Pons sat next to me, the blue smoke of his pipe rising in aromatic spirals in the still, sunny air. He was in a mood I knew well; his tense, set face indicated that his mind was engaged in some problem and I knew better than to interrupt him at these times. So I contented myself with idly scanning the road and the surrounding countryside with the glasses, while my own mind pondered on the strange nature of the mystery surrounding the inhabitants of the Grange — so baffling to me, apparently so clear to my companion.
My musings were presently interrupted by the sound of a car in the driveway, and I saw at once that the master of Buffington Old Grange and his family were themselves on the point of departure. A sedan, brought around from the stable block, was in front of the main door, and the members of the family were loading suitcases into the interior.
I handed the binoculars to Pons and he watched silently while the preparations went forward. Presently the engine of the car started; the auto accelerated down the drive and drove off in the direction of Melton. Silence again descended on the quiet country scene. The gardener, deserted now that everyone had disappeared, stood forlorn for a few moments, poised on his broom, and then wheeled his barrow bade down the drive, sulkily it seemed to me, even with the naked eye.
Pons had taken the eyepieces from his face and smiled at my expression.
"Why, yes, Parker, I do expect Smithson is a little put out"
"Whatever do you mean, Pons?"
Solar Pons chuckled.
"The gardener, my dear fellow. He did look desolate, did he not? And no doubt he will miss his meat pies, his cups of tea, and glasses of cider, now that the house is deserted."
I joined in Pons's amusement
"Well, yes, Pons, I am thinking somewhat on those lines. But how you can read my mind in such a manner…"
"Your mind is quite transparent in these matters, my dear fellow."
Pons rose from the log and I followed him along the path across the field. To my surprise he took the fork which led back toward the town.
"We are not going to the Grange, then, Pons?"
My companion's eyes flashed and an expression of irritation, hastily suppressed, passed across his mobile features.
"Have you learned nothing from my methods, Parker? Secrecy is vital, as I indicated. The Grange is watched, I have no doubt. We cannot go there until after dark. We can safely employ ourselves in Melton for the few hours of daylight remaining. And I have an appointment to meet the local CID inspector at six o'clock."
"I am sorry, Pons," I said. "My confusion comes from cot knowing what is going on."
Pons's expression softened as he pulled steadily at the stem of his pipe.
"All will be made clear in good time, Parker. You must just contain yourself a little longer."
We soon reached the outskirts of Melton and, passing over the bridge, once again plunged into that busy little metropolis. I did not see much of Pons after tea, but dusk had long fallen when he at length appeared before me as I sat reading in front of the fire in the hotel lounge.
"All is ready, Parker. I trust you have your pistol?"
I nodded assent and followed Pons as he strode through the narrow streets. Once across the bridge, a shadowy figure detached itself from the leafy hedge and came forward to join us.
"Right on time, Mr. Pons."
"Punctuality is the keystone of good detective work. Allow me to present my old friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker. Inspector George Oldale of the Melton CID."
"Delighted to meet you, Dr. Parker."
Inspector Oldale was a tall, vigorous man in his mid-forties with jet-black hair and an alert, terrier-like expression. He evidently knew little more than I about the affairs of Buffington Old Grange, but he fell into stride alongside us and listened carefully as Pons outlined our dispositions for the evening.
"We will circle the grounds, gentlemen, and approach the house from the rear. We must be silent and circumspect as possible. I have a key to the kitchen door. Once inside the house, we shall secrete ourselves in the cellar and await events."
He tapped his pocket with a thin smile. "I have brought a flask and sandwiches. We may be in for a long wait. Or they may not come at all tonight, though after such a time I would think it highly unlikely that they will delay further."
Oldale's face was set in a frowning mask as he stared at Pons. He did not venture any comment but I could not contain myself.
"Who are 'they,' Pons? And what on earth are we doing in the cellars of Buffington Old Grange?"
Pons only smiled again and laid a finger alongside his nose to enjoin caution. The wind was rising steadily, and the air was fresh, as though it. presaged rain. We were coming to the end of the gas lamps now, and beyond them there were only dancing shadows and the patterns thrown by leaves upon the uneven pavement. There was a small lane on our right and Pons took it unerringly, walking as though he had known this neighborhood all his life.
Presently we found a gap in the hedge and, squeezing through with some difficulty, found ourselves on the grounds of Buffington Old Grange. Crossing a wide lawn to a graveled path, which we skirted cautiously, we waited for our eyes to adjust to the darkness before Pons located the flagged walk which led through gloomy banks of rhododendrons and, eventually, to the kitchen door.
The detective officer and I waited uneasily in the rising wind, listening to the creek of branches and strange night sounds, until Pons had placed the key in the lock. Pons's eyes glinted with the excitement of the chase as we found ourselves in the darkened kitchen. He relocked the door and then we followed him through the cellar entrance and down the steps. We had to tread carefully; Pons was now using a pocket flashlight with great caution.
He kept it low, illuminating only the steps, until we reached the floor. He ran the beam across the cellar, selecting a hiding place with care. He stationed Inspector Oldale behind one of the Gothic arches, waiting until he had made himself comfortable on some dry straw. Pons then divided the packet of sandwiches and left the officer several fingers of whiskey in the silver cup of his flask. He glanced at his watch.
"We must be prepared for a long wait," he whispered. "No smoking and no talking, Inspector. Parker and I will be among the wine bins yonder."
Oldale nodded and drew his thick overcoat about him, for the air was chill in the cellar. I followed Pons over and we secreted ourselves in one of the aisles between our client's wine racks, so that we could, with a little effort, get a good view of the cellar beyond.
"You have no objection to drinking direct from the flask, Parker?" asked Pons, passing me the packet of sandwiches.
"By no means, Pons," I whispered, biting into a cheese sandwich.
Pons switched off the light. Munching and sipping agreeably enough, we settled down to wait in the pitch darkness while the creaking noises of the wind, audible here through windows high up at ground level, formed a somber background to my thoughts.
7
I was jerked awake by the insistent pressure of Pons's fingers on my arm. I must have momentarily dropped off to sleep because I felt chilly and heavy-eyed.
"What is it, Pons?"
"It is one A.M., Parker," my companion whispered. "And something is happening."
Even as he spoke I could hear a faint crunching in the gravel driveway outside the house, and the dim beam of some light source shone across one of the barred windows of the cellar, high above our heads. A long silence followed and then the heavy, echoing slam of the front door.