Inspector Oldale's eyes were wide open in astonishment, and there was consternation on the faces of the constables gathered around him.
The man on the ground spat in disgust and struggled up into a sitting position. I already had my pocket handkerchief around the clean wound in his leg, which was pumping blood copiously. I tightened it to stanch the flow and fastened Pons's own handkerchief over the top to secure it
"That will do until we get him to the hospital," I said.
There was mingled rage and admiration in the eyes of the man known as Ezekiel Walton as he stared at Pons.
"All in vain!" he said bitterly. "Ten years and all in vain, mister. Though how you got on to us I don't know…"
"A little coincidence and a great deal of common sense," said Pons with a dry chuckle.
He turned to Oldale.
"You had better take charge of this money, Inspector. It represents the proceeds of a number of daring robberies. I have no doubt you will receive an official commendation from a certain quarter, which you will find no hindrance in your career."
"You are most generous, Mr. Pons," said the Berkshire detective.
A startling change had come over the face of the man John Roberts, and he now ceased his struggles with the two burly constables who held him. The man on the ground was being helped up, his wounded leg stiff and helpless. He smiled grimly at Pons.
"Mr. Solar Pons?"
Pons nodded
"I have that appellation."
"The most brilliant private detective in England," said Inspector Oldale.
Ezekiel Walton gave a second twisted smile.
"I don't feel so bad, then," he said
Pons had drawn Oldale aside.
"This matter is not yet finished, Inspector. Remain here for a few minutes longer while I seek the lady in the case."
"Lady, Pons?" I asked as we hurried up the cellar steps.
"Certainly, Parker. Madame Mantalini, of course."
I had no opportunity to make sense of this baffling statement before Pons was leading the way at a breathless pace through the darkened rooms of Buffington Old Grange. The police had come in through the kitchen door to gain the cellar and the rooms were silent and deserted. But as we mounted the staircase to the upper floors hurried footsteps were heard.
"You have been long enough. What was that disturbance?" a woman's voice hissed.
A heavy door faced with baize opened on the landing before us and the owner of the voice peered anxiously through. Pons bowed politely.
"It means that the game is up, Madame Mantalini," he said, mockingly. "The police are in possession and your husband and his companion in custody."
For a moment the woman's face stared at us in the half- light of the staircase like a white, waxen mask. The lips moved with trembling motions but no words came. Then the door was slammed savagely in our faces, and the bolt
thrust home. The retreating footsteps died out on the staircase to the attic floor as Pons and I flung ourselves at the panels.
"A resourceful woman, Parker," said Pons breathlessly, at the fourth shoulder-bruising charge. Then he had his pistol out and deftly shot the lock away with two well-placed bullets. I stumbled through on to the landing and found the brass light switch. Radiance blinked ahead of us as Pons crossed to the door of a room almost opposite. I stood in the opening and watched as he moved to a chest of drawers at the far wall It was a woman's room, with chintz hangings and pink-shaded lamps, and I looked on In bewilderment as Pons started turning out drawers and cupboards.
"Ought we not to follow her, Pons?" I asked, eyeing the narrow stair behind me.
"I think not for the moment, Parker," said my companion evenly.
"If my reasoning is correct she cannot escape that way and a few minutes more will not matter. I have a notion to satisfy my curiosity. Ah, here we have something."
He picked up a glittering object from the back of a drawer and held the crystal container up to the light.
"It is nothing but a scent spray, Pons."
"Is it not, Parker?" Solar Pons chuckled.
He operated the rubber bulb and sniffed critically with flaring nostrils.
"Lavender, if I am not in error. There is your ghost on the landing."
He handed me the spray and was rummaging in the back of a cupboard as he spoke. He straightened up with a grunt He held a battered book with a leather cover in his hands. He turned over the leaves hurriedly. I caught a glimpse of yellowed newspaper extracts pasted into the pages. Pons lifted his eyebrows.
"Listen to this, Parker. 'Madame Mantalini's Second Successful Visit. Brilliant Ventriloquist Appears Locally.'"
"I am still at sea, Pons," I said helplessly.
Solar Pons made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue.
"Tut, Parker. The matter is clear as daylight. I need only one thing more now and we have these rascals in the net."
He thrust the book into my hands and pounced into the darkness at the back of the cupboard. He turned back to me and I could not repress a shudder. I recoiled as a dead gray face, contorted in a hideous leer, stared soullessly into mine.
"A carnival mask, Parker. A simple but effective device to frighten the wits out of Mr. and Mrs. Oldfield, let alone that poor child."
He ripped the papier-mâché creation from his face, his features stern and set, his eyes blazing.
"You cannot mean, Pons…" I began when we were interrupted by an echoing clatter from the rooms beyond the narrow staircase. Pons hurried up, with me following close behind He ascended the last flight two steps at a time, so that I had a job to keep up with him. He found another switch and the landing ahead of us sprang into light. We were evidently in the old servants' quarters. There was no sound from our quarry now. Unless there were a back stairs, the woman Pons had called Madame Mantalini could not escape us.
Nor had she, for as I stepped through into the last of the dusty boxrooms a few minutes later, a pale moon shining through the skylight outlined a dark shadow swaying in the gloom. The overturned cane-bottom chair told us the meaning of the clatter we had heard
Pons supported her weight as I struggled to get her down. She had hanged herself, with the belt from her dress, on a rusty hook protruding from an oak beam in the ceiling. Pons's face was white and he was visibly shaken as I loosened the ligature from around the neck of the woman he called Madame Mantalini and whom we had known as our client's housekeeper, Mrs. Salmon.
"Poetic justice, perhaps, Parker," he said, as I shook my head slowly. "If that woman is not a murderess, it is only by the grace of God."
He rose to his feet, dusting the knees of his trousers. He glanced around the attic room, his face once more alert and clear-minted.
"Though I would not have wished things to end like this. Ironic that it is probably the same beam from which the old recluse, Jabez Kemp, hanged himself."
He smiled thinly at my expression.
"We had better get some of Oldale's constables up to get Mrs. Walton to the ambulance. Then I think that a few explanations are in order."
8
It has been an incredible experience, Mr. Pons. I do not know how to thank you."
Horace Oldale looked beaming around the table, while his wife's smiling face echoed his own satisfaction. Solar Pons toyed with the stem of his wineglass and glanced approvingly at me.
"It has been a case not without some extraordinary points of interest," he admitted. "And one that I would not have missed for a good deal. Eh, Parker?"
"Certainly not, Pons."
We were seated in the dining room at Buffington Old Grange, the debris of an excellent dinner on the table before us, while the firelight flickered redly on the faces of our host and hostess and their children. Inspector Oldale sat alert and diffident at one side, thoughtfully piercing a cigar with a small instrument on his pocketknife.