Basil Copper
The Dossier of Solar Pons
The Game's Afoot…
"The appearance of another volume of reminiscences of my old friend Solar Pons calls, perhaps, for some explanation. It has been on my conscience that a number of uncollected cases of the one whom the late Sultan of Turkey was pleased to describe as 'The Prince of Detectives' have been lying gathering dust in my files.
"The work of retrieving these, deciphering the rough notes, and putting them into order for publication has taken a considerable time, but I trust those many admirers of Solar Pons will not be disappointed in the results. As a concession to popular request, I have selected only those reminiscences of a longer nature which reveal my friend's preeminent gifts and which occasionally highlight the more humorous facets of his character.
"The greater length of these cases has enabled me to indulge the reader in the matter of setting, milieu, and atmosphere. The result in The Dossier of Solar Pons will, I trust, enable those enthusiasts for the work of the great detective to revel once again in the thrill of the chase.
"It is time now to begin. The game's afoot!"
— Lyndon Parker, M.D.
#01 Regarding Sherlock Holmes
#02 The Chronicles of Solar Pons
#03 The Memoirs of Solar Pons
#04 The Casebook of Solar Pons
#05 The Reminiscences of Solar Pons
#06 The Return of Solar Pons
#07 Mr. Fairlie's Final Journey!
#08 The Dossier of Solar Pons
#09 The Further Adventures of Solar Pons
#10 The Secret Files of Solar Pons
#08 The Dossier of Solar Pons
#09 The Further Adventures of Solar Pons
#10 The Secret Files of Solar Pons
#11 The Uncollected Cases of Solar Pons
#12 The Exploits of Solar Pons
#13 The Recollections of Solar Pons
#14 Solar Pons-The Final Cases
The Adventure of the Perplexed Photographer
1
It was a wild evening in early April and the rain had been tapping icily at the windowpanes of our apartments at 7B Praed Street, when what I later came to call the Adventure of the Perplexed Photographer began. My old friend Solar Pons was in one of those restless, nervous moods that descended on him like a blanket when time hung heavily and he had spent most of the day morosely studying and annotating records in his commonplace book with occasional pacing turns about the room.
His examination of the rain-sodden street did nothing to improve his temper and it was with something like relief that I was called out to an urgent case in the afternoon. I was again busy in the evening and, the rain having somewhat abated, returned to 7B in time for an early dinner.
Pons was in a slightly more relaxed mood and allowed himself a thin smile at my sodden and disheveled appearance.
"Draw your chair up to the fire, my dear Parker. Mrs. Johnson will be in with our meal in a few moments. I fear I have been a far from amiable companion today."
I made a grudging acknowledgment of his graciousness and settled myself in my favorite leather armchair in close proximity to the fireplace, the cheery warmth of which soon relaxed both my limbs and my frosty manner.
The appearance of the beaming, well-scrubbed face of Mrs. Johnson at the threshold, with a heavily laden tray from which ascended wisps of steam and a most agreeable aroma, completely breached my defenses and we set to with a will The table had scarcely been cleared and Pons settled opposite me at the fireplace, with a lit pipe and a glass of whiskey and water at his elbow, than Mrs. Johnson once again appeared, this time with a somewhat flustered manner.
"There's a gentleman in the hall below, Mr. Pons. He seems rather agitated and says he must see you at once."
Pons's lean, feral face was transformed immediately. He shot me a triumphant glance from his piercing eye.
"Show him up at once, Mrs. Johnson. I am always available to those select few who alone bring me problems from among the mundane millions of London. Things have been too quiet of late."
I gave a sympathetic nod to Mrs. Johnson who quitted the room; I made to withdraw but subsided in my chair as Pons immediately begged me to remain. I shifted my position so that I could get a clear view of the door as the heavy tread of our visitor followed Mrs. Johnson up the staircase from the hall below.
Mrs. Johnson appeared in the entrance, followed immediately by a tall, heavily bearded man on whose thick- checked ulster raindrops glistened in the light of the room.
"Mr. Bruce Beresford, gentlemen," she announced and went out with the quickness born of long practice, shutting the door behind her.
Our visitor advanced blinking toward us, his arm extended, looking from one to the other.
"Mr. Solar Pons?"
Pons rose from his chair, indicating me with a casual movement of his hand.
"I am he, sir. This is my friend and confidant, Dr. Lyndon Parker."
The bearded man acknowledged my presence with a stiff bow. At Pons's insistence he was already removing his heavy coat, which he laid down on a chair near the fire.
"You have been recommended to me as one of the most able inquiry agents in London."
"Indeed, sir," said Pons dryly. "And who may be the others?"
Beresford paused and looked sharply from Pons to myself and then back to the tall figure of my companion.
"The work of Mr. Holmes must always appeal…" he began.
"Certainly," interrupted Pons crisply. "And one in your profession would naturally know the major figures in the field. But sit here next to Dr. Parker and I will pour you a whiskey."
Our visitor did as my companion said, though he cast a puzzled glance at Pons as the latter busied himself with a bottle of Haig and a siphon. He raised his glass in silent salute.
"You know me, Mr. Pons?"
Solar Pons shook his head, resuming his seat opposite me.
"Apart from the fact that you are a New Zealander, a member of the Signet Club, and a photographer, you are a stranger to me."
Our visitor's astonishment was unfeigned.
"This is remarkable. How could you possibly….
"Your accent unmistakably places you as being from New Zealand," said Pons, his eyes dancing. "I have made some little study of the subject of accents. As to the Signet Club, your ring bears the peculiar symbol of that interesting organization. Your hands are stained with chemicals, a condition peculiar to the photographer who carries out his own developing. When I find that combined with a green patch on your left knee, I conclude that is where you always kneel to take photographs. This afternoon you have been kneeling on grass to do so."
There was a moment of silence as Beresford recovered himself.
"Well, Mr. Pons," said our visitor. "Just so. For a moment I thought you had done something clever."
"Pray continue, Mr. Beresford. I understand you have a problem on which you wish to consult me."
Our visitor stirred in his chair, swilling the amber fluid in his glass.
"You may think me mad, Mr. Pons. Nothing like this
has happened to me before. To have one or two plates
smashed or stolen, yes, that could happen but three times
is ridiculous. And then this attack on me this evening…"
His beard was bristling with indignation and Pons had a tight smile on his lips as he lifted his hand to halt our visitor's flow of words.
"Come, Mr. Beresford, all in good time. Just drink your whiskey calmly and put the events in order."
Our visitor gulped at his glass and flushed.