“How long ago did this happen, Mr. Morland?”
“Only a month or two before he was sent home. The Sultan of Malacca was outraged — though he had approved the punishment, he was later led to repudiate it — and demanded the recall of the resident. The Governor really had no alternative but to relieve my uncle of his post.”
“Over fifteen years, then. Does it seem likely that he would wait so long to take vengeance?”
“Not he, Mr. Pons. My uncle’s victim died three months ago. I think it not inconsistent of the Malay character that his son might believe it incumbent upon him to avenge the honor of his house and the indignity done his father.”
“I submit it would be an unnatural son who would separate his father’s right hand from his remains,” said Pons.
Morland shook his head thoughtfully. “Mr. Pons, I would tend to agree. There is this point to consider. The hand sent my uncle may not have been Bendarloh Ali’s. Even if it were, I suppose the family represents that ethnic mixture so common in Malacca that no standard of conduct consistent with ancient Malay customs could be ascribed to it.”
Pons sat for a few moments in contemplative silence. Then he said, “You are very probably aware that you and your cousin will share your uncle’s estate.”
“Oh, yes. There is no one else. We are a small family, and unless Flora marries, we will very likely die out entirely. Oh, there are distant cousins, but we have not been in touch for many years.” He shrugged. “But it’s a matter of indifference to me. My practise is quite sufficient for our needs, though I suppose my wife can find a use for what Uncle Burton may leave us, what with the constant innovations at her shop.”
The telephone rang suddenly at Morland’s elbow. He lifted it to his ear, said, “Morland here,” and listened. When he put it down after but a brief period, he said, “Gentlemen, the police are on the way.”
Pons got to his feet with alacrity. “One more question, Mr. Morland. Your relations with your uncle — were they friendly, tolerant, distant?”
“The three of us had dinner at Morland Park once a month, Mr. Pons,” said Morland a little stiffly.
“Three?”
“My wife’s cousin lives with us. Uncle Burton naturally would not exclude him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We took our leave.
Outside, Pons strode purposefully along, some destination in mind, his eyes fixed upon an inner landscape. Within a few minutes we were once more on the Underground, and rode in silence unbroken by any word from Pons, until we reached Trafalgar Station and emerged to walk in the Strand.
“Pons,” I cried finally, exasperated at his silence. “It’s noon. What are we doing here?”
“Ah, patience, Parker, patience. The Strand is one of the most fascinating areas in the world. I mean to idle a bit and shop.”
Within half an hour, Pons had exchanged his deerstalker for a conservative summer hat, leaving his deerstalker to be dispatched to our quarters by post; he had bought a light summer coat, which he carried loosely on his arm; and he had added a walking stick to his ensemble, all to my open-mouthed astonishment. He presented quite a different picture from that to which I had become accustomed in the years I had shared his quarters, and he offered no explanation of his purchases.
We continued in the Strand until we came to a small shop modestly proclaiming that antiques and imports were to be had.
“Ah, here we are,” said Pons. “I beg you, Parker, keep your face frozen. You have an unhappy tendency to show your reactions on it.”
So saying, he went into the shop.
A bell, tinkling in a back room, brought out a dapper, brown-skinned man of indeterminate age. He came up to us and bowed. He looked little older than a boy, but he was not a boy. He smiled, flashing his white teeth, and said, “If it please you, gentlemen, I am here to serve you.”
“Are you the proprietor?” asked Pons abruptly.
“No, sir. I am Ahmad. I work for Mrs. Morland.”
“I am looking,” said Pons, “for an intarsia box.”
“Ah. Of any precise size?”
“Oh, so — and so,” said Pops, describing the size of the intarsia box Miss Morland had brought to our quarters.
“Just so. One moment, if you please.”
He vanished into the room to the rear, but came out in a very few moments carrying an intarsia box, which he offered to Pons.
“Seventeenth century Italian, sir. Genuine. I trust this is the box you would like.”
“It is certainly exquisite work,” said Pons. “But, no, it is not quite what I would like. The size is right. But I would like something with Oriental ornamentation.”
“Sir, there are no antique intarsia boxes of Oriental manufacture,” said Ahmad. “I am sorry.”
“I’m not looking for an antique,” said Pons. “I am, of course, aware that intarsia boxes were not made in the Orient before the eighteenth century.”
Ahmad’s pleasant face brightened. “Ah, in that case, sir, I may have something for you.”
He vanished once more into the quarters to the rear of the shop.
When he came out this time he carried another intarsia box. With a triumphant smile, he gave it to Pons. Then he stood back to wait upon Pons’ verdict.
Pons turned it over, examining it critically. He opened it, smelled it, caressed it with his fingers, and smiled. “Excellent!” he cried. “This will do very well, young man. What is its price?”
“Ten pounds, sir.”
Pons paid for it without hesitation. “Pray wrap it with care. I should not like any of that beautifully wrought carving to be damaged, even scratched.”
Ahmad beamed. “Sir, you like the intarsia?”
“Young man, I have some knowledge of these things,” said Pons almost pontifically. “This is among the finest work of its kind I have seen.”
Ahmad backed away from Pons, bowing, his face glowing. He retired once again into the back room, from which presently came the sounds of rustling paper. In just under five minutes Ahmad reappeared and placed the carefully wrapped intarsia box in Pons’ hands. He was still glowing with pleasure. Moreover, he had the air of bursting with something he wanted to say, which only decorum prevented his giving voice.
Pons strolled leisurely from the shop and away down the street. But, once out of sight of the shop, he moved with alacrity to hail a cab and gave the driver our Praed Street address.
“Did you not have the feeling that Ahmad wished to tell us something?” I asked when we were on our way.
“Ah, he told us everything,” said Pons, his eyes glinting with good humor. “Ahmad is an artist in intarsia. I trust you observed the costly antiques offered in Mrs. Morland’s shop?”
“I did indeed.”
“It suggested nothing to you?”
“That her business is thriving, as Miss Morland told us.” I reached over and tapped the package Pons held. “Did it not seem to you that this box is very much like Miss Morland’s?”
Pons smiled. “Once the first box is turned out, the pattern is made. The rest come with comparative ease. They are probably identical, not only with each other, but with a score or more of others.”
Back in our quarters, Pons carefully unwrapped the intarsia box he had bought and placed it beside our client’s. Except for the fact that there was some difference in age between them, they were virtually identical. Pons examined the boxes with singular attention to detail, finding each smallest variation between them.
“Are they identical or not?” I asked finally.