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6

It was still cold and windy, but the rain had ceased and a pale sun shone the next morning. At nine o'clock when we set out for Beresford's studio, Pons insisted on walking to the Strand. He was singularly uncommunicative but persisted in humming some popular tune in a cracked monotone which added to my sense of mounting irritation. It was still a quarter to ten when we skirted St. Martin's, crossed Duncannon Street, and set off along the south side of the Strand.

Beresford's studio was in a narrow thoroughfare of tall redbrick properties running down to the Embankment, and we mounted narrow stairs to the third floor where, according to the large brass plate, the studio was situated. A glazier was already at work repairing the clear glass panel in the main door of the premises, and our client himself obtruded his bearded face into the gap in the pane in such a droll manner that Pons himself could not forbear a brief smile.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Pons," cried our client, visibly relieved.

He led the way through to a cluttered office where large photographic studies adorned the walls. We passed from this apartment into a narrow corridor leading to Beresford's darkrooms. It seemed an extensive warren, and Pons's alert eyes were darting keenly about him as we rounded the end of the passage and walked into the room where the photographs were finally dried and finished.

Two men were at work here, but after a brief word with their employer they left us alone. The chamber in which we found ourselves was a large one; two big photographic enlargers stood on a solid wooden bench; there were racks of plates standing out to dry and a tap dripped mournfully in the corner. Unlike the darkrooms there were windows here which let in the daylight, and a door in the far wall led down an iron staircase into a small mews at the rear of the premises.

Pons had seen all this at a glance and now he produced a magnifying lens from an inner pocket and turned to Beresford.

"It is a pity that your assistants have continued working here, Mr. Beresford, but I must just pick up what information I can."

He was over by the door as he spoke, examining the framework and area round the coarse coconut matting in front of it. He had two or three of his small transparent envelopes and transferred something carefully from the surface of the mat to one of the envelopes with a pair of tweezers. Then he was up and down the iron staircase with ferretlike gestures, to Beresford's evident bewilderment. His eyes sought mine and I turned away with inward amusement

We stood for a few minutes more while Pons bustled out into the main offices to glean what information he could from the shattered front door. When he rejoined us a little later, his lean features were alight with satisfaction. He closed the door behind him and waved our client to a wooden stool I seated myself on a bench near the open door while Pons remained standing.

"Now, Mr. Beresford, I see from your list, that you had a photographic assignment two days ago at the home of Professor Mair."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Pons. I remember. The Poplars, Highbury. But it was of no importance. Merely illustrations for a brochure. The house was coming up for sale. Now, at Chelsea…"

"Tut, tut, Mr. Beresford," Pons interrupted, the edge of his voice slightly corroded with irritation. "You may forget Chelsea and its footballers. That was an effect, not the cause. Your presence at The Poplars, au contraire, was of paramount importance."

Beresford's face was a picture; his expression clearly indicated that he thought my companion had taken leave of his senses, but he was too polite to say so.

Solar Pons's tall form was quivering with excitement as he leaned toward our client,

"Now, Mr. Beresford, pay close attention to my questions. A brutal murder was committed at The Poplars two days ago. Your answers may go a long way toward closing the net on a very cunning adversary."

Beresford's jaw dropped.

"A murder, Mr. Pons… I'm not sure I understand."

"You do not read the papers, then?" Pons grunted.

Beresford shook his head.

"I have been extremely busy this last week. And what with the worries of the past forty-eight hours…"

"No matter. Tell me, Mr. Beresford, how did you come to be commissioned to take pictures at The Poplars?"

"Mr. Dartmouth, one of the principals of Swettenham and Fuggle, estate agents of Highbury, for whom I had done a great deal of work, telephoned these premises to seek my help."

"I see. At what time did you arrive at the house?"

"At about two-thirty, Mr. Pons. The rain had ceased and the sun was shining. It seemed a good opportunity."

"Quite so," said Pons.

He gave me a brief glance before resuming.

"Did you take photographs inside the house or out?"

Beresford shifted his bulk on the stool.

"Miss Conyers received me in the hall of the house, Mr. Pons. She gave me specific instructions, and I then set to ' work to photograph the grounds and the exterior of the house."

"I see. And you were there at three o'clock that afternoon?"

"Certainly, Mr. Pons."

Beresford's bewilderment was plain to see at that moment.

"Patience, Mr. Beresford. We are coming to the kernel of the matter. So I am right, am I not, in assuming that you did not set foot beyond the hall; that you took no interiors of the mansion; and that your work consisted of photographing exterior and grounds?"

"Exactly, Mr. Pons. I finished and left the property at about a quarter past three because it was then beginning to rain."

"You did not see Miss Conyers again?"

Beresford shook his head.

"I had no reason to, Mr. Pons. I had the young lady's instructions, and proofs would have been submitted in the normal way."

Pons nodded and scratched his ear with a familiar gesture.

"What exactly were you doing at precisely three o'clock or a minute or two before, Mr. Beresford?"

Our client sat on the stool, deep in thought for a moment or two.

"I was photographing the main facade of the building, Mr. Pons. I took two or three studies to make sure. I like to be thorough, you see."

"I'm sure you do."

Pons looked disappointed.

"And these photographs were among those destroyed by the vandal who stole your property and attacked you?"

Beresford's face lit up.

"By no means, Mr. Pons. As luck would have It, I had placed these slides in a large pocket in my overcoat."

I was astonished at Pons's reaction. He slapped his thigh with a resounding crack and his face was transformed.

"Excellent, Mr. Beresford! My time has not been wasted this morning. What I want you to do is to prepare your largest and clearest print sizes of these studies. And then I want you to enlarge certain portions of the negative."

He took Beresford back into the darkroom while I remained behind, slightly bemused by the change in Pons's attitude. My friend appeared galvanized into action on his return. He took me by the elbow and rushed me with undignified haste from Beresford's premises.

"Come, Parker, I must consult with Jamison. Then we must return here for the finished prints within, the hour. There is no time to lose. Jamison must bring a blank warrant with him next time he visits The Poplars."

And he would venture no further explanation to my hurried questions as we clattered down the staircase.

7

After a snatched lunch, early afternoon found us speeding back to Highbury in a taxi. Jamison had already been apprised of our intentions by telephone, and had promised to have the entire household assembled for our arrival Our client, Mr. Bruce Beresford, sat opposite us, astonishment plain on his honest, bearded face, but pleased, nevertheless, to be the center of the drama which promised to unfold on our arrival He carried a portfolio of photographs with him and as soon as we had made ourselves comfortable in the interior of the cab, Pons and Beresford had held a hurried consultation from which I was excluded.