None of us had much time for the rows of books which flanked the walls, the open safe in the fireplace wall, or the glass cases which occupied the far end of the apartment All eyes were on the thing slumped at the rosewood desk about ten feet from the fireplace. Elihu Cook Stanmore had been a man about sixty-five years old, with a shock of white hair which stood out around his head like thistle-down.
He lay awry at the desk, huddled in a big leather armchair, his eyes wide and staring, his face blue and congested. The handle of a large brass-bound dagger protruded from his back and was partly concealed by the chair. His hands were clawed in agony and his long fingernails had torn gashes in the blotter before him. I could see that the back of his velvet smoking jacket was literally drenched with blood.
Dr. Garratt had followed us in and stood looking on silently. A tall man with red hair was busy at work at a table some yards from the desk. He nodded at the superintendent and, in response to the latter's querying look, volunteered, "Plenty of prints, sir, but they're too blurred by the look of things. I shall know more when I get back to the laboratory."
Heathfield nodded.
"I shall want to hear as soon as possible," he said.
Pons had already set to work. He paced restlessly about the study, his eyes probing the desk, the open safe, the documents the Scotland Yard men had been sifting on the side table. Now he stepped back into the middle of the room again.
He glanced at the six gold coins which were lying near one of Stanmore's outstretched hands. A large piece of white pasteboard was on the desk, held down by two of the coins. As the superintendent had noted, it bore merely the words: Revenge is sweet
"What do you make of the message, Parker?"
"Done with a thick-nibbed pen, in old English lettering," I said.
"Excellent Continue."
"The sort of card that can be bought at any stationer's shop, Pons."
Pons's eyes were sparkling.
"You are improving out of all recognition, Parker. I could not have learned much more myself. But I think you will find that the card came from a florist. It is a long shot, Superintendent, but it might be worthwhile checking any florist's establishments in the neighborhood."
"Very well, Mr. Pons."
Pons stood back, his sharp eyes surveying the corpse and its surroundings intently.
"Your department, Parker. Just give us your opinion to add to Dr. Garratt's."
I bent over the body, taking care to avoid contact with the blood-stained area of the jacket As I did so, I must have knocked against the swivel chair, for it swung around and Stanmore's corpse slumped farther forward across the desk. I could not repress a small gasp of surprise.
"You are on to something, Parker?"
"This is extraordinary, Pons," I said. "Just take a look, Doctor. Stanmore has been stabbed not once but more than a dozen times."
There was a deep silence as I pointed out the multiplicity of cuts in the back of the smoking jacket, indicating wounds from which such a deep seepage of blood had occurred.
"It is evident that someone had more than an ordinary dislike for our friend," said Heathfield sardonically.
"This would have been discovered at the mortuary," put in Dr. Garratt sharply. "I was merely asked to make a superficial examination. I understood that the body was to remain in situ because of Foreign Office instructions."
"Certainly, Dr. Garratt," said Superintendent Heathfield soothingly. "We all understand that"
I shot Garratt a sympathetic glance.
"Purest accident," I said. "I would not have noticed but for bumping into the chair."
Garratt bowed slightly and then went out silently, closing the door after him. I turned to the superintendent
"I trust I haven't inadvertently…"
Heathfield chuckled
"The doctor is a little touchy, Dr. Parker. Think nothing of it"
We stood watching while Pons went rapidly over the contents of the desk. He looked at the broken drawer and then crossed to the safe. He leafed idly through the bundles of letters and other documents on the side table. He raised his eyebrows as he caught the ducal crest at the top of some blue stationery.
"What do you intend to do with these, Superintendent?"
"Normally we destroy all such material after a discreet interval, Mr. Pons. But it does look as though we shall have to question some of these people in the course of our inquiries."
"Naturally."
Pons looked inquiringly round him.
"I should like to see Dawkins."
"Certainly, Mr. Pons. He is in the kitchen. Would you prefer to have him called?"
"No, do not disturb him. I will go through."
But before seeking the valet, Pons turned back. He went over to the glass cases at the end of the room and gazed silently at the long rows of coins which were mounted in velvet.
"The famous collection," he murmured. "What do you make of it, Parker?"
I crossed over to my friend's side and glanced down, at the cases. Then I went over to the others and scanned their contents, trying to observe detail as Pons would have done.
"The coins on the desk do not seem to have come from here, Pons."
"Exactly, Parker."
"Perhaps they have been recently purchased and he has not had time to add them to his collection?"
"Perhaps," said Pons. "Though I fancy we shall find a more esoteric explanation when we come to it"
He turned on his heel and went over to the table where the bundles of documents from Stanmore's safe had been stacked.
"I should like to take some of this material away with me."
Superintendent Heathfield raised his eyebrows but merely said, "By all means, Mr. Pons. The Foreign Office, through your brother, has given you carte blanche in the matter. We have the material listed, of course."
"Of course."
Pons turned to me.
"Perhaps you would be good enough to make a selection, Parker. The complete series of letters of each subject selected, beginning with the Duke of Leinster."
I busied myself at this task while Pons went back to study the gruesome object at the desk. Heathfield found me a large buff envelope and I put the letters in this. I rejoined Pons, who stood frowning at the corpse of Stanmore.
"I seem to detect a distinct cyanose condition, Parker."
"That is not unnatural in a man of Stanmore's years, Pons," I explained. "One would expect some degree of heart disease in a man of his build and sedentary life."
"Would one not, Parker," said Pons, enigmatically, his eyes sparkling. "Well, that is something we shall have to leave to Dr. Garratt and his postmortem examination. In the meantime there is much to do and Dawkins awaits us in the kitchen."
3
The valet proved to be a small, subdued-looking man, with dark hair going silver at the temples. He was lean, with a prominent Adam's apple, aged about fifty, and wearing discreet, not to say somber, clothes. As we entered the large, airy kitchen, he was standing at a board, ironing the trousers of a morning suit. There were traces of shock still on his features and the redness of his eyes indicated that he had been weeping.
He looked up incuriously as we came in and Heathfield wasted no time on preliminaries.
"This is Mr. Solar Pons, Dawkins. He represents the Foreign Office in the matter of the death of your employer, and I want you to listen carefully and answer all his questions."
"Certainly, sir."
Dawkins put down the iron on a table at his elbow and turned wearily toward us.
"You'll forgive me, gentlemen I know these clothes will be of no more use to Mr. Stanmore in this world, but one must do something and under the circumstances it seemed best to get back into my routine."
"An admirable sentiment, Dawkins," observed Solar Pons, looking at the valet shrewdly. "I understand you have been in the late Mr. Stanmore's employ for some fifteen years."