"That sounds like Inspector Jamison, Parker."
He turned to our startled visitor, who looked as though he actually might attempt to climb through the window.
"It is too late, Mr. Fernchurch. Pray do not be afraid. We must just face it out."
He had no sooner spoken than there was a curt rap at the door, and it was flung open to admit the acid figure of Inspector Jamison.
3
"You are quick off the mark, Inspector," said Solar Pons pleasantly. "Won't you come in? I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine."
Jamison smiled sourly, a satisfied expression on his sallow face.
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Pons. I already know the gentleman."
His manner changed to its most curt and official.
"You are Eustace Hornbeam Fernchurch?"
Our client looked appealingly at both of us in turn, swallowed heavily, and nodded mutely. Jamison gave us a fleeting look of smug satisfaction.
"Eustace Hornbeam Fernchurch, I have here a warrant for your arrest on the capital charge of murder. I have to warn you that you are not obliged to say anything, but if you do it may be taken down in writing and used in evidence."
Fernchurch gave a strangled cry and looked appealingly at Pons again.
"Not so fast, Inspector," said Pons curtly. "I do not think this will be necessary. My client and I, together with Dr. Parker here, are just about to return to York to face this charge. My client maintains his innocence, and I hope to prove it once I see Inspector Fitzjohn."
Jamison gave an ingratiating smile.
"That may well be, Mr. Pons, but I have my duty to do. This warrant…"
"It will wait," said Solar Pons coolly. "Mr. Fernchurch will give you his parole and I will undertake to see him safely delivered. If this is not sufficient, you have only to telephone Fitzjohn and tell him I am delivering his prisoner, and I am sure he will be satisfied with the arrangement."
Inspector Jamison hesitated.
"That is all very well, Mr. Pons. But how do I know Mr. Fernchurch will be on the train?"
Solar Pons took the Scotland Yard man by arm and propelled him toward the door.
"Because you are coming to King's Cross to see us safely off, my dear fellow. You may leave the warrant with me if you wish, and I will see that Fitzjohn gets it."
Jamison hesitated fractionally again. Solar Pons smiled faintly.
"I know what you are thinking, Inspector. The train stops at Doncaster and other places, I believe. No doubt you could have your local men on the platform in each case, and I will identify the prisoner."
"Very well, Mr. Pons."
Inspector Jamison inclined his head stiffly and handed my companion the warrant. He looked over Pons's shoulder to Fernchurch.
"Think yourself lucky, young man. If we had taken you before you arrived here, you would have been in custody by now."
"How did you get on his trade so quickly?" asked Pons as we all descended the stairs. There was an unctuousness in Jamison's voice, as he replied, which I must confess grated on my susceptibilities.
"We had a call from York, of course, as soon as Fernchurch disappeared. One of our bright-eyed lads at King's Cross spotted him this morning. It wasn't difficult since he was disheveled and obviously upset. His colleague followed while he telephoned me. I told them to see where the quarry went, and he led me to you."
"Admirable, Jamison," said Pons affably. "You have the makings of a detective yet."
Little spots of red burned on the inspector's cheeks as Pons went imperturbably on.
"Oh, Mrs. Johnson, we are planning a little expedition into Yorkshire. We expect to be away only three days or so at the most."
"Very good, Mr. Pons."
We were in the sunshine of the street now, and Jamison led the way to the police car which stood at the curb, keeping a tight hold on the unfortunate Fernchurch's elbow. Pons slipped the warrant into his pocket, we put our valises on the luggage rack, and were off to King's Cross.
The journey north passed in moody silence for the most part. We had a compartment to ourselves and Pons's probing questions and Fernchurch's artless answers apparently satisfied my companion, for he soon immersed himself in the pages of a magazine, the reek of his pipe sending blue clouds of smoke about the carriage, where it lay shimmering in the shifting bands of sunlight.
Jamison was true to his word, for there were police officers evident on the platforms of each of the major stations at which we briefly stopped. Pons got out on each occasion and held short conversations before bringing the senior detective to the window so that Fernchurch could show himself. Fernchurch bore the inquisitions with great patience, and now that I knew him a little better the possibility of his innocence was growing with every mile that brought us closer to York.
When that great terminus was reached and we had passed over the bridge under the vast glass roof that spanned the platforms, Inspector Fitzjohn, a tall, dark man impeccably dressed in a tweed suit and raglan overcoat, was waiting beyond the barrier and came slowly forward as we descended the steps. Though the sun was still shining, the sky was a little overcast here and once again I caught the raw, bracing air of the north.
After a cordial exchange of pleasantries between Pons and the inspector, which included my introduction, Fitzjohn gave a slight bow to Fernchurch, glanced carelessly at the warrant Pons handed him, and thrust it into his pocket.
"Let this unpleasantness rest for a moment," he said. "A few formal words over a drink would not be out of place."
It was astonishing what a change had come over Fernchurch at the inspector's words and now he cast a grateful glance at Pons. Inspector Fitzjohn chuckled dryly.
"Come, Mr. Fernchurch, you surely did not think I was going to clap you into the Black Maria?"
"I did not know what I expected," stammered Pons's client as the inspector led the way through the long glass corridor which connected the terminus with the Edwardian opulence of the Station Hotel.
Once across the broad foyer with the vast staircase sweeping its elegant balustraded ironwork up to the first floor, the inspector led us into a luxuriously fitted bar where a cheerful buzz of conversation rose from the well- dressed clientele gathered for lunchtime drinks. We sat down at a corner table while Fitzjohn ordered our choices; beyond the glass doors an orchestra had struck up a Strauss waltz.
"A little different from your last case, Pons," I observed as my companion's lean form relaxed on to a banquette opposite. Fernchurch sat huddled in a corner, up by a partition, but the hunted look had gone from his face. He flushed as Inspector Fitzjohn raised his glass and included him in the toast.
"To a successful conclusion."
"I am innocent, Inspector."
Fitzjohn seated himself next to Fernchurch and opposite Pons and myself. His clipped black mustache twitched sympathetically as he muttered deprecatingly, "That may well be, Mr. Fernchurch. You have been indiscreet, nothing more. And the press have perhaps made too much of it. But you are in a serious position, you understand that."
"He does understand it, Inspector," said Solar Pons soothingly. "Which was why he consulted me. You have no objection to my surveying the field of operation, I take it?"
Inspector Fitzjohn's smile was frank and open.
"By no means, Mr. Pons. I should be honored and delighted. Though I fear you will not make much more of it than we have been able."
Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together briskly.
"We shall see, Inspector, we shall see," he murmured.
Fitzjohn smiled faintly as though he doubted that even Solar Pons could do better and observed, "I have taken the liberty of reserving rooms for you and Dr. Parker at the Saddler's Arms. It is one of the best establishments in the town and highly recommended."