“Not precisely. The box Miss Morland brought us is at least seventy-five years old; it may be a hundred. It is made of the same beautiful kamuning wood out of which the Malays fashion the hilts of their weapons. I trust you observed that the handle of the kris which killed Colonel Morland was of this same wood. It has been polished many times and waxed; there is actually some visible wearing away of the wood. The other is a copy of a box like this, made by a skilled artist. I suppose there is a demand for objects of this kind and I have no doubt they are to be had in all the shops which have imported pieces from the Orient for sale. Chinese boxes like this are most frequently in metal or ceramic; wood is more commonly in use from Japan down the coast throughout the Polynesians and Melanesians in the south Pacific.” He dismissed the intarsia boxes with a gesture. “But now, let us see what we have from the late Colonel Morland’s bedroom.”
He crossed to the corner where he kept his chemistry apparatus and settled himself to examine the contents of the envelopes he had used at Morland Park. There were but three of them, and it was unlikely that they would occupy him for long. Since I had a professional call to make at two o’clock, I excused myself.
When I returned within the hour, I found Pons waiting expectantly.
“Ah, Parker,” he cried, “I trust you are free for the remainder of the afternoon. I am expecting Jamison and together we may be able to put an end to Scotland Yard’s harassing of our client.”
“Did you learn anything at the slides?” I asked.
“Only confirmation of what I suspected. The particles of soil I found on the carpet beside the bed were identical with the soil around the flagstone, even to grains of limestone, of which the flagstones are made. There seems to be no doubt but that the soil was carried into the house by the bare toes of the murderer. Other than that, there was also just under the edge of the bed a tiny shaving of camphor wood, which is also commonly used by the Malays who work the jungle produce of that country.”
“We are still tied to Colonel Morland’s past,” I said.
“We have never strayed from it,” said Pons shortly. “But thus far in the course of the inquiry, unless Scotland Yard has turned up fingerprints on the handle of the kris, we have only presumptive, not convicting evidence. It is all very well to know the identity of the murderer; the trick is to convict him. Ah, I hear a motor slowing down. That will be Jamison.”
Within a moment a car door slammed below, and we heard Jamison’s heavy tread on the stairs.
The Inspector came into our quarters gingerly carrying a small package, which he surrendered to Pons with some relief. “Here it is, Pons,” he said. “I had a little trouble getting the loan of it.”
“Capital!” cried Pons. He took the package and carried it to the intarsia box he had bought in the shop on the Strand. “I don’t suppose you’re armed, Jamison?”
“The tradition of the Yard,” began Jamison ponderously.
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Pons. “Parker, get my revolver.”
I went into the bedroom and found Pons’ weapon where he had last carelessly laid it down on the bureau.
“Give it to Jamison, will you?”
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Pons,” said Jamison, with some obvious misgiving on his ruddy face. “P’raps that young woman’s turned your head.”
The contents of the Inspector’s package had vanished into the intarsia box, which Pons now took up, having resumed the garb he had bought in the Strand shops.
“Let us be off. I want to try an experiment, Jamison. Frankly, it is no more than that. It may succeed. It may not. We shall see.”
Our destination was the antique and imports shop in the Strand, and all the way there Pons said nothing, only listened with a sardonic smile on his hawk-like features to Jamison’s weighty discourse on the damning circumstances which made our client seem guilty of arranging her uncle’s death.
As the police car approached the shop, Pons spoke for the first time to Constable Meeker, who was at the wheel. “Either stop short of the shop or drive past it, Meeker.”
Meeker obediently stopped beyond the shop.
“Now, Jamison,” said Pons brusquely, as we got out of the car, “hand on gun, and pray be ready. Try to look a little less like a policeman, that’s a good fellow.”
Pons led the way into the shop, carrying the carefully wrapped intarsia box he had bought only a few hours previously. An extraordinarily handsome Eurasian woman came forward to wait upon him. She was of indeterminate age. She could have been anywhere between twenty and forty, but certainly did not seem over thirty.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
“The young man who waited on me this noon,” said Pons, unwrapping the intarsia box as he spoke. “Is he here?”
She nodded, raised her voice to call, “Ahmad!” and stepped back.
Ahmad came out, a look of polite inquiry on his face. He recognized Pons as his noon-hour customer. His eyes fell to the box.
“Sir! You are disappointed?”
“In the beauty of the box, no,” said Pons. “But the interior!”
Ahmad stepped lightly forward and took the box, discarding the wrappings. “We shall see,” he said, bowing almost obsequiously.
Then he opened the intarsia box.
Instantly, a dramatic and frightening metamorphosis took place. Ahmad’s smiling face altered grotesquely. Its mask of politeness washed away to reveal dark murderous features, suffused with sudden rage and fear. He dropped the intarsia box — and from it rolled the severed hand of Colonel Burton Morland! Simultaneously, he leaped backward with a feline movement, tore down from the wall behind him a scimitar-like chenangka, and turned threateningly upon Pons.
For scarcely a moment the scene held. Then Mrs. Morland began to waver, and I sprang forward to catch her as she fainted. At the same moment, Inspector Jamison drew his gun upon Ahmad.
“My compliments, Inspector,” said Pons. “You’ve just taken the murderer of Colonel Morland. I think,” he added blandly, “if I were you I should take Mrs. Nicholas Morland along and question her about the profit motive in the death of her husband’s uncle. I believe it almost certain that hers was the brain in which this devilish crime was conceived. — Is the lady coming around, Parker?”
“In a few moments,” I said.
“Call Meeker,” said Jamison, finding his voice.
Pons stepped into the street and shouted for the constable.
“It was not alone the fact that no ship had docked recently from Malaya that made an avenger from the Orient unlikely,” said Pons as we rode back to Praed Street on the Underground, “but the same aspect of the matter that so impressed Jamison. The murderer clearly had prior knowledge of Morland Park, something no newly arrived foreigner could have had, and he must have been someone who had ample opportunity to take an impression of the back door key, since he would prefer to enter by that door not guarded by the dog. Nothing in that house was disturbed, save Colonel Morland’s room. Not a sound aroused anyone throughout the entry into the house and the commission of the crime.
“Yet it was evident that the murderer also had knowledge of the indignity done to Bendarloh Ali. Miss Morland had no such knowledge. Her cousin Nicholas had. Presumably, since his wife was of Bendarloh Ali’s family, and had been in Malacca at the time Ali was so brutally punished, she knew as much as her husband. It is not too much to conclude that her cousin, who was therefore also of Bendarloh Ali’s family, knew the circumstances also. Ahmad, of course, is that cousin. Ahmad had been as frequent a visitor at Morland Park as his employer. He knew the grounds and the house. The shaving of camphor wood, as much a product of Malaya as kamuning wood, places Ahmad indisputably in the late Colonel Morland’s bedroom.