The secretary was on his feet now.
"Very ingenious, Mr. Pons, but you will still need something better than that."
"Indeed, Mr. Moffat," said Pons imperturbably, "and this is where Mr. Beresford comes in."
He turned to our client, who put down his album of photographs on the desk in front of Jamison.
"A series of bizarre events happened to Mr. Beresford only yesterday. He is, as most of you know, a photographer of some distinction, who was commissioned by Professor Mair to photograph this house for the brochures when it was advertised for sale. Mr. Beresford came here at precisely two-thirty p.m. the day before yesterday. He took exterior photographs of the grounds and the facade of The Poplars.
"Miss Conyers received him, and I presume that the other members of the family did not know of his presence. This then is the situation shortly before three o'clock: the door is locked, the crime committed, and the murderer cannot turn back. Just wishing to make sure that everything is quiet, he walks to one of those windows at the front of the study and looks out onto the grounds.
"At precisely that instant Mr. Beresford photographs the facade of the house and with it the image of the murderer looking out of the window of Professor Mair's death chamber."
There was a murmur from those gathered in the room, and I noticed the stupefaction on Beresford's and the inspector's faces. Pons could not suppress a chuckle.
"Astonishing, is it not? And one of the most unusual situations it has been my pleasure to be concerned in. Just imagine this man's dilemma. His plan has been carefully laid. In a few seconds he will scream to bring the household running. He is fully committed to his plan — indeed, the crime is already a fait accompli. But he knows Mr. Beresford will be back with the completed photographs. Still his nerve does not fail him. He must recover Mr. Beresford's negatives at all costs."
"Of course, Mr. Pons!"
light had broken in on Beresford's face. He came forward and pumped Pons's hand.
"Not so fast," said Pons. "Our man carries out the rest of his plan perfectly and then hurries off. He dogs Mr. Beresford's footsteps, steals plates, and smashes others. All to no avail The real plates, due to a simple error, are in Mr. Beresford's pocket and not in his carrying case at all."
Pons's eyes raked the room. The massive form of Lionel Amsden at the mantel seemed to have shrunk; Miss Conyers's body was drawn up on her chair as though she were afraid to miss a syllable of Pons's discourse. Armitage and Moffat were tense and silent, their eyes never leaving Pons's face. At the desk Inspector Jamison and Beresford wore expressions of eager expectancy.
"You remember, Parker, that I told you the murderer would not necessarily need to smash the plates."
I nodded.
"Since they were stolen on a bus, the thief could not possibly smash them there."
"Naturally," said Pons easily, "but if our man also happened to be a keen amateur photographer, he might well wish to develop the plates himself to see whether he had been caught in the death room at the time of committing his crime. Remember, Mr. Beresford only had to fix the date and time of this photograph and the hangman's rope awaited."
Pons stirred from the desk top and stretched himself.
"I looked for evidence of chemical staining on the fingers," he said softly. "There are such stains on the hands of a man in this room. Apart from Mr. Beresford, that is."
Pons permitted himself a brief smile.
"I wonder what he said when he developed a scene showing the muscular forms of football idols."
He turned to the folio which Beresford was unfolding. "Thanks to the photographer's enlarging skill we now have an excellent likeness of the murderer standing at the window of this study a few moments after committing his abominable crime."
Pons turned and advanced toward Moffat and Armitage, holding up the large expanse of pasteboard. There was a strangled cry and the group broke up. The blue eyes of Clifford Armitage were distorted and there were flecks of foam at his mouth. He made feeble attempts to ward off the photographic enlargement Pons was thrusting toward him.
Then he turned with a galvanic movement and rushed across the room. Miss Conyers screamed and there was a moment of confusion.
Inspector Jamison moved quickly to intercept him, but Armitage was quicker still He swept up a bronze statuette from the desk and felled the inspector with one blow. Before the officer had slumped to the floor, Pons was blocking the path to the door, but Armitage had already turned. His hands over his face, he ran for the window; there was a splintering of glass and woodwork and then nothing but the pale sunlight driving in and the wind lashing the curtains.
Pons's face was white as he came toward me.
"Regrettable, Parker, but it could not have been foreseen. Your department, I think. While you are below I will see to the inspector."
I ran down the stairs three at a time, but I knew it was already too late. And so it proved. Clifford Armitage, that most cunning and strong-nerved of murderers, whose wits had only cracked at the last, lay at a weird and unnatural angle. He had fallen onto the cement path, and it took me only a moment to confirm that his neck was broken and life already extinct.
Pausing only to give instructions to the detective-constable to cover the remains with a tarpaulin, I hurried back upstairs, considerably relieved to find Inspector Jamison slowly regaining consciousness, a large bump on his forehead already discernible and his temper nowise improved by his experience. When I had made him comfortable on the divan and one of the servants was applying a cold compress to his forehead, Pons drew me to the other end of the study.
"A bad business, Parker, but I fear we had little chance of getting him into court."
"But the photographs, Pons…" I began.
Pons shook his head gravely.
"My little charade, as I called it, was a charade in truth. It was bluff, I am afraid, but bluff which nevertheless brought down the curtain on an enterprising and ruthless killer."
He showed me Beresford's enlargements as he spoke. They indeed showed part of the facade and windows of The Poplars, but the muffled figure looking out from behind the white lace curtains was quite indistinguishable.
"Ironic, is it not?" said Pons when I had told him of Armitage's fate.
He glanced over my shoulder at the white face of Jean Conyers.
"I am sorry indeed to have put you to such an ordeal, Miss Conyers."
The girl shook her head.
"I am deeply in your debt, Mr. Pons."
Pons looked from her to Lionel Amsden who had come up sheepishly behind her and was hesitantly extending his hand to my companion.
"You might remember, Miss Conyers, that surface impressions are not always reliable. Eh, Parker?"
He smiled at her expression and then turned back to Beresford and the secretary at the desk.
"Well, Mr. Beresford, you have brought me a rich and rare experience."
"I am greatly in your debt also, Mr. Pons."
"Well, well, we shall see, Mr. Beresford. In the meantime, no doubt, you and Dr. Parker could join me in a steak and a bottle of wine at Simpson's this evening?"
"Delighted, Mr. Pons."
Solar Pons turned back to me, his eyes twinkling at my expression. "If there are any other small points on which you are not quite clear, my dear fellow, no doubt they can await our return to Praed Street."
"I do not think so, Pons," I murmured. "For once I have little to say."
Solar Pons clapped me on the shoulder and led the way out of the room.
"The long arm of coincidence in the shape of Mr. Bruce Beresford has enabled me to bring to book a most cunning and ingenious murderer," he said.
The Sealed Spire Mystery