He chuckled briefly at the irony of the situation.
“What do you mean by improvising, Pons?”
My companion teetered on his heels as he surveyed the people in the room; he seemed to exert an almost hypnotic influence on them.
“In crime, as in any other enterprise, Parker, luck plays a great part. The murderer had a stroke of good fortune. While he was waiting for the cold weather to bring the old woman to him when the fire died out, he made a discovery at the back of the shed. A pair of old wellington boots.”
“Wellington boots, Pons?”
“I believe I just said so, Parker. A pair with distinctive soles belonging to the old gardener at The Pines, Angus Crathie. He had a small foot and the wellingtons fitted our man perfectly, as he had a small foot also. He put the wellingtons on, laced his shoes round his neck and resumed his wait.”
“Extraordinary, Pons. But how do you know all this?”
“It is inspired conjecture, Parker, underlined by what I have been able to discover locally. When Miss Schneider came to that shed she had a powerful torch with her. Perhaps our man meant only to frighten her but it is my hypothesis that she recognised him and he had to kill her. He strangled her and left her lying there, having taken the keys.”
“But how did he leave that shed without leaving a trail, Pons?”
“He did leave a trail, Parker. It is something everyone has ignored, because they were reading the signs from preconceived ideas. The murderer simply walked backwards from that shed, taking his time, leaving a trail that apparently led to the building but did not return.”
“You cannot mean it, Pons!”
“I do mean it, Parker. The murderer was a tall man but it is rather difficult to walk backwards, if you have ever tried it, and the prints formed are not very far apart, which gives the impression, as he no doubt intended, that a smaller man had made them. One is forced to take short steps when walking backwards, particularly in snow, to avoid overbalancing.”
The Inspector seemed to have been struck dumb, but I noticed his big hands were knotting and unknotting, and Sergeant Chatterton’s face was a mask of amazement.
“Just consider the scene, Parker. It is pitch-black. The Pines is an isolated property and our man had all the time in the world under the severe weather conditions prevailing. He was unlikely to be disturbed, according to his reasoning. It was about six o’clock and though it was unknown to him, Mr. Watling was not due at The Pines for another hour.
“It would have taken him about ten minutes to make those carefully spaced tracks back to the front door of the house. He would then have removed the wellingtons and gone in in his stockinged feet. Allow another five minutes for him to open the safe, remove the ten thousand pounds, leaving the key in the lock as we have seen, and then regain the porch to resume the rubber boots. Another five minutes to retrace his way, backward, down the main drive — remember it is pitch-black night and such bleak weather that there is unlikely to be anyone about — and on to the main road. Once there he could walk freely, confident that the foot-prints would be swallowed up in the traffic ruts and the prints of other passers-by.”
“Admirable, Pons,” I breathed.
“Except that it is unproven theory, Mr. Pons,” said Inspector Rossiter quietly.
“For the moment only, Inspector. You must admit that it is the only possible explanation which fits the facts as we have them.”
“It is ingenious, certainly, Mr. Pons, but you have not yet put a name to this man who waited so patiently in that shed.”
“I shall come to it in a moment, Inspector. I find it a mistake to spoil one’s dramatic effects by hurrying. There is a touch of the artist in me, and I must be allowed my little histrionic flourishes from time to time. Where was I?”
I smiled.
“You know very well, Pons. The murderer had regained the main road. But how did you know that the Inspector might not have been right? Could not the murderer have got out the back of that shed and gone over on to the adjoining farmland?”
Pons shook his head.
“I examined the terrain most carefully when we arrived on the ground, Parker. Firstly, there was nothing but the indentations of birds’ claws on the ground nearby, together with the distinctive pads of a dog-fox. No human being had traversed that ground since the snow began at three o’clock and we know that Miss Schneider was still alive at five, when Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Hambleton left The Pines. Secondly, anyone who had used the loose planks at the back of the shed as a means of egress would have plunged straight down to the surface of the icy river, the overhang is so steep. I certainly agree with Inspector Rossiter there.”
The stocky police officer gave a wry smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Pons.”
“Not at all, Inspector. I have great respect for your talents. You will go far but you need that extra touch of imagination which our murderer has displayed in this case. If we are to believe your own reports of Mr. Watling’s statement, there was a used whisky glass on the table when he arrived here. Miss Schneider did not drink whisky. That told me the real murderer had already committed the crime when he rifled the safe. He took the drink to steady his nerves after that long ordeal in the shed. He is a pathetic figure, really, despite his odious crime.”
“Do you mean to say you knew all this from the beginning, Pons?”
My companion shook his head.
“No, Parker. That would be expecting too much. It came to me in stages. But combined with the baffling tracks in the snow, and the wood carefully hidden behind the study door, it made a link which combined with other details to produce a convincing picture of what had happened that night. The snow was the decisive factor, of course; without it, he would never have been caught.”
Solar Pons paused and looked reflectively over toward Sergeant Chatterton near the door.
“My mind was turned in a certain direction quite early on. Boots which did not fit, valuable trees being cut and an employee who feared for his livelihood.”
“You do not mean the labourer at the farm next door, Pons!”
“Pray allow me to finish, Parker. I have not yet got to the point. I made a few inquiries in the neighbourhood this morning and paid two visits. One was to Colchester, to a well-known boot and shoe establishment in that town. The manager told me that my man had bought a pair of size eight and a half boots there on the Monday morning.”
“Boots, Pons? What does all this mean? I confess I am utterly at sea. What have boots and trees cut and disgruntled employees to do with it?”
Solar Pons smiled.
“And then,” he said, “we have old Angus Crathie’s boots themselves.”
He tore open the brown-paper parcel on the table to reveal a pair of well-worn wellingtons. He turned them over, displaying the ribbed soles.
“Here, as we see, are the distinctive cleats which made those foot-prints on the drive and in the garden. They are size sevens, as I have determined, and here are old Angus’ initials in indelible ink on the linings. An attempt has been made to erase them but the outlines are unmistakable.”
“But where did you get them, Pons?”
“Why, from the murderer’s premises, Parker. Is it not time that you told us all about it, Mr. Cornfield!”
-8-
There was a murmur of shock and anger in the room and the tall, lean form of the farmer was out of his chair. He gave a howl of pain and was then struggling vainly in the brawny arms of Sergeant Chatterton. Solar Pons strolled over and looked coolly into the farmer’s suddenly enraged features.