The Recollections of Solar Pons

-1-

“Good afternoon, Doctor!”

“Good afternoon, Colonel!”

I had been enjoying an after-lunch walk in brilliant sunshine alongside the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens in perfect July weather when the robust tones of a familiar voice broke into my reverie. Though I had answered automatically and mechanically it took another split-second before I fully recognised Colonel Mortimer, a retired Army officer who was a former neighbour of mine when I lived in Chelsea for a brief period.

Mortimer was a striking figure, well above average height with a great hooked nose above his tobacco-stained cavalry moustache. But he always dressed impeccably and this afternoon he wore a startling off-white tropical suit with a pale blue tie and carried an elegant-looking Malacca cane. He fell in alongside me as I continued along the gravel walk and we were both silent for a moment, enjoying the extraordinarily beautiful weather. After a minute or two as we continued in silence, Colonel Mortimer shot a surreptitious glance at his watch.

“I am glad I have run into you, doctor. I have recently come across something that might well interest your friend Solar Pons. An acquaintance of mine has gone stark, raving mad.”

“Indeed,” I said, shooting him a sharp glance. “Would you not do better to consult one of my medical colleagues who specialises in mental disorders?”

He gave a throaty chuckle, slashing at a tangle of weeds at the edge of the Pond with the ferrule of his cane.

“It is not that sort of madness, doctor. No, believe me, there is something deep behind it which is beyond my fathoming.”

We had turned toward the edge of the Gardens now and the faint hum of traffic was becoming audible as it converged upon the Albert Memorial, while the great dome of the Albert Hall was rearing above the trees.

“Have you time for tea, doctor?” Colonel Mortimer went on.

“I have all the time in the world, Colonel,” I said.

“In that case what say you to Harrods? I have not been there for some considerable time.”

“As you please,” I said, though I was somewhat surprised by his choice of venue.

Some while later, when we were settled in the coolness of the restaurant in that elegant emporium the Colonel seemed to have thought better of his earlier confidence. He mumbled awkwardly to himself over the delicious watercress sandwiches; tapped with his teaspoon irritatingly on the edge of his cup as we made short work of the scones and jam; and hummed discordantly to the obvious discomfiture of the people at the tables round about as we rapidly created inroads into the strawberries and cream.

It was not until a second silver-plated teapot had been placed before us that he seemed to come to a decision.

“I must ask you to forgive me, doctor. I am not usually indecisive but I really do not know if I am doing right in this matter.”

“So I noticed,” I said unhelpfully, reaching for the last of the chocolate éclairs. “However, you have not yet committed yourself and even talking to me does not constitute a commission in the eyes of Pons.”

“That is certainly true,” said Mortimer, not at all flatteringly in my opinion, and he fixed me with what I was wont to call his cavalryman’s glare. I have seen it freeze waiters at more than twenty yards off and it certainly had a discouraging effect on me this afternoon.

“Oh, believe me,” the Colonel went on, “I am not breaching any confidence you may be sure. And what I am about to tell you is something which might have been observed by anyone in close proximity to Foy.”

I stared at him across the wickerwork table which stood on the red-tiled floor in an elegant bower of roses, while the thin, reedy tones of the five-piece orchestra which played for tea-dances there, ascended to the fluted iron roof-columns.

“You don’t mean Hugo Foy, the millionaire financier?”

The Colonel glanced at me in slight surprise.

“Do not tell me that you know him?”

I shook my head.

“Good heavens, no. I hardly move in such exalted circles.”

The Colonel closed his lips round a portion of strawberries and cream with satisfaction. I realised that the taste was not the only cause of his state of mind; he was pleased because I had admitted that while I might not mingle with millionaires I recognised that it was a perfectly right and proper thing for him to do so. I swallowed my amusement at this irreverent thought and concentrated on what the Colonel was saying.

“He is a near neighbour of mine at The Boltons and we are occasional partners at bridge parties together. I am merely concerned in case he might feel I was responsible for causing an unwarrantable interference in his affairs.”

“That is something you must decide for yourself,” I said.

I could not resist adding, with considerable self-satisfaction, “It means nothing to Pons. He is used to mixing with the

crowned heads of Europe and mere millionaires are ten a penny in his book.”

Colonel Mortimer swallowed a mouthful of tea the wrong way, glared at me over his cup with one eye, said “Quite” in a dead voice and snapped his mouth shut. I savoured the moment a little longer.

“Tell me, Colonel,” I said. “Just why should you consider your friend to be mad?”

“Acquaintance,” said the Colonel sharply. “Nothing more, I hasten to assure you.”

He fixed me with a piercing glance.

“What would you say to a man who rides in his motor-car naked in the moonlight; wears white drill trousers with a dark City suit; and uses a billiard cue to hole his ball on the golf course!”

I goggled at my companion.

“And those are only a few examples,” Mortimer went on. He would have said more but I put up my hand.

“There is no need to elaborate, Colonel. I think you would do better to avoid repetition by coming straight away with me to see Pons.”

There was a certain smug satisfaction in the Colonel’s eye as we finished the meal.

-2-

Solar Pons put the tips of his thin fingers together, leaned back in his armchair and blew a cloud of fragrant blue smoke at the ceiling. The windows of our sitting-room at 7B Praed Street were wide open to the fragrant summer air but so hot had been the day that I could see little beads of perspiration standing out on Colonel Mortimer’s forehead as he sipped appreciatively at the ice-cold beer I had plied him with.

It was evening now and a mauve dusk crouched at the windows, stained yellow with the flowering of the early street-lamps and window signs.

“Mad — and yet not mad, you say,” said Pons with considerable satisfaction. “You did well to direct this little matter my way, Parker.”

The Colonel stirred in his chair and cleared his throat nervously.

“You appreciate, Mr. Pons, that this affair must be handled with the utmost discretion. I have not been asked to act and Foy may be extremely annoyed if he learns that I have engaged your services.”

“Oh, indeed, Colonel,” said my friend easily. “It will do no harm to cast an eye in that direction and one need not commit oneself. But a gentleman who drives in his car stark naked, uses a billiard cue to play golf and drinks champagne with ginger beer, while remaining head of an immense financial empire, presents some intriguing facets to the world, would you not say so, Parker?”

“Oh indeed, Pons,” I put in, unable to resist a smile at the Colonel’s worried features.

“At the same time, Mr. Pons…” he began.

“You may have no fear, Colonel,” I broke in. “Pons is the soul of tact.”

“I am afraid that is more than I can say for you, doctor,” put in the Colonel gloweringly, which caused Pons to break into an amused chuckle.

“If you would just hand me down that Who’s Who from the shelf yonder, Parker, I will refresh my memory with the salient facets of Mr. Hugo Foy’s career.”

I lifted the heavy volume from the shelf and carried it over toward him. I remained standing by his chair as he ran his finger down the pages, an intent expression on his lean, feral features.

“Ah, here we are. Yes, just as I thought. Chairman of Wildwood House Group of investment companies. Publications include: The World Economic Situation; Through the Abyss — a Guide to Current Fiscal Policy; Company Law and Procedure, etc., etc.”

He put the volume in his lap and frowned at it.

“Hmm. Hardly light reading, Parker. Your friend Foy does not seem the frivolous type judging by his financial career and the sort of literature he writes, Colonel.”

“That is true, Mr. Pons,” said our visitor gloomily, inclining his head toward my companion. “The more I think about it the more ill-advised I feel my visit here.”

“Come, Colonel, do not say so,” said Pons briskly, taking up his pipe again. “There may be method behind these outbursts of lunacy. Pray let us have the background and salient details in specific order, if you please.”

Colonel Mortimer leaned forward in his chair and fixed my companion with troubled eyes.

“As I have explained to the good doctor here, Mr. Pons, I am merely a bystander, an observer, who has watched this madness creeping upon an acquaintance over the past few months. I have no official standing, am not authorised to act in the matter but…”

“You feel a responsibility for a fellow human being, Colonel,” Solar Pons interrupted smoothly, looking searchingly at our visitor through the wreathing columns of fragrant blue smoke which surrounded him. “These sentiments do you great credit. Let us be frank. If Hugo Foy is going mad then surely his family or staff would have called in medical advice long before now. Or do you suspect something else?”

The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair, licking his lips. “You are a shrewd man, Mr. Pons,” he mumbled. “You see below the surface of things. I must confess I have a vested interest in the matter, though that is not my only concern.” “You have invested some capital in Mr. Foy’s enterprises?” The Colonel nodded, unable to keep the surprise from his eyes.

“You have read the situation correctly, Mr. Pons. The amount would not bankrupt me if I lost the money but I must confess it would severely curtail my life-style.”

Pons was silent for a moment, his deep-set eyes gazing at Mortimer so intently that he seemed to see quite through him.

“Would it be indiscreet to ask how much you have invested, Colonel?”

The military figure bristled a little but the answer was forthcoming without hesitation.

“I do not mind you and Dr. Parker knowing, Mr. Pons, as I realize it will go no farther than this room.”

Pons gave a slight inclination of his head, his brilliant eyes remaining fixed on the Colonel.

“A little over forty-thousand pounds, Mr. Pons.”

“Indeed. Rather too large a sum to leave in the hands of a possibly unbalanced property tycoon, Parker.”

“As you say, Pons.”

My companion’s lean, febrile fingers were drumming softly on the arm of his chair as he puffed furiously at his pipe. “How was this money invested, Colonel Mortimer?”

“Mostly in South American mining shares, Mr. Pons. I have no reason to believe there is anything wrong with them. They have an excellent reputation in the City and the share-prices remain constant, as I had occasion to confirm this morning from the Financial Times.”

Pons nodded.

“The investment came about in what manner?”

“I had known Foy for some time, Mr. Pons. As I have already mentioned we are near neighbours. Curiously enough, we lived close in Chelsea some years ago. Then I moved to The Boltons and he bought a house nearby about a year ago and so we became neighbours again.”

“Presumably the investment possibility arose over conversations at the card-table.”

Colonel Mortimer nodded gloomily.

“Exactly so, Mr. Pons. I had followed Foy’s brilliant career in the City, of course. Indeed, he is an international figure. So when this opportunity for investment came up last autumn, I was only too glad to get in on the ground floor, as it were.”

“And now you are not only worried at your neighbour’s eccentricities but for the safety of your investment?”

The Colonel bit his lip.

“That must come into it, Mr. Pons.”

“Naturally. Now, just how long has this bizarre behaviour been going on?”

“Something like two to three months.”

Solar Pons leaned back in his chair and tented his thin fingers before him.

“Pray be precise as to circumstance and detail.”

“Very well, Mr. Pons,” said our visitor grimly. “I will endeavour to be as accurate as possible though the whole business looks, on the face of it, like raving insanity.”

Solar Pons nodded.

“Exactly when did this curious behaviour begin?”

“As near as I can make out, Mr. Pons, at the end of March this year. I can be as positive as that because I had been thrown into fairly close contact with him during the past winter, in the little matter I earlier spoke of and we had also been together at card-parties when we were partners at bridge on a number of occasions. Foy had been showing some little signs of strain.”

Pons leaned forward and shot our visitor a penetrating glance.

“In what way?”

“Lack of concentration, Mr. Pons. Not only at cards but in other matters. He seemed out of sorts and on two or three occasions he made elementary mistakes at bridge which caused some comment, I can tell you.”

“He was a good bridge player?”

“Of the highest class, Mr. Pons. I am no mean hand at cards myself but I am not in the same league. It was a pleasure to watch a player of that calibre.”

Solar Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his left ear. “Did not such behaviour strike you as even more bizarre than his apparent acts of madness?”

A look of absolute astonishment passed across Colonel Mortimer’s face.

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Mr. Pons.”

“It makes no matter. Please continue.”

The puzzled look persisted in the Colonel’s eyes as he went on with his narrative.

“He absolutely threw the games away, Mr. Pons, even when he had all the key cards in his own hands. Naturally, this created astonishment and dismay in our small circle and there was some debate about asking him to continue at our sessions. That problem was something that solved itself.”

“In what way, pray?”

“In a number of ways, Mr. Pons. For example, a week or two after the first occasion of his strange behaviour at cards, he simply did not turn up for dinner after accepting my invitation. My housekeeper telephoned his home and was told that he had left. Of course, following the dinner, we had arranged a bridge session and his non-appearance naturally annoyed my other two guests.”

“Naturally,” I put in.

Pons gave me a faint smile as he cupped his chin in his hands, his deep-set eyes looking sympathetically at Colonel Mortimer.

“After we had broken up, I strolled around to his house, Mr. Pons. I was hoping to find he had returned and naturally intended to tax him with his remissness and request an explanation. Mr. Pons, I have never been so insulted in my life! His house is only a few hundred yards from mine. As soon as I had rung the bell he appeared on the door-step and pelted me with eggs!”

Solar Pons chuckled and slapped his thigh with the flat of his hand, making a sharp noise like the cracking of a pistol. “Capital, Colonel, capital!”

Colonel Mortimer glared and half-rose from his chair.

“I see nothing funny, Mr. Pons!” he snapped. “It is tragic, sir, absolutely tragic to see a first-class intellect descend to that level. And my suit was absolutely ruined! It cost me fifty guineas in Savile Row.”

I thought Pons was going to laugh out loud but he managed to control himself.

“Of course, Colonel, you are perfectly right,” he muttered. “You must excuse my keen sense of the ridiculous. What was your reaction?”

“Reaction, sir!”

The Colonel was purple in the face now.

“I was speechless. I strode off without uttering a word and when I reached the corner of the street Foy had quietly followed me and brought me down with a flying rugby tackle!”

Pons rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

“Admirable! This gets more intriguing by the moment.”

“I am glad you think so, sir,” said Mortimer curtly. “By the time I had gathered my wits together Foy had disappeared. I thought to consult my solicitor on the matter but when I had calmed down realised the folly of becoming embroiled legally. I resolved to watch and note carefully the mad antics of my neighbour.”

Here Mortimer paused a moment, took a sip of his iced beer and reached into the breast pocket of his elegant suit. There was a crackling noise as he drew out a long, folded sheet of white paper.

“I have taken the precaution of compiling a sort of diary of these insane happenings, Mr. Pons, both as they came under my own eye and as they were reported to me by others. And whenever there were newspaper reports concerning Foy I have noted the date and page reference. Perhaps you would care to glance down it.”

Pons lowered his eyelids over his eyes and sank back into his chair.

“I think not, Colonel. I would prefer you to read out to me the salient points, if you would be so good. Parker here is a percipient and loyal friend and I find his deliberations and advice on my cases most instructive.”

Mortimer glared at me suspiciously and picked up the paper with a peremptory gesture.

“If you say so, Mr. Pons,” he said ungraciously.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair at my companion’s words. Rarely had Pons been so expansive and I must confess I felt a warm glow of pleasure at his terms of approbation.

As our prickly visitor showed no sign of continuing, Pons prompted him.

“You told Parker here, if I recall correctly, Colonel, that Mr. Foy rode naked in his Rolls-Royce in the moonlight.” Mortimer nodded grimly.

“I was just coming to that, Mr. Pons. It was the next incident on my agenda, you might say. I resolved to keep watch, as I have said. I was taking my evening stroll at about eleven o’clock a few evenings later and was just turning back to retrace my steps when I became aware that Foy’s Rolls-Royce was gliding along the avenue just behind me.”

“How did you know it was Foy’s vehicle, Colonel?” “Because, as I have said, Mr. Pons, it was a bright moonlight night and his vehicle was absolutely distinctive.”

“In what way, pray?”

“It was pure white, Mr. Pons, with silver inlaid fittings, and in addition to that the man, in regrettable taste in my opinion, had his own personal number-plate.”

Pons raised his eyebrows.

“I have heard of such things, Colonel. And the number?” “FOY 1, Mr. Pons.”

Pons turned to me.

“Well, that is distinctive enough at any rate, Parker.” “Indeed, Pons,” I murmured.

“Imagine my appalled amazement, Mr. Pons, when I saw, as it drew level that the driver was stark naked!”

“It passes belief, Pons,” I muttered.

“Does it not, Parker,” said my companion with a dry chuckle. “To say nothing of a possible contravention of bye-laws. You were sure it was Foy, Colonel?”

“Absolutely,” said Mortimer grimly. “He was grinning inanely and wearing nothing but his top hat.”

“Good Lord!” I could not forbear exclaiming.

“Remarkable,” said Pons, pulling languidly at the lobe of his right ear.

“You may well say so,” the Colonel continued. “That was the opinion of Godfrey Daimler, the City banker, who was walking along the avenue just behind me. He was absolutely thunderstruck.”

“Indeed,” said Pons, his eyes keen and alert. “I understand he is involved in some of Foy’s large-scale schemes.”

“That is correct, Mr. Pons. I must confess my own financial foundations seemed to crumble as I saw that stark, raving-mad figure in the driver’s seat. He seemed absolutely moonstruck.”

“As you say,” observed my companion, rubbing his thin fingers together purposefully.

“What was your reaction?”

“Well, Mr. Pons, we were both taken aback. Before either of us could recover Foy gave a cackling laugh and accelerated off down the avenue. He had disappeared before either of us could recover our wits.”

There was a very alert expression in Pons’ eyes and he looked at me keenly.

“What does that suggest to you, Parker?”

“Insanity, Pons.”

“Perhaps. But it does present one or two indications.”

“You are on to something, Pons?”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. Your next incident, Colonel?”

“A few days later still, Mr. Pons. I had it at secondhand but from an unimpeachable source. Foy was out at Sunningdale Golf Club as a member of a foursome over the week-end. He was down three strokes on the fifteenth. I do not know if you know the course there, Mr. Pons…”

My companion shook his head impatiently.

“I have never taken the slightest interest in golf, Colonel Mortimer, and details of the intricacies of the course, which would no doubt send a golfer into raptures, would only waste your time and my own. Facts, Colonel, as to Mr. Foy’s behaviour, if you please.”

Mortimer glared fixedly in front of him as though outraged at Pons’ remarks and then collected himself with an effort.

“Very well, Mr. Pons. The fifteenth, sir. Foy was three strokes down on the hole and about ten or eleven feet from the pin. Mr. Pons, you will not believe me, but he solemnly produced a billiard cue from his golfing bag, proceeded to chalk it and calmly got down on the turf and potted his ball into the hole! Bless my soul, sir, I have never heard anything like it.”

“It was absolutely scandalous, Pons!” I observed.

“If you say so, Parker,” my companion chuckled.

Colonel Mortimer glared again and seemed to have some difficulty in controlling his feelings.

“I am, to be scrupulously fair, Mr. Pons, giving you only those incidents in Foy’s extraordinary behaviour which came directly under my own observation or those, as I have said, which come from absolutely reliable sources. I have heard even wilder tales but I will leave those out of account.”

Pons nodded, his eyes hooded, as he waited for our choleric visitor to go on.

“That was in April, Mr. Pons. Throughout May I saw little of Foy as circumstances took me to Scotland for much of the month. Then, in June, after I had returned to town, other bizarre things happened. These culminated in the annual meeting of Foy’s group of companies. As a shareholder I gave notice of my intention to attend and duly went along. Imagine my astonishment, gentlemen, when Foy, in his capacity as Chairman attended in a sober city suit, but with white drill trousers. There was consternation as he rose on the platform to make his annual report.

“He gave a garbled statement, which was nonsensical to most of those in the room, and there was uproar. Then he got up to leave precipitately and quitted the meeting, attired in a white solar pith helmet!”

The Colonel was almost foaming with rage now and I could see Pons’ lips twitch with amusement, though his eyes were alight with interest.

“And what was the result of this, Colonel?”

“Well, exactly what might have been expected, Mr. Pons. The financial press were present, of course, and made much of it. The shares have been depressed and in a week’s time there is to be an extraordinary general meeting of the Board to discuss the Chairman’s sanity. Of course, that is not the given reason for the meeting, but there is no doubt as to its implications.”

“I see,” said Pons slowly, leaning back in his chair and emitting a thin plume of blue smoke from his pipe toward the ceiling. “That is the extent of all you have to tell us?”

“I should have thought that quite enough, Mr. Pons,” said the Colonel grimly. “As I have said, I could add a great deal more, but prefer to rely on personal testimony.”

“Quite,” I interjected.

Pons nodded.

“Excellent, Colonel. You have done quite right in coming to me. You may rest assured I shall look into the matter.”

He held up his hand as though to stem an expected interruption on the part of our guest.

“And you may rely upon my tact and discretion.”

“Very well, Mr. Pons.”

Colonel Mortimer got to his feet abruptly.

“I shall expect to hear from you, Mr. Pons. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night, Colonel Mortimer.”

-3-

The door clicked to behind the dapper military figure and we heard his descending footsteps followed by the faint slam of the front door. There was silence for a few moments as Pons leaned back in his chair, his eyes bright and concentrated through his pipe-smoke.

“What do you make of it, Parker?”

“I, Pons? It seems to be plain that the matter is as the Colonel says. Foy is stark, staring mad.”

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. It is not unknown among financiers or newspaper proprietors, come to that. But I fancy there is something deeper behind it. Just hand me down that financial reference volume from the shelf behind you, if you would be so good.”

I did as he bade, passing the heavy tome to him, he remaining engrossed in it, sunk deep in his armchair, the volume on his knee, his brows knotted in concentration, blue whorls of smoke hanging about his absorbed figure. Presently he gave a grunt and brought it over to my own arm-chair.

“Just glance through that, Parker, if you would be so good and give me your observations.”

I went down the long column of information while Pons stood near the table looking through the open window curtains down at the darkling street.

“A busy and strenuous life, Pons.”

“Indeed, Parker.”

“A widower, I see. Wife died three years ago, according to this.”

“The fact had not escaped me, my dear fellow.”

“One child. The boy is now twelve, I observe. At school in Switzerland.”

Pons had turned from the window and stood looking down at me with sombre eyes.

“You have read all that, Parker, but what do you infer from it?”

I placed the heavy volume on the table at my side and threw up my hands in mock despair.

“What is there to be inferred from it, Pons? It is merely the record of one man’s busy public life.”

Pons went back to sit in his own chair, his lean face alive with concentration, his thin fingers, restless as the antennae of an insect, drumming softly on the leather arm.

“Much may be read from such facts, Parker.”

“If one knows how to draw such conclusions, Pons.”

He shot me a quick smile.

“Well observed, but what do you make, for example, of his life so far.”

I turned back to the book again and held it open on my knee, going down the column with my thumb.

“Well, according to this Foy was born in extremely humble circumstances. He largely educated himself at night-schools and by solitary reading. Opened a small shop in Houndsditch and had made his first financial coup by the age of twenty-one. He moved into the stock-market, public companies and the really big money before the age of thirty.”

“Exactly, Parker. You have hit the nail on the head. That is not the life-story of a man who is unbalanced, uncertain and erratic.”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“Perhaps so, Pons, but how are we to evaluate his mental and physical state in more recent years.”

My companion stared at me intently.

“That is fairly put, Parker, but I fancy we may draw a few further inferences from the available data.”

“I confess I do not see how, Pons.”

“That is because you are not looking beneath the surface. For example, Foy was elected to the Board of the Academy of Arts and Sciences in February this year. As you may have observed the volume you are studying came out only a few weeks ago and its entries are remarkably up to date.”

“Even so, Pons, I cannot imagine how that would help us.”

“Tut, Parker, you really must learn to use those ratiocinative faculties God has given you. The Academy is not noted for its ease of entry. Its membership bears grave responsibilities and its members are drawn only from the ranks of those outstanding men of science, art and industry, who have contributed a great deal to the country. Above all, they must be level-headed, masters of their professions and eminently sane to sit in the Academy’s councils.”

I stared at my companion.

“I see, Pons. But what are you inferring?”

Solar Pons puffed thoughtfully at his pipe.

“I am saying that Hugo Foy was as sane as you or I in February this year. In March, only a few weeks afterwards, he was as mad as a hatter if the Colonel’s testimony is to be believed.”

“You think something sudden and serious has happened to change him?”

“I am certain of it, Parker. As certain as we are sitting here. Something that runs entirely against the grain of the man; against the whole sober, even tenor of his life so far.”

“But may he not have been suddenly overtaken by insanity, Pons?”

My companion shook his head.

“I think not, Parker. I have several recent copies of the Financial Times here. I had occasion to go through them only yesterday on another matter when I could hardly help observing that Mr. Foy has been carrying out certain of his financial duties with admirable acumen. It appears to be in one field only that insanity has struck.”

And with that cryptic remark he pushed the journals over to me and not another syllable on the subject was forthcoming from him that evening.

I had to go out of town the following morning to follow up the case of a patient of mine who had had major surgery in the country, and I did not return from Hertfordshire until the late afternoon.

Pons was sitting at his table near the window absorbed in scattered sheets of paper while several bulky volumes formed a sort of rampart around the cleared space in the middle. His eyes were bright and clear and his lean, feral features bore an absorbed expression which I had come to know well.

“Ah, Parker,” he greeted me. “We progress!”

I put down my bag on my armchair and gratefully enjoyed the cool breeze which was coming in at the open windows.

“You mean the Foy case, Pons?”

“Naturally, Parker. If one can call it that at the moment.” I stared at my companion thoughtfully.

“I do not know what else you can call it, Pons. If all Colonel Mortimer says is true Hugo Foy is badly in need of help, medical or otherwise. He cannot go on in this insane manner.”

Pons lit his pipe, the flame of the match making little fiery stipples on his cheeks.

“As usual, Parker, your sturdy commonsense has hit upon the nub of the matter. But we must approach our object of study with care. I fancy we may bring about a meeting in a circuitous fashion. There is nothing so innocent and the object of enthusiasm as a man’s hobbies and he may often be taken off his guard when approached by a stranger on such an errand.”

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

“Do you not, Parker?”

There was a twinkle in Solar Pons’ eye now and he rubbed his thin fingers together with satisfaction.

“Steam yachts, Parker! Model railways!”

I turned a somewhat bewildered face to him.

“Model railways, Pons!”

“Indeed, Parker. I understand Foy is an authority on the 15-inch gauge. You will have to polish up your childhood enthusiasms.”

“I, Pons?”

Solar Pons chuckled and gave me an affirmative nod.

“You will, in fact, Parker, be one of England’s leading railway modellers. I fancy that will draw friend Foy out. And if I accompany you in your new guise, I fancy I may read much from such a man’s attitude when he is at home and off guard.” “I still do not understand you, Pons.”

“All will be made clear shortly, Parker. Ah, here is Mrs. Johnson with an excellent high tea. We are promised an exemplary ham salad followed by apple-pie and custard this evening.”

It was not until we had finished the meal that Pons again broke the heavy silence that had fallen between us. Mrs. Johnson had long cleared the things and I was sitting replete and content, studying an intriguing medical article in The Times, while a fresh and agreeable breeze came in through the half-open window, billowing the curtains and bringing with it an astonishing perfume — for Praed Street — of honeysuckle.

Pons put down the heavy, leather-bound volume he had been studying and looked at me with eyes in which enthusiasm was mingled with irony.

“If you could spare me a few minutes, my dear fellow, I would be obliged.”

I laid aside my newspaper.

“Of course, Pons.”

He moved over and brought one of the light dining-table chairs to my side.

“Here, Parker, is one of Foy’s more noted publications in the somewhat esoteric world of railway modelling. And I fancy you will find this Bassett-Lowke brochure instructive.”

I looked at my companion helplessly.

“But what am I to do with them, Pons?”

Solar Pons put his hand on my arm and said in a soothing voice, “Study them, Parker. You need only the merest gloss for my purposes. If you would be good enough to immerse yourself in them this evening in order to acquire a veneer of knowledge in the field, that will be sufficient.”

I opened the elaborate, coloured brochure, my heart sinking as I glanced at the illustrations.

“There is no getting round you, Pons,” I grumbled. “Very well, but do not blame me if this hare-brained interview comes to disaster. I promise to do my part but my mind is not so keen and adaptable as yours. I am afraid I cannot tell a fish-plate from a signal-box and if I get stuck you only have yourself to blame.”

Pons smiled again.

“You do yourself an injustice, my dear fellow.”

I went over toward the window and gazed down idly toward the street.

“But how do you know he will be there tomorrow morning, Pons?”

“Because the Colonel telephoned me this afternoon. He pointed out that Foy would be working on some books with his chief accountant earlier in the morning and that he always spent the whole day at home when thus engaged. Apparently, it is his practice to break from midday until three P.M. on these occasions. He has some sort of railway in the garden, it appears, and in summer occasionally spends an hour or so after lunch operating it.”

“Very well, Pons,” I said somewhat stiffly. “It appears that I must resign myself to this calvary.”

He looked at me sharply.

“Not a calvary, surely. You have been at my side in much more difficult not to mention dangerous situations.”

I walked back toward him and sat down again in my old chair.

“I am sorry, Pons. I am not myself this evening. I have been somewhat overworked of late and I must confess that the prospect of settling down to these wretched railway catalogues fills me with dismay.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“I am sure you will not find it difficult, Parker. And I would deeply appreciate your valuable assistance.”

“Well, if you put it like that, Pons.”

I sat down and drew the volumes toward me.

“But I know nothing of model steam locomotives, Pons. Foy will discover my ignorance in the matter in a moment.”

“I think not, Parker,” said Pons blandly. “I need the merest few minutes in the house with him. That should be sufficient for my purpose.”

I stared at my companion round-eyed.

“Then you intend to visit his home?”

“Of course. If you can spare the time. I thought just before lunch tomorrow if you can manage it.”

“It will be convenient enough for my purposes, Pons, but I cannot see the point. What do you hope to discover?”

“A little of his household arrangements. A close glimpse of the man himself.”

“But will he not think it peculiar that a fellow railway-modeller should seek him out in his own home?”

Pons pulled reflectively at the lobe of his right ear.

“I think not, Parker. It is my experience that enthusiasts, in whatever field they operate, seek one another out in their mutual interest. He might be a little surprised that you should call unannounced, but when he learns that you have some startling new innovation in the field to impart, I am sure you will be welcomed with open arms.”

I felt my exasperation rising but put the feeling aside.

“Come, Pons,” I protested. “What possible innovation could I devise for such an expert as Foy between now and tomorrow morning?”

“You under-estimate your powers, my dear Parker,” said Pons with maddening imperturbability. “Some new system of colour light signalling, shall we say? You will read Foy’s own views of the matter between pages 85 and 103 in his own published study yonder.”

I turned over the pages listlessly and stared uncomprehendingly at the elaborate line drawings that punctuated the text.

`That is all very well, Pons,” said I. “But how am I to explain your presence? He will be even less enthusiastic at receiving two strangers instead of one, surely.”

Solar Pons laid a lean forefinger alongside his nose, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“A point, Parker. A palpable point. But I shall introduce you as one of Europe’s foremost collectors of ‘0’ gauge steam trains which will, I think, allay his suspicions for the moment.”

Solar Pons stared at me, his mood changing to the serious.

“And I need only a few moments with him, Parker, in order to arrive at a considered assessment of his character. My own obscure nom-de-plume will be Horace Johnson.”

“I still feel uneasy about the whole matter, Pons. Will Foy not know all the leading European collectors?”

“Certainly, Parker, which is why you are assuming the persona of Eugene Sheffield.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

“Eugene Sheffield, Pons?”

“None other. He is one of the greatest experts in the field.” I put the books down at the small occasional table at my side.

“It is surely foolhardy in the extreme, Pons. Will he not know me for an impostor?”

“Tut, Parker, you really disappoint me. Sheffield and Foy have never met. To the best of my knowledge the former has never had his photograph published. And I have it on the best authority that he is at present travelling in South America studying the full-scale railway systems there.”

I rose to my feet and try as I would I could not keep the irritation from my voice.

“But we know so little of model engineering, Pons!”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“Ah, there you are certainly inaccurate, Parker. I have spent the greater part of the day studying and memorising material and data from these reference works and if I cannot, by tomorrow morning, sustain an intelligent conversation on the subject for a quarter of an hour without arousing suspicion in an expert mind, then I shall retire as a private consulting detective.”

-4-

I was up early next day and by dint of hurrying my calls and thereby scandalising some of my more elderly and querulous patients was able to return to Praed Street at a little after eleven o’clock. Pons was in excellent spirits, his manner alert and dynamic and by half-past we were in a taxi on our way to Kensington. Though I had spent some hours the previous evening studying and, as I thought, memorising salient points of the complex engineering manuals and catalogues on the model steam locomotive world, I found to my horror, that much of what had seemed simple the night before had simply slipped my memory.

Pons immediately sensed my problem and came to my rescue with a reassuring smile and his usual sound advice.

“Try not to think of specific points, my dear fellow, but the subject in general. After all, Foy may simply accept you at your face value.”

I must confess I was cheered at his attitude but as we grew nearer to our destination and the driver took a side-turning, I felt a growing apprehension. This was not assisted by the sight of the imposing-looking mansions with which we were now surrounded.

The driver drew in to the curb and looked at Pons curiously. “You didn’t specify any particular address, guvnor.”

Pons nodded affably.

“Indeed. You are perfectly correct. This will do admirably.”

We got out and I waited while Pons paid the driver. It was a superb summer’s day such as we had been enjoying for some while and the brilliant sunlight sparkled blindingly off white-painted plaster and reflected back in myriad points of dazzlement from windows, brass door-knockers and from the shimmering surfaces of coach-lamps which projected from walls and hung over doorways of the impeccably-kept mansions about us.

The Palladian porches, elaborate balconies and statued entrances of the mansions stretched in an elegant curve, each separated by high hedges and immaculately tended gardens from its neighbour. I followed Pons along the pavement and through an elaborate wrought-iron gate, up a flagged walk under an archway to a severe flight of steps which led to the entrance porch. There was an agreeable scent of roses and, above the faint murmur of traffic, came the gentle, soothing beat of a lawn-mower.

“It’s another world, Pons,” I said, casting an appreciative eye on this green, shadowy place which spoke of unobtrusive wealth and luxury.

“Is it not, Parker,” said Pons ironically, but I could see from the keen, penetrating glances he was shooting from side to side, that he was as coolly detached as ever; totally unimpressed by the milieu, which in truth he probably thought over-ornate, but alert at the same time to every nuance which might tell him something about the life-style and private problems of Hugo Foy.

We were, however, somewhat rudely interrupted by a piercing screech and so harsh and obtrusive was this in such a quiet place that I started involuntarily. Pons was smiling, however, and almost immediately I noticed what his keen eye had already picked out, a plume of white steam above the tree-tops and a few moments later came the thundering rumble of steel wheels sliding along metal rails.

“I fancy our man is not far off,” said Pons drily. “Let us just follow this path.”

He strode on down a winding, rustic by-way that led among tangled masses of flowers in rockery beds at either side and this shortly brought us to a secluded part of the garden where small gauge steel rails had been laid out, their shining ribbon sparkling in the sunlight as they gently curved and wound until they were lost to sight among the trees.

As we gained the lower level we came in full view of a remarkable spectacle. Here, laid out and back-grounded against luxuriant vegetation and thickly clustered trees was a complete scale model of a large suburban railway station with miniature chocolate machines, waiting room and even electric lighting on the platforms. Miniature signals showed red as in correct railway practice and even as we drew closer there came the sharp, repetitive clanging of the repeater bells of an electric telegraph.

Pons’ eyes sparkled with approval and he bent down at the edge of the asphalt platform, admiring the craftsmanship of the station roof with its glass panels discoloured by soot as in full-scale practice.

“Our Mr. Foy is nothing if not thorough, Parker,” he said crisply. “Let us just wait here a moment. If I mistake not the through express for Scotland should be drawing in quite shortly.”

As he spoke the signals outside the station changed to green and there was a heavy thudding vibration on the line which rose to thunder as the gleaming dark red livery of a steam locomotive broke from the heavy shadow of trees about a hundred yards away and flashed and sparkled into the sunshine. Behind it was a van and then six brown and chocolate coaches, their bright enamel and heavy brass fittings flashing and winking as the sunlight caught them. I was lost in admiration so that the strange apparition of the silver-haired man in blue dungarees, crouched in the engine cab, almost escaped me. But I was roused from my reverie by Pons removing his hat and giving the engine-driver a courtly bow.

“Forgive the liberty. Mr. Foy, is it not? My name is Horace Johnson. May I present Mr. Eugene Sheffield. One steam enthusiast meets another. Quite an historic moment.”

The dark cloud of suspicion which had gathered on the millionaire’s face — for I had recognized Hugo Foy from his newspaper representations — cleared immediately and he edged the beautiful machine gently into the station where it grunted to itself and emitted dense clouds of steam. He wiped his hands on an oily rag and leaped nimbly to the ground.

“Mr. Sheffield! I am truly honoured.”

It was only then that I remembered my assumed role.

“Beautiful, my dear sir, beautiful,” I observed. “A magnificent example of a four-six-four locomotive. Sir Nigel Apthorpe if I am not mistaken, at the head of a six-coach unit representing a King’s Cross-Edinburgh express.”

Foy moved away from the locomotive, revealing the nameplate, which I was relieved to see I had identified correctly, a smile of enthusiastic approval on his face.

“I had thought you were abroad, Mr. Sheffield,” he said, holding out his hand. “I do not usually welcome being disturbed at this hour of the day, when I indulge my hobby, but fellow enthusiasts are always welcome. Pray introduce your friend formally.”

“I have just returned home,” I said in answer to Foy’s first comment. “Allow me to present Mr. Johnson, a fellow enthusiast who, learning of my proposed visit to such a distinguished expert, asked to be allowed to accompany me.”

By Pons’ face I saw that I had acquitted myself well and was emboldened by the flush of pleasure on Foy’s face as he crossed the turf to shake hands with my companion.

“Forgive the state of my hands, gentlemen. This is a somewhat greasy hobby, as you both full well know. Will you not step into the house and let me offer you some refreshment.”

`That is extremely kind,” I said. “So long as it does not rob us of the pleasure of seeing you take Sir Nigel out again afterward.”

Foy laughed pleasantly. He had frank, open features, with the square, firm jaw often found in captains of industry; strong white teeth and lines of concentration at the corners of the mouth. He was an energetic, not to say dynamic figure but I fancy I saw signs of sorrow and strain in the depths of his brown eyes and beneath the facade of his good manners. But he took me by the elbow and guided me up the steps to the upper garden, leaving the locomotive hissing to itself in the sunshine.

“By all means, gentlemen. I know how you feel. I am fortunate in being able to devote so much space to my lay-out here in the heart of London.”

He looked at me shrewdly as we gained the higher level. “But you had a specific purpose to your visit, Mr. Sheffield?”

“Oh, indeed,” I returned.

I patted the small brown leather briefcase I carried beneath my arm.

“It is something I think will interest you.”

The eyes were concentrated to mere slits now.

“On model railway engineering?”

“Of course,” I replied. “Why else should I be here?”

Hugo Foy rubbed his begrimed fingers together with satisfaction and then carried on wiping them with a piece of oily waste he took from the pocket of his dungarees.

“Why indeed,” he said drily.

He was striding nimbly ahead, an incongruous figure in his proletarian garb against the sparkling white of the mansion which now again began to compose itself against the thick mantle of trees. He led the way At a fast pace up the steps and the ornate front door was already being opened by a white-haired butler in severe morning clothes who evinced no surprise at his master’s strange garb.

We were now inside an elegant and spacious entrance hall floored in black and white marble tiles, while a white-painted staircase arched its way upward to where a graceful round window in the far wall threw the dappled shadows of tree branches against the silk wallpaper.

“A glass of sherry and a biscuit, gentlemen? I normally eat lunch at my desk but it is not yet the hour.”

“By all means,” put in Pons smoothly. “You are most kind.”

“Most kind,” I mumbled, shooting covert glances about me as I followed Pons and our strange host across to a set of sliding rosewood doors which Foy threw peremptorily open. He led us into a magnificent panelled drawing room, exquisitely furnished with Second Empire pieces.

It was a little too ornate for my taste, not to say flamboyant, but the whole thing had been done with impeccable taste and I could see that Pons was impressed too. His lean face bore a thoughtful expression and his sharp eyes were shooting glances this way and that as we walked over toward the fireplace.

There was a beautiful rosewood desk near the mantelpiece and Foy went to seat himself behind it, waving us to chairs. As though by some unseen signal a middle-aged woman with greying hair and with a manner of great dignity and authority almost glided into the room and looked at our millionaire host questioningly.

“Ah, Mrs. Harewood,” he said with that easy, pleasant manner I have often observed among the very rich, “I would be obliged if you would have sent in some sherry and the dry special biscuits. Or better still, bring them yourself.”

“By all means, Mr. Foy.”

The housekeeper, for so I took her to be, gave us a tight-lipped smile as she turned from her employer and came back down the room toward the door. I fancied I caught on her own features some of that repressed sadness I had noticed in Foy himself and I was intrigued. It seemed obvious that the madness that was descending on the master of the house had also cast its shadow on these devoted retainers for the butler also, as he let us in, had looked at Foy in a somewhat wistful, reflective manner as though he had hidden thoughts he found difficult to repress.

“Your son also has a deep interest in your model engineering activities, Mr. Foy?” said Pons pleasantly.

The question was innocuous enough but I saw the housekeeper start as though she had been stung and she could not repress a stifled cry. Pons’ deep-set eyes were fixed upon her unwinkingly but Foy’s reaction was even more startling. He turned ashy-white and sagged in his chair as though he would have fallen. His eyes glittered strangely as he stared from Pons to me like a wild animal at bay. Then he had recovered himself and the bizarre, even dangerous expression of his face, resumed normality.

“Naturally, Mr. Johnson,” he said in a little too forced a tone.

His eyes sought the housekeeper’s and there was anger in them now. She had a handkerchief out and pressed to her face as she quitted the room rather abruptly. But Pons appeared to have noticed nothing, merely glancing round the vast room, as though with tacit approval.

“He is not here at the moment?”

The millionaire shook his head. He was master of himself again.

“At school in Switzerland,” he ventured in a harsh, barking tone. “But you did not come here to see my son, Mr. Johnson. Shall we get down to the business at hand? My time is limited, gentlemen.”

“Of course, Mr. Foy,” I said, somewhat desperately, for I realised that my thin and newly-acquired veneer of expertise was now to be put to a severe test.

“It was good of you to see us at all.”

His manner changed immediately. He had been glancing at Pons in a somewhat suspicious manner but now he relaxed, spreading his hands wide on the arm of his chair.

“Think nothing of it, gentlemen. My miniature railway activities are my most important private interest.”

A slight look of weariness passed across his face.

“A passion you might almost say. But perhaps it would be best to reserve discussion until after Mrs. Harewood returns with the refreshments.”

“By all means, Mr. Foy,” I replied, secretly glad of the opportunity of putting my briefcase aside.

Pons had risen now, with a muttered apology, and quitting his chair moved slowly to the mantelpiece.

“I see you have some exquisite Meissen, Mr. Foy.”

The millionaire looked at Pons sharply, putting his begrimed hands down on the blotter on his desk, where they sat like two quivering antennae.

“You are a man of discernment, Mr. Johnson.”

Pons bowed gracefully but I could see his gaze sweeping across the silver-framed photographs on the desk and mantel-shelf.

We were interrupted at that moment by the return of the housekeeper with a rubber-wheeled trolley on which reposed a silver tray, a crystal decanter, three matching glasses and a porcelain biscuit barrel, hand-painted with delicate primrose patterns. She handed me a plate and went over toward Pons.

I put mine down nervously on a small occasional table at my elbow. Even the plates looked like collector’s items and I was afraid I might break mine, such was the state of my nerves. Only Pons of all the people in the room seemed to be master of himself and he glanced at me with twinkling eyes, perfectly at ease as he stood by the mantel.

I noticed he again had his gaze fixed upon a large cabinet photograph in a silver frame which appeared to depict Foy, an elegant woman, presumably his wife, and a small child. He turned from the picture as the housekeeper moved to the trolley to pour the sherry.

“Regarding your son, Mr. Foy,” said Pons musingly. “A handsome child is he not…”

He broke off and I looked at the housekeeper in astonishment. Mrs. Harewood gave a choking cry and put the decanter back on the tray with a heavy clatter. She looked wildly round the room for a moment and then rushed out. Heavy sobs could be heard in the hallway. I got up as the millionaire crouched like a beast at bay behind his desk. His face was grey and his oil-covered hands clenched and unclenched as though he could not control them. I fancied I could hear the grinding of his teeth as he forced the words out through his trembling lips.

“Who are you and what do you want here?”

He was addressing Pons, not me and I stared in alarm at the wild-looking figure of Hugo Foy, whose control seemed to have left him entirely. Solar Pons put his hands in his pockets and looked at our host coolly, a wistful smile on his lips.

“Well, I am not a miniature railway enthusiast, Mr. Foy, as you have no doubt divined. Shall we just say one who has your interests at heart.”

The millionaire was on his feet now, his face distorted with anger and fright. I have never seen such a change come over a man in all my years of medical practice.

“No-one can help me, Mr. Johnson! I desire no help! Kindly leave my house at once.”

Pons gave Foy a little bow, his eyes never leaving the other’s face.

“If you should need my assistance at any time, Mr. Foy, I will be in touch with you at a later date.”

The millionaire’s face blazed with anger and a little colour was coming back into his face.

“How dare you gain entrance to my home under false pretences! I have a good mind to call the police.”

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

“An excellent idea, Mr. Foy. I observe there is a telephone on the desk at your elbow. I shall await their arrival with interest.”

Foy bit his lip and he appeared to sway on his feet. He passed a hand over his face with a wearisome gesture.

“Forgive me, Mr. Johnson, or whatever your name is. All the same I should be grateful if you would leave me in peace.” Solar Pons inclined his head.

“As you wish, Mr. Foy. But you have not heard the last of us.” I followed him out of the room, clutching my briefcase, only thankful that I had not had to expose my flimsy railway expertise to the scrutiny of the millionaire. The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen and a pert maid let us out, wide-eyed and obviously agitated. Solar Pons strode back through the sunshine of the grounds so swiftly that I had difficulty keeping up with him.

“Well, Parker, what do you make of it?”

I shook my head, watching our shadows, long and heavy on the dusty path.

“Mr. Foy has all the aspect of an angry and guilty man, Pons.”

“Has he not, Parker. We shall have to act quickly. He is a person labouring under severe mental strain and may do anything in his present mood.”

A sudden thought flickered across my mind, like a faint streak of lightning against dark cloud.

“Heavens, Pons! You do not think he would do harm to his own child? His agitation stemmed from your questions about the boy.”

I stopped and stared at Pons as the implications sank in. “Perhaps money is involved. You surely do not imply…” Pons interrupted me abruptly with an emphatic shake of his head. We resumed our walk toward the entrance to the grounds.

“A mentally sick man could do anything, Pons,” I said slowly. ‘The Colonel’s observations may be only the tip of the iceberg. Ought we not to call in a mental specialist?”

Solar Pons had a faint smile at the corners of his mouth now.

“Hardly, Parker. You forget we have no standing in this matter at all. We are here on sufferance, at the behest of your acquaintance, Colonel Mortimer. We shall have to tread very warily indeed if I am to unravel this business.”

And he said no more until we had regained our own quarters in Praed Street.

-5-

We fell to on a late lunch and Mrs. Johnson had no sooner cleared the first course than Pons filled his pipe and sat puffing moodily, until he was enveloped in plumes of acrid blue smoke. I stood it as long as I could and then moved pointedly nearer the open window. Pons smiled sardonically.

“Forgive me, my dear fellow. Just let me have your own impressions of the sudden madness of Mr. Hugo Foy, now that you have had the opportunity of observing him at close quarters.”

I shook my head.

“I am no nearer plumbing the depths than I was before the visit, Pons.”

“Come, Parker. Surely you have formed some opinions?”

“He is obviously mad, Pons. You saw how he behaved today. We already have all the examples enumerated by Colonel Mortimer and he is a man not at all given to exaggeration.”

Pons drew his eyebrows together, his forehead corrugated with concentration.

“I must take your word for that, Parker. The boy appears to be the key to this matter.”

“His son, Pons?”

My companion nodded, his face grim through the smoke. A sudden thought had come to me. I stared at him as though thunderstruck.

“You are not suggesting that he has done away with the child, Pons? It is too horrible to contemplate!”

Solar Pons blew smoke away from his face impatiently.

“You are not concentrating, Parker. Mr. Foy’s madness is in one area only. I postulate that this is of the utmost significance.”

I glanced at him sharply through the wreathing bands of smoke.

“I do not follow you, Pons.”

My companion chuckled.

“It would not be the first time, Parker, if I may say so without offence. Just use your considerable ratiocinative gifts and we will go through the salient points together, one by one.”

“Well Pons, it seems to me that we have already discussed the subject ad nauseam. Of what use can it be me going through the thing again, when all is so dark?”

Solar Pons gave me an approving look.

“Modesty was ever one of your virtues, Parker. You are the man in the street, par excellence, if I may make so bold.”

“You have not offended me, Pons, but your meaning is not at all clear.”

“You are the supreme catalyst, Parker. You put your objections to the matters under discussion so simply and clearly that I have no difficulty in eliminating the dross, which facilitates my going to the heart of the matter.”

“You certainly have a very elaborate way of dressing up your disparaging remarks,” I grumbled.

My companion shot me an approving smile.

“I am waiting, Parker.”

“Mr. Foy appears to be, as you say, insane on only one subject.”

“And that is?”

“His business life. He was certainly as matter-of-fact as I in his operating of that model railway.”

Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe.

`There you have it, Parker. A palpable hit. Your bluff manner conceals considerable shrewdness.”

“Come, Pons, I am tiring of the game in this heat. You surely have some indications which lead you in a particular direction?”

Pons nodded.

“I have had some exhaustive inquiries made, Parker. The implications are disturbing.”

My impatience must have shown on my face for my companion relented.

“Here, my dear fellow.”

He rummaged in an inside pocket of his jacket and thrust a typewritten document toward me. It bore the printed heading of a well-known department of the public service and was headed Confidential. The word was underlined three times.

“What does this mean, Pons?” I stumbled out.

I looked at the figures in amazement, the blood draining from my face.

“Hugo Foy’s late wife was the daughter of a Bolivian tin millionaire, Parker. She left three million pounds sterling in trust for her son at her death.”

I looked at the document again, hardly daring to analyse the thoughts raised within my own mind. They were ugly, unbelievable thoughts and I felt a small bead of perspiration trickle down my forehead.

“Her son inherits the money at the age of twenty-one.” “Precisely, Parker.”

I raised my head from the paper.

“And if the son dies before attaining his majority that vast sum of money passes unconditionally to Hugo Foy. It raises ugly possibilities, to put it no higher.”

Solar Pons’ face was grim.

“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. There is the question here of his relations with his wife.”

I stared at my companion blankly.

“You are surely not suggesting that Mrs. Foy’s own death was not due to natural causes? Great Heavens, Pons!”

Solar Pons shook his head slowly.

“I am suggesting nothing, Parker. But we must be alert to all possibilities in such a matter. These waters may be deeper than the Colonel imagined.”

I looked at him sharply.

“There is something you have not told me, Pons.”

“You are distinctly improving, Parker. I have already cabled to the Swiss police this morning.”

He brought out a buff form from his pocket and passed it to me. I scanned the printed wording, coldness irradiating my spine. It was from Zurich and said simply:

Pons put his hand on his lip as the heavy tread of Mrs. Johnson sounded on the stairs.

“We will take this up again after lunch is concluded, Parker.”

-6-

I was called away that afternoon on an emergency concerning an elderly patient and saw little of Pons for the next two days. Fortunately, my patient was well out of danger by then and I was able to relax my efforts. The hospital to which I had had him conveyed was in the Holborn area and I was on my way to the nearest Tube station when I was arrested by the sight of a newsvendor’s placard at the entrance. It proclaimed in heavy black type: CRISIS IN PARAGONIA. “TIGER” MARCEAU SAYS HE WILL RETURN.

I would probably have thought little more of it — after all, crises in South America are hardly uncommon — when my eye was taken by another handwritten poster for The Star next to the previous announcement. That proclaimed: SOUTH AMERICAN SHARES SLUMP; HUGO FOY AT CENTRE OF CRISIS. With Colonel Mortimer’s choleric face flashing before me I hastily paid my halfpenny and plunged into the depths of the station. On my way home I perused the headlines and stories with deep interest, almost missing my stop in consequence.

There were two major stories; the crisis in Paragonia itself and the moves to combat it by the military dictator in charge: and two pages of gloomy City news inside regarding the landslide in South American shares. Apparently a gigantic new industrial scheme in that unhappy country involving a dam and a hydro-electric power plant, essential to the economy of the country, was endangered.

I must confess I could not at first see whether the military crisis had been engendered by the share fluctuations or the other way around but when I read that the conglomerates which Hugo Foy controlled were behind the hydro-electric scheme I began to see the deep nature and gravity of the situation.

I arrived home plunged in gloom, not only because the plight of such wretched countries always involves human suffering on a colossal scale, but because I was concerned also with Mortimer’s potential financial loss and the additional problems in which this might involve Pons. I was prepared then for a sombre countenance on Pons’ part but was staggered on my arrival at 7B to find the room blue with smoke; my friend puffing furiously at his pipe as he sat at the centre of it, engrossed in a pile of evening newspapers; his eyes shining with excitement; and every atom of his being infused with decision.

“Ah, you have seen the papers, Parker!” he said crisply. “We progress!”

“You cannot mean it, Pons,” I replied. “I see nothing but chaos and difficulty for that unhappy country.”

“Tut, Parker,” he said irritably, though his dancing eyes belied the tone, “Passing shadows. The mere effect of a cause which is no longer obscure to me. It is as though the Foy case is spread out clear and plain where all was murky before.”

I put my case down and slumped into my armchair.

“I wish you would make yourself more intelligible, Pons,” I complained. “It is far from clear and plain to me.”

We were interrupted at that moment by the thunderous tread of feet on the stairs and the somewhat dishevelled form of Colonel Mortimer literally erupted into the room. He clutched a newspaper in his hand and his eyes had a dull glitter which I did not like.

“Have you seen the news, Mr. Pons!” he groaned. “It is utter disaster for the Foy empire.”

“Pray do not distress yourself, Colonel,” said Pons coolly. “On the contrary, as I have just been telling friend Parker here, we begin to see daylight.”

Mortimer slumped into the chair I held out for him, suddenly conscious that he must present a somewhat ludicrous sight.

“You cannot mean it, Mr. Pons!”

Pons cast me a glance of amused sympathy.

“You are beginning to sound like friend Parker, Colonel,” he said. “Nevertheless, what I say is nothing but the literal truth. These events in Paragonia present me for the first time with a chain of connected events. I have already been in touch with friend Jamison.”

I stared at my friend bewilderedly.

“For what purpose, Pons?”

“Why, Parker, the reason is surely obvious. We must have official backing where there are people of diplomatic status involved. And we have little enough time to lose.”

Colonel Mortimer was a trifle more himself again. I hastened to pour him a glass of brandy and water from the sideboard, which he took in great gulps as though it were a bitterly cold day and he just rescued from drowning.

“It is obvious, Mr. Pons, you know a great deal more than we do. This is a serious business.”

“It is, Colonel,” said Pons grimly. “It is far more serious than a mere matter of stocks and shares. Human life is at stake and I cannot afford to make the slightest miscalculation!”

I stared at him, my features, I fear, stiffening with astonishment. He rose from his chair and put his hand gently on my arm.

“Patience, my dear Parker. The Colonel’s problems are connected merely with scraps of paper. Human life is something else again.”

“I most certainly agree with you, Mr. Pons,” said Colonel Mortimer stiffly, draining the last of his tumbler. “You must forgive me, sir. You have only to say if I can be of any service.”

Pons’ voice had moderated as he turned toward our visitor.

“Your sentiments do you great credit, Colonel. Believe me when I say I have the matter well in hand. And if I bring this business to a successful conclusion well, then, the enterprises in which Mr. Hugo Foy is engaged will recover of themselves. My advice to you is to go home and get a good night’s sleep. I will be in touch with you just as soon as I have anything concrete to report.”

The colour was back in Colonel Mortimer’s cheeks now. “As you will, Mr. Pons,” he said, shaking my companion by the hand. “I have every confidence in you, sir.”

“I appreciate the fact,” said Pons gravely. “Parker, if you would be so kind as to show our visitor out.”

When I returned from the lower hall I found Pons sunk in a brown study, his chin resting on his hands, his eyes sombre and drawn to brilliant points of light.

However, he roused himself as I drew near.

“You have your revolver handy, Parker?”

“Indeed, Pons,” I replied with surprise. “I do not understand your question.”

“No matter. We may have need of it before this business is through. I take it I can rely upon your support?”

“Indeed, Pons,” I said somewhat stiffly. “You know you can always rely upon that.”

I sat down in the armchair opposite him and studied him closely.

“You have something in mind, Pons?”

He nodded somewhat impatiently, his eyes narrowed almost to slits.

“I am poised on a knife-edge, Parker. I have almost all the threads of this affair in my hands. But my suppositions are circumstantial only. And if I go wrong there may be a dreadful tragedy.”

I made an instinctive movement in the chair.

“In what way may I help you, Pons?”

“By being a catalyst, Parker. You are always that. And by giving me your always valuable support. Are you free this evening?”

I nodded.

“Most certainly, Pons.”

“Excellent!”

He rubbed his thin hands together.

“I have taken the liberty of telephoning our usual establishment to hire a motor vehicle for the next two or three days. It should be here shortly. In the meantime, while we are waiting, I should be glad if you would fetch your revolver and a box of cartridges.”

“Certainly, Pons.”

I complied though still somewhat puzzled and when I returned to our sitting-room I found Pons standing at the window, looking down at the street.

“The vehicle has arrived, Parker. It is the machine you have been used to driving on previous occasions. Mrs. Johnson has brought up the keys. She will be up again directly with some sandwiches and coffee. We shall have to wait until it is almost dusk before we set out and I am only sorry we could not delay until you have had a more substantial meal.”

“It does not matter, Pons,” I said. “I have not yet read all the details of this baffling business.”

Over the coffee I perused the newspaper headings and the two related stories at my leisure; both the events detailed in the financial pages, as I have already indicated, seemed interconnected with the trouble in Paragonia which occupied the front two pages of the newspaper. I put it down at last and sat regarding Pons who was draining his second cup of coffee at the table opposite.

“Just who is this Tiger Marceau, Pons?”

He chuckled grimly.

“About the most dangerous man in South America, Parker. A born adventurer and saboteur, the son of a French father and an American Indian woman. He has been behind nine-tenths of the mischief in that unhappy corner of the world for the past dozen years or so.”

“I see you have studied him, Pons.”

“Have I not, Parker. Such exotic animals interest me as much as the zoo-keeper absorbed in some rare but savage beast which is put in his charge.”

“But how is he concerned here?”

Pons picked up his pipe and tapped its bowl against an ashtray, making a sharp, explosive sound in the room.

“You may be sure he is one of the linchpins, Parker. Titus O’Hara, the President and purportedly the strong-man of Paragonia, is nothing but a puppet figure. Mark my words, Marceau is behind the trouble there, with O’Hara making all the required noises. The Tiger is aptly named. He is a professional assassin, a trained saboteur and a deadly killer. From what I have read this case of Foy’s bears all the earmarks of his methods.”

“I must confess I am absolutely confused at all this, Pons. Hydro-electric schemes; Foy’s involvement; Tiger Marceau and O’Hara; everything is disconnected in my estimation.”

“Yet there is an overriding link,” said my companion sombrely. “It was idiotic of me not to see it sooner. Let us just pray we are in time.”

He sprang to his feet suddenly, as though invisible machinery had instantaneously animated his limbs.

“It grows dark, Parker. Now, if you are ready, we must be off!”

-7-

I moved along the tall brick wall, keeping close behind Pons, the velvety shadows of leaves across our faces. I had left our hired Morris tourer in a quiet side-street a short distance away and we had walked to Hugo Foy’s residence. We had found an unlocked side gate and now skirted the vast garden, making our way toward the lit bulk of the house.

Twice we had had to pass the entrance gate because of a patrolling policeman but now all was quiet, the only sounds the occasional soft footfall of a passer-by on the dusty pavement in the distance and the soft whisper of even more distant traffic.

“You are certain Foy is at home, Pons?”

Pons nodded, his voice low and urgent as he replied.

“There is no doubt about his movements this evening. I have had Brother Bancroft take care of that.”

I paused in surprise.

“The Foreign Office, Pons?”

“Naturally, Parker. They were already au fait with the outlines of the affair and when I pointed out the possibilities to Bancroft he was swift to move, despite his bulk.”

There was a faint smile on his face as he turned back to the house and put his finger to his lips. We were now within the shadow cast by a vast cedar tree at the edge of the lawn and from this vantage point, unseen ourselves, though the brilliant moonlight picked out every leaf and blade of grass, we waited, our eyes fixed upon the entrance steps of Hugo Foy’s mansion and the yellow lozenge of light imprinted upon the frosted glass of the front door.

We had not been there more than twenty minutes when the faint hum of a car strengthened to a loud rumble. Pons drew me back into the deepest shadow of the tree-trunk.

“This may perhaps be something, Parker. Let us hope so.”

Yellow beams of light from car headlamps swept up the gravel and as near as I could make out in the moonlight a large, gleaming closed car of the very largest and most expensive type crunched to a halt in front of the entrance steps. There was obviously another driveway to the house which allowed access for motor vehicles.

“Goodness, Pons,” I murmured, “that is an imposing-looking vehicle.”

“Is it not, Parker. A Mercedes-Benz, I fancy.”

I glanced at his dim face in surprise.

“I did not know you were an expert on motor-cars, Pons.”

“Neither am I, Parker. But with these night-glasses I should be hard put to it to mistake the distinctive motif on the bonnet.”

I saw now that he had a small pair of binoculars to his eyes and he focused them impatiently as the door of the automobile slammed to. A few moments later a bulky figure in evening dress hurried up the steps. He was evidently expected for the porch-light winked on momentarily and the front door was rapidly opened to admit him, and as rapidly closed behind him, while the light went off.

I glanced at Pons again but held my peace, contenting myself with straining my eyes through the moonlight to where the Mercedes stood. I could now see that there was no chauffeur; the man in evening dress had evidently driven himself. I saw something else too; a large piece of coloured cloth limply moving at the front of the bonnet.

“What on earth is that, Pons?” I whispered. “It looks like a flag.”

“It is a pennant, Parker. The Mercedes is a diplomatic vehicle. Unless I miss my guess it comes from the Paragonian Embassy.”

I looked at him sharply.

“Good heavens, Pons! But what does this mean? Are Foy and the Paragonians plotting something diabolical…”

Pons seized me firmly by the arm and drew me even farther back into the shadow.

“It means, my dear Parker, that my suppositions were correct. We have little time. Would you be good enough to fetch the car round, avoiding drawing attention to yourself if possible. I should park at least a hundred yards from Foy’s entrance in order to remain inconspicuous. Kindly remain behind the wheel and ready to drive off until I rejoin you.”

“Certainly, Pons. What will you be doing?”

“I shall keep the house under observation until our friend leaves. I wish to know whether he will be alone or whether Foy will accompany him. If the latter it will complicate matters. I can regain the road without being seen while our man turns the car round.”

“Very well, Pons. It will not take me more than five minutes.”

I must say I did an excellent job of keeping in the darkest patches of shadow as I made my way from the garden and less than four minutes had elapsed before I was once more behind the wheel of the Morris. I drove back and parked some way down the road from Foy’s house, beneath some trees, as Pons had requested. I had no sooner switched the engine off before I heard a car start up somewhere behind the thick hedge which led to the shadowy garden. I was wondering what to do when the lean form of Pons appeared at the edge of the pavement. In a few strides he was at the passenger door.

“Gently, Parker. We must not alarm him. Our man — I believe it to be the Ambassador himself — is alone. We must make certain what direction he is taking before he drives off or we shall lose him. And we cannot afford that.”

He slipped into the seat beside me.

“But the Ambassador, Pons! What does it all mean?”

Solar Pons looked at me sternly.

“It must be of vital importance for the Ambassador himself to risk coming here tonight. It is life and death, certainly! Ah, here is our man!”

He put his hand on my arm, preventing me from switching on the ignition, and we waited tensely as the yellow headlamp beams of the Mercedes swept down the drive toward the main road.

Instead of coming toward us, as I had feared, it glided majestically to the right, away from us down the road. Pons’ hand had lifted from my arm now and I switched on the ignition, easing out from the kerb as the rear-lights of the Mercedes disappeared round the corner.

“Side-lights only, Parker,” came Pons’ calm voice. “At least, all the while we are beneath the metropolitan street lamps.”

I had turned the corner now and was relieved to see the Mercedes going away from us at a stately pace so that I was able to keep a fair distance between the two vehicles without losing sight of our quarry.

“If I had known that you needed me for following such a vehicle, Pons,” I said somewhat irritably, “we could have hired a more powerful machine.”

“That is perfectly true,” said my companion equably, “and it is unfortunate that we are ill-matched so far as speed is concerned. However, the question does not arise all the time we are within the built-up areas.”

“But what if he goes into the country, Pons?”

“That is another matter entirely, Parker, but I fancy the gentleman in front of us would not wish to draw attention to himself by excessive speed, unless I very much miss my guess.”

For the first half-hour it was as Pons had predicted; the Mercedes proceeded with almost majestic calm, moving smoothly away from traffic lights and almost idling on its way, though I could truly appreciate the reserves of power beneath the bonnet by the way it drew easily ahead of the more plebeian traffic.

We were travelling almost due south now and we soon struck the Bayswater Road, where the Mercedes turned right and straight on through Holland Park Avenue toward Chiswick. The big machine turned left over Kew Bridge without any hesitation, the Thames like a steel engraving in the moonlight, and went unerringly in the southerly direction, its pace still unhurried.

I had dropped back to allow several other vehicles between us and I was certain the man driving the car in front was too absorbed in his task to realise that he was being followed, the traffic being fairly thick tonight and the lights of headlights and from street-lamps and signs making a raucous symphony of colour. Pons leaned forward and rubbed his thin hands together.

“It will be Surrey, Parker! I was certain it would not be far.” “I am not at all clear, Pons…” I began when he motioned me to silence.

At almost the same moment I noticed that the big machine was turning yet again. We had already skirted Kew Gardens and the Old Deer Park and now, the road through Richmond Park being closed to vehicular traffic at dusk, our quarry was going left again to take Upper Richmond Road before turning sharp right in the direction of Kingston.

Pons sat back with satisfaction, his keen eyes never leaving the opulent motor-car ahead, while his thin fingers were engaged in filling his pipe with tobacco. As soon as he had got it drawing to his satisfaction, the bowl making little fiery stipples on his sharp, ascetic features, he turned to me, the fragrant smoke eddies hanging about his head.

“It would not be far from Central London, Parker. Surrey would do nicely. Accessibility combined with surprising remoteness from the urban centres.”

He seemed to be musing to himself.

“In parts one could almost be in the Highlands of Scotland.”

“It is the pines, Pons,” I said.

“Eigh?”

He looked at me sharply, as though seeing me for the first time.

“You are occasionally surprisingly irrelevant, Parker, but I could not wish for a more ideal companion.”

I kept my eyes fixed on the vehicle ahead. There were two other cars between us still, with a motor lorry just overtaking our own vehicle. I dropped back a little farther, just in case the driver of the Mercedes happened to be looking in his mirror.

“It is good of you to say so, Pons. Ah, he is turning again.”

The Mercedes indeed drew to the right of the junction; he evidently intended to skirt Kingston as we were now going in the direction of Malden.

“I give him another ten minutes, Parker,” Pons breathed. ‘Within easy reach of civilisation and yet remote enough. Let us hope it will not be too far for us to reach a telephone kiosk.”

“For what purpose, Pons?”

My companion turned to me in surprise.

“Why, to summon assistance, Parker, assuming my suppositions are proved correct. Bancroft is standing by and Jamison and a squad of armed police can be out here within the hour.”

I concealed my surprise as we had arrived at the junction now and I was engaged in turning across the traffic. The Mercedes was already well away and I had some little difficulty in drawing within a reasonable distance. We were now in a sparsely populated area of open heathland clad with thick trees and the Mercedes turned left after a few hundred yards, along a secondary lane. I slowed and looked at Pons enquiringly. The headlights of the big machine were clearly visible among the trees as it went steadily away from the main road.

“We shall have to risk it, Parker,” said Pons crisply. “If you can drive on the sidelights without putting us in the ditch so much the better.”

“There is a hotel almost opposite,” I said, indicating a low-built road-house from which a crimson glow shone invitingly. ‘We should be able to telephone from there.”

“Providing the Ambassador intends to stop in this vicinity,” Pons observed. “The lane may go straight through to join up with another road.”

I had pulled off the main thoroughfare, bumping into the narrow entrance and had almost immediately followed Pons’ suggestion, retaining only the sidelights. It was not very difficult following the big car in the bright moonlight as I could still see the glow from its own headlamps but the deep shadow cast by clumps of trees made visibility difficult at times. A cluster of cottages slid by, oil lamps burning in the windows.

“Truly rural,” I observed.

“You are developing a pretty wit, Parker,” said Pons blandly. “But please oblige me by concentrating all your attention upon the road.”

We had not far to go, fortunately, for almost immediately after Pons spoke I noticed the headlights blink out. At my companion’s muttered injunction I pulled the Morris off the lane on to a grass verge beneath a thickly sheltered hedgerow. A second more and both engine and sidelights were off. Pons was already down from the vehicle, striding swiftly along the lane and I was hard put to keep up with him.

-8-

I could hear the door of the Mercedes slamming somewhere far ahead and a moment or two later we saw lights pricking the shadows. We now found a high brick wall at our right hand and I saw Pons glance at it with an expression of concern.

I realised its significance, of course, and made no comment. Pons had thrust his empty pipe into his pocket and the lines of his ascetic features were stern and sombre in the moonlight. The lane widened out now into a gravel concourse debouching into rather grand entrance columns. The big iron gates were thrown back but the brick-built entrance lodge was dark and silent.

Pons paused, putting his hand on my arm. The drive curved through heavy banks of rhododendron and azalea, disappearing in the foliage and the shadow. Lights still showed faintly through the trees so it was evident that the house was not far. On the stonework of the nearest pillar was incised the legend: LANSDALE HOUSE.

“It looks as though it will be safe to walk down the drive,” I whispered.

Pons gave me a warning look and put his fingers on his lips. He pulled me swiftly back into the shelter of thick clumps of shrubbery which grew up against the outside walls at this point. I heard the thin, sharp sound of a door slamming a fraction later. Heavy footsteps sounded on the gravel and then a bright yellow light winked on in the mass of wrought iron that arched over the gateway.

A high, squeaking noise followed which set my teeth on edge. Someone was evidently closing and locking the gates for there followed a heavy clatter and then the rattle of a chain. There was silence for a few moments; the light went out again and the heavy shuffle of the footsteps ceased. The far slam of the door sounded and Pons relaxed.

“It does not always pay to follow one’s original instincts, my dear fellow,” he whispered. “We must find some less obvious way in.”

He eased slowly out from the bushes and I followed. Apart from the cottages Lansdale House was apparently the only house for miles as thick belts of woodland stretched away into the far distance. Pons looked thoughtfully through the bars of the locked gates to where the lodge sat dark and brooding.

“Interesting, Parker. Another small verification of my theories.”

“I do not follow, Pons.”

We had drawn away now and were walking very quietly and cautiously on the long grass in the shadow of the wall.

“There are no lights from the lodge, Parker. Either the people there are sitting in darkness or they have very thick curtains inside — or possibly shutters. And there was no bell on the gate.”

“I still do not quite see the point, Pons.”

“Tut, Parker, it is obvious. The people in the house do not wish to be disturbed; cannot be disturbed. If the lodge is empty and deserted and the gate locked and there is no means of contacting the people at the mansion, then any possible visitor is frustrated in his intentions. These people dare not draw attention to themselves. And any incautious person who tried to walk down the drive or open the gate, when it is closed, would be prevented from doing so by the person or persons in the lodge. Who are obviously on the look-out.”

“You read a good deal more into it than I, Pons. It sounds very sinister.”

My friend furrowed his brow.

“It is sinister, Parker. Dark and sinister.”

“But why did they not stop the Ambassador, Pons?”

“Because he was expected. And they obviously knew his vehicle for he drove straight through without stopping, as we observed. Now, let us see whether a turn at right-angles will serve our purposes.”

We had reached the end of the wall now, a couple of hundred yards farther on and there was nothing bordering the lane but a wire fence and a low, straggly hedge, which had many gaps in it. Pons was already over and I followed cautiously.

Once through the hedge we were in more or less open fields, broken only by heavy clumps of trees. The glimmer of a large pond in the far distance reflected back the moonlight. The brick wall continued at our right but as we advanced farther into the open country it gave way to a wire fence and heavy shrubbery. Pons grunted with satisfaction as the glimmer of the houselights showed again, above the tree-tops.

“We are in luck, Parker. If we cannot find a gap somewhere along here to suit then I will retire from practice.”

I smiled to myself.

“Somehow I cannot see that happening,” I whispered.

I had no sooner got the words out of my mouth when, rounding a heavy clump of bushes I blundered into a solid shape. For one horrifying moment, as the great body loomed over me, I thought we were discovered. I had my revolver out when Pons’ steadying hand on my arm brought me to myself. The intruder resolved itself into the form of a horse, which went snorting away into the darkness of the trees.

“Good heavens, Pons!” I spluttered. “That gave me a fright.”

“It was quite understandable, my dear fellow,” said my companion drily. “Let us hope that the animal has not aroused the household. There is always the possibility there may be guards in the grounds.”

I stared at him thoughtfully.

“What on earth are you expecting here, Pons?”

“There is no time to explain, Parker. MI is still quiet at any event. I think this will do nicely.”

So saying he eased himself quickly through a large gap in an old chestnut spile fence that bordered the estate at this point. When I followed him I found we were on the far side of the thick shrubbery which fringed the drive. We were quite close to the house here.

We moved cautiously through the undergrowth, keeping away from the area of the drive and in the deep shadow. The house gradually resolved itself into a vast Victorian pile, overhung by massive cedar trees and with a huge porch modelled on the Palladian style. In the drive in front were the Mercedes-Benz driven by the Ambassador and two other vehicles, one of which I recognised as an Austin saloon.

The drive curved to the left and we followed it, keeping well into the shadow. There was a stable block here and obvious servants’ quarters for we could hear water running and the clink of dishes being washed. Presently the paved area of the stables gave out but we continued in the same direction and came on to rough grass which led in turn to smooth lawn and formal gardens.

I continued behind Pons who moved unhesitatingly down the vast red-brick facade of the house. We were on a tiled terrace now, with clumps of statuary at intervals and clipped box hedges bordering it. There was an overpowering smell of magnolia from somewhere.

Up ahead yellow oblongs of light stabbed the gloom, imprinting the dark silhouettes of the French windows upon the terrace. I had my revolver out again but my companion motioned to me to put it away. We were now obliged to cover the few remaining yards to the lighted casements extremely cautiously as it was obvious they were wide open and I could smell the strong odour of cigar smoke on the still July air.

Fortunately, quite close to the windows there was a rose trellis or pergola set at right angles to the house and we were able to conceal ourselves behind that. I eased forward with Pons and was able to see a small corner of what appeared to be a billiard-room for there were green-shaded lamps and a rack of cues screwed to the far wall.

Smoke hung slightly quivering near the window curtains so it was evident that a man was standing close by, perhaps watching a game, for I could hear the soft click of ivory as someone played a shot. I was as still as death, however, as Pons’ rigid pose and extreme concentration communicated the urgency and deadly seriousness of our presence there that evening.

He pulled back slightly after a minute or so and glanced upward at the black facade of the house above our heads. A solitary light gleamed through the darkness of the upper storeys at this side of the mansion. Pons’ eyes were gleaming and I had seldom seen such dynamic energy as animated his frame at that moment. I could now hear someone speaking from within the room with the French windows and a shadow suddenly imprinted itself upon the tiles. I started back into deeper shadow to find that Pons had done the same.

The voice was a little clearer. The language was a foreign one, vaguely Spanish but with a strange accent. Pons gave a slight smile of satisfaction as he caught my eye. Other voices joined in and a small red dot hung in the air beyond the foliage. As I focused my eyes it became discernible as the end of a lighted cigar held by a man in dark clothing. He was standing just at the entrance to the terrace, taking in the night air and looking out across the garden. He turned to go back in and as he did so he presented a brief view of a most remarkable face.

It was swarthy and dark; certainly Spanish-looking with fine, intelligent eyes. The hair was jet-black but curiously there was a band of pure white which ran from the temple straight across the middle of the hairline to the back. He could not have been more than about thirty-five though, for the complexion was pale and smooth, quite free of wrinkles. A long, drooping black moustache could not conceal the cruelty of the thin, red-lipped mouth which parted to take in the cigar butt, revealing strong irregular yellow teeth.

But it was the vivid diagonal scar which puckered from the right-hand side of the mouth almost to the right eye-socket which gave this extraordinary visage its shocking ferocity. The effect on Pons was electric. As this vision disappeared within the room with a strange gliding motion he expelled his breath with an almost audible sound in the stillness of the garden.

“Excellent, Parker! Let us hope that the Ambassador is remaining for it will certainly take another hour before we can hope for assistance to arrive.”

We had withdrawn some way down the terrace and Pons had spoken in a whisper but I still felt exposed and naked upon the tiling in the moonlight, particularly since the appearance of that dreadful, merciless face.

“What do you want me to do, Pons?” I asked.

“Go back to that hotel we passed, taking every possible precaution to avoid being seen. As I have already indicated I want you to ring Bancroft and tell him where we are. He will do everything necessary as we have already discussed the matter.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I shall remain here and keep the house under observation. Kindly rejoin me near this spot if you will be so good.”

“Very well, Pons. You will not wish me to use the car, of course?”

“By no means, my dear fellow. We cannot risk it. But it is only a short step and should not take you more than twenty minutes in all. Here is Bancroft’s special number. He is available day and night in case of emergency and Jamison already has men available.”

“I shall be as quick as I can, Pons.”

I took the white envelope from Pons and put it in my pocket, quitting the terrace with a beating heart and looking about me at every tree in the moonlight as though it concealed a silent watcher.

I regained the lane without incident. Nothing moved in all that wide expanse of moonlight but nevertheless I obeyed Pons’ injunction and observed extreme caution while working my way past the dark and apparently deserted lodge. Once away from the house I made good time. The Morris looked innocent and unobtrusive at the side of the road and it was obvious that no-one had passed that way since we had left the vehicle.

In a very short while I crossed the main road, found a public phone box on the forecourt of the hotel and got through to Bancroft Pons. He was not given to verbosity and merely listened in silence as I gave him his brother’s message.

“Thank you, Dr. Parker,” he said crisply and there was a click as the receiver went back.

I thought he might at least have added that the police would be along shortly but Pons had emphasised that his brother would know what to do; in any event, I consoled myself, I had done my duty. I retraced my steps without incident and was able to rejoin Pons, who had moved farther down the terrace, in something like eighteen minutes.

“Well done, Parker. You may rest assured that assistance will be here in under the hour.”

“What are we to do now, Pons? I confess I am still in the dark in more ways than one.”

“Your patience has been exemplary, Parker. But I fancy I will not have to impose upon it much longer. Our first objective is to get to that room yonder. Then we may await the course of events with some equanimity.”

I looked at the facade of the great house in the moonlight with distaste.

“Possibly, Pons. But how are we to achieve your objective without rousing the household?”

“I think I have found a way. While you were telephoning I discovered another French window a little farther down, which is unlocked. It is apparently a dining-room which would no doubt have been in use earlier this evening. The occupants quitted it for the billiard-room and it is equally obvious that it is as yet too early for the servants to have locked up for the night.”

“We are in luck then, Pons.”

“Let us hope so, Parker.”

My companion was already leading the way back across the tiling and I was glad to get out of the moonlight and into the shadow of the facade. My revolver made a comforting bulge against my chest as I followed Pons. He softly eased back the big French door and I followed him into the dim interior which smelled of cigar-smoke and the stale odour of wine. We stood for a moment to get our bearings and slowly the shapes of chairs and a long pine dining table resolved themselves.

A sharp line of light in the far distance indicated the bottom of a door.

“With a little luck that should be the hall, Parker,” Pons whispered. “If we can reach the main staircase I think I have memorised the position of that room correctly and can locate it without much difficulty.”

“What then, Pons?”

“Ah, that is in the lap of the gods, my dear fellow. But I fancy we shall have need of your revolver.”

We were up closer to the light from the door now and Pons consulted his watch.

“I think we will give it another twelve minutes or so before making our move. The house seems quiet and it would be a pity to disturb the occupants while Jamison is so far off. But we may need half an hour to achieve our objective.”

“As you say, Pons.”

I moved over, found a comfortable padded chair near the sideboard and sank down gratefully. Pons’ thin, austere figure was poised near the door and he remained unblinkingly in this position as the minutes dragged wearily by. I must confess I felt more perturbed than my sober demeanour indicated, and my thoughts were confused and chaotic as the time passed with interminable slowness.

I had only the vaguest idea why Pons had followed the Paragonian Ambassador to this outlandish spot though no doubt it had something to do with the machinations of Hugo Foy and the politics of that unhappy country. But I knew Pons well enough to know that he would enlighten me only when all the facts in his theoretical edifice had fallen into place to prove or disprove his theories.

We seemed to have become fixed in our positions like immobile statutes when Pons again consulted his watch. He put his finger to his lips and moved toward the door. I stretched myself and joined him. He noiselessly opened it a crack, letting in a stream of yellow light. He slipped through quickly, beckoning me to follow. He softly closed the door behind me and led the way swiftly, as though he had known the house all his life.

We were in a vast hall with a marble floor; suits of armour stood incongruously about; there were heraldic shields on the walls; and crossed weapons interspersed with the stuffed heads of wild animals. The light was coming from a mock-mediaeval iron lantern suspended from the ceiling rafters by a chain; fortunately, it was the only light in the hall, which was a gloomy place full of shadow. Pons guided me unerringly, leading me up a huge oaken staircase with carved balustrades; we were on thick carpeting here and noiselessly ascended to the first floor.

Worn red drugget stretched along a corridor, as though the opulence glimpsed below were something merely on display to impress guests. Pons crossed the landing and went unhesitatingly up another small stairway on the left-hand side. I knew it could lead only to the upper floors on that side of the house facing the rear garden. There was a thinner carpet here and we had to be careful for the old timbers creaked unexpectedly from time to time. It was dusty and airless as though in a vault and the only light came from a single bulb burning on the first floor landing we had just quitted.

But it was admirable for our purposes and I was glad on arrival at a second, smaller landing, to find a window open, with the gentle night breeze bringing the fresh odours of flowers and hay from the surrounding fields. We were now facing a narrow corridor, which was lined with doors; there were something like six or seven each side. Pons moved down; I had the revolver out now, with the safety-catch on, and followed him as quietly as possible.

My companion seemed to be counting under his breath and he was pacing out the corridor rather meticulously, as though engaged in a mathematical formula. Later, I realised he was working out whether there were one or two windows to a room.

After what seemed an age Pons fixed on the fourth door along the left-hand side and paused in front of it. All the paintwork was shabby here as though this part of the house was little-used. Pons quietly tried the handle; the door appeared to be locked.

He listened intently, his ear against the woodwork. I could now hear what appeared to be two women’s voices in earnest discourse. Pons straightened up, his eyes dancing with excitement. Then he did something so unexpected that it filled me with horror. He simply put his hand up and rapped boldly upon the panels.

-9-

There was a moment’s hesitation and then light footsteps sounded across the carpet. A key turned and the door swung wide. Pons was through the gap like a leopard, his hand firmly over the mouth of the grey-haired woman in the uniform of a nurse. I had the pistol up but the terror on the woman’s face made the threat unnecessary. We were inside the dimly-lit room now and to my relief I saw it appeared to be empty. Pons propelled the nurse gently but firmly across to the far side of the apartment while I lost no time in locking the door behind us.

Pons put his mouth to the woman’s ear.

“I am going to release you now. If you make one sound to bring anyone to this room it will go hard with you.”

The woman, who had an intelligent face, despite her obvious alarm, nodded briefly. Pons cautiously took his hand away while I tried to look as menacing as possible. There was an expression of outrage on the grey-haired woman’s face now.

“This is disgraceful!” she hissed. “I am a professional nurse and I have never seen such goings-on in all my forty years’ experience.”

`There is no time to explain, madam,” said Pons smoothly. “You may be all you say but you can save that for the official police force.”

The nurse’s face registered shock.

“Police?” she said blankly. “I am Miss Gust. What am I to do with the police?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Pons crisply, darting sharp glances round the sparsely furnished bedroom which was lit by one shaded lamp.

“Where is your charge?”

“In the next room asleep,” said Miss Cust. “Where a child of his age should be.”

“I trust no harm has come to him,” I said, though I had little idea what Pons meant.

There was genuine shock on the woman’s face now.

“Harm?” she said. “Why should he come to harm in my charge?”

“You can explain that later,” said Pons, propelling her over toward a second door in the far corner of the gloomy bedroom. The woman wriggled free with an outraged movement of her shoulders and preceded us into a smaller room in which a night-light burned beside a cot. A small figure stirred as we came into its rays.

“Thank God he is unharmed,” said Pons fervently, bending over the child with a solicitous expression on his face.

“Who is he, Pons?” I whispered.

“Why, young Foy, of course,” said Pons, impatience fraying the edges of his voice. “Who else should it be? He is the fulcrum around which this whole case revolves.”

The nurse stared at my companion with a stupefied expression on her face.

“I was informed that the child was feeble-minded!” she said wildly. “I demand an explanation.”

“You shall have one in due course, madam,” said Pons, brushing her aside and listening at the open door. He glanced at his watch briefly and came back to the bed where a bright-faced, fair-haired child was struggling into consciousness.

“Who are you, sir?” he piped, his frightened eyes looking toward the nurse.

“A friend of your father,” said Pons firmly. “You will soon be safe again at home.”

“I would not have thought Hugo Foy capable of such wickedness…” I began hotly when Pons interrupted me somewhat rudely with an imperative gesture.

His keen ears had caught something unheeded by my somewhat denser sensibilities; a faint vibration coming from somewhere below. I looked sharply at the figure of Miss Cust but she was evidently not prepared to move from her dejected position, slumped at the end of the bed. Pons had gone over toward the door of the main bedroom; some moments passed in strained suspense and then I clearly heard the tread of heavy footsteps coming along the corridor outside. There were a few seconds more of silence and then an imperative rapping on the panels of the door.

Pons motioned to me to keep still. The knock was peremptorily repeated and the silence that followed was like a thick, blank wall, oppressive in its tension. Then the door was quietly, almost furtively tried. I think I shall always remember the slow deliberation with which the ornate brass knob of the handle was turned. Heavy pressure was put on the door but it was solid oak; it would have needed something like a sledgehammer to demolish it.

Then the footsteps went away again, somewhat hurriedly this time. There was only one man, then. Pons was back at my side, his eyes dancing with excitement.

“He has gone to get help. We have another three or four minutes.”

He looked at his watch with satisfaction.

“With luck we now have only some eight to ten minutes before friend Jamison arrives in the area. It should not be too difficult to hold them up, Parker, with the assistance of that useful toy there.”

He glanced swiftly about the room.

“We have just time to make our dispositions. Remain here, Miss Cust, and keep the boy calm and quiet. I shall lock you in. Have no fear, for all will be well shortly.”

The nurse was evidently impressed with Pons’ authoritative manner for she merely glanced at him, compressed her thin lips and whispered, ‘Very good, sir.”

Pons moved over and took the key from the inside of the small bedroom door, transferring it to the outer lock.

“What about this window, Pons?” I asked.

Pons looked at me with satisfaction.

“You are constantly improving, Parker. I am glad to see my training has not been wasted. There is a sheer brick wall outside this room, which drops straight to the terrace. They would need something like a fireman’s ladder to get up this way so we have nothing to fear that side.”

With another admonition to Miss Cust, Pons ushered me out of the room, turning the key in the lock behind us. He then put it in his pocket and procured a chair from the side of the room. Using his handkerchief he took the bulb from the light fitting in the centre of the room so that we were plunged into darkness. There was a standard lamp in the corner and he did the same thing there.

“We shall have some slight advantage, Parker, as they will be silhouetted against the light if they break the door down and that is always valuable in case of emergency.”

I said nothing, mentally estimating that we should now have only a few minutes to wait for reinforcements to arrive. We settled down grimly in the dark, crouched behind two big armchairs near the windows. These were already covered with heavy curtains so that we ourselves would not be silhouetted against the moonlight.

The only illumination in the room came from the two cracks of light beneath the doors of the small bedroom and that of the one leading into the corridor. I felt perspiration beading my forehead and the trigger-guard of the revolver was greasy to my touch. There was to be only a very brief interval before the next developments.

We had hardly knelt in the dimness of that sombre house when there came the muffled, but unmistakable vibration of feet on the carpeting of the main staircase. They came on at an unhurried, even pace, and I concluded that there were three men. This time there was no knocking on the panel but something far more dramatic. Merely the grating of a key in the lock but I must confess it sent a chill to my soul.

The man with the key was having some trouble forcing it through for of course it met the shank of the key on our side, which I had already turned. Before he could bring his efforts to a conclusion one way or another Pons spoke.

“I should not try that if I were you, Marceau!”

There was a muffled exclamation in Spanish and a hasty conference outside the door in which mingled English and Spanish voices overlapped. An uneasy silence prevailed and then a harsh, grating voice with a marked foreign accent spoke.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“It means, Marceau, that your game is up,” said Solar Pons coolly.

A snarl was the only answer and the explosion seemed to fill the whole room as the man on the other side of the door put a bullet into the lock. I flattened myself into the carpet as the missile whined angrily round the room and plaster pattered to the floor somewhere.

“Unwise,” said Solar Pons calmly. “I must warn you that the first man through that door will receive short commons.”

There was another muffled exclamation and then the light in the corridor went out.

“They are becoming less hysterical, Parker,” Pons observed smoothly. “Despite the loss of a clear target I trust you will still be able to hit that door.”

“I will do my best, Pons,” I replied stoutly.

I had no sooner finished speaking than there came a crash followed by a vibrating shudder which made the bedroom door strain on its hinges. I heard a cry from the child in the far room and a moment later the soothing tones of Miss Cust. There was another blow on the door and then another.

“They are using the oak settle from the corridor,” said Pons calmly. “Wait until the door is down before you use the revolver.”

He got up as he spoke and drew back the curtains. Moonlight flooded into the room and by its powdered silver I saw the furnishings of the room and the doorway clearly. Pons glanced again at his watch and gave a grunt of satisfaction.

“It is almost time, I think.”

We disposed ourselves to one side of the window, well into the deep shadow, where we were unlikely to be immediately spotted by anyone coming into the room. The door was proving remarkably tough. There had been four or five more blows upon it but it still showed no sign of giving.

Another ugly silence intervened. I was aware of a furtive shifting noise in the corridor and the whisper of voices which caused a faint prickling of my scalp. The battering on the door was preferable; there was something unutterably sinister about the mumbled colloquy beyond the door, the details of which were not quite distinct enough to make out.

“Be ready, Parker!” Pons warned me crisply and the assault on the door was resumed so suddenly that I was almost taken by surprise. At the third thundering concussion there was a high, rending noise and I knew that the hinges were giving. There was a final assault and the door was down, though it still held at the lock-plate. Someone reached in and plucked fruitlessly at the light-switch. I shot him through the shoulder while he was doing that and he went down with a groan of pain.

Pons was on his feet now, a small whistle to his lips. He blew three piercing blasts which were answered by three faint echoes from the far distance.

“Excellent!” Pons observed cheerfully. “For once Jamison is on time.”

The door was down now and there was a rush of bodies toward us. A pistol flamed and by the flash I saw two heavy figures. I fired at the nearest and the group in the dim moonlight wavered and fell back. One figure alone kept advancing. I got off another shot and it wavered, the gun drooping toward the floor as the knees buckled.

There was shouting in the house and heavy feet on the stairs; the people in the doorway seemed confused and broke up. Someone stumbled and fell on the staircase. Two more shots sounded. The revolver of the big man hit the carpet with a thump. I held my own pistol and bided my time.

There came the sound of heavy breathing near me. The big man hung suspended against the moonlight. Then he went down with a crash that shook the room. I was kneeling and he hit the front of one of the wing chairs, his face almost in mine. Black shadows crawled from the corner of the cruel mouth.

“Could you get some light on, Pons,” I said rather shakily. “By all means, my dear fellow.”

My companion was up on the chair and screwed the light bulb into its socket. By the dim illumination we took in the ruined aspect of the bedroom, the wrecked door, the groaning man who had clapped a reddened handkerchief to his shoulder. The man who half-knelt, half-lay against the wing chair had stopped breathing now. Pons turned him over with fierce eyes.

“You will have the gratitude of a great many people, I fancy, Parker. Tiger Marceau has played his last hand.”

I scrambled to my feet. The revolver suddenly felt as heavy as lead. I became aware that the corridor outside was filling with people, among them uniformed constables and plainclothes men. I suddenly recognised Jamison among them, his features sullen and scowling. He opened his eyes wide as he saw the body of the man with white streaks in his hair.

“My God, Mr. Pons! I only hope there is a good explanation for all this?”

Solar Pons nodded grimly.

“There is, Jamison. Kidnapping and extortion for one. Revolutionary plotting and planning the overthrow of a South American regime on British soil. They will do to be going on with. Ah, Bancroft! You come most opportunely.”

The massive form of Pons’ brother was shouldering his way through the crowd in the room. His eyes narrowed as he took in the wounded man in the corner and the body huddled against the chair, then flickered on to me.

“Good evening, doctor,” he said drily. “Your aim has not lost its accuracy, I see.”

Before I could reply the Foreign Office man turned to Pons. “Excellent, Solar, if somewhat untidy.”

“But Mr. Pons, sir, what am I to say to my superiors?” said Jamison to Bancroft. “Not to mention the Surrey Police?”

`Tut, man,” said Bancroft Pons blandly. ‘The matter is of no importance so far as you are concerned. It is out of your hands. You have discharged your duties admirably, Inspector. No-one could have done more and you have my commendation.”

Jamison stared at the massive form of Bancroft Pons, his expression changing as quickly as sunshine through storm clouds.

“That is very good of you, sir. If you put it like that.”

“I do,” said Bancroft smoothly. “Now, let us just see what this wretched specimen has to say for himself.”

He strode to where a big man crouching by the side of the door was beginning to recover himself. The latter now came forward under the dim light of the lamp.

“This is an outrage, sir,” he spluttered.

“It is indeed,” said Pons’ brother.

The other held a clenched fist under Bancroft’s nose.

“I shall complain to your Foreign Office, sir!”

“I represent the Foreign Office, Dr. Krish. We know all about your involvement with Marceau and the San Ysidor Zinc Trust.”

He turned grimly to Pons.

“I do not think you have met formally, Solar. This is Dr. Arpad Krish, the Paragonian Ambassador.”

He addressed himself sternly to the white-faced, crumpled figure of the diplomat.

“I fancy you will find yourself persona non grata once my report is in! I will give you twenty-four hours to quit the country.”

The big man in formal clothes made a choking noise, stared round the room with burning eyes and turned away. He pushed his way out of the room like a drunken man. Bancroft Pons laughed throatily.

“If the Paragonian Embassy does not announce a change of Ambassador this very night, Solar, I shall be very much surprised. Now, where is this child?”

“Over here, Mr. Pons,” I said, leading the way toward the far door. I opened it, finding Jamison at my elbow.

“There is a nurse here,” I muttered to him. “I think she is not involved in anything criminal but she certainly needs questioning.”

Jamison was on familiar ground now, striding into the room in front of me.

“You may be sure that will be done, doctor,” he said loudly. Pons smiled at me encouragingly as I put my revolver into my pocket.

“You have excelled yourself this evening, Parker. But I fancy we may leave all explanations until we have had an opportunity to restore this frightened young man to his unfortunate father.”

-10-

I drove cautiously through the night, Pons smoking imperturbably at my side. Bancroft had returned separately to make his report to the Foreign Office. Young Anthony Foy slept soundly on the back seat, wrapped in a blanket and presided over by the somewhat uneasy figure of Inspector Jamison. High-ranking officers of Scotland Yard and those of the Surrey Police were now collaborating in the investigations back at the mansion we had just left.

“It will be a major diplomatic incident, Pons,” I said grimly, conscious of the half-empty revolver in my pocket.

“Will it not, Parker,” my companion chuckled, darting a backward glance at the silent figure of the police officer. “But I have no doubt that Scotland Yard and the Foreign Office between them will concoct something bland for the public prints to account for the violence, the sudden demise of the late unlamented Marceau, and the swift recall to his own country of the Paragonian Ambassador.”

He blew out a languid plume of smoke which was rapidly dispersed by the summer breeze coming in through the half-open window of the car.

`Though I would guess that Dr. Krish will take the opportunity to disappear en route. His reception by the President of Paragonia would hardly be diplomatic under the circumstances. And I trust that the shares of Foy’s South American companies will take a sudden upward leap in the morning with the welcome return to sanity of Hugo Foy.”

I gave Pons an exasperated look.

`That is all very well, Pons, and I get your drift, but there are a great many things left unexplained about this extraordinary business.”

“Tut, Parker,” said my companion, blowing out another cloud of blue smoke. “I should have thought it would have been crystal clear.”

Inspector Jamison cleared his throat nervously.

“It is far from clear to me, Mr. Pons.”

He threw my companion a somewhat sour look.

“Though as usual, we were called in only at the eleventh hour to…”

“Give respectability to the proceedings!” said Pons cheerily, his eyes glinting as he gave me a sideways glance.

“Scotland Yard always does that, sir,” said the Inspector cautiously. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind starting at the beginning for my benefit. Just so that I can get it all down clear in my mind.”

“And in your notebook,” said Pons ironically. “I have no intention of repeating myself unnecessarily, though no doubt Mr. Foy is owed a complete explanation.”

“As you will, Mr. Pons,” Jamison mumbled, reaching out a small, black-bound notebook secured with an elastic band, from one of his capacious pockets. In the mirror I saw him lick the point of a pencil stub as he leaned forward in his seat to take advantage of rays from the dashboard lights that were straying through to the back of the vehicle.

“As you have no doubt cause to remember, Parker,” my friend said. “This bizarre affair began with the reported madness of Hugo Foy as experienced mostly at first-hand by your friend, Colonel Mortimer. A madness, moreover, that I became increasingly convinced, had a purpose behind it. It would be tedious to go through all the examples but you no doubt recall a few of them.”

“Of course, Pons. And I am still completely baffled by his extraordinary behaviour.”

“Really, Parker,” said Pons, giving me an ironic sidelong glance. “Say not so. Yet, as I pointed out to you, it was the key to the entire business.”

I gave a derisive snort.

“Yet, how could one explain away such fantasies as driving his motor-car stark naked in the moonlight; drinking champagne with ginger beer; using a billiard cue to play golf; ruining bridge games; bringing down the Colonel with a rugger tackle and pelting him with eggs.”

Solar Pons held up his hand, a twinkle in his eye, while Inspector Jamison made a heavy choking noise.

“Most concisely put, Parker. And immediately I heard these weird, not to say ridiculous details, two points immediately struck me.”

“And what were those, Pons?”

“Why, Parker, you were at some pains to go over them with me. The first was that Hugo Foy’s madness dated from a specific period in his life. At one moment he was absolutely sane; at the next he was doing weird and unbalanced things, as though impelled by some agency beyond himself. So something had happened; that much was obvious. The second, and far more significant factor at that moment, was Hugo Foy’s audience.”

I stared at him in puzzlement.

“Audience, Pons?”

My companion nodded.

“It was a theatrical performance of the finest quality with a human life at stake.”

I glanced in the mirror at the sleeping form of the blanketed child.

“I see that, Pons, but what I fail to see…”

“Are the factors which have been in front of you all the time. Let us be absolutely specific, Parker. Colonel Mortimer himself held substantial blocks of shares in Foy’s South American companies; the three men playing golf with Foy on that famous occasion, were all shareholders; you may remember that concerning the incident with the Rolls-Royce I was particularly interested in Godfrey Daimler, the City banker who was also in the road at the time. He has large holdings in Foy’s South American companies and it is my contention that Foy intended to impress Daimler with his insanity by his weird behaviour. I would go further and submit that he did not even know Mortimer was there until he drew level with him!”

“You amaze me, Pons.”

“That is not so very difficult, Parker. I would further postulate that the delighted expression on Foy’s face — or inane grin as you so picturesquely put it — was genuine. He had, in effect, killed two birds with one stone.”

“I am still not sure what you are driving at, Pons.”

“I am coming to it, my dear fellow. In every instance — and I have done some exhaustive checking — all the people who were witnesses of the singular madness of Hugo Foy, were shareholders or concerned in some way with his South American companies. Of course, many of them probably had holdings in his other concerns, but that was irrelevant for my purposes. And my careful study of the stock-market reports in the financial press of recent weeks, brought out another significant factor. However unbalanced Hugo Foy may have been, he was unbalanced in one direction only, for his financial handling of all his other vast commercial enterprises was impeccable.”

I nodded, aware of Jamison’s amazed expression in the rear-mirror.

“I follow you, Pons.”

“I am delighted to hear it, Parker. You will probably say that Foy’s behaviour at the board-meeting Colonel Mortimer attended was out of character inasmuch as he publicly displayed his apparent insanity to all the shareholders as well as the financial press. But that was undoubtedly due to the intolerable pressures being put upon him by Marceau through the Paragonian Ambassador.”

“I see, Pons.”

“All of Foy’s record, financial and otherwise, spoke of an icy, calculating brain which had raised him from relatively humble circumstances to be one of the great captains of industry. But what would explain his sudden insanity, dating from about March of this year? A sudden insanity which was against the whole grain of his life-style and which had apparently descended upon him overnight. The Colonel inadvertently hit upon the cause when he referred constantly to Foy being under strain and pressure.”

Solar Pons had a grim expression now as he stared ahead through the wind-screen as I guided our vehicle back over Richmond bridge and into the suburbs.

“He was under the most intolerable strain a human being can be put under. How he has survived these months I do not know. That his secret was shared by key members of his household speaks well for the devotion this extraordinary man is able to inspire.”

“You saw all this as soon as Mortimer came to us, Pons?” My companion shook his head emphatically.

“Hardly, Parker. I was casting about for the key when all the time it was before me. You approached the problem from the opposite direction and because money was involved immediately came to the outrageous conclusion that Foy had done away with his only son.”

“It was perhaps a somewhat natural conclusion, Pons,” I said somewhat irritably.

He shook his head again, even more emphatically upon this occasion.

“A man whose drawing room is filled with portraits and photographs of his late wife and only child is not concerned with hate and murder, Parker. Such souvenirs are the symbols of love. That was elementary, for a man who had committed a crime would not keep reminders about him. The housekeeper also was acting under considerable strain and I hoped to elicit some reaction from her while putting pressure upon Foy.”

“That was why you kept asking those questions about the boy, Pons!”

My companion chuckled, putting his pipe back between strong teeth.

“Naturally, Parker. And it immediately gave me the clue I was seeking. Vaucher in Switzerland provided the information that the boy was not at school. He was at home ill, according to the educational authorities there. Foy was lying, therefore, when he said the boy was in Switzerland. From his whole demeanour and from that of the housekeeper I came to the conclusion that the boy was either seriously ill in England and for some reason Foy was keeping the matter secret; or that he had been kidnapped. The latter was the more likely, but for what reason?”

“Good heavens, Mr. Pons!” Jamison broke in excitedly. “I have never heard anything like it.”

Solar Pons’ thin lips parted in the ghost of a smile.

“You astonish me, Inspector. Yet you have been present at a number of my cases in the past.”

There was a sudden burst of coughing from Jamison and I could not repress a low chuckle as I caught my companion’s eye in the rear-mirror.

“Let me just get this clear, Pons…”

“Tut, Parker, it was crystal-clear. Hugo Foy was mad only to specific people. His madness related to South America only. And his son was missing. I had then merely to transfer my attention to events in that inflammable corner of the world.”

“You mean those newspaper reports?”

“Of course. You may recall I drew to your notice the fact that Foy was elected to the Board of the Academy of Arts and Sciences in February of this year. According to all the available reports he apparently started losing his reason in March. But in one area only, as I have already stated. The coup in Paragonia coupled with the financial news of Foy’s projects out there gave me the key to the whole situation. The San Ysidor Zinc Trust, controlled by Foy and on which much of the prosperity of the country depends; and the new dam scheme launched by another group of Foy’s companies.

“A man who is mad only in public and eminently sane in private life. Marceau obviously threatened to kill the boy if Foy did not do as he was told. We have already learned from the people in that house that young Anthony Foy was seized on coming home from school. His aircraft was met at Croydon Airport by a bogus chauffeur in Marceau’s employ. Foy later received a note from the terrorists, who informed him the child would be killed if he did not do as they said. The child was allowed to speak to him over the telephone from time to time to reinforce their demands. I leave it to you to imagine his state of mind.”

“I am still not quite clear, Pons.”

“Come, Parker, it was quite obvious. By kidnapping Foy’s son Marceau was putting pressure on him to act in an insane manner to depress the South American shares and topple the Zinc Trust and with it the dam scheme.”

“But for what purpose, Pons?”

My friend gave me a look in which exasperation was mingled with wry affection.

“Forgive me, my dear fellow. It is obvious South American politics are not your forte. O’Hara, the President, is merely the tool of Marceau. For years Marceau has schemed to take over the country himself but O’Hara has all the wiliness of an experienced and corrupt politician and has staved off his attempts, though at the same time he cannot afford open enmity. Marceau wants Paragonia plunged into chaos. As the country’s strong man he can then take over.”

I stared at Pons as though thunderstruck, hardly conscious of the dark ribbon of road unreeling before the headlights.

“I see, Pons! It is quite clear now!”

“Naturally, Parker. There are some things worse than murder; and kidnapping and terrorism are two of them. I would not lose any sleep over Marceau’s demise if I were you. And I have no doubt the Ambassador’s visit tonight was in order to turn the screw tighter.”

“That’s all very well, gentlemen,” said Jamison sourly, stopping his writing labours for a moment, “but how am I to explain all this to the Yard? It’s a little beyond my normal reach.”

Pons was smiling thinly.

“As you have already been assured, I fancy my brother will make all right in that department, Inspector.”

He glanced at his watch.

“It is now well past midnight and though we have not all the ends it will not take long to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Late as the hour is I have no doubt we shall receive a much warmer welcome at The Boltons this time when we restore a very brave child to an even braver father.”

-11-

Things turned out exactly as Pons had predicted. Though I did not actually hear what was said Pons was closeted for more than an hour with Hugo Foy. When he came out his eyes were shining and there was more than usual satisfaction on his clear-cut features.

On the way back to Praed Street he was unusually silent, speaking once only as we were mounting the staircase to our familiar rooms at 7B.

“I have rarely felt such satisfaction at the outcome of a case, Parker. I have you entirely to thank for that, my dear fellow.”

I mumbled a disclaimer but I must confess that I flushed at the unusual honour my usually reticent friend had paid me. As Bancroft had hinted, some weeks later I learned through telegrams transmitted by Pons and reports in the public press that Dr. Arpad Krish and President O’Hara were both in gaol, awaiting trial for corruption and plotting against the State.

It was a mellow day in late September before the story was finally finished, so far as I was concerned. Pons had received an unusually heavy post that morning, including an elaborately super-inscribed buff envelope and a long, flat package which apparently emanated from the Paragonian Embassy in London.

He was sitting late at breakfast, the sun streaming through the windows, clad in his old grey dressing gown. I had been out early on an urgent call and was only too glad to join him for coffee and bacon and eggs.

“You have seen the papers, Parker?”

“Oh, you mean the dam scheme in Paragonia and the San Ysidor Zinc Trust, Pons? I saw the photograph of the new President digging the first shovelful of earth at the site of the proposed dam, if that is what you mean.”

Solar Pons nodded, his eyes glinting.

“Foy has been extremely tied up in that part of the world since late July. It would seem that things are now stable again there. He has been extraordinarily generous.”

He carelessly flung over the yellow printed slip toward me. I goggled at it.

“Good heavens! Congratulations.”

I looked at him warmly.

“You certainly deserve it.”

“Perhaps,” he said casually. “But nevertheless I shall invest some of it in an extended autumn holiday on the Continent if you are free in about a fortnight’s time. I have to consult Kringler in Berlin on his proposed Museum of Criminology and I understand that Grecian waters are quite delightful at this time of year. But before that we are both invited to a lavish party at The Boltons; ostensibly, I understand, to celebrate the eighth birthday of young Master Foy.”

“I shall be delighted to accompany you, Pons,” I said gravely. “Forgive my curiosity, but what was in that flat package?”

Solar Pons chuckled, rising from the table and going toward the window.

“I declined a public ceremony for obvious reasons but the President insisted upon it. Pray take a look at it if you would be so good.”

I opened the elaborate leather case and looked at the enamelled and jewelled cross that sparkled on its gold chain within.

“Good Lord, Pons. It is magnificent!”

“Is it not, Parker. The Order of San Ysidor. One up to your friend, Colonel Mortimer, I fancy. We have not seen much of him here since the affairs of Foy’s companies have been stabilised.”

“Neither shall we, Pons,” I said aggrievedly. The Colonel’s attitude is typical of human nature, I am afraid…”

“Yes, well you may omit the lecture on the frailties of humanity, Parker,” said Pons languidly.

He took the leather case from me and gazed at it expressionlessly, crossing back to the window again.

“What will you do with it, Pons?”

He smiled thinly.

“I doubt if I shall ever wear it, Parker. It would look rather ostentatious on my evening dress, do you not think?”

And with a casual movement he threw it into the open drawer of his desk.