“That’s all very well, gentlemen,” said Jamison sourly, stopping his writing labours for a moment, “but how am I to explain all this to the Yard? It’s a little beyond my normal reach.”
Pons was smiling thinly.
“As you have already been assured, I fancy my brother will make all right in that department, Inspector.”
He glanced at his watch.
“It is now well past midnight and though we have not all the ends it will not take long to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Late as the hour is I have no doubt we shall receive a much warmer welcome at The Boltons this time when we restore a very brave child to an even braver father.”
-11-
Things turned out exactly as Pons had predicted. Though I did not actually hear what was said Pons was closeted for more than an hour with Hugo Foy. When he came out his eyes were shining and there was more than usual satisfaction on his clear-cut features.
On the way back to Praed Street he was unusually silent, speaking once only as we were mounting the staircase to our familiar rooms at 7B.
“I have rarely felt such satisfaction at the outcome of a case, Parker. I have you entirely to thank for that, my dear fellow.”
I mumbled a disclaimer but I must confess that I flushed at the unusual honour my usually reticent friend had paid me. As Bancroft had hinted, some weeks later I learned through telegrams transmitted by Pons and reports in the public press that Dr. Arpad Krish and President O’Hara were both in gaol, awaiting trial for corruption and plotting against the State.
It was a mellow day in late September before the story was finally finished, so far as I was concerned. Pons had received an unusually heavy post that morning, including an elaborately super-inscribed buff envelope and a long, flat package which apparently emanated from the Paragonian Embassy in London.
He was sitting late at breakfast, the sun streaming through the windows, clad in his old grey dressing gown. I had been out early on an urgent call and was only too glad to join him for coffee and bacon and eggs.
“You have seen the papers, Parker?”
“Oh, you mean the dam scheme in Paragonia and the San Ysidor Zinc Trust, Pons? I saw the photograph of the new President digging the first shovelful of earth at the site of the proposed dam, if that is what you mean.”
Solar Pons nodded, his eyes glinting.
“Foy has been extremely tied up in that part of the world since late July. It would seem that things are now stable again there. He has been extraordinarily generous.”
He carelessly flung over the yellow printed slip toward me. I goggled at it.
“Good heavens! Congratulations.”
I looked at him warmly.
“You certainly deserve it.”
“Perhaps,” he said casually. “But nevertheless I shall invest some of it in an extended autumn holiday on the Continent if you are free in about a fortnight’s time. I have to consult Kringler in Berlin on his proposed Museum of Criminology and I understand that Grecian waters are quite delightful at this time of year. But before that we are both invited to a lavish party at The Boltons; ostensibly, I understand, to celebrate the eighth birthday of young Master Foy.”
“I shall be delighted to accompany you, Pons,” I said gravely. “Forgive my curiosity, but what was in that flat package?”
Solar Pons chuckled, rising from the table and going toward the window.
“I declined a public ceremony for obvious reasons but the President insisted upon it. Pray take a look at it if you would be so good.”
I opened the elaborate leather case and looked at the enamelled and jewelled cross that sparkled on its gold chain within.
“Good Lord, Pons. It is magnificent!”
“Is it not, Parker. The Order of San Ysidor. One up to your friend, Colonel Mortimer, I fancy. We have not seen much of him here since the affairs of Foy’s companies have been stabilised.”
“Neither shall we, Pons,” I said aggrievedly. The Colonel’s attitude is typical of human nature, I am afraid…”
“Yes, well you may omit the lecture on the frailties of humanity, Parker,” said Pons languidly.
He took the leather case from me and gazed at it expressionlessly, crossing back to the window again.
“What will you do with it, Pons?”
He smiled thinly.
“I doubt if I shall ever wear it, Parker. It would look rather ostentatious on my evening dress, do you not think?”
And with a casual movement he threw it into the open drawer of his desk.
The Adventure of the Cursed Curator
-1-
Of all the cases my friend Solar Pons was involved in, there was none more sombre or bizarre than that which began on a certain wet April evening. I had come in from my rounds shortly after six o’clock, to find Pons in conversation with a small, red-faced mild-looking man in a plaid check overcoat.
Our cosy sitting-room at 7B Praed Street was filled with blue smoke from Pons’ pipe and the dining table covered with documents and cups of tea brought up by our amiable landlady, Mrs. Johnson. Pons rose from the table with an apologetic smile.
“This is Mr. Horatio Biggs, Parker. Mr. Biggs has brought me a curious problem. My friend and colleague, Dr. Lyndon Parker.”
The little man bounced up like a rubber ball and shook my hand energetically.
“Delighted to meet you, doctor.”
He had a pronounced Welsh accent and went on pumping my hand as though oblivious of my discomfiture. I had studied him carefully on entering the room and soon came to the conclusion that he was suffering from stress. In truth it did not take very great medical knowledge to deduce that for his nerves were indeed in a shocking state; his eyelids were twitching, his eyes constantly on the move and he peered nervously about him all the time as though on the watch for something.
But he had a pleasant, cultured voice; was well-dressed and had a certain scholarly look about him so that I at once concluded that he was not normally in that condition and that something unusual must have occurred. Pons had been studying me himself with an amused look on his lean, feral features.
“Come, Parker. Here is a perfect opportunity for you to indulge your ratiocinative gifts.”
I took off my raincoat and laid it over the back of a chair. “What can you read from our visitor, pray?”
I looked at the little man earnestly, entering into the spirit of the thing.
“A Welshman.”
The little man beamed and resumed his seat.
“Of Welsh extraction, sir, despite my name.”
“Highly nervous and troubled. With a high complexion. Taking that with other symptoms I would say that Mr. Biggs has some little trouble with blood pressure and would be wise not to over-excite himself.”
Our visitor bit his lip and shot a swift glance at Pons who observed blandly, “I would not presume to quarrel with your medical diagnoses, Parker.”
I looked at the little man again.
“Scholarly, perhaps an academic, Pons.”
“Excellent!”
Solar Pons rubbed his thin fingers together with satisfaction and took a spill to light at the fire. The bowl of his pipe made little stipples of incandescence on the strong lines of his face as he held it to the tobacco.
“You have really excelled yourself, my dear fellow.”
“You do me too much honour, Pons.”
“Not at all, my dear Parker. You have come close to the truth.”
Pons went to stand by the fireplace and looked from me to our visitor reflectively.