”

Solar Pons smiled enigmatically.

“I had not forgotten that, my dear fellow. I made some inquiries of the L.M.S. On the date in question, when the performance of Othello was being given, there was a major subsidence of the line in the Midlands which completely disrupted and for a time cancelled the train services between London and Edinburgh. For that reason Venner was unable to travel to Scotland to help in his mistress’ scheme. Without his support she had no option but temporarily to abandon the plan as being too risky to attempt on her own. Ironically, it was something like the situation in one of Carstair’s major films two years ago.”

Pons traversed the room and languidly looked at the clock.

“Talking of films, Parker, there is a new Valentino at the London pavilion. Are you free to go? He is no great actor but he has a certain animal grace which I find irresistible.”