"Excellent, Mr. Beresford, excellent," Pons murmured at length. "The enlargement is disappointing, it is true, but then it would have been miraculous had things turned out the way they have a habit of doing in fiction. Eh, Parker?"
"He winked conspiratorially at me, and I confess I could not resist a waspish reply.
"I can hardly give such an opinion, Pons, when I am deliberately kept outside your confidence."
Pons's smile widened fractionally.
"Say not so, Parker. It is merely that I cannot resist a small artistic gesture which I am saving for the finale. All. shall be made dear in due course."
He turned back to Beresford, leaving me to nurse my ruffled feelings.
"You will have the satisfaction of knowing, Mr. Beresford, that your little puzzle and the discomfort to which you were put, has been responsible for the unmasking of as cold-blooded a murderer as I have ever come across."
Beresford's expression was frankly lugubrious now.
"I confess, Mr. Pons, I am as much in the dark as ever."
He started putting the prints back into the heavy cardboard folio with a wistful sigh. Pons leaned forward to him.
"Patience for just a short while longer, Mr. Beresford. I can assure you that your visit to The Poplars, your photographic exploits, and the bizarre events which followed all have a perfectly logical explanation. Ah, here we are at our destination."
A light rain was falling as we paid off the cab. Before we went into the house, Pons pulled back the heavy plank covering of the roadworks outside the main gates of the mansion and carefully examined the indented footprints in the soft clay and sand beneath. He shook his head, replacing the boards with a frown.
"Just as I expected, Parker. There has been a deal of to-ing and fro-ing. Not enough to obliterate the traces of what I seek, fortunately. No, it will have to be shock tactics, I think, with a dash of bluff in the final analysis."
Beresford and I exchanged a glance behind Pons's back as we went up the drive, but I am afraid our client was unable to obtain much comfort from my expression. We were received in the hallway by Miss Conyers.
"We have followed the inspector's instructions, Mr. Pons," she said dryly. "The others are gathered "To my uncle's study at your express request. I presume you would wish to go there directly."
She shivered slightly.
"Though why we should be subjected to such an ordeal when the morning room would be more convenient…"
"I have a very good reason, Miss Conyers," Pons interrupted smoothly. "The body has long been removed and the room tidied, so I do not see why the study should not do as well as any other apartment. And it is vital for my little demonstration."
Miss Conyers shrugged, her displeasure evident on her mobile features. A manservant hovered in the background but she dismissed him. She herself led the way up the curving stair to where the shattered doorway led to the chamber of death.
A plainclothes detective-constable stood guard at the door but at Pons's sudden gesture refrained from announcing us. Instead, Pons turned to our hostess, glancing keenly round the corridor.
"These bedrooms. To whom do they belong?"
Miss Conyers's face bore traces of puzzlement, her brow furrowed with surprise, as though Pons had asked an outrageous question.
"The first is my own; then my cousin Clifford's, next to mine. Beyond is Moffat, my uncle's secretary; and the last door in the corridor is that of Lionel Amsden."
Pons paused outside the first door.
"Just so. You have no objection to my inspecting these rooms?"
"No, of course not, Mr. Pons."
Miss Conyers moved swiftly toward the door of her own room, but Pons stopped her with a brisk gesture.
It will not be necessary, Miss Conyers. I hardly think the crime belongs to the hand of a lady. It is just these last three rooms which interest me."
Beresford and I stood somewhat impatiently in the corridor as Pons quickly opened the door of Clifford Armitage's room. He stood sniffing the air keenly.
"A strange perfume, Miss Conyers. It seems to permeate the whole corridor."
"We had some bad coal, Mr. Pons. We keep fires burning in the bedroom grates. I got Travers, one of the footmen, to light some scented candles to take the odor away."
Pons nodded, seemingly satisfied with Miss Conyers's answer and his eyes looked thoughtfully about the corridor.
"This will not take a moment, Parker."
He darted into Armitage's room and I glimpsed him through the half-open door, kneeling on the bedroom floor, going thoroughly over the carpet. He glanced quickly into the half-empty grate in the room. Apparently satisfied, he moved down the corridor and repeated the process with the two remaining rooms, a faint smile on his lips. He spent rather longer in Lionel Amsden's room, and when he returned to us the smile on. his face had broadened. He rubbed his lean fingers together in satisfaction.
"Not a word of this to anyone, Miss Conyers," he said sharply. "And now for our little final tableau."
Miss Conyers led the way back into Professor Mair's study. Though the room had been tidied and its gruesome centerpiece removed, the chamber seemed still to exude a brooding atmosphere of horror — an atmosphere it had worn when the professor's body lay grotesque and distorted on the carpet, which still bore signs of bloodstains and disfigurement.
The massive form of Lionel Amsden stirred in the shadows beyond the desk. There was a sullen, sneering look on his face as he lounged by the fireplace, as though daring Pons to challenge him. But my companion hurried instead directly to Inspector Jamison who sat behind the late professor's desk, toying with a pencil and notebook and looking as though the tangled web of passions that lurked below the surface at The Poplars was completely beyond him. As indeed it was, I reflected with some satisfaction as I went to stand near the fire opposite Amsden.
All eyes were on Beresford as he bustled in behind me with his large portfolio of photographs. The secretary, Moffat, twisted his thin lips as he sat completely dwarfed by the huge leather armchair in which he reposed. The only person who appeared completely at ease was Clifford Armitage, whose frank, open face wore a welcoming smile as he caught sight of me. Pons had finished his brief consultation with the inspector now and sat easily on the edge of the desk.
"This is Mr. Bruce Beresford," he said by way of introducing our companion. "He came to me with an interesting problem yesterday — a problem whose solution is central to the death of Professor Mair in this room. Therefore I thought it only right that he should be present this afternoon."
Miss Conyers crossed in front of me and sat down in a chair midway between the big windows which faced the garden. Pale sunshine spilled in now, staining the rich patterning of the carpet a deep carmine and seeming, to my somewhat overheated imagination, to reecho the sinister theme of blood. Pons turned back to Jamison and bowed ironically.
"With your permission, Inspector."
Jamison nodded stiffly back.
"Please continue, Mr. Pons."
"I presume you have good reason for this melodramatic farce, Mr. Pons?"
Lionel Amsden's sullen face was flushed and his speech slurred. He looked insolently at Pons, who stared imperturbably back at him from his position on top of the desk.
"Reason enough, Mr. Amsden."
"Please be silent, Lionel," snapped Miss Conyers. "You have been drinking."
Amsden gave her a clumsy bow, his eyes flashing fire.
"It is not unknown, cousin dear…"