The Dossier of Solar Pons

1

It was a wild evening in early April and the rain had been tapping icily at the windowpanes of our apartments at 7B Praed Street, when what I later came to call the Adventure of the Perplexed Photographer began. My old friend Solar Pons was in one of those restless, nervous moods that descended on him like a blanket when time hung heavily and he had spent most of the day morosely studying and annotating records in his commonplace book with occasional pacing turns about the room.

His examination of the rain-sodden street did nothing to improve his temper and it was with something like relief that I was called out to an urgent case in the afternoon. I was again busy in the evening and, the rain having somewhat abated, returned to 7B in time for an early dinner.

Pons was in a slightly more relaxed mood and allowed himself a thin smile at my sodden and disheveled appearance.

"Draw your chair up to the fire, my dear Parker. Mrs. Johnson will be in with our meal in a few moments. I fear I have been a far from amiable companion today."

I made a grudging acknowledgment of his graciousness and settled myself in my favorite leather armchair in close proximity to the fireplace, the cheery warmth of which soon relaxed both my limbs and my frosty manner.

The appearance of the beaming, well-scrubbed face of Mrs. Johnson at the threshold, with a heavily laden tray from which ascended wisps of steam and a most agreeable aroma, completely breached my defenses and we set to with a will The table had scarcely been cleared and Pons settled opposite me at the fireplace, with a lit pipe and a glass of whiskey and water at his elbow, than Mrs. Johnson once again appeared, this time with a somewhat flustered manner.

"There's a gentleman in the hall below, Mr. Pons. He seems rather agitated and says he must see you at once."

Pons's lean, feral face was transformed immediately. He shot me a triumphant glance from his piercing eye.

"Show him up at once, Mrs. Johnson. I am always available to those select few who alone bring me problems from among the mundane millions of London. Things have been too quiet of late."

I gave a sympathetic nod to Mrs. Johnson who quitted the room; I made to withdraw but subsided in my chair as Pons immediately begged me to remain. I shifted my position so that I could get a clear view of the door as the heavy tread of our visitor followed Mrs. Johnson up the staircase from the hall below.

Mrs. Johnson appeared in the entrance, followed immediately by a tall, heavily bearded man on whose thick- checked ulster raindrops glistened in the light of the room.

"Mr. Bruce Beresford, gentlemen," she announced and went out with the quickness born of long practice, shutting the door behind her.

Our visitor advanced blinking toward us, his arm extended, looking from one to the other.

"Mr. Solar Pons?"

Pons rose from his chair, indicating me with a casual movement of his hand.

"I am he, sir. This is my friend and confidant, Dr. Lyndon Parker."

The bearded man acknowledged my presence with a stiff bow. At Pons's insistence he was already removing his heavy coat, which he laid down on a chair near the fire.

"You have been recommended to me as one of the most able inquiry agents in London."

"Indeed, sir," said Pons dryly. "And who may be the others?"

Beresford paused and looked sharply from Pons to myself and then back to the tall figure of my companion.

"The work of Mr. Holmes must always appeal…" he began.

"Certainly," interrupted Pons crisply. "And one in your profession would naturally know the major figures in the field. But sit here next to Dr. Parker and I will pour you a whiskey."

Our visitor did as my companion said, though he cast a puzzled glance at Pons as the latter busied himself with a bottle of Haig and a siphon. He raised his glass in silent salute.

"You know me, Mr. Pons?"

Solar Pons shook his head, resuming his seat opposite me.

"Apart from the fact that you are a New Zealander, a member of the Signet Club, and a photographer, you are a stranger to me."

Our visitor's astonishment was unfeigned.

"This is remarkable. How could you possibly….

"Your accent unmistakably places you as being from New Zealand," said Pons, his eyes dancing. "I have made some little study of the subject of accents. As to the Signet Club, your ring bears the peculiar symbol of that interesting organization. Your hands are stained with chemicals, a condition peculiar to the photographer who carries out his own developing. When I find that combined with a green patch on your left knee, I conclude that is where you always kneel to take photographs. This afternoon you have been kneeling on grass to do so."

There was a moment of silence as Beresford recovered himself.

"Well, Mr. Pons," said our visitor. "Just so. For a moment I thought you had done something clever."

"Pray continue, Mr. Beresford. I understand you have a problem on which you wish to consult me."

Our visitor stirred in his chair, swilling the amber fluid in his glass.

"You may think me mad, Mr. Pons. Nothing like this

has happened to me before. To have one or two plates

smashed or stolen, yes, that could happen but three times

is ridiculous. And then this attack on me this evening…"

His beard was bristling with indignation and Pons had a tight smile on his lips as he lifted his hand to halt our visitor's flow of words.

"Come, Mr. Beresford, all in good time. Just drink your whiskey calmly and put the events in order."

Our visitor gulped at his glass and flushed.

"Forgive me, Mr. Pons. I am a person ordinarily of a phlegmatic and prosaic nature, but I confess the events of the past twenty-four hours would be enough to upset anyone. Perplexing, most perplexing."

Pons rubbed his thin hands together.

"Do go on, Mr. Beresford. This agency exists to unravel perplexing problems. Eh, Parker?"

"Certainly, Pons," I agreed.

Beresford leaned forward in his chair and cupped his hands round his tumbler to conceal the slight trembling which ran through his robust frame.

"I run a small photographic business off the Strand, Mr. Pons. You may have heard of us. Nothing very fancy. Myself as principal, with two other photographers and my darkroom staff. Though I trust we are not unknown in the larger world."

"Quite so," I said. "I have often seen your work in the sporting press."

Beresford turned a look of approbation on me before proceeding.

"I've been at the game a long time, Mr. Pons, but as the principal I cannot leave it alone. So I often take to the field myself, as it were, picking and choosing the assignments that most interest me. As it happens we have had a rush of work the past few weeks, and the flu epidemic has made things difficult this winter. Both my men were down and one of the darkroom staff."

"I am indeed sorry to hear it," Pons rejoined. "And you yourself have had to take to the field again? Pray continue."

"Well, Mr. Pons," Beresford went on, "only the past twenty-four hours need concern us. As you gathered, I have been taking portraits and action poses of footballers these past two days. Yesterday I was at the Chelsea ground. When I got back to my studio, I found that a whole section of the plates in my leather plateholder had been smashed. Quite wanton damage, I can assure you. I had left them on the grass near the stadium and noticed nothing amiss at the time. Fortunately, they were unexposed and so no harm was done."

Pons's form had undergone a slight change at our visitor's narrative and now every line of his body expressed intense interest. His keen eyes never left Beresford's face.

"This is quite unique, I take it?"

Beresford nodded.

'It has never happened in my life before. Sheer vandalism, sir. I had one or two calls at private houses yesterday — you may remember the weather was fine in the afternoon — and I took a bus back to my studio. I met an acquaintance on the bus and was busy talking. Judge my surprise when I checked later to find another section of slides missing from their place in my leather case."

Pons's eyes were positively twinkling now.

"Excellent, Mr. Beresford. This becomes more intriguing by the minute. Do go on."

"Well," said Beresford, giving Pons an indignant look. "That's as may be but it's a serious matter to one in my profession. I had only put the case down on the seat for a few minutes and had stepped across the aisle to talk to my friend."

"So someone sitting nearby could have taken this material?"

Beresford nodded.

"Exactly. Apart from my placing the bag down at Chelsea it hadn't been out of my sight the rest of the day."

The indignation and frustrated rage in Beresford's voice was deepening now.

"This was only the beginning. Mr. Pons! At lunchtime 7

today I came back into my premises to find the front door smashed."

"In what manner?"

"The glass panel had been broken and the catch pushed back. I found my darkroom in disorder and several negatives which were drying had been broken in the manner of the plates at the football ground. I had reason to believe I had disturbed the intruder for the back door into the alley was half-open."

"So that the person who wishes you harm might not have had time to see what he was destroying, Mr. Beresford?" said Pons.

Beresford looked puzzled.

"Eh, Mr. Pons? I don't think I quite understand…"

"No matter," rejoined Pons briskly. "You have more to tell me, I take it?"

"I most certainly have," Beresford went on grimly. "Not an hour ago I was coming through a small alley in the Soho area when I was set upon from behind. My hat was jammed over my eyes so that I couldn't see; I was kicked and tripped; and the plates in my holdall were tipped onto the cobbles and trampled on!"

Beresford's calm had so deserted him that his voice rose to tones of sobbing rage as he described the indignities which had been thrust upon him. There was silence in the room for a moment. Pons sat with his lean, febrile fingers tented before him in an attitude of deep thought.

"My brother-in-law lives nearby," Beresford continued after an interval. "I visited him and cleaned myself up. He advised me to call upon you."

"You have done wisely, Mr. Beresford," said Pons. "This is a most absorbing business which intrigues me greatly."

He glanced at me keenly.

"I would be happy to take up your case, Mr. Beresford. Some private photographs, a football team, and a large number of smashed negatives. What do you make of it, Parker?"

"Vandalism, perhaps?" I suggested. "The whole thing seems pointless." "Exactly, Parker," Pons chuckled. "Which is exactly why there has to be method behind it."

He lapsed into thought.

"Have you a list of your appointments for the past two days, Mr. Beresford? I think we can ignore events before that since these incidents began only in the last forty-eight hours. You did not, of course, glimpse your assailant this evening?"

Beresford shook his head.

"Unfortunately not, Mr. Pons. By the time I came to my senses all I could hear was the noise of running feet along the alley."

"No matter," said Pons. "I confess I have not been so taken by a problem for a long time."

He got up and went over to his bureau, returning with a note pad and pen.

"If you would be good enough to jot down your engagements together with any other relevant data, Mr. Beresford, I shall be glad to look into the matter. I will step around to your studio in the morning at about ten o'clock."

"I am most grateful, Mr. Pons," muttered our visitor, scribbling furiously, as though the barrel of the pen were the neck of the man who had assaulted him. I could not forbear a quiet smile at his vehemence, though on reflection I had to admit that I should have been twice as indignant had I been in his position.

"Here you are, Mr. Pons."

Beresford moved to Pons's side and passed him the sheet. My companion glanced at it swiftly, his brow corrugated.

"That will do admirably, Mr. Beresford. I see you visited Chelsea again today."

He looked at the almost invisible patch of green on the left leg of our visitor's trousers.

"I take it you had no trouble on this occasion?"

The tall, bearded man drew himself up, reaching for his now dry ulster from the chair.

"I made sure of that, Mr. Pons. I took my bag of plates out into the center of the field with me. Fortunately, the negatives were not among those destroyed this evening."

He inclined his head stiffly.

"Until tomorrow, Mr. Pons. And thank you."

"Until tomorrow, Mr. Beresford."

Beresford buttoned his coat and strode toward the door.

"Good night, Doctor."

We listened to his heavy tread descending the stairs. Pons threw himself into his armchair, his eyes dancing with mischief. He gave a dry chuckle and rubbed his hands together.

"A pretty problem indeed. Continue with your analysis, Parker."

"A hoax, perhaps. Or a business rival who is out to ruin Beresford's reputation?"

Pons shook his head.

"You will have to do better than that, Parker. I commend to you the incident of the abstraction of the photographic plates on the omnibus."

I gave a faint snort of irritation.

"Perfectly simple, Pons. The thief could not smash them because it was a public place and he was surrounded by passengers. So he took them to break at his leisure."

Pons's eyes were fixed, somewhere up on the ceiling beyond my gaze to where the firelight made a brindled pattern on the white plaster.

"There is that," he admitted. "But as to whether he would smash them is another matter."

And to this maddeningly cryptic remark he would add nothing. I had opened my mouth to draw him out further when there was the sound of a car drawing up outside. Pons crossed noiselessly to the curtains. He came back to stand by the table.

"We are exceedingly popular this evening, Parker. If I am not mistaken the stolid form of Inspector Jamison has just descended from the police car at the curb outside."

A few moments later we heard the loud, insistent ringing of the bell, the murmur of conversation as Mrs. Johnson opened the door, and then the familiar tread of the inspector. Pons was already opening the door to admit the Scotland Yard man, who wore a gloomy and worried expression.

"Something serious?" queried Pons hopefully.

Jamison mopped his brow with a handkerchief he took from his overcoat pocket and stared from my companion to me.

"Not only serious, Mr. Pons, but horrific"

"Murder, then?" said Pons.

"Murder in the most sickening circumstances. In a locked room and with a number of singular features."

"Where?"

"Highbury. In broad daylight too. Yesterday afternoon."

An annoyed expression crossed Solar Pons's face and he clicked his tongue.

"Dear me, Jamison. As long ago as that? And no doubt your fellows have been trampling about with their heavy boots."

Jamison colored and shifted from one foot to another.

"All has been preserved just as Professor Mair was found," he said stiffly. "I would appreciate your cooperation."

"Certainly, my dear fellow. I will just get my coat."

"Coming, Parker?"

I was already on my feet, draining the last of my whiskey.

"Certainly, Pons. No doubt the inspector will enlighten us on the way."

2

We were driving northeast, through rain-sodden streets, before Jamison broke the silence which had descended on the three of us.

"Professor Mair is a wealthy man who retired from the British Museum some years ago," he said at last "He was an expert on Chinese pottery, I believe. He lives in a large house in Highbury — The Poplars — with a staff of servants, a private secretary, and three relatives. These are his niece, Miss Jean Conyers, and two nephews, Lionel Amsden, a broker in the City, and Clifford Armitage, who looked after the professor's financial affairs. So far as we can make but the household was a fairly amiable one. Mair had never married and since his parents had made considerable investments on his behalf, he was able to keep up an almost regal establishment at The Poplars. You'll see what I mean when we get there."

Pons made no reply, his intent, hawklike face silhouetted against the bloom of passing gas lamps, as the police car turned from a main highway into a subsidiary road.

"But just lately the professor had taken a fancy to move out of London," Inspector Jamison continued. "This caused a minor ripple in the household. The professor suffered from arthritis and had been advised by his medical man to seek a drier climate."

"In England or abroad?" Pons interjected.

Jamison looked startled.

"That was not made quite clear," he answered stiffly. "But at any rate he intended to put The Poplars up for sale. This was the situation which obtained until yesterday afternoon. Then, at about three o'clock the people in the house heard the most appalling and inhuman screams coming from Professor Mair's study, which is at the front of the house, on the first floor.

"The servants found the door locked and had to break it down to gain entry. Inside, they discovered a most appalling sight Drawers and cupboards had been ransacked and it looked as though there had been a tremendous struggle. The professor lay in front of his desk. A large javelin, one of his collection of weapons, had been taken from the wall and dashed through his body with such force that it penetrated the carpet beneath, pinning him like a butterfly on a card."

"Good Heavens!" I could not help interjecting.

Jamison shook his head.

"You may well say so, Doctor. It was one of the most horrible scenes I have ever clapped eyes on and I've seen some things in my time."

"Pray do go on, Jamison," said Pons imperturbably. "I am finding this most absorbing. Were all the family at home?"

The inspector nodded.

"Niece, nephews, and secretary. They helped to break down the door."

"Ah, yes, the door," interjected Pons slowly. "That does indeed present a problem. You checked the windows, of course?"

Jamison turned an aggrieved face toward us.

"Of course, Mr. Pons. Both the big windows at the front of the study, which face the garden, are three-quarter length. They were securely locked and in any case it is a considerable drop to the garden onto a paved pathway at that point."

Solar Pons sat hunched in thought for a few moments more, oblivious of the lurching of the car or the spitting of the rain on the bodywork.

"But you must have come to some conclusions, Jamison?"

The inspector stirred uncomfortably on his seat opposite us.

"It is a very complex business. As to motive, both nephews and the niece stand to inherit considerable sums from the professor's estate as his only relatives. I have had some talk with the family lawyer this afternoon. There is something in excess of a quarter of a million pounds involved."

Pons turned in his corner of the car and his eyes caught mine.

"Motive enough there, Parker, eh?"

I nodded.

"But the locked room… And who would be strong enough to wield a harpoon in that manner?"

"A javelin, Doctor," Jamison put in. "I had not overlooked that point, Mr. Pons."

He had a little gleam of triumph in his eyes. "I favor young Mr. Amsden. He is over six feet tall and built like a Greek god. Except that only a minute elapsed between the professor's screaming and the breaking in of the door. As Mr. Amsden was principally concerned in breaking in that very same door, I did not feel I had anything strong enough to go on."

"You were quite right, Jamison," said Solar Pons crisply. "You would have made yourself look extremely foolish had you been misguided enough to have arrested him. There are a number of intriguing aspects here."

Jamison's face brightened.

"You are on to something?"

Pons shook his head irritably.

"I prefer to draw my conclusions from strictly observed data on the spot. I fancy I will need to know a great deal more about The Poplars and its inhabitants before I am able to do so."

And he said nothing further until the wheels of the police car scraped the curb as it came to a halt in the rainy night before a high brick wall.

3

Jamison led the way across the pavement to where two large wrought-iron gates were thrown- back, framing the entrance to a graveled drive. By the light of an adjacent gas lamp which threw a mellow glare onto the scene I was able to see why the police car had not driven in to The Poplars. There was a trench dug in the pavement, paving slabs piled high; and across the entry to Professor Mair's mansion heavy boards had been placed. The whole of the frontage leading to the driveway had been excavated, and clay and sand filled the gap.

"The Council workmen are doing drainage maintenance here, gentlemen," Jamison explained. "I thought it might be worthwhile keeping this surface clear."

Pons's eyes were sharp and alert in the light of the gas lamp.

"You have done well, Jamison," he said dryly. "My precepts appear to have taught you something at last."

The inspector looked reproachfully at Pons and two tiny spots of red started out on his cheeks, but he said nothing — only waited while Pons went down on hands and knees on the thick boards, examining the trench with his pocket flashlight.

"A pity you did not call me sooner," he grunted. "Tradesmen and the rain of the past day have done much to obliterate detail which might have told us a good deal. I shall have these boards up as soon as it gets light."

Jamison cleared his throat.

"I think you will find the area beneath the boards may tell you something, Mr. Pons," he said stiffly.

"Let us hope so," my companion replied, looking keenly about him as we walked up the drive, to where the large, squat, three-storied mansion of the late Professor Mair stood frowning across a broad lawn to the shrubbery which screened it from the road. The house was a blaze of light and it was evident that our arrival was expected, for a constable ran down the broad front steps toward Jamison, and the massive front door was already being opened by a trimly dressed parlormaid as we ascended to the portico.

The house had an air of suppressed mourning and one could feel tragedy in the air as Pons and I followed Jamison across a large hall floored in marble. Electric lights in a massive brass lantern illuminated the broad-balconied staircase up which Jamison hurried to the first floor. Pons was darting keen glances about him. A knot of servants stood talking in monotones on the wide landing, but they broke up and went about their duties as our group arrived.

The scene of the tragedy was guarded by a plainclothes detective-sergeant who had a muttered colloquy with his superior before ushering us past the shattered rosewood door which had shielded the entrance to the professor's study. It was a broad, high room lit by green-shaded lamps: two in ceiling fittings, one on the cluttered desk, and another standard lamp which stood near the paneled fireplace.

The fire had long burned out and the place struck dank and chill; the reason for the coldness was obvious from the thing which sprawled incongruously in the center of the room, amid documents, upturned drawers and other debris. I have long been inured to scenes of postmortem squalor in my profession, but I have seldom felt the thrill of horror which this room evoked in me.

The body of Professor Mair was spread out in bizarre fashion, his hands crooked in agony about the heavy shaft of the steel-tipped javelin which transfixed his body to the carpet beneath him. Blood had seeped from the wound and made heavy stains on the rug and on the parquet around it.

The professor was a man of about seventy, with a snow-white beard which was thrown back, at an acute angle; the mouth with the broken, decayed teeth was wide open, as though he had been in the act of screaming as he was cut down; and a dark necklace of blood had run from the corner of his mouth onto the collar of his smoking jacket. The blue eyes were wide and staring. It was an horrific and appalling sight and even Pons seemed visibly shaken.

We stood in a hushed semicircle about the remains for a few seconds and then Pons was himself again; he dropped to his knees with a magnifying glass and busied himself in an examination of the area round the body.

"Nothing of importance there, Mr. Pons," Jamison put in heavily. "We haven't overlooked theft, of course, but these are just papers connected with the professor's work."

Pons nodded without replying. He was on his feet again now, his keen eyes stabbing about the room. Then he crossed toward the door, taking off his hat and overcoat which he placed on a chair. He came back to me.

"Your department, Parker. Just give me your opinion, would you?"

"Certainly, Pons."

Jamison brought in a bundle of sacking from a pile near the door and I knelt gingerly upon it to carry out my examination. I avoided the javelin, but Jamison observed, "We have tested for fingerprints, Doctor. The murderer wore gloves."

Pons was already near the windows, giving them his usual meticulous examination. He paused on the floor between them, his magnifying glass passing inch by inch across the flooring.

"You are certainly right about one thing, Inspector. No one has been out that way."

Jamison exchanged a satisfied look with the detective-sergeant, who had come back inside the room and was an interested spectator of the proceedings. Pons next went around the entire room, dismissing the serried ranks of

books, which took up three sides, with hardly a glance. He examined the shattered door carefully, noting the key still in the lock. He spent more time on two large cupboards which flanked the door. The inspector caught the question in his eyes.

"Files, according to Clarence Moffat, the professor's secretary. But there's been nothing disturbed there, so far as we know."

Pons already had the left-hand door open and was examining the linoleum-covered floor of the interior. He pulled open one or two of the mahogany drawers at the rear of the cupboard and gave the contents a cursory glance. Then he went over to the right-hand cupboard and repeated the process. I noticed he had one of the small envelopes in which he collected specimens ready to hand.

He was at my elbow as I completed my examination, a necessarily brief one in the absence of my case of instruments. "Rigor mortis has long set in," I said. "Death would have been instantaneous and probably some time yesterday afternoon."

Jamison nodded portentously.

"The same conclusion drawn by the police surgeon," he said. "Of course we shall know more after the postmortem, but I thought you'd prefer to view the body in situ, Mr. Pons."

Pons nodded.

"Extremely thoughtful, Jamison. Is there nothing further, Parker? Would the javelin have penetrated at one stroke, for example?"

I took hold of the shaft, now that there was no need for caution.

"It's certainly a heavy and fearsome weapon, Pons," I began. "Hello, it's quite loose!"

Even as I spoke, the javelin broke free of the wound and clattered to the floor. Pons had a curious expression on his face. But he said nothing and was already turning to the area above the fireplace where a number of weapons were hung in ornamental display on the wall.

"Obviously this came from the pair here," he mused, his eyes hooded and seemingly half-asleep. He pulled a heavy Malay kris from its scabbard and used it to point at the inspector.

"Seems rather a strange feature of the decor for a man of peace like Professor Mair, wouldn't you say, Inspector?"

Jamison looked puzzled.

"I don't quite see what you're driving at, Mr. Pons. I believe some of these things originally belonged to the professor's brother, who was a widely traveled man."

"If you have finished with my services, Pons," I said somewhat testily, I'd be glad to be allowed to rise from my knees."

Solar Pons permitted himself a somewhat bleak smile in that oppressive room of silent death.

"Certainly, my dear fellow. Do forgive me. I was quite absorbed in this little problem before us."

He looked from the corpse to Jamison and then crossed to the fireplace to replace the kris in its scabbard. The envelope had already been returned to his inner pocket. I removed the sacking and dusted my trousers.

"I think we have seen everything of interest for the time being," said Pons crisply, picking up his hat and coat. "And now,if you will allow me, I should like to question the professor's immediate family."

"They are gathered in the morning room," Jamison volunteered. "There is some refreshment if you would care to partake…"

"Thank you but we have already dined," Pons told him. "And now, if you will lead the way, I shall be glad to learn what the late professor's nearest and dearest have to tell

4

As we were descending the main staircase to the hall, a thin, fussy-looking, middle-aged man in a rusty black frock coat and striped trousers came out of one of the ground-floor rooms. He turned a startled face up toward us and I could see the thin strands of black hair shaped carefully across but not concealing the baldness of his head.

"Ah, here is Mr. Moffat, the professor's secretary," observed Jamison. Perhaps you would care to have a word with him first. He has been with the professor for the past ten years."

We had now descended to the ground floor and Jamison effected the introductions.

"Certainly, Mr. Pons," said Clarence Moffat with a nervous smile, when the inspector had explained our presence there. "Anything I can do to help."

He led the way into a small tastefully furnished room with oil paintings of classical subjects in heavy gilt frames lining the walls. Jamison had not exaggerated the scale and value of the late Professor Mair's possessions, I reflected, looking at the pictures. The nearest appeared to be a genuine Watteau. At Pons's insistence the secretary sank into a deep leather chair by the fire opposite Pons. Jamison and I remained standing.

"Where were you exactly when the tragedy occurred, Mr. Moffat?" asked Pons, lowering the lids over his eyes and tenting his bony fingers before him.

"I was reading in this very room, Mr. Pons, awaiting the professor's summons. He usually goes through private papers directly after lunch and then calls me to take dictation for one of his articles."

Pons nodded and sat in thought for a moment though I could see that his eyes were keenly regarding the secretary from beneath his half-lowered lids.

"What then?"

"It was just at five to three, Mr. Pons. I heard these horrible screams. I ran upstairs. Some of the servants and members of the professor's household joined me. We had to break the door in."

He put his hands up over his eyes.

"It was a dreadful sight, Mr. Pons. I hope never to see such another. But then you have seen for yourself."

Pons nodded. He ignored Jamison's puzzled frown and turned back to Moffat.

"What were your exact duties, Mr. Moffat? I understand from the inspector here that Mr. Clifford Armitage, one of the professor's nephews, looks after his financial affairs."

The secretary inclined his head.

"That is so, Mr. Pons. I deal with all the professor's correspondence and take stenographic dictation and so forth. Mr. Armitage deals purely with the late professor's financial affairs, which are extensive. When I receive a letter which has financial implications, I pass it to Mr. Armitage and he reciprocates as regards communications concerning my sphere. Our duties slightly overlap but not to any great extent."

"I am sure you will not misunderstand me, Mr. Moffat, but as far as you know, had Professor Mair made any financial provision for you in his will?"

Dull patches of red were standing out on the secretary's pale cheeks now. He shook his head.

"The professor did not take me into his confidence regarding such matters, Mr. Pons. But no doubt Mr. Armitage could enlighten you."

He moistened his lips and then went on hesitantly.

"He did indicate something on one occasion. He has left me a small annuity, but I have no idea of the actual amount."

Pons made a slight bow. His eyes were sweeping round the room now and he seemed to have lost interest in Moffat.

"You told the inspector, I believe, that the files in the cupboards upstairs were intact?"

"That is so, Mr. Pons. I have made an exhaustive check and to the best of my belief there is nothing missing." "Very well. Thank you for your assistance." Pons uncoiled his lean, spare form from his chair, and Moffat got up with evident relief. We were walking back toward the door when it was opened to admit a tall, slim girl with dark hair whose somber clothing and haggard features proclaimed her grief at the sinister happening of the previous day. She stopped on the threshold, evidently surprised.

"I am sorry, gentlemen. I hoped to find Mr. Moffat alone."

"It is quite all right, Miss Conyers," said Jamison. "We have just finished. This is Mr. Solar Pons and his colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker. I suggest we all go through into the morning room."

Miss Conyers nodded, an alert expression in her hazel eyes as she came forward to shake hands, first with Pons and then myself.

"Allow me to express my deep sympathy, Miss Conyers."

The girl made a slight bow, her lips parted as her eyes searched Pons's face. "Thank you, Mr. Pons."Her eyes moved on and sought the secretary's. "I would appreciate your presence in the morning room, Mr. Moffat. Mr. Amsden is being tiresome again."

The secretary excused himself quickly and hurried through the door. Pons stood with his hands behind his back and looked at Miss Conyers intently.

"I gather there is no love lost between the two of you, Miss Conyers?"

The girl shook her head, her mouth a firm, set line.

"My cousin is a boor, Mr. Pons," she said decisively. "He is the one disruptive element in this household. Why my uncle ever let him live here is beyond my imagining."

"On what is this impression based, pray?"

We were walking back through into the hall now, and the girl had stopped at the foot of the great staircase. Jamison hovered on the fringe of the conversation, evidently ill at ease.

"It is nothing palpable, Mr. Pons. It is just that we have never got on since childhood. We took an instinctive dislike to one another. His presence in this house is a constant irritant, and he seems to take a delight in thwarting my will in household matters."

"We all have our crosses to bear, Miss Conyers," said Solar Pons dryly, looking blandly around at the outward evidence of wealth which lay so ostentatiously about us.

"Now that we have a moment alone," he went on, "it is true to say, is it not, that Professor Mair intended to sell this house?"

The girl had a ghost of a smile on her lips.

"It is indeed, Mr. Pons. His health necessitated a less foggy atmosphere than that of London in winter. He had made some preliminary arrangements to purchase a property on the south coast. And advertisements of this house were to appear in the national newspapers in a week or two. It did not suit Lionel, I can assure you. It would have meant the loss of a comfortable billet since he needs to be near the City for his stockbroking activities."

Pons's eyes were fixed toward the floor and he had an abstracted air now.

"Just so, Miss Conyers," he murmured absently. "And now, Jamison, I think we might join the others."

The morning room at The Poplars was all of sixty feet long, one side facing the garden with its dense shrubbery, the two end walls occupied with glass cabinets containing various objets d'art. But I had little time to observe the appointments of the room, my attention being immediately taken up with the altercation taking place between two men in front of the fireplace.

Moffat, I had already met. The man with whom he was engaged in low-toned argument was indeed a giant. Blond and handsome in a brutal sort of way, he had a face in which coarseness and sensuality fought for supremacy. He was well over six feet in height, with a deep chest and neck muscles like those of a bull. He wore a suit of loud tweed, and the heavy flush of anger on his cheek and brow denoted frustration and disappointment.

"I tell you it would be foolish to carry out Uncle's wishes now," he said. "The old man has gone and who knows what intentions his will might have revealed."

A third figure near the fire moved toward the group in a conciliatory manner as we came up. He was a slim, open- faced young man with a shock of brown hair. Dressed tastefully and quietly in a light gray suit, he formed a marked contrast in his slender dapperness to the brutal giant in front of him.

"This is hardly the time and the place, Lionel," he began placatingly.

Then he broke off, a smile on his face, and came down the room toward us.

"Mr. Solar Pons, is it not? I have seen your photograph in various journals. They do not do you justice."

Pons smiled thinly, his glance raking the room to where the sullen figure of Amsden pawed the carpet with the toe of his shoe like a petulant child.

"This is Mr. Clifford Armitage, who saw to Professor Mair's business interests," said Jamison briskly. "Dr. Lyndon Parker."

"Delighted, Doctor," said Armitage, relinquishing Pons's hand and hurrying to me. His blue eyes studied my face.

"Dreadful business, but most interesting to see such distinguished people at work."

"You do me too much honor, Mr. Armitage," Pons protested. "But will you not introduce me to Mr. Amsden?"

"Lionel is too worried at present as to how much money he will lose over Uncle's death," put in Miss Conyers waspishly. "If he would restrain himself from horse racing, gambling, and other forms of debt, he would be better advised."

Amsden raised his brutal face and looked at his cousin loweringly.

"Go to blazes, Jean," he said in a sneering voice. "And as for Mr. Smart Aleck Pons, we have no need of such amateurs in the house."

As Armitage raised his hand in protest, Pons smilingly waved his apologies away.

"I have seldom been received with such courtesy," he said ironically. "I understand Mr. Amsden's feelings well."

The giant stared at Pons incredulously.

"The devil you do."

He took a step nearer.

"Oh," well, no hard feelings, Mr. Pons. I've been more than usually tried today and I lost over a hundred on the three-thirty."

"You have my deepest sympathy."

Pons took the giant's outstretched hand. Amsden had a wide smile on his face. I saw that he was exerting enormous pressure on Pons's hand. The smile on my companion's face widened a trifle. His own knuckles were white now, and I saw beads of perspiration on the huge stockbroker's face. He winced with pain and bit his lip. He suddenly let go Pons's hand and fell back, massaging his fingers.

"Damnation on it," he said in mingled tones of disgust and admiration.

"The game is not entirely unknown to me," said Pons, flexing his own fingers and giving me a brief, mocking glance.

"And now, if you will all sit down, there are a few questions I would like to ask."

5

It was past midnight when Pons had finished his questioning, and we were jolting back in a cab to our quarters at 7B Praed Street before he broke the brooding silence which had enveloped him since we left the house. Then he leaned forward in his seat opposite me, his eyes gleaming.

"What do you say, Parker? You know my methods. Apply them."

"Why, Pons," I said. "There is some mystery, certainly, but I should be inclined to put my money on the inspector's choice."

"Lionel Amsden?"

I nodded.

"He is built like a bull. Assuming the crime was committed by a member of the household or staff — there was certainly no one else in the house at the time according to the statements made — he would be the only person with strength enough to drive that javelin through the unfortunate professor's body. It is obvious that nothing was stolen and that the desk was ransacked to make the crime look like casual theft"

Pons straightened himself and stretched his bony legs.

"You are definitely improving, Parker."

I must confess I felt a slight warmth spring to my cheek at his unaccustomed praise, but I had no time to bask in the glow for Pons's mobile features had changed expression again.

"The desk was most certainly a somewhat clumsy attempt to divert suspicion and make it look as though the murder was a by-product of burglary. No, no, Parker, there are deeper waters here. But what inclines you to the Amsden theory?"

"He is certainly an unlovable character," I said strongly. "He is at loggerheads with other members of the household, notably Miss Conyers. And if we are to believe what she and some of the servants say, he has gambling and other debts."

Solar Pons's eyes were dancing and he interrupted me with a short laugh.

"Ah, Parker, there speaks your Puritan streak. I fear that if we arrested people for murder on the strength of their gambling debts, the jails the length and breadth of England would be full to bursting. No, Parker, we must look elsewhere for the cunning perpetrator of this brutal crime."

"But you cannot doubt that Amsden could have done it," I burst out, conscious that my hold on my temper was fraying.

"Explain then, if you will, the method by which the crime was committed," my companion said in that maddeningly assured manner of his.

"Supposing that, pressed by debt, he sought an interview with the professor. That he asked for an assurance about his inheritance or perhaps a loan to get him out of his difficulties. Amsden lost his temper — no difficult thing with him — and the two men struggled. He seized the javelin and murdered the old man. When his screams aroused the household, he transfixed him with the javelin and rushed out of the room."

"And the locked door?"

Solar Pons had a mocking smile upon his lips now but I plunged on.

"He went a few yards along the corridor and then ran back, making a great deal of noise. He was at the door, and held the knob, while he broke it in."

Pons opened his eyes wide and sat back for a moment.

"That is quite breathtaking, Parker, even for you. But it will not do, I'm afraid. The wreckage of the door certainly indicates that it was locked with the key from the inside at the time it was broken open. There were five people outside the door when it was smashed. No one went near it afterward; in fact the room was full of people. So we can be sure the key was not tampered with. In addition, that, portion of the lock on the lintel was torn out of its retaining screws..

Pons closed his eyes and pulled reflectively at the lobe of his ear, as he was wont to do when hot upon the scent.

"No one has yet commented upon one of the most curious aspects of this matter, and it certainly does not seem to have occurred to our good friend the inspector. I submit that a man transfixed by a javelin dies quickly. He has little time for screaming. I commend that singular fact to your ratiocinative faculties. As a doctor it should have particular significance."

I fear that I stared at Pons open-mouthed, but at that moment the cab turned and deposited us opposite the familiar doorstep of Number 7B Praed Street.

"We must be back at The Poplars in good time tomorrow," Pons went on as we climbed in single file up the stairs to our quarters.

"Don't forget that you promised Mr. Beresford to be at his studio at ten o'clock," I said.

"Ah, yes, Parker, I fear that little matter had temporarily slipped my mind in the stress of the greater crime."

We were in the sitting room and had switched on the light when I was arrested by a curt exclamation from my companion. Pons was standing by the light switch, staring at a sheet of paper he had taken from his pocket, his eyes dancing with excitement.

"I fear my deductive faculties have become somewhat atrophied, my dear fellow."

I recognized the appointments list our photographer visitor of that evening had scribbled down for Pons.

"I fancy that Mr. Beresford's problem must have priority after all, Parker."

He handed me the sheet of paper. At first I could not see what he meant. Then, halfway down Beresford's list of photographic assignments were the five words which had occasioned Pons's excitement: Professor Mair, The Poplars, Highbury.

"But what does it mean, Pons?"

"It means that I am on the way to identifying the man who smashed our visitor's photographic plates. Good night, Parker. I should lose no time in seeking your bed as we must be up betimes in the morning."

6

It was still cold and windy, but the rain had ceased and a pale sun shone the next morning. At nine o'clock when we set out for Beresford's studio, Pons insisted on walking to the Strand. He was singularly uncommunicative but persisted in humming some popular tune in a cracked monotone which added to my sense of mounting irritation. It was still a quarter to ten when we skirted St. Martin's, crossed Duncannon Street, and set off along the south side of the Strand.

Beresford's studio was in a narrow thoroughfare of tall redbrick properties running down to the Embankment, and we mounted narrow stairs to the third floor where, according to the large brass plate, the studio was situated. A glazier was already at work repairing the clear glass panel in the main door of the premises, and our client himself obtruded his bearded face into the gap in the pane in such a droll manner that Pons himself could not forbear a brief smile.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Pons," cried our client, visibly relieved.

He led the way through to a cluttered office where large photographic studies adorned the walls. We passed from this apartment into a narrow corridor leading to Beresford's darkrooms. It seemed an extensive warren, and Pons's alert eyes were darting keenly about him as we rounded the end of the passage and walked into the room where the photographs were finally dried and finished.

Two men were at work here, but after a brief word with their employer they left us alone. The chamber in which we found ourselves was a large one; two big photographic enlargers stood on a solid wooden bench; there were racks of plates standing out to dry and a tap dripped mournfully in the corner. Unlike the darkrooms there were windows here which let in the daylight, and a door in the far wall led down an iron staircase into a small mews at the rear of the premises.

Pons had seen all this at a glance and now he produced a magnifying lens from an inner pocket and turned to Beresford.

"It is a pity that your assistants have continued working here, Mr. Beresford, but I must just pick up what information I can."

He was over by the door as he spoke, examining the framework and area round the coarse coconut matting in front of it. He had two or three of his small transparent envelopes and transferred something carefully from the surface of the mat to one of the envelopes with a pair of tweezers. Then he was up and down the iron staircase with ferretlike gestures, to Beresford's evident bewilderment. His eyes sought mine and I turned away with inward amusement

We stood for a few minutes more while Pons bustled out into the main offices to glean what information he could from the shattered front door. When he rejoined us a little later, his lean features were alight with satisfaction. He closed the door behind him and waved our client to a wooden stool I seated myself on a bench near the open door while Pons remained standing.

"Now, Mr. Beresford, I see from your list, that you had a photographic assignment two days ago at the home of Professor Mair."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Pons. I remember. The Poplars, Highbury. But it was of no importance. Merely illustrations for a brochure. The house was coming up for sale. Now, at Chelsea…"

"Tut, tut, Mr. Beresford," Pons interrupted, the edge of his voice slightly corroded with irritation. "You may forget Chelsea and its footballers. That was an effect, not the cause. Your presence at The Poplars, au contraire, was of paramount importance."

Beresford's face was a picture; his expression clearly indicated that he thought my companion had taken leave of his senses, but he was too polite to say so.

Solar Pons's tall form was quivering with excitement as he leaned toward our client,

"Now, Mr. Beresford, pay close attention to my questions. A brutal murder was committed at The Poplars two days ago. Your answers may go a long way toward closing the net on a very cunning adversary."

Beresford's jaw dropped.

"A murder, Mr. Pons… I'm not sure I understand."

"You do not read the papers, then?" Pons grunted.

Beresford shook his head.

"I have been extremely busy this last week. And what with the worries of the past forty-eight hours…"

"No matter. Tell me, Mr. Beresford, how did you come to be commissioned to take pictures at The Poplars?"

"Mr. Dartmouth, one of the principals of Swettenham and Fuggle, estate agents of Highbury, for whom I had done a great deal of work, telephoned these premises to seek my help."

"I see. At what time did you arrive at the house?"

"At about two-thirty, Mr. Pons. The rain had ceased and the sun was shining. It seemed a good opportunity."

"Quite so," said Pons.

He gave me a brief glance before resuming.

"Did you take photographs inside the house or out?"

Beresford shifted his bulk on the stool.

"Miss Conyers received me in the hall of the house, Mr. Pons. She gave me specific instructions, and I then set to ' work to photograph the grounds and the exterior of the house."

"I see. And you were there at three o'clock that afternoon?"

"Certainly, Mr. Pons."

Beresford's bewilderment was plain to see at that moment.

"Patience, Mr. Beresford. We are coming to the kernel of the matter. So I am right, am I not, in assuming that you did not set foot beyond the hall; that you took no interiors of the mansion; and that your work consisted of photographing exterior and grounds?"

"Exactly, Mr. Pons. I finished and left the property at about a quarter past three because it was then beginning to rain."

"You did not see Miss Conyers again?"

Beresford shook his head.

"I had no reason to, Mr. Pons. I had the young lady's instructions, and proofs would have been submitted in the normal way."

Pons nodded and scratched his ear with a familiar gesture.

"What exactly were you doing at precisely three o'clock or a minute or two before, Mr. Beresford?"

Our client sat on the stool, deep in thought for a moment or two.

"I was photographing the main facade of the building, Mr. Pons. I took two or three studies to make sure. I like to be thorough, you see."

"I'm sure you do."

Pons looked disappointed.

"And these photographs were among those destroyed by the vandal who stole your property and attacked you?"

Beresford's face lit up.

"By no means, Mr. Pons. As luck would have It, I had placed these slides in a large pocket in my overcoat."

I was astonished at Pons's reaction. He slapped his thigh with a resounding crack and his face was transformed.

"Excellent, Mr. Beresford! My time has not been wasted this morning. What I want you to do is to prepare your largest and clearest print sizes of these studies. And then I want you to enlarge certain portions of the negative."

He took Beresford back into the darkroom while I remained behind, slightly bemused by the change in Pons's attitude. My friend appeared galvanized into action on his return. He took me by the elbow and rushed me with undignified haste from Beresford's premises.

"Come, Parker, I must consult with Jamison. Then we must return here for the finished prints within, the hour. There is no time to lose. Jamison must bring a blank warrant with him next time he visits The Poplars."

And he would venture no further explanation to my hurried questions as we clattered down the staircase.

7

After a snatched lunch, early afternoon found us speeding back to Highbury in a taxi. Jamison had already been apprised of our intentions by telephone, and had promised to have the entire household assembled for our arrival Our client, Mr. Bruce Beresford, sat opposite us, astonishment plain on his honest, bearded face, but pleased, nevertheless, to be the center of the drama which promised to unfold on our arrival He carried a portfolio of photographs with him and as soon as we had made ourselves comfortable in the interior of the cab, Pons and Beresford had held a hurried consultation from which I was excluded.

"Excellent, Mr. Beresford, excellent," Pons murmured at length. "The enlargement is disappointing, it is true, but then it would have been miraculous had things turned out the way they have a habit of doing in fiction. Eh, Parker?"

"He winked conspiratorially at me, and I confess I could not resist a waspish reply.

"I can hardly give such an opinion, Pons, when I am deliberately kept outside your confidence."

Pons's smile widened fractionally.

"Say not so, Parker. It is merely that I cannot resist a small artistic gesture which I am saving for the finale. All. shall be made dear in due course."

He turned back to Beresford, leaving me to nurse my ruffled feelings.

"You will have the satisfaction of knowing, Mr. Beresford, that your little puzzle and the discomfort to which you were put, has been responsible for the unmasking of as cold-blooded a murderer as I have ever come across."

Beresford's expression was frankly lugubrious now.

"I confess, Mr. Pons, I am as much in the dark as ever."

He started putting the prints back into the heavy cardboard folio with a wistful sigh. Pons leaned forward to him.

"Patience for just a short while longer, Mr. Beresford. I can assure you that your visit to The Poplars, your photographic exploits, and the bizarre events which followed all have a perfectly logical explanation. Ah, here we are at our destination."

A light rain was falling as we paid off the cab. Before we went into the house, Pons pulled back the heavy plank covering of the roadworks outside the main gates of the mansion and carefully examined the indented footprints in the soft clay and sand beneath. He shook his head, replacing the boards with a frown.

"Just as I expected, Parker. There has been a deal of to-ing and fro-ing. Not enough to obliterate the traces of what I seek, fortunately. No, it will have to be shock tactics, I think, with a dash of bluff in the final analysis."

Beresford and I exchanged a glance behind Pons's back as we went up the drive, but I am afraid our client was unable to obtain much comfort from my expression. We were received in the hallway by Miss Conyers.

"We have followed the inspector's instructions, Mr. Pons," she said dryly. "The others are gathered "To my uncle's study at your express request. I presume you would wish to go there directly."

She shivered slightly.

"Though why we should be subjected to such an ordeal when the morning room would be more convenient…"

"I have a very good reason, Miss Conyers," Pons interrupted smoothly. "The body has long been removed and the room tidied, so I do not see why the study should not do as well as any other apartment. And it is vital for my little demonstration."

Miss Conyers shrugged, her displeasure evident on her mobile features. A manservant hovered in the background but she dismissed him. She herself led the way up the curving stair to where the shattered doorway led to the chamber of death.

A plainclothes detective-constable stood guard at the door but at Pons's sudden gesture refrained from announcing us. Instead, Pons turned to our hostess, glancing keenly round the corridor.

"These bedrooms. To whom do they belong?"

Miss Conyers's face bore traces of puzzlement, her brow furrowed with surprise, as though Pons had asked an outrageous question.

"The first is my own; then my cousin Clifford's, next to mine. Beyond is Moffat, my uncle's secretary; and the last door in the corridor is that of Lionel Amsden."

Pons paused outside the first door.

"Just so. You have no objection to my inspecting these rooms?"

"No, of course not, Mr. Pons."

Miss Conyers moved swiftly toward the door of her own room, but Pons stopped her with a brisk gesture.

It will not be necessary, Miss Conyers. I hardly think the crime belongs to the hand of a lady. It is just these last three rooms which interest me."

Beresford and I stood somewhat impatiently in the corridor as Pons quickly opened the door of Clifford Armitage's room. He stood sniffing the air keenly.

"A strange perfume, Miss Conyers. It seems to permeate the whole corridor."

"We had some bad coal, Mr. Pons. We keep fires burning in the bedroom grates. I got Travers, one of the footmen, to light some scented candles to take the odor away."

Pons nodded, seemingly satisfied with Miss Conyers's answer and his eyes looked thoughtfully about the corridor.

"This will not take a moment, Parker."

He darted into Armitage's room and I glimpsed him through the half-open door, kneeling on the bedroom floor, going thoroughly over the carpet. He glanced quickly into the half-empty grate in the room. Apparently satisfied, he moved down the corridor and repeated the process with the two remaining rooms, a faint smile on his lips. He spent rather longer in Lionel Amsden's room, and when he returned to us the smile on. his face had broadened. He rubbed his lean fingers together in satisfaction.

"Not a word of this to anyone, Miss Conyers," he said sharply. "And now for our little final tableau."

Miss Conyers led the way back into Professor Mair's study. Though the room had been tidied and its gruesome centerpiece removed, the chamber seemed still to exude a brooding atmosphere of horror — an atmosphere it had worn when the professor's body lay grotesque and distorted on the carpet, which still bore signs of bloodstains and disfigurement.

The massive form of Lionel Amsden stirred in the shadows beyond the desk. There was a sullen, sneering look on his face as he lounged by the fireplace, as though daring Pons to challenge him. But my companion hurried instead directly to Inspector Jamison who sat behind the late professor's desk, toying with a pencil and notebook and looking as though the tangled web of passions that lurked below the surface at The Poplars was completely beyond him. As indeed it was, I reflected with some satisfaction as I went to stand near the fire opposite Amsden.

All eyes were on Beresford as he bustled in behind me with his large portfolio of photographs. The secretary, Moffat, twisted his thin lips as he sat completely dwarfed by the huge leather armchair in which he reposed. The only person who appeared completely at ease was Clifford Armitage, whose frank, open face wore a welcoming smile as he caught sight of me. Pons had finished his brief consultation with the inspector now and sat easily on the edge of the desk.

"This is Mr. Bruce Beresford," he said by way of introducing our companion. "He came to me with an interesting problem yesterday — a problem whose solution is central to the death of Professor Mair in this room. Therefore I thought it only right that he should be present this afternoon."

Miss Conyers crossed in front of me and sat down in a chair midway between the big windows which faced the garden. Pale sunshine spilled in now, staining the rich patterning of the carpet a deep carmine and seeming, to my somewhat overheated imagination, to reecho the sinister theme of blood. Pons turned back to Jamison and bowed ironically.

"With your permission, Inspector."

Jamison nodded stiffly back.

"Please continue, Mr. Pons."

"I presume you have good reason for this melodramatic farce, Mr. Pons?"

Lionel Amsden's sullen face was flushed and his speech slurred. He looked insolently at Pons, who stared imperturbably back at him from his position on top of the desk.

"Reason enough, Mr. Amsden."

"Please be silent, Lionel," snapped Miss Conyers. "You have been drinking."

Amsden gave her a clumsy bow, his eyes flashing fire.

"It is not unknown, cousin dear…"

Inspector Jamison rapped on the surface of the desk with his knuckles, and in the. heavy silence which followed Pons said, "Professor Mair's sudden and tragic death confronts us with a number of interesting and interrelated problems. Chiefly, those of motive, method, and culprit."

His eyes wandered round the room, probing each of us in turn.

"My friend, Doctor Parker here, inclines to one theory; yet his solution to the locked-door problem was childish and clumsy — if he will forgive me saying so. And yet, like so many seemingly insoluble puzzles, the answer is simplicity itself. Money, of course, was the motive, and I am certain that in the final analysis we shall find embezzlement at the back of it. Money undoubtedly missing from Professor Mair's estate funds, and when he expressed a desire to sell his house and move elsewhere the murderer, afraid of what such a move would involve — solicitors, the overhaul of accounts, and so forth — became alarmed and sought a drastic solution to his dilemma.

"At an hour in the afternoon when he knew that the professor was alone in his study, he sought him out, first making sure that other members of the household were peaceably engaged in their normal pursuits in other parts of the house. Seeking the professor's presence on some banal pretext, he locked the study door behind him to ensure remaining undisturbed. He killed the professor with one blow from a kris he took from the wall over there. He had little time to clean it and there are still traces of blood on its tip."

"Eh?"

Jamison was on his feet with an alarmed expression; he went heavily to the corner of the study indicated by Pons and took down the weapon, sliding it gently from its scabbard.

"You are right, Mr. Pons," he muttered.

"I am well aware of that, Jamison," said Pons smoothly. "I observed as much within a few minutes of entering the room yesterday."

"But the javelin, Pons?" I protested.

My friend smiled broadly; he was evidently enjoying the effect he had created.

"You are an excellent physician, my dear Parker," he said gently. "But like many untrained people your eye sees only the surface aspect. It was obvious to me that the murderer was endeavoring to implicate Mr. Amsden here. He was a natural candidate owing to his sporting proclivities and his athletic build."

Amsden had turned from the mantelpiece now; the sullen look had gone from his face and his lower jaw had dropped.

"The person who killed the professor," Pons went on, "was a far smaller man that Mr. Amsden. After he committed the crime, he replaced the kris in its scabbard. Wearing gloves, of course, he then took the javelin and, putting all his weight upon it, forced it as far as he could into the original wound. You will remember the weapon fell out quite easily when you touched it, Parker."

"I remember, Pons," I said somewhat stiffly.

"I do not blame you, my dear fellow. It was a first-rate piece of theatrical dressing and would have deceived most of us. Though I have no doubt your postmortem will reveal the true state of affairs readily enough, Jamison."

The grim-faced inspector had come back to the desk now and was wrapping kris and scabbard in his voluminous handkerchief. He looked gloomily at my companion.

"Well, Mr. Pons?"

"We are looking for a clever, rather slightly built man with a good knowledge of figures," said Pons. "One who took the opportunity, when ransacking the room for effect, to abstract the one account book which might have implicated him. This is mere guesswork for the moment in the absence of anything stronger, but it is all part of the pattern."

He glanced at Moffat who, with ashen face, had struggled up in his armchair and was staring at Pons and the inspector strangely.

"But the locked door, Mr. Pons?"

Clifford Armitage came toward us, shaking his head.

"I must confess I cannot see how anyone could have got out from this locked room."

Pons shot a quick glance at the secretary, Moffat.

"He never did get out, Mr. Armitage," he said calmly. "He was here all the time."

I looked from Jean Conyers in her seat between the windows to Mr. Bruce Beresford's honest, baffled face. I am sure the blankness in their countenances was fully reflected in my own. Pons went quickly back toward the door.

"The key was turned, the door was locked; let there be no mistake about that.. It wanted but a few minutes of three o'clock. The professor lay dead upon the floor, the room ransacked; the javelin was in place in the ready-made wound. The scene lacked only the masterstroke. The man we are seeking then gave vent to the most bloodcurdling series of screams that he could devise. Something he knew could not fail to bring the household running. He was not mistaken. Within some thirty seconds members of the family and staff, alarmed at the noise, were pounding at the door.

"But before that happened, our man crossed the room rapidly and secreted himself in the left-hand cupboard, one of a pair which flanks the door. There, with great daring, and keeping the cupboard door a fraction ajar so that he could see what went on in the room, he waited with great self-control until the room door was smashed in.

"Then, when he was certain, in the confusion when everyone was clustered in horror round the corpse of Professor Mair, he quietly let himself out of the cupboard, which was, of course, behind the people in the room, and joined the edge of the group as though he had just run in from the corridor."

"Brilliant, Pons!" I could not forbear saying.

"Elementary, my dear Parker," rejoined Pons.

The secretary had found his voice.

"But how could you possibly know this?" he said snappishly.

For the simple reason that I found traces of his presence in the cupboard, Mr. Moffat."

There was an oppressive silence in the room now. Inspector Jamison's eyes were large and inquiring, but he did not presume to interrupt my friend's exposition.

"I found what I was looking for," Pons went on. "A mixture of sand and clay originating from the road excavations outside the house here. One would expect members of the household to bear traces of this because they were bound to cross the end of the drive entrance going to and fro on their lawful occasions. But there was no reason for anyone to be in that cupboard unless he were the murderer. When we find the same mixture of sand and clay on the floor and mat of Mr. Beresford's darkroom, then it is absolutely conclusive."

Jamison shook his head.

"Just a moment, Mr. Pons. Apart from the fact that I have no idea who Mr. Beresford is, what can his darkroom have to do with it?"

"I am coming to that, Inspector," Pons continued with a thin smile. "In the excavation outside the house I found a distinctive shoe print which had an unusual V pattern. I found part of the same imprint on the floor of the cupboard. I have examined the bedrooms here this afternoon and in a necessarily brief search could find no such shoe. And I have observed that no members of the family were wearing such a shoe. But Miss Conyers told me of a strange odor from the bedroom fires. Smoke from shoe leather makes (hat odor. It was so strong, in fact, that the servants had to light perfumed candles to take away the smell. I found small traces of shoe leather in one of the fireplaces here this afternoon, which dispelled any lingering doubt I might have had. With my proximity the murderer was forced to take a chance and burned the shoes, piece by piece, over the past two days."

"But why did he wear such distinctive shoes, Pons?" I said.

"He intended to leave a trail for the police. So that they would think the murderer was someone from outside."

Pons's eyes had a faraway look.

"We are dealing with a rare breed of dangerous animal, Parker. One who took infinite pains to concoct the perfect murder. That was why he had to destroy the shoes."

The secretary was on his feet now.

"Very ingenious, Mr. Pons, but you will still need something better than that."

"Indeed, Mr. Moffat," said Pons imperturbably, "and this is where Mr. Beresford comes in."

He turned to our client, who put down his album of photographs on the desk in front of Jamison.

"A series of bizarre events happened to Mr. Beresford only yesterday. He is, as most of you know, a photographer of some distinction, who was commissioned by Professor Mair to photograph this house for the brochures when it was advertised for sale. Mr. Beresford came here at precisely two-thirty p.m. the day before yesterday. He took exterior photographs of the grounds and the facade of The Poplars.

"Miss Conyers received him, and I presume that the other members of the family did not know of his presence. This then is the situation shortly before three o'clock: the door is locked, the crime committed, and the murderer cannot turn back. Just wishing to make sure that everything is quiet, he walks to one of those windows at the front of the study and looks out onto the grounds.

"At precisely that instant Mr. Beresford photographs the facade of the house and with it the image of the murderer looking out of the window of Professor Mair's death chamber."

There was a murmur from those gathered in the room, and I noticed the stupefaction on Beresford's and the inspector's faces. Pons could not suppress a chuckle.

"Astonishing, is it not? And one of the most unusual situations it has been my pleasure to be concerned in. Just imagine this man's dilemma. His plan has been carefully laid. In a few seconds he will scream to bring the household running. He is fully committed to his plan — indeed, the crime is already a fait accompli. But he knows Mr. Beresford will be back with the completed photographs. Still his nerve does not fail him. He must recover Mr. Beresford's negatives at all costs."

"Of course, Mr. Pons!"

light had broken in on Beresford's face. He came forward and pumped Pons's hand.

"Not so fast," said Pons. "Our man carries out the rest of his plan perfectly and then hurries off. He dogs Mr. Beresford's footsteps, steals plates, and smashes others. All to no avail The real plates, due to a simple error, are in Mr. Beresford's pocket and not in his carrying case at all."

Pons's eyes raked the room. The massive form of Lionel Amsden at the mantel seemed to have shrunk; Miss Conyers's body was drawn up on her chair as though she were afraid to miss a syllable of Pons's discourse. Armitage and Moffat were tense and silent, their eyes never leaving Pons's face. At the desk Inspector Jamison and Beresford wore expressions of eager expectancy.

"You remember, Parker, that I told you the murderer would not necessarily need to smash the plates."

I nodded.

"Since they were stolen on a bus, the thief could not possibly smash them there."

"Naturally," said Pons easily, "but if our man also happened to be a keen amateur photographer, he might well wish to develop the plates himself to see whether he had been caught in the death room at the time of committing his crime. Remember, Mr. Beresford only had to fix the date and time of this photograph and the hangman's rope awaited."

Pons stirred from the desk top and stretched himself.

"I looked for evidence of chemical staining on the fingers," he said softly. "There are such stains on the hands of a man in this room. Apart from Mr. Beresford, that is."

Pons permitted himself a brief smile.

"I wonder what he said when he developed a scene showing the muscular forms of football idols."

He turned to the folio which Beresford was unfolding. "Thanks to the photographer's enlarging skill we now have an excellent likeness of the murderer standing at the window of this study a few moments after committing his abominable crime."

Pons turned and advanced toward Moffat and Armitage, holding up the large expanse of pasteboard. There was a strangled cry and the group broke up. The blue eyes of Clifford Armitage were distorted and there were flecks of foam at his mouth. He made feeble attempts to ward off the photographic enlargement Pons was thrusting toward him.

Then he turned with a galvanic movement and rushed across the room. Miss Conyers screamed and there was a moment of confusion.

Inspector Jamison moved quickly to intercept him, but Armitage was quicker still He swept up a bronze statuette from the desk and felled the inspector with one blow. Before the officer had slumped to the floor, Pons was blocking the path to the door, but Armitage had already turned. His hands over his face, he ran for the window; there was a splintering of glass and woodwork and then nothing but the pale sunlight driving in and the wind lashing the curtains.

Pons's face was white as he came toward me.

"Regrettable, Parker, but it could not have been foreseen. Your department, I think. While you are below I will see to the inspector."

I ran down the stairs three at a time, but I knew it was already too late. And so it proved. Clifford Armitage, that most cunning and strong-nerved of murderers, whose wits had only cracked at the last, lay at a weird and unnatural angle. He had fallen onto the cement path, and it took me only a moment to confirm that his neck was broken and life already extinct.

Pausing only to give instructions to the detective-constable to cover the remains with a tarpaulin, I hurried back upstairs, considerably relieved to find Inspector Jamison slowly regaining consciousness, a large bump on his forehead already discernible and his temper nowise improved by his experience. When I had made him comfortable on the divan and one of the servants was applying a cold compress to his forehead, Pons drew me to the other end of the study.

"A bad business, Parker, but I fear we had little chance of getting him into court."

"But the photographs, Pons…" I began.

Pons shook his head gravely.

"My little charade, as I called it, was a charade in truth. It was bluff, I am afraid, but bluff which nevertheless brought down the curtain on an enterprising and ruthless killer."

He showed me Beresford's enlargements as he spoke. They indeed showed part of the facade and windows of The Poplars, but the muffled figure looking out from behind the white lace curtains was quite indistinguishable.

"Ironic, is it not?" said Pons when I had told him of Armitage's fate.

He glanced over my shoulder at the white face of Jean Conyers.

"I am sorry indeed to have put you to such an ordeal, Miss Conyers."

The girl shook her head.

"I am deeply in your debt, Mr. Pons."

Pons looked from her to Lionel Amsden who had come up sheepishly behind her and was hesitantly extending his hand to my companion.

"You might remember, Miss Conyers, that surface impressions are not always reliable. Eh, Parker?"

He smiled at her expression and then turned back to Beresford and the secretary at the desk.

"Well, Mr. Beresford, you have brought me a rich and rare experience."

"I am greatly in your debt also, Mr. Pons."

"Well, well, we shall see, Mr. Beresford. In the meantime, no doubt, you and Dr. Parker could join me in a steak and a bottle of wine at Simpson's this evening?"

"Delighted, Mr. Pons."

Solar Pons turned back to me, his eyes twinkling at my expression. "If there are any other small points on which you are not quite clear, my dear fellow, no doubt they can await our return to Praed Street."

"I do not think so, Pons," I murmured. "For once I have little to say."

Solar Pons clapped me on the shoulder and led the way out of the room.

"The long arm of coincidence in the shape of Mr. Bruce Beresford has enabled me to bring to book a most cunning and ingenious murderer," he said.