The Secret Files of Solar Pons

1

"You cannot mean it, Pons!"

"I was never more serious in my life, Parker."

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

"Elijah Hardcastle is in mortal danger, unless I seriously miss my guess."

"Not the famous actor?"

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

"What do you make of that?"

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

I glanced at the date. It had been sent from Dorking the previous night.

"I do not understand, Pons."

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

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

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

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

"Surely, Pons, that is one of the penalties of the actor's life," I began. "They are either idolized or loathed. And when a man like Hardcastle spreads his talents so widely, on both stage and screen, there are bound to be adherents in both camps."

Solar Pons shook his head with a somewhat mocking smile. "It is something a little more than that, my dear fellow.

And if you would just have the patience to hear me out…" I mumbled an apology and sank back into my corner, watching the sun sparkle on the frozen surface of a stream we were passing.

"It is a bizarre business that intrigues me considerably." Solar Pons leaned forward and tented his thin fingers before him.

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

I shook my head.

"Lamentable lack of taste, Pons."

My companion inclined his head.

"You have hit the heart of the matter with your usual unfailing perspicacity, my dear doctor."

Pons was silent for a moment and then continued.

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

"As Sir Henry Baskerville. It was an excellent performance. I saw it myself."

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

"Good heavens, Pons!"

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

"Nothing happened on this second occasion, Pons?"

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

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

"So that Hardcastle could have been killed?"

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

"You were not called in then?"

My companion shook his head.

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

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

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

"There was no message?"

Solar Pons shook his head.

"There was never a message of any kind."

"But something happened?"

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

I blinked.

"Good heavens. You think he was mistaken for your client?"

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

"But he must have had some sort of bow."

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

"Why do you say 'naturally,' Pons?"

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

"What is that, Pons?"

Solar Pons shook his head.

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

"I am afraid I do not follow."

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

"I see, Pons!"

I sat up in my seat.

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

"You have hit it, Parker."

Solar Pons looked at me dreamily from under lowered eyelids.

"He was warned of his impending death but in each case the method of death was something totally unexpected. The murderer wanted to frighten, even terrify, but not to indicate the manner of death precisely or his victim might escape." "But nothing happened after the first warning."

"There you have me."

Solar Pons pulled reflectively at his right earlobe. "Though it is impossible to prove at this distance in time, I would submit that the person menacing Hardcastle's life intended some sort of coup at the theatre during the performance of Othello but was prevented by circumstances on the actual night he intended to commit his crime."

"But why did he not try again?"

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

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

I nodded.

"And now there has been a fourth parcel?"

Pons had a worried expression on his ascetic features.

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

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

"It is unfortunate, but could not have been better from the point of view of the person who is threatening his life." "Why so?"

Solar Pons stood up, gathering his coat and case.

"Ah, here we are at our destination, Parker."

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

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

2

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

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

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

"There is money here, Pons."

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

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

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

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

"Hardly celebrated, Mr. Hardcastle." "You are too modest, Dr. Parker. Boswell and Johnson, eh, Mr. Pons?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lunch will be served within the hour, gentlemen," said Mrs. Hardcastle. "In the meantime may I offer you a sherry?" "Excellent idea, Sandra," boomed Hardcastle, waving away the butler, who had followed us in and now stood awaiting his instructions.

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

"What do you think about this business, Mrs. Hardcastle?"

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

She glanced across at her husband.

"I have not yet retired, though Ellie sometimes acts as though I had."

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

"Success, gentlemen."

"I will drink to that, Mr. Hardcastle."

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

"I asked you a question, Miss Stillwood."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly, Mr. Pons. They are locked in the safe in my study. We will go there as soon as we have finished our drinks."

"Excellent."

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

"The wrappings and enclosure were identical to the others?'

"Exactly, Mr. Pons. I have them all still."

"And again posted from London?"

Hardcastle inclined his head.

"Yes, Mr. Pons."

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

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

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

"Mr. Abrahams would have received the parcels in the first place, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"That is so, Mr. Pons," said the young man, with a hesitant look at his employer.

"They came in the usual way?'

The secretary nodded.

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

"I see."

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

"If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will see about, lunch. We eat in half an hour, Ellie."

She glanced sharply at her husband as she spoke.

"Certainly, Sandra," he said somewhat defensively.

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

"I am notoriously unpunctual, gentlemen. My wife finds it irritating."

He grinned and went over to pour himself another drink. "At least I am always on stage in time for my entrances," he added. "Which is something. Another drink, gentlemen?" Solar Pons excused himself.

"Not before lunch if you please, Mr. Hardcastle. I am anxious to look at these parcels before we sit down."

"By all means, Mr. Pons. Come along, doctor."

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

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

"This is highly skilled work. Someone has been to a deal of trouble."

"Have they not, Mr. Pons."

"Someone who follows your career closely."

"Evidently."

Pons turned to me.

"What do you think of these, Parker?"

"I agree with you, Pons," I said. "There are finely done. The threats seem to me to be unnecessarily elaborate."

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

Elijah Hardcastle's flushed, handsome face beamed an approving expression as he went to sit on a corner of the desk, glass in hand. Pons went over the wrappings minutely and then threw them down with a snort.

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

Pons peered again at the lettering of each address.

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

Elijah Hardcastle, who had been listening to Pons' monologue with amazement on his features cleared his throat with a loud rasping noise.

"You mean to say you can tell all that from a cursory glance?" he boomed.

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

The big man flushed.

"No offense meant, Mr. Pons," he rumbled. "But how can you read such things?"

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

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

He good-humoredly drained his glass and put it down on a corner of the desk. "What about the parcel that came yesterday, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"I have it here, Mr. Pons."

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

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

It was an arresting and disgusting sight and I could not help but gaze at it with loathing. Solar Pons glanced up at me, a grim smile playing at the corners of his sensitive mouth.

"What say you, Parker?"

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

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

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

"There is no doubt this represents your current play, Mr. Hardcastle?"

"No doubt at all. The costume there is identical to the one I wear as Thornfield."

"And how do you die in the piece?"

"I am strangled in the last act, Mr. Pons."

My companion nodded. "Death by poisoning; by a savage hound; by hanging; and by an arrow. It is bizarre and extraordinary."

He rubbed his elegantly thin hands together and his eyes shone.

"I cannot remember when I have been so taken by a case. When does the play open?"

"Next month, Mr. Pons. I won't deny it — my wife was perfectly right. I am terrified of this business, especially after Stanwell's death. There is something diabolical and inevitable about it. Please save me, Mr. Pons."

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

"Now we know what we are up against, we are forewarned. This menacing person obviously wants to punish you in some public way. Therefore, we have only to fear the actual performances. I would like to attend a few rehearsals, in order to verse myself in the story of the play. And at the same time I will make a thorough examination of the theatre.

Elijah Hardcastle let out a sigh of relief.

"Nothing could be easier, Mr. Pons. I will make arrangements with the manager."

"But be discreet. I do not want any outside people to know why I am there."

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

"You do not think it could be any member of the company?'

"It is quite possible, Mr. Hardcastle. You have not yet told me anything of the possible motive."

"Motive?"

"Come, come, every man has his enemies; that is especially true of the theatrical profession."

There were small spots of red burning on Hardcastle's cheeks now.

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

Solar Pons smiled thinly.

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

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

"Frankness, Mr. Hardcastle. We shall be discreet about this."

Hardcastle fidgeted with the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

"There are two names," he mumbled. "I will write them down for you."

3

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

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

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

Solar Pons turned his laughing face to me over his shoulder as he strode onward.

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

With that he slackened his stride and I drew level with him. It was close to dusk now and we were coming alongside an ornamental lake, the steel-gray sky reflected back from the ice on its surface. The gloomy vastness of the park which surrounded Hardcastle's great house seemed to me to epitomize the grim problem faced by Pons. We were walking on grass and the going was downhill so my breathing slowly returned to normal. But the exercise had done me good and a pleasing warmth soon spread throughout my numbed limbs. Pons had now lit his pipe and he puffed out streamers of aromatic smoke as we walked.

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

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

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

"That is all very well so far as it goes, but it does not take us much further."

I looked at my companion.

"I do not quite follow you."

"Motive, Parker. Motive." Solar Pons stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe to emphasize his points.

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

"An ardent playgoer, Pons?"

"Perhaps, perhaps."

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

"I tell you, Dolly, I cannot do as you ask!"

"Cannot or will not, Ellie?"

There was no difficulty in recognizing Hardcastle's voice. But the second was a woman's; a cultured voice of a proud and imperious spirit. Her voice was raised in tones of passionate anger and I saw by Pons' furrowed brow and the flash of his eye that he attached great importance to the conversation. I was about to move away but again Pons' hand was on my arm restraining me, his lips curved in a half-smile.

"It's over between you — the inevitable is long overdue!" "You are reading far too much into it, my dear."

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

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

"By God, you had better not do so, Dolly!"

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

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

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

"Indeed, Pons," I said loudly, clearing my throat.

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

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

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

"The famous actress!" I exclaimed. "There is motive enough for murder in what we have just heard."

"Is there not, Parker. Unless I am much mistaken Miss Richmond is cast opposite our client in Death Comes to Thorn field."

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

"As I expected, Miss Richmond is not on the short list of Mr. Hardcastle's conquests. As you so sagely imply, Parker, this is a situation which merits watching."

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

The food and wine were of excellent quality and the meal passed agreeably, served efficiently by maids supervised by the butler who had greeted us on arrival. To my surprise Pons said nothing of the incident at the summerhouse and I had only to look at his intent face and tightly compressed lips when I mentioned our walk in the grounds to see that he wished me to draw no more attention to the matter.

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

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

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

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

"You have not yet favored us with your opinions, Mr. Abrahams?"

"My opinions, Mr. Pons?"

The young man looked startled.

"On this strange threat which hangs over your employer?" "Oh, that."

Abrahams gave a somewhat placatory glance toward Hardcastle, as though expecting some objection to the answer, but the actor merely cleared his throat, an encouraging expression on his face.

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

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

"Eigh?"

Hardcastle looked across at Pons with a worried frown.

"I do not quite understand."

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

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

"You know who is responsible, Mr. Pons?"

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

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

"Not yet. But I have some indications. I would prefer to say nothing more at this stage."

"What are your plans?"

Pons turned toward Hardcastle.

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

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

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

Hardcastle got up too and clasped my friend's hand impulsively.

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

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

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

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

"I see."

Relief was evident on Hardcastle's face.

"Anything else?"

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

"Certainly. You prefer to be incognito?"

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

Hardcastle smiled.

"I see. Mr. Pons. It shall be as you wish. Abrahams will keep you fully informed."

"Excellent. And now, I am feeling a little fatigued and the hour is late. We will just pay our respects to our hostess and then retire. Come, Parker."

4

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

"I can make myself so, Pons."

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

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

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

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

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

Hardcastle looked back over his shoulder and seemed to read my companion's thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked over and saw that it was Hardcastle's business manager, Ayres, who leaned across to me, his eyes gleaming.

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

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

Ayres nodded gloomily.

"You're right there, doctor. It's a terrible business. Unfortunately there are only too many people who would like to see Elijah out of lt."

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

"Would you care to enlarge on that, Mr. Ayres."

The business manager shrugged.

"I've told Elijah about it, often enough. There's women… and their husbands. It's always trouble in the theatre."

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

"Perhaps," I said cautiously. "But these situations occur in many other walks of life."

Ayres smiled without mirth.

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

I hesitated and then gave utterance to my thoughts.

"You suspect someone specific?"

The business manager gave me a crooked wink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is a fearful responsibility."

"But I am convinced that the opening night is what we have to fear and we must make plans accordingly."

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

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

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

"You seem to know your way around remarkably well," I said.

"I have the advantage of a plan of the building. It will be vitally necessary to know the layout thoroughly by the opening night."

"You are convinced the killer will strike, then?"

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

"But supposing the whole charade were merely a cover for the murder which has already taken place?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were approaching voices in the distant hum of conversation and cacophony of hammering.

"I tell you I have had enough of it, Hardcastle!"

The voice was a man's, strained by anger; not only anger but positive hatred.

"You must not allow yourself to become swayed by malicious gossip, Setton."

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

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

There was a sneer in Hardcastle's voice as he replied.

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

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

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

A door slammed behind him and there was a brief silence apart from the distant clamor. Then there came the unmistakable rasp of a match-head being struck. Flame glowed against the end of the passageway. Hardcastle drew on his cigar; the fragrant, aromatic odor reached my nostrils a few seconds later. Then his heavy footsteps followed his companion and died out.

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

"You have no shortage of suspects," I said. "I thought I recognized the gentleman."

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

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

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

5

The orchestra burst into a deafening crescendo as the overture began. I focused my eyes on the footlights of the stage as they slowly increased in intensity. Pons stirred at my side, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

"There is nothing like the final full-dress rehearsal to give the proper atmosphere."

"Indeed."

"You see that stage box up there?"

I looked up in the direction he indicated.

"The one on the right?"

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

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

"But what am Ito look out for?"

Solar Pons smiled his curious smile.

"Be particularly alert at the finale."

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

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

I stared at my companion in amazement.

"You think this creature might be here this evening?"

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

"I see."

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

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

"You have your revolver?"

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

"What will you be doing in the meantime?"

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

"I shall certainly do that, Pons."

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

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

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

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

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

Several of the leading players were making their entrances and I marveled at the metamorphosis of these somewhat dowdy individuals of the ordinary rehearsals, now transformed by rich costuming and makeup into these colorful, larger-than-life characters who went through their dramatic paces so smoothly and effortlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I put it down on the ledge beside me and then, when I had made sure that the bearded figure was still immobile, the profile of the face just clear of the curtains, I put down the glasses and threw off the weapon's safety catch. When I again raised the glasses to my eyes I saw that the situation had changed.

There were now three objects in view; the clenched hand holding the fold of the curtain; the face; and a black, shiny object which looked like the barrel of a rifle or shotgun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pons!" I stammered. "I thought you were the person who sent those figures to Mr. Hardcastle."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the hell do you mean by this, Mr. Pons? You have ruined the performance!"

"Something else might have been ruined if I had not intervened," said my companion drily, indicating the arrow.

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

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

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

"Orchestra pit, Pons?"

Solar Pons gave me an enigmatic smile.

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

"I do not understand."

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

"I cannot make head or tail of it," I complained.

"Let us just take things slowly," added Pons as Abrahams helped Hardcastle and Miss Richmond to their feet.

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

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

"You have the warrants, inspector?"

"Yes, Mr. Pons. I have left them blank as you requested." "What does this mean, Pons?" I said.

"It mean, Parker, that a nasty little drama is drawing to its close."

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

"As you wish, Pons. I have men posted in the foyer and at the exits, as you suggested."

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

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

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

"Beg pardon, Mr. Pons?" said the Inspector obtusely.

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

"I don't follow," said Jamison.

Members of the orchestra were still brushing past.

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

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

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

"Damn you, Mr. Pons!"

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

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

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

"Sandra! You don't mean it was you…? All along?"

The woman's face was white with fury as she spat the words out.

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

"We?" The voice was that of Inspector Jamison's.

"Of course," said Solar Pons languidly. "Mrs. Hardcastle was not alone in this matter. You had best fill that second warrant in also, Inspector. In the name of Cedric Vernier."

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

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

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

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

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

6

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

I looked at my companion in amazement.

"You suspected Mrs. Hardcastle and the secretary from the beginning, Pons!”

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

"Three things, Mr. Pons?"

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

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

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

"And the third thing?"

My companion looked at me quizzically.

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

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

"Remarkable," Jamison mumbled.

Solar Pons chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why was that, Mr. Pons?"

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

"But what about the parcels?" I put in. "They arrived from distant places when Mrs. Hardcastle was with her husband. And she was in the play with him tonight."

Solar Pons shook his head.

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

Solar Pons tented his fingers before him.

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

"Remarkable!" interjected Jamison again.

Solar Pons shook his head.

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

"Despite your modesty, it has been a remarkable affair," I said. "I assume that after Hardcastle's death and the escape of the murderer, Mrs. Hardcastle would have inherited."

"And a discreet marriage would have taken place between herself and Cedric Veneer in a year or two, Parker."

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

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

"What will happen to them, Pons?"

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

"And Mr. Hardcastle will be free to marry Miss Richmond when her divorce comes through?"

Solar Pons stared at me, his eyes dancing.

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

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

"There is just one point I am not clear about. Why would Hardcastle himself not have recognized his new secretary as Venner the designer?"

Solar Pons shook his head.

"You do not know the theatre, Parker. I said Venner was an unsuccessful designer. Though brilliant. Brilliancy and success do not always go together, unfortunately. Venner was obscure. I know that he has not designed for any major London production. Hardcastle is a famous and successful actor who appears only in major plays and films. Their paths would not have crossed."

"And the fact that nothing happened after the first warning?"

Solar Pons smiled enigmatically.

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

Pons traversed the room and languidly looked at the clock.

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