The Dossier of Solar Pons

1

"The laws of chance operate in quite arbitrary ways, Parker, and despite all man's puny efforts and painstaking care, the best-laid schemes often come to naught."

My friend, Solar Pons, was sitting on the park bench looking at me with a mocking expression. It was a beautiful day in early summer, and Hyde Park was crowded with people strolling or sitting on the grass while London's traffic came as a muffled roar from beyond the tall iron railings. I stared at my companion in astonishment.

"Really, Pons! Your deductive feats become ever more astonishing. That was just what I was thinking."

Pons chuckled.

"There was little magical about it, Parker," I can assure you. For the last fifteen minutes you have been completely absorbed by the activities of those ants on the tree stump just behind this bench. During all that time a band of them has been engaged in the herculean effort of transporting a large wood splinter to the top of the stump. It must weigh hundreds of times their own weight and yet they have persisted. I noted by your expression that your enthusiasm was entirely with the ants. Yet, just as they were on the point of success, the thing slipped and has tumbled to the bottom again. All is to do once more, and by your crestfallen expression I read, aright it seems, your rueful thoughts on not only the ant's but on man's condition."

I joined in Pons's smile.

"Well, well, Pons, my thoughts were somewhat on those lines. Yet I never cease to wonder at your intuitive reasoning."

Solar Pons shifted his lean form on the bench and idly rested his gaze on the people passing on the asphalt path in front of us.

"Unfortunately, Parker, there is so little happening within the orbit of the private consulting detective these days that one is forced into such modest displays in order to prevent the ratiocinative faculties from rusting. Look at this old gentleman approaching, for instance. What do you make of him?"

I turned my gaze on the object of Pons's attention. He was behaving in a peculiar manner, I saw instantly. He wore a suit of rusty black and a scarlet muffler round his neck, despite the heat. His arms shook uncontrollably and tears streamed down his face. Ever and again he stopped on the path and raised his eyes to heaven, while a stream of half-intelligible comments came from his lips. He was hatless and his long white hair streamed about his shoulders. Altogether he was a bizarre and pitiful sight.

"A man of about seventy-five."

"Elementary, Parker."

"Suffers from paralysis agitans. Evidently long-standing."

"Ah, there I must bow to your medical knowledge, Parker, though I had already come to much the same conclusion from my own observations."

I glanced at Pons in mild irritation and then turned my attention back to the object of our studies.

"A poor man." "I think not, Parker. Is that all you have been able to discover?"

"I fear there is little that has escaped me, Pons."

"Come, Parker, you can surely do better than that. An elderly man, fairly well-to-do; a Mason; a drunkard, the habit aggravating his medical condition; afflicted with religious mania also; despite his defects, a car driver. A City man, I would say."

"Oh, come, Pons, you are really playing with me on this occasion! There is no way we can verify these assertions."

There was a little bitterness in my tone, and my friend looked at me in surprise.

"There is all the verification one needs before us, Parker, though you are like most laymen in that facts pass before you without being registered by your brain."

"Very well, then, Pons. I will take up your challenge. Well-to-do?"

"His clothes are of excellent cut When I see two expensive cigars encased in new wrappings peeping from the breast pocket of his jacket, I conclude that he is reasonably well off. He has a copy of the Financial times showing, where he has carelessly thrust that excellent journal into his coat pocket That is a highly specialized newspaper which none but City men read."

"I give you that, Pons," I said reluctantly. "A Mason?"

"Pooh, that is simple. The seals are plainly visible on his watch chain. As to his drunkenness you would surely agree, as a medical man, that the redness of his features, particularly the nose, and the broken veins of the face indicate the man who is addicted to spirits. He has stopped not two yards from us, and I venture to observe that you now have olfactory evidence of his condition."

Pons had dropped his voice to a murmur as the object of our attention paused in front of us, and I had indeed caught the heavy reek of whiskey which emanated from him. I had to agree with Pons as the old man moved on.

"Your demonstration is an apt one, Pons, but how on earth do you deduce that he is a car driver?"

"Nothing simpler, Parker. He has the keys of a vehicle in his right hand, which he keeps jangling as he walks. It is an alarming fact for a man in his condition, but true. I could see the insignia on the key ring as he stopped before us. He drives a Morris. As to his religious mania, he was quoting from the Book of Ezekiel."

I threw up my hands in despair, and my dejected look brought forth a dry chuckle from Pons.

"Cheer up, my dear fellow. I should be all at sea if called upon to diagnose appendicitis. But here, if I am not mistaken, is an old friend. Superintendent Stanley Heathfield of Scotland Yard and surely not out for an afternoon stroll!"

It was indeed the tall, energetic figure of the superintendent which strode through the park gates. He looked round him eagerly and then quickened his steps toward us as he caught sight of Pons on the bench.

He tipped his bowler hat in salutation to Pons and included me in his courteous bow. His brown eyes were serious above the clipped, iron-gray mustache.

"I must apologize for this intrusion into your rustic idyll, Mr. Pons. One of my inspectors, Jamison, telephoned your landlady at Praed Street, and we learned you might be found in the park."

Pons raised his eyebrows.

"A lucky throw, Superintendent, or did you have assistance?"

Superintendent Heathfield sank down next to Pons on the bench, removing his hat as he did so. With his light-weight, well-cut gray flannel suit he looked much more like the City man than our eccentric passerby of a few minutes earlier.

"We have had men combing the park, Mr. Pons."

"Ah, it is serious, then?"

The superintendent nodded.

"Murder, Mr. Pons. In shocking circumstances and with suspects which force us to tread circumspectly."

Pons rose instantly from the bench, every line of his form indicating dynamic alertness.

"I am at your service, Superintendent. You have no objection to Dr. Parker accompanying us?"

The superintendent shook his head.

"By all means. Delighted to have you, Doctor."

The three of us walked across the North Carriage Road toward the Victoria Gate. In the Bayswater Road a police car waited, a uniformed sergeant at the wheel. Behind it stood another vehicle, and Heathfield paused for a word with the driver.

"You may inform the others that they may return to their normal duties. We have found Mr. Pons."

I followed Pons and the Superintendent into the interior of the vehicle, and the driver edged out into the traffic in the direction of Notting Hill Gate. Heathfield came to the point at once.

"You have heard of Elihu Cook Stanmore, I take it?"

Pons smiled grimly.

"One of the greatest blackguards in London. Blackmailer, swindler, thief and forger, among his many remarkable talents. Murder, too, most likely, though I have never been able to prove anything."

Superintendent Heathfield looked at Pons thoughtfully, his eyes bright in the gloom of the police car.

"You have hit it a’right, Mr. Pons. We at the Yard have sought the same ends for a long time."

Pons nodded.

"I understand that with advancing years he goes in for less strenuous pursuits nowadays. Blackmail, principally, specializing in society lathes with much to hide."

Heathfield chuckled.

"Correct again, Mr. Pons. Which is one of the reasons we have to go carefully. Stanmore had royal clients."

Pons turned his head sharply toward our companion.

"I see you use the past tense, Superintendent. Am I to take it that Stanmore is the subject of our inquiry?"

Superintendent Heathfield leaned forward in his seat and made sure the glass screen separating us from the driver was tightly closed.

"Stanmore was found murdered in his study this morning, a dagger driven deep between his shoulder blades. On the desk in front of him were six gold doubloons and a card hand-engraved with the words: Revenge is sweet"

Pons stared at the tall police officer for a few moments without speaking. Then he put his hand up and stroked the lobe of his left ear as was his habit when thinking.

"Well, I cannot say I am sorry, Superintendent A more slimy villain never walked the earth. Frankly, I shall be glad to erase his name from my records. There is no crime more despicable, Parker — no activity more damnable than that of the blackmailer who destroys the innocent indiscriminately with the guilty when they become entangled in his net."

I cleared my throat somewhat nervously.

"Even so, Pons, murder has been involved here."

Pons shot me a humorous glance from his deep-set eyes.

"You do correctly to recall me to my sense of duty, Parker."

He turned back to our companion.

"I take it there is no lack of suspects?"

Superintendent Heathfield pursed his lips.

"That is just the trouble, Mr. Pons. Stanmore's body was discovered only a few hours ago, when his manservant arrived at his flat, so that we have not had time to go through the murdered man's effects properly. But I have seen something of the ledgers and files…"

He threw up his hands with an expressive gesture.

"A multiplicity of suspects and a thousand motives," put in Pons succinctly. "What do you say, Parker?"

"Those were exactly my thoughts, Pons," I murmured.

Pons tented his fingers before him and sunk his chin as he gazed at the superintendent.

"I think it would be better if you gave us a brief resume of the facts, Superintendent, which will prevent me from cluttering my mind with too many preconceived ideas before our arrival. We are going where?"

"Westbourne Grove, Mr. Pons. Stanmore maintained an apartment there, in addition to a hotel suite in the West End and two country houses."

"Crime does apparently pay," I said.

Pons shot me a mocking look.

"Does it not, Parker? I hope nothing has been touched, Superintendent"

Heathfield drew himself up on the seat opposite, humorous lines corrugating his brow.

"I am too old a hand for that, Mr. Pons, and I have studied your methods. The body is in situ; nothing in the study has been moved, pending your arrival."

"That is indeed good to hear, Superintendent," said Pons with a faint smile. "And a model for Jamison to follow."

The police car had turned into Westbourne Grove now, and the driver was idling along the curb, apparently waiting for Heathfield's instructions. The latter rapped on the glass partition.

"Stop here."

He waited until the engine had been switched off.

"I will be brief, Mr. Pons. Stanmore's body was found this morning by his manservant Dawkins at about eleven o'clock — that is, only some four hours ago."

"That seems rather late, Superintendent."

"Dawkins has duties at Stanmore's hotel suite, apparently," replied Heathfield. "He lives at the hotel When he had finished there, he came on to his employer's flat, letting himself in with his own key. He found Stanmore lying dead as I have described, and immediately called his local police station.

"The inspector in charge realized the gravity of the affair when, the duke of Leinster's name was discovered in Stanmore's records. Scotland Yard informed the Foreign

Office and your brother Bancroft immediately suggested…

"That I should be called," Pons concluded with a smile. "Well, well, Brother Bancroft is wise to be concerned. Is the duke not currently engaged in peace talks at Geneva?"

The superintendent nodded gravely.

"Quite frankly, Mr. Pons, even if your brother had not interceded, I should have called you in any case."

"This becomes more flattering by the minute, Parker. Please continue, Superintendent"

"Well, Mr. Pons, in the short time available we have given the flat a thorough combing, as you can imagine. Stanmore was in his study, sitting at the desk, the dagger driven deeply into his back."

"You have traced the weapon?"

Heathfield shook his head.

"So far as we can make out it does not belong in the flat It is a big, heavy, Eastern thing with a brass handle."

"And the gold doubloons?"

"Stanmore has a penchant for such things. He is something of a collector. These Spanish coins are of the type among his collection. I do not think they are of any great significance."

"Do you not, Superintendent? And the message?"

Superintendent Heathfield smiled wryly.

"There we have a large field, Mr. Pons."

"The flat had not been broken into?"

Heathfield shook his head.

"There are no signs of forcible entry, there was no great disturbance in the rooms, and, so far as we can see, nothing has been stolen. Stanmore's blackmailing records were in a locked safe in the study. We only found the key by forcing a locked drawer in his desk. Apparently his murderer had no time to seek out incriminating letters or suchlike."

"Unless he had an appointment with Stanmore, collected the material, and then took his revenge," said Pons.

Heathfield shook his head.

"Unlikely, Mr. Pons. We have established from the man-servant that no one knew of the Westbourne Grove address, which Stanmore rented in an assumed name. This was the reason he often left the door unlocked so that his man and the cleaning woman could come and go freely."

Pons frowned, his mobile features serious.

"Yet the servant used his key to gain entry. From what you say, someone could simply have walked in through an unlocked door, committed the crime and walked out again, dropping the latch behind him."

Heathfield nodded.

"It would appear so, Mr. Pons."

"Then that would rule the secrecy theory out of court," said Pons crisply. "Someone must have, known of Stanmore's secret address or he would still be alive. It is incredibly difficult to keep such matters from the wider world. Well, well, it does give us some promising material on which to work. How could Stanmore have been surprised in such a manner?"

"You will see in a few moments, Mr. Pons. His desk in the study is in the middle of the room, opposite the fireplace, and he sits with his back to the door."

"So that the murderer could have opened the door and have walked quietly across to get within striking distance," said Pons. "The manservant is trustworthy?"

"We have more or less eliminated him from our inquiries, Mr. Pons. Dawkins had been with Stanmore for fifteen years and was devoted to him."

"A curious devotion," I interjected.

"Was it not, Parker?" said Pons, turning to me. "So much for theorizing. Now, if you will just be good enough to descend, we shall see what Elihu Cook Stanmore, six gold doubloons, and a piece of pasteboard have to tell us."

2

The apartment of the murdered man was a luxuriously appointed suite of rooms situated on the third floor; Heathfield took us discreetly up the back stairs so that few people could have been aware of our arrival. A conservatively dressed plainclothes detective was sitting on a divan in the corridor, smoking, looking indolent and relaxed, but in reality missing nothing. He was already at the door unlocking it before we reached it.

A tall gray-haired man with gold spectacles was standing by a table in the entrance hall, fumbling in a small leather bag as we entered. He looked sharply at the superintendent.

"He has been dead since about eight o'clock this morning," he said. "Instantaneous, of course. I can't tell a great deal until we get him to the mortuary."

Superintendent Heathfield nodded

"This is Dr. Garratt. Allow me to introduce Mr. Solar Pons and his friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker."

The doctor came toward us, a faint flush on his features, and shook hands.

"A distinct pleasure, gentlemen. I have been an enthusiastic follower of your career, my dear sir."

"You are too kind," said Pons deprecatingly. "I fear there is little here to engage such small talents as I possess."

The doctor pursed his lips.

"That may be, Mr. Pons. And I should imagine few would mourn Mr. Stanmore's passing. In my duties as a police surgeon I have seen many things, but I cannot say I shed any tears during my examination this morning."

Superintendent Heathfield smiled grimly.

"Dr. Garratt is familiar with Stanmore's history," he explained. "He has strong views on such matters."

"With which I heartily concur," I could not help asserting.

Solar Pons looked amused.

"Well said, Parker. But we are wasting time. If you would lead the way, Superintendent, we will set to work."

The death chamber into which Heathfield now led us was a long, tastefully furnished study, with heavy velvet curtains at the windows; the windows themselves opened onto an inner courtyard and the blank wall of an adjoining building. The secluded setting was no doubt one of the reasons Stanmore had selected it for his activities, I reflected, looking around me.

None of us had much time for the rows of books which flanked the walls, the open safe in the fireplace wall, or the glass cases which occupied the far end of the apartment All eyes were on the thing slumped at the rosewood desk about ten feet from the fireplace. Elihu Cook Stanmore had been a man about sixty-five years old, with a shock of white hair which stood out around his head like thistle-down.

He lay awry at the desk, huddled in a big leather armchair, his eyes wide and staring, his face blue and congested. The handle of a large brass-bound dagger protruded from his back and was partly concealed by the chair. His hands were clawed in agony and his long fingernails had torn gashes in the blotter before him. I could see that the back of his velvet smoking jacket was literally drenched with blood.

Dr. Garratt had followed us in and stood looking on silently. A tall man with red hair was busy at work at a table some yards from the desk. He nodded at the superintendent and, in response to the latter's querying look, volunteered, "Plenty of prints, sir, but they're too blurred by the look of things. I shall know more when I get back to the laboratory."

Heathfield nodded.

"I shall want to hear as soon as possible," he said.

Pons had already set to work. He paced restlessly about the study, his eyes probing the desk, the open safe, the documents the Scotland Yard men had been sifting on the side table. Now he stepped back into the middle of the room again.

He glanced at the six gold coins which were lying near one of Stanmore's outstretched hands. A large piece of white pasteboard was on the desk, held down by two of the coins. As the superintendent had noted, it bore merely the words: Revenge is sweet

"What do you make of the message, Parker?"

"Done with a thick-nibbed pen, in old English lettering," I said.

"Excellent Continue."

"The sort of card that can be bought at any stationer's shop, Pons."

Pons's eyes were sparkling.

"You are improving out of all recognition, Parker. I could not have learned much more myself. But I think you will find that the card came from a florist. It is a long shot, Superintendent, but it might be worthwhile checking any florist's establishments in the neighborhood."

"Very well, Mr. Pons."

Pons stood back, his sharp eyes surveying the corpse and its surroundings intently.

"Your department, Parker. Just give us your opinion to add to Dr. Garratt's."

I bent over the body, taking care to avoid contact with the blood-stained area of the jacket As I did so, I must have knocked against the swivel chair, for it swung around and Stanmore's corpse slumped farther forward across the desk. I could not repress a small gasp of surprise.

"You are on to something, Parker?"

"This is extraordinary, Pons," I said. "Just take a look, Doctor. Stanmore has been stabbed not once but more than a dozen times."

There was a deep silence as I pointed out the multiplicity of cuts in the back of the smoking jacket, indicating wounds from which such a deep seepage of blood had occurred.

"It is evident that someone had more than an ordinary dislike for our friend," said Heathfield sardonically.

"This would have been discovered at the mortuary," put in Dr. Garratt sharply. "I was merely asked to make a superficial examination. I understood that the body was to remain in situ because of Foreign Office instructions."

"Certainly, Dr. Garratt," said Superintendent Heathfield soothingly. "We all understand that"

I shot Garratt a sympathetic glance.

"Purest accident," I said. "I would not have noticed but for bumping into the chair."

Garratt bowed slightly and then went out silently, closing the door after him. I turned to the superintendent

"I trust I haven't inadvertently…"

Heathfield chuckled

"The doctor is a little touchy, Dr. Parker. Think nothing of it"

We stood watching while Pons went rapidly over the contents of the desk. He looked at the broken drawer and then crossed to the safe. He leafed idly through the bundles of letters and other documents on the side table. He raised his eyebrows as he caught the ducal crest at the top of some blue stationery.

"What do you intend to do with these, Superintendent?"

"Normally we destroy all such material after a discreet interval, Mr. Pons. But it does look as though we shall have to question some of these people in the course of our inquiries."

"Naturally."

Pons looked inquiringly round him.

"I should like to see Dawkins."

"Certainly, Mr. Pons. He is in the kitchen. Would you prefer to have him called?"

"No, do not disturb him. I will go through."

But before seeking the valet, Pons turned back. He went over to the glass cases at the end of the room and gazed silently at the long rows of coins which were mounted in velvet.

"The famous collection," he murmured. "What do you make of it, Parker?"

I crossed over to my friend's side and glanced down, at the cases. Then I went over to the others and scanned their contents, trying to observe detail as Pons would have done.

"The coins on the desk do not seem to have come from here, Pons."

"Exactly, Parker."

"Perhaps they have been recently purchased and he has not had time to add them to his collection?"

"Perhaps," said Pons. "Though I fancy we shall find a more esoteric explanation when we come to it"

He turned on his heel and went over to the table where the bundles of documents from Stanmore's safe had been stacked.

"I should like to take some of this material away with me."

Superintendent Heathfield raised his eyebrows but merely said, "By all means, Mr. Pons. The Foreign Office, through your brother, has given you carte blanche in the matter. We have the material listed, of course."

"Of course."

Pons turned to me.

"Perhaps you would be good enough to make a selection, Parker. The complete series of letters of each subject selected, beginning with the Duke of Leinster."

I busied myself at this task while Pons went back to study the gruesome object at the desk. Heathfield found me a large buff envelope and I put the letters in this. I rejoined Pons, who stood frowning at the corpse of Stanmore.

"I seem to detect a distinct cyanose condition, Parker."

"That is not unnatural in a man of Stanmore's years, Pons," I explained. "One would expect some degree of heart disease in a man of his build and sedentary life."

"Would one not, Parker," said Pons, enigmatically, his eyes sparkling. "Well, that is something we shall have to leave to Dr. Garratt and his postmortem examination. In the meantime there is much to do and Dawkins awaits us in the kitchen."

3

The valet proved to be a small, subdued-looking man, with dark hair going silver at the temples. He was lean, with a prominent Adam's apple, aged about fifty, and wearing discreet, not to say somber, clothes. As we entered the large, airy kitchen, he was standing at a board, ironing the trousers of a morning suit. There were traces of shock still on his features and the redness of his eyes indicated that he had been weeping.

He looked up incuriously as we came in and Heathfield wasted no time on preliminaries.

"This is Mr. Solar Pons, Dawkins. He represents the Foreign Office in the matter of the death of your employer, and I want you to listen carefully and answer all his questions."

"Certainly, sir."

Dawkins put down the iron on a table at his elbow and turned wearily toward us.

"You'll forgive me, gentlemen I know these clothes will be of no more use to Mr. Stanmore in this world, but one must do something and under the circumstances it seemed best to get back into my routine."

"An admirable sentiment, Dawkins," observed Solar Pons, looking at the valet shrewdly. "I understand you have been in the late Mr. Stanmore's employ for some fifteen years."

"That is so, Mr. Pons. Indeed, it will be sixteen years in September."

Dawkins bit his lip.

"Or would have been," he corrected himself.

Pons nodded and walked casually about the kitchen, his eyes darting around the room.

"You seem to keep things extraordinarily neat and tidy, Dawkins."

The valet's thin, pale cheeks flushed.

I do my best, sir."

"What do you know of Mr. Stanmore's business?" asked Pons with deceptive mildness, pulling at the lobe of his ear.

The valet looked surprised.

"Why, nothing, sir. Mr. Stanmore had business ventures all over the world. Something to do with property, I believe. I know my place, sir. I never asked and Mr. Stanmore never volunteered information."

"An admirable arrangement between master and man," said Pons. "Did any of Mr. Stanmore's clients ever visit him at home? Here, for instance?"

The valet shook his head.

"Not here, sir. This was what Mr. Stanmore called his hideaway. He had business callers at his hotel suite. And at one of his country houses occasionally. He came here to relax, he always said. He worked on the collation of his collection of coins and read a good deal."

"I see."

Pons was looking at Dawkins attentively.

"Tell me about this coin collection, Dawkins."

The valet shook his head.

"I know very little about it, sir. I'm no numismatist. But I know it was very valuable and Mr. Stanmore set great store by it."

"And yet he left the apartment unlocked on many occasions, I believe."

The valet flushed again.

"Well, sir, that was understandable. Mr. Stanmore was always on the premises at those times. I had mislaid my key on more than one occasion and Mr. Stanmore disliked being disturbed, particularly by the woman who cleans three mornings a week."

"She has been checked and cleared of suspicion," Heathfield murmured at this point

Pons nodded and went on with his questioning of Dawkins.

"So Mr. Stanmore was in the habit of leaving the front door unlocked on those mornings you or the cleaning woman were due. That seems clear enough. Yet the apartment was locked this morning?"

"Yes, sir. I was a little, surprised, particularly as Mr. Stanmore knew I was due this morning. But fortunately I had my key with me and let myself in."

The valet faltered and lowered his eyes.

"And found Mr. Stanmore at his desk," said Pons gently. "You did not touch anything?"

Dawkins shook his head

"I telephoned the police immediately, sir, and put myself completely at their disposal."

"An admirable procedure," Pons continued "What do you make of those coins on the desk? Doubloons, are they not?"

"I believe they are, Mr. Pons. That was one of Mr. Stanmore's little foibles. Whenever he had concluded a particularly important property deal, he would present a doubloon to his client as a mark of appreciation."

Pons exchanged a keen glance with Superintendent Heathfield

"Indeed A quaint little custom, as you so rightly say. These coins did not come from Mrs. Stanmore's main collection, then?"

The valet shook his head

"No, sir. They were what Mr. Stanmore called imperfect specimens, duplicates and so forth. I know little of coin collecting, sir, but my employer laid great stress on the coins in his collection being in mint condition."

"Thank you, Dawkins. That will be all for the present Hold yourself in readiness in case you should be wanted further."

Dawkins bowed courteously and then bent over the ironing board again as we quitted the room with the superintendent.

"Well, well, Parker," said Pons briskly. "I think we have seen everything of importance for the moment. I will be in touch, Superintendent. In the meantime I will peruse these letters and let you know my conclusions."

4

A few minutes later we were in a taxi driving across London, Pons at my side, his chin sunk on his breast, the opened envelope of documents on his knee before him.

"We are not going back to Praed Street, then, Pons?"

My companion roused himself from his reverie.

"7B? No, Parker. We must see Lady Mary Hawthorne without delay, before this affair goes any further."

"Lady Mary Hawthorne, Pons?" I said in some bewilderment.

"A well-known society lady who is deeply implicated in this matter," said Pons, tapping the bundle of documents on his lap. "I fear she may do something desperate if we do not put her mind at rest."

"I realize I have not had time to read the documents, Pons…"

"Tut, tut, Parker," Pons interrupted irritably, his lean, feral face restlessly turning from side to side. "A glance was enough. It has been in all the papers. Lady Mary is engaged to be married to the Duke of Leinster. It was no doubt that fact that precipitated matters and put a term to Stanmore's life."

He was silent for the remainder of the journey, and it was not until we were hurrying up the steps of a stately mansion near Carlton Terrace that he favored me with any further observations.

"Discretion, Parker, discretion. After the introduction let me do the talking."

"Certainly, Pons," I protested. "I hope I am not noted for my lack of tart."

Solar Pons permitted himself the fleeting ghost of a smile.

"It is not that, my dear fellow. It is just that sometimes your enthusiasm for my methods gets the better of you."

"Better enthusiasm, Pons," I muttered, "than indifference or skepticism."

Pons looked at me wryly without speaking and then pressed the massive brass stud at the side of the door, which animated the electric bell. It had no sooner echoed in the interior than a grave-faced footman appeared on the steps.

"Take this to your mistress," said Pons curtly, handing him his card. Tell her it is a matter of great urgency and will not brook delay."

The manservant raised his eyebrows, his genteel facade visibly breached.

"Please come in, gentlemen," he said in a flustered manner. "I will inform Lady Mary that you are here."

He led the way across a hall whose marble floor was in a black-and-white chessboard pattern and left us in a long morning room with pale lemon walls. Cut flowers were massed in bowls and vases everywhere, and the impression was one of unostentatious wealth and elegant good taste. Pons had crossed to the fireplace wall and was examining a pastel study of a strikingly beautiful woman with jet-black hair.

"If that is Lady Mary, the duke of Leinster is a fortunate man," I ventured over Pons's shoulder.

He gave me an enigmatic smile.

"Is he not, Parker? Yet the course of true love seldom runs smooth, as the well-worn adage says, and I fear that Mr. Stanmore's activities may have put some obstacles in the couple's path."

His observations were dramatically borne out a few moments later when the door to the morning room was imperiously thrown open and the agitated form of Lady Mary

herself appeared before us. The portrait did not do her justice, but her beauty was marred at present by the paleness of her cheeks and the wildness of her eye. She came to the point immediately, unerringly arresting my companion's attention.

"Mr. Pons? Your presence here can only mean one thing!"

"Will you not calm yourself, dear lady? I am sure you will be more comfortable by the fireplace. I see you have already heard the news about Mr. Stanmore?"

"It is useless to conceal it in the presence of such a remarkable mind," said the dark-haired woman bitterly.

She sank into the chair indicated by Pons and regarded us with burning eyes.

"Forgive me, Lady Mary," said Pons abruptly. "I am forgetting the social niceties in the stress of the occasion This is my friend and invaluable colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker."

Lady Mary acknowledged the introduction with an abstracted inclination of her head and again turned her attention to Pons. For all her poise and the fact that she was in her own house she reminded me of nothing so much as a small animal menaced by a snake. Something of the same sort had evidently occurred to Pons, for he relaxed his manner somewhat and said gently, "You have no reason to fear me, Lady Mary."

There was a strange expression in Lady Mary Hawthorne's eyes as she stared at Pons.

"We shall see, Mr. Pons, we shall see. Your presence here bodes no good."

Pons drew himself up and put out his hand in a commanding gesture.

"Ah, there you do me injustice, Lady Mary. I am here to do good and to right wrong. If it is any scrap of satisfaction to you, I agree that Elihu Cook Stanmore was the biggest blackguard and the most unmitigated scoundrel who ever walked in shoe leather."

Lady Mary had grown deathly pale and then lay back in her chair, her rapid breathing betraying her agitation.

"I see that all is known, Mr. Pons. My letters…"

"Are in safe hands, Lady Mary."

Pons drew forth a bundle of blue envelopes tied with pink tape. Lady Mary half rose from the chair, her right hand plucking at her throat. She made a gesture as if she would snatch them from my companion.

"You have read them?"

Her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.

Pons shook his head.

"A few paragraphs only of the top letter, which the police had already opened. That and the signature."

Lady Mary's breath went out in a sigh of relief. She rose to her feet.

"Let us understand this, Mr. Pons. I am not ashamed of those letters. They were written to a man with whom I was very much in love and who was killed while serving as a pilot with the Royal Flying Corps in the late war."

Solar Pons inclined his head

"I am indeed sorry."

A little smile was playing round Lady Mary's lips.

"They are passionate love letters, Mr. Pons; I have no compunction admitting it. Their recipient was a man to whom I had given myself wholly and without reserve, physically and spiritually. We would have been married had he survived the war."

"There is no need to tell me this, Lady Mary."

"I would like you to know, Mr. Pons."

"Why did you pay this man Stanmore, Lady Mary? Surely His Grace is too big a man to bother with what is past. Had Stanmore placed this material in his hands, he would simply have handed the letters to you or burned them unread, surely?"

Lady Mary shook her head.

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Pons. I had no fears for Hugo. But his family is one of the proudest and most stiff- backed in the whole of England. His mother in particular. One breath of scandal and the engagement would have been broken off. Believe me, Mr. Pons, that creature Stanmore would have sent these letters direct to my fiancée’s mother. And the shattering of the engagement would have broken Hugo's heart I was not prepared to risk it"

Pons stood deep in thought for a moment. Then he reached out and took Lady Mary's hand. He placed the bundle of letters within it.

"No doubt these memories are fragrant, Lady Mary. You may wish to keep these in a safe place where you treasure such intimate thoughts."

Lady Mary's eyes were wide as she stared at Pons.

"And the price, Mr. Pons?"

Solar Pons shook his head.

"Some things are beyond price, Lady Mary. All I ask is some information which may lead me to the murderer of Stanmore."

Lady Mary was silent for a moment Her lips curved in a smile of great sweetness and simplicity.

"I greatly appreciate your generosity, Mr. Pons. But even so your price is higher than you may know. As you have undoubtedly obtained a list of Stanmore's victims, may I suggest that you have a word with Hugo himself?"

Pons gave our hostess a shrewd glance.

"I had intended to do so, Lady Mary. And thank you for your gracious suggestion."

He consulted a scrap of paper he took from the buff envelope.

"Lady Mary Hawthorne; the duke of Leinster; His Grace the duke of Swaffham; the Honorable Timothy Drexell, M.P.; the Baron Bedale; the duchess of Ware… the list is indeed a noble not to say distinguished one. And when one finds a number of fingerprints on the knife and six golden doubloons, it really gives one pause to think."

Pons's wide smile matched Lady Mary's own.

"I believe you know a great deal more than would appear, Mr. Pons."

"It may be, Lady Mary, it may be," murmured Pons. "But Dr. Parker and I have much to do."

Lady Mary's face was thoughtful as the balanced the bundle of letters in her tiny hand.

"You really are a most remarkable man, Mr. Pons. May I wish you success in your quest And my deepest thanks."

Pons stooped a moment as he kissed the tips of our hostess's fingers.

"Thank you, Lady Mary. And felicitations on your forthcoming marriage, which I am sure will be happy and long- lived. Good day."

We were crossing the floor and had almost reached the door when Lady Mary called Pons back.

"You will not find the duke in town, Mr. Pons. He is at his country lodge in Sussex. He will be there for the remainder of this week."

"Thank you, Lady Mary. I will take the liberty of calling upon him tomorrow. No doubt you will have a message conveyed to him."

"I will do that, Mr. Pons. And thank you again."

A few moments later we were outside in the sunshine. Pons laughed as he strode down the steps.

"Magnificent, was she not, Parker?"

"Undoubtedly, Pons," I replied. "But I must confess I have not been able to make much of the conversation."

"Have you not, Parker? Well, perhaps we could run over a few salient points after Mrs. Johnson's excellent supper this evening."

5

Our apartment at 7B Praed Street was blue with smoke. I got up from the table and significantly opened one of the long windows, letting in the cool air of the summer evening.

"Really, Pons!" I protested. "This is becoming intolerable."

"Is it not," he retorted languidly. "Six doubloons, a cyanose condition, several fingerprints, and at least a dozen noble blackmail clients."

"You know very well what I mean, Pons," I replied, looking pointedly at Pons's reeking pipe as I came back to the table. "That infernal thing should be smoked only in the open air."

"On the contrary," said Solar Pons with a smile glinting from behind the stem, "the atmosphere it engenders concentrates the thoughts, sharpens the mind, and has a practical application inasmuch as it asphyxiates the mosquitoes."

"And with them your old and valued friend, Dr. Lyndon Parker," I said with some asperity.

Pons removed the pipe from his mouth and broke into a laugh.

"Forgive me, my dear fellow. I must confess this is rather a burner. It was, as you may remember, a souvenir of one of my most bizarre cases."

"That of Jethro Stringer, the Mad Corinthian of Netherhampton," I reminded him.

"One of a presentation set as a gift from his grateful son-in-law, Wednesday Lovelace," Pons murmured.

"His intended final victim," I said. "The only one who stood between Stringer and a million-pound fortune."

"Nevertheless, Parker, before you are carried away on a wave of nostalgic reminiscence, allow me to recall you briefly to the present."

"Really, Pons, you began it…" I commenced when I was interrupted by the shrilling of the telephone in the passage outside. A moment later Mrs. Johnson appeared.

"Superintendent Heathfield, Mr. Pons."

Pons went out and for the next few minutes I could hear his murmured questions and responses from behind the thick door. Pons's pipe burned on heedlessly on a corner of the table, and I removed it to the safety of a glass vase near the window. I had no sooner resumed my seat than Pons was back, his lean face alight with excitement. He rubbed his thin fingers together and sat down opposite me.

"Ah, Parker, we progress. Dr. Garratt's report was at hand. Heathfield tells me that Stanmore died of heart failure before he was stabbed. I suspected as much."

"This is incredible, Pons!" I cried.

Solar Pons chuckled

"Is it not, Parker? But not entirely unexpected. Remember, I pointed out the cyanose condition."

"It is sheer madness, Pons," I went on. "Why would anyone want to stab this man when he had already been conveniently removed? And not only stab him once but several times?"

"Twenty-four, to be exact," said Pons imperturbably. "Garratt is able to count accurately, it appears."

"This becomes more baffling by the moment."

Pons shook his head

"On the contrary, it becomes clearer. There were six doubloons, you will recall And four thousand pounds had been paid in each case to date."

I fear I was becoming even more exasperated, and Solar Pons looked at me in surprise.

"Always remember, Parker, that what is before one, however outré and extraordinary, must represent the truth. It needs only to be read a’right."

"You put great significance on these doubloons, Pons," I cried.

"Exactly," said Pons. "What do you make of them?"

"Stanmore was in the habit of presenting them to his 'clients' as a rather sour way of congratulating them on being bled white, Pons."

Solar Pons nodded.

"Rather colorfully put, Parker, but I get your meaning. Then what was the significance of the six doubloons on the. desk?"

"Perhaps he was preparing six more cases of blackmail, Pons."

Solar Pons shook his head.

"You disappoint me, Parker. You have had plenty of opportunity to observe my methods. I commend the doubloons to you. Say rather that this man was being paid back in his own coin. When we find twenty-four stab wounds, the six golden objects, the noble clients and a multiplicity of fingerprints, the affair becomes relatively simple."

"Simple, Pons!"

I threw up my hands in despair.

"And I postulate that the card stating 'Revenge is sweet' clinches the matter. This was a carefully planned affair, Parker. And the man responsible did not want to be disappointed. The card and the coins point to this. And why did the valet not surprise anyone in the apartment? After all, he could have arrived at any time. There was a lookout, Parker; we may take that as certain."

Pons had been fumbling around for a minute or so and now he shot me a sharp glance.

"You have also forgotten the matter of the peace talks. The duke is heavily involved in those."

I could not resist a sly dig at Pons in retaliation for my present frustration.

"Brother Bancroft should see you now, Pons. Your pipe is over by the window yonder, if you had but the wit to see it."

Pons drew up his eyebrows and fires of humor sparkled in his eyes.

"Touché, Parker, touché. You are developing a definite wit in early middle-age. There is hope for you yet."

And he was soon enveloped in clouds of poisonous blue fumes again.

6

Our destination in Sussex was only an hour's journey by train from Charing Cross, and shortly after midday the following morning we debouched from the small wooden station building to find a pony and trap, sent by the duke himself, awaiting our arrival. We were soon bowling along the dusty country lanes between high banks and blooming hedgerows, with the agreeable scent of freshly cut grass in our nostrils.

"There is a great deal to be said for England at this time of year, Parker," Solar Pons enthused, stretching out his long legs in the trap interior and looking broodingly at the dim blue distances of the far hills as we drove across the undulating countryside.

"I do not think that Elihu Cook Stanmore would agree with you, Pons," I said dryly.

"Ah, there you go astray, Parker. That was a matter between him and his Maker. Stanmore is no doubt where he ought to be, and the world is rolling on its way as it should be."

"No doubt you are right, Pons," I conceded.

At that moment the trap swept around a bend in the white highway and the driver pointed with his whip to iron gates beyond which could be seen a long, low handsome house built of the distinctive golden sandstone so prevalent thereabouts.

"Delamere Lodge, gentlemen."

In a short while we had pulled up in front of an impressive flight of steps which led to the massive entrance portico. A tall, black-bearded man hurried down to meet us. He was such an imposing figure that I thought for a moment it was the duke himself. He was dressed in a suit of shaggy tweeds and he looked at us in a most unfriendly manner from beneath beetling black brows. But his manner seemed civil enough.

He merely murmured "Follow me, gentlemen" and led us through an oak-paneled hall and down a long, green- walled corridor hung with sporting prints and eighteenth- century political cartoons.

"His Grace is in the gun room."

Pons raised his eyebrows but said nothing. At the threshold of the stout oak door which led to our destination the bearded man stopped so suddenly that I almost collided with him. He ignored me and cast his black eyes on my companion, fixing him with a smoldering glance.

"A word in your ear, Mr. Solar Pons. I am very attached to the duke. If any harm should come to him, you will have me to contend with."

Solar Pons smiled pleasantly. He stood quite at ease, taking the measure of the barrel-chested man who barred the way to the door.

"Your function, I take it, was to stand guard during the murder of the late Elihu Stanmore."

The big man stared wildly at Pons, his complexion beneath the beard turning a dark yellow. Then he gave a snarl and started forward.

"I must warn you that you will find my strength equal to your own," said Pons coolly stepping back a pace and putting himself on guard.

The big man's mouth dropped, but before there were any further developments, the door was flung furiously open and a tall, aristocratic-looking man in his mid-thirties, wearing a handsome Vandyke beard, stood framed in the lintel.

"What is this, Jefferies?" he cried, his beard bristling with rage. "How dare you presume to treat my guests in this fashion?"

The big man recovered himself. He looked at the duke not a whit abashed.

"He knows, Your Grace."

"Does he, indeed?" said the duke of Leinster levelly, looking at Pons with a gleam of irony in his eye. "You had better come in, Mr. Pons. I am honored to know you, sir. I must apologize for Jefferies. He has a formidable exterior, but he is completely devoted to my service."

"That is quite understandable," said Pons, taking the duke's outstretched hand. "Allow me to present my friend, Dr. Lyndon Parker."

"I am equally delighted, Doctor. Please come in. You'll take some coffee, gentlemen, and stay to lunch? Ask Mrs. Cummings to make the necessary arrangements, Jefferies, if you'll be so good."

The duke led the way into the gun room, which was a long, high chamber with paneled walls and a vast stone fireplace. The mullioned windows looked out over the spacious grounds, and racks of weapons and trophies of the chase adorned the paneling.

The duke led the way down the room and waved Pons and myself to two comfortable leather chairs. He seated himself at a bench where he had evidently been polishing weapons, for several cutlasses and a saber were laid out on the scarred tabletop.

"You'll forgive me for going on with what I was doing, gentlemen."

Pons nodded and walked down the room, examining the racks of weapons.

"You collect Chinese daggers too, I see."

"A foible of an ancestor," replied the duke carelessly. "It is not a branch of the collection with which I have any great affinity."

"One dagger missing, I notice."

The duke's eyes flickered toward mine, and I could have sworn a half-smile lingered about his lips.

"It was lost while the collection was being cleaned last year, I believe. I do not know where it has got to."

"Indeed," said Pons. "When last seen it was adorning the shoulder blades of a gentleman called Elihu Cook Stanmore. It had been driven some twenty-four times into his back."

"Remarkable, Mr. Pons," said the duke of Leinster levelly. "That could not have done a great deal for his health."

"Life was quite extinct," said Pons.

He could not repress a glance of admiration.

"If you do not mind me saying so, Your Grace, you are keeping up an extraordinarily cool exterior in this matter."

The duke put down a cutlass and picked up one of the sabers. He held it pointed toward Pons, a sardonic smile on his face.

"You forget I am a trained diplomat, Mr. Pons. Ah, here is Mrs. Cummings with the coffee and biscuits."

He waited until the elderly woman with the pleasant, motherly features had poured the coffee from a silver- plated pot and quit the room, before he spoke again.

"One lump or two, Mr. Pons? Incidentally, sir, I do not mind admitting that you would have had a very different reception had I not received a telephone call from Lady Mary. I am deeply obliged to you, Mr. Pons, I really am."

There was a faint flush on Pons's cheeks.

"It was a pleasure to be of service to such a gracious lady. Would it be premature to wish you every happiness in your future life together?"

The duke, who wore a green baize apron over a smart light gray suit, bowed, observing, "that is much appreciated, Mr. Pons. I must say my future depends very much on you."

"I am glad you recognize the fact, Your Grace. Would it also me indiscreet of me to ask how the peace talks at Geneva are going?"

The duke looked at Pons steadily, the coffee cup arrested halfway to his lips.

"Very indiscreet, Mr. Pons. But between these four walls and knowing that your close relationship with your brother is not only one of blood, I am happy to say that Great Britain's position is not prejudiced in any way by the operations of Mr. Stanmore."

I had been a silent spectator of this conversation in mounting bewilderment and now I could not withhold my comment.

"I am afraid this is far above my head, Pons. Would one of you mind coming to the point?"

To my surprise the duke of Leinster burst out laughing.

"You have my sympathy, doctor."

He waved the tip of the saber.

"Shall we give up fencing, Mr. Pons?"

My companion nodded, putting down his cup and reaching for a biscuit

"I would strongly suspect that what precipitated Stanmore's death was the pressure put on the duke deliberately to weaken, if not completely vitiate, this country's position in the current negotiations at Geneva."

"Which would have gravely altered the present precarious balance of power in Europe," added the duke.

"I seem to detect the trembling of the spider's web," said Pons, looking at me grimly. "The delicate hand of our old friend Baron Ennesfred Kroll"

^"You don't mean to say so, Pons!" I ejaculated

"On the contrary, Parker. The implications of this affair go even deeper than I at first envisaged. Will you start, sir, or shall I?"

"You seem to know so much about it, I shall defer to you, Mr. Pons. Then you shall see whether we were justified. I take it you will make my official position clear to Mr. Bancroft Pons?"

Pons smiled.

"You may be assured of it, Your Grace."

The duke of Leinster leaned forward to the coffee pot

"Do allow me to pour you some more of this excellent brew, Dr. Parker."

7

"What I find surprising, Your Grace, is the fact that you have made it fairly plain that you have a connection with the death of Stanmore," Pons began.

The Duke smiled grimly from his position at the table. He fingered the saber thoughtfully.

"There is not much point in denying it, Mr. Pons. My family motto is connected with honesty and truthfulness. And I do not run a great deal of risk, surely, when you know by now that that blackguard died before the moment of execution."

Pons stroked the lobe of his left ear with a thin finger and smiled briefly.

"There is that, Your Grace, but the fact remains that murder was planned. And you and your companions are certainly guilty of his death inasmuch as your threats precipitated Stanmore's heart attack."

The duke looked at Pons gravely.

"Tut, tut, Mr. Pons. This is mere quibbling. I expected your visit, of course. I knew Stanmore would keep records. Unfortunately, we were disturbed by someone before we could make a proper search."

Pons sat back in his chair and tented his fingers before him as he stared at the duke fixedly.

"You have just reminded me, Your Grace, that I have done you, through your fiancée, some slight favor. I have

most of the pieces of this puzzle. I should like to ask you a favor in return. I am not quite clear in my own mind just what hold Stanmore could have had over you."

The duke put down the saber with which he had been toying and looked taken aback for the first time since the interview began.

"I will return the favor, Mr. Pons, on the solemn oath of both of you that not a word of what I shall tell you will go beyond the walls of this chamber."

"You have our word, Your Grace."

Leinster nodded. He got up from the bench and took a few nervous pacing turns in front of the empty fireplace which, at this time of the year, contained a mass of flowers. Their red, spiky beauty reminded me of the deeper stains in Stanmore's chamber of death.

"How he came by them, I know not, Mr. Pons, but this unspeakable creature had some love letters written by my late father to a former mistress. He threatened to lay them before my mother. She is a woman of high moral principles who adored my father. The shock would have killed her. I had no choice but to pay him money. I had given him a total of four thousand pounds with the promise, at the time of his death, of more. Latterly he had been putting pressure on me to betray my country."

Pons's face was grim and serious as he listened to this recital.

"You have my word, Your Grace," he repeated. "I am indeed sorry. Stanmore deserved death, if ever a man did."

Pons hesitated as his eyes searched the duke's face and then he went on.

"Did you know of your fiancée also being blackmailed?"

"Only lately, Mr. Pons. Mary came to me in great distress. She did not go into detail."

An unspoken question lingered in his eyes.

Pons put him at ease.

"You need not concern yourself, Your Grace. Lady Mary is an honorable woman. The affair concerned nothing but old love letters written years ago to an officer now dead. I am sure Lady Mary will not mind me telling you under the present difficult circumstances. Stanmore also threatened to send these letters to your mother. With your mother's well-known ethical standards, Lady Mary felt she might forbid the marriage. She could not risk that."

The duke stood in silence for a moment; then his face cleared. He came forward and wrung Pons's hand in silence. I cleared my throat. The noise sounded like a loud intrusion in the silence.

"I am sorry, Pons, but from a layman's point of view, I am not at all sure of this matter."

Pons's eyes were dancing as he turned back to me.

"Let us just reconstruct the crime, Parker. I have already drawn your attention to a number of significant points. It was obvious from the beginning that one of Stanmore's blackmail victims had committed the murder. But the very ferocity of the method aroused my suspicions. One stab wound would have been enough for a man with Stanmore's heart condition. But twenty-four wounds smacked of a ritual. The Chinese dagger was a red herring, merely, and I discounted it immediately.

"The first problem that presented itself, was the secret address. If we discarded the valet, Dawkins, and the woman who did the cleaning, we were left with two alternatives. Someone who found the unlocked door by accident and took the opportunity to dispose of Stanmore; the coincidence was too wild and unlikely. We were then left with the alternative of a carefully planned murder, involving several people. Jefferies?"

The duke nodded.

"I had him follow Stanmore about London. I like to know my enemy and all his habits. Eventually, about six months ago, he was successful and tracked him to Westbourne Grove. The next stage was to cultivate Dawkins. He frequents a public house, the Jolly Vine, nearby. Over the course of those months the two men became drinking companions. In his cups Dawkins let fall various names of business clients' of his employer."

"The people who visited him at his West End hotel," said Pons crisply. "I suspected something of the sort but am glad to have the fact confirmed from your own lips. You not only desired to relieve some of Stanmore's other victims as well as yourself and Lady Mary but you required accomplices to spread the risk. An unusual crime. Death by proxy, one might call it."

Leinster's eyes were sparkling as he followed my companion's reasoning.

"For once a reputation has not been exaggerated, Mr. Pons."

"You discreetly called upon those of your companions in misfortune as were known to you," Pons went on. "They were not only friends or acquaintances but all men in early or middle life, who could be relied upon in a tight corner. I saw many such names in the list I perused."

"You may ask me anything except their names," said the duke curtly.

"That will not be necessary," Pons continued. "On the morning selected for Stanmore's execution six of you went to his flat. Jefferies remained outside to give the alarm in case the valet arrived early. You would then leave by the back stairs."

The duke nodded, his eyes never leaving Pons's face.

"Correct, Mr. Pons. We left the building quickly when Jefferies signaled the alarm. A man came up the stairs shortly after eight o'clock. Jefferies was taken unaware and could not be sure that it was not Dawkins. He gave the alarm and we left hurriedly the same way we came, one by one, down the back stairs, in the event it must have been an occupant of one of the other flats — but we were not to know that."

Pons nodded.

"The six of you went into the flat. Stanmore was already at his study desk, his back to the door. You personally led the way, holding the dagger. Stanmore turned around, recognized his clients, choked, and had a heart attack. But you decided to make sure of him. Why?"

Leinster inclined his head thoughtfully.

"Revenge is sweet, Mr. Pons," he said softly. "Stanmore was choking. We could not be sure whether the seizure was fatal or not. We had to make a quick decision. We killed him ritually, as you say."

"By each taking a section of the dagger and guiding it home," Pons went on. "Thus leaving a portion of each man's fingerprints to confuse the police."

"Which certainly had the desired effect, Pons," I reminded him.

"The picture was fairly clear to me at a glance," Pons said. "It was an ingenious notion and would certainly have involved some legal problems."

"But why twenty-four stab wounds?" I asked.

"That was elementary, Parker. The six gold doubloons pointed the way. We knew, after what Dawkins said, that Stanmore gave his 'clients' a so-called bonus in the form of a doubloon when he had drained them dry. This was a case of six clients returning the compliment with interest, as it were. There were six clients. I had noted from the record that each to date had paid Stanmore four thousand pounds."

Light broke.

"Six fours are twenty-four, Pons!" I cried.

"You continue to improve, Parker," said Pons condescendingly. "The florist's card had been deliberately written in a manner that was unlikely ever to be traced by the police. And Stanmore's records contained a multiplicity of suspects, many of whom were so distinguished and powerful that the police would have to tread carefully. But I already had Brother Bancroft's brief and thus concentrated my search in the area of diplomacy, which led me directly to you, Your Grace."

"You have caught me red-handed, Mr. Pons," said our extraordinary host. "What do you intend to do?"

Pons was silent for a moment, his eyes searching the far distance.

"Telephone my brother in due course and tell him that England's secrets are safe in the hands of one of the ablest public servants she has ever had. Although, as a professional, I must frown at murder or attempted murder in all its forms, I feel that on this occasion justice has been done."

"But what are you going to tell Superintendent Heathfield, Pons?" I asked.

Leinster and Pons exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Solar Pons tented his long, thin fingers before him and looked at me blandly.

"We will think of something, Parker," he said gently. "But I fear this is one case where my ratiocinative faculties have been strained beyond the limit. And I have no doubt that Foreign Office influence will bring a speedy closure of the file."

"You will not find my fiancée and me ungrateful, gentlemen," said the duke of Leinster, taking my colleague by the hand. "And now, if you will permit me, an excellent lunch awaits us."