“What do you mean, Pons?”
“I overlooked an obvious anomaly when reading this account, unless the newspaper has made a mistake.”
“What do you mean, Pons?”
“The door, Parker. It was locked.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“What of it, Pons?”
“It is surely unusual for a man to lock his studio door in his own house, particularly during the lunch-hour.”
“I did not read that, Pons.”
“Obviously, Parker, but there is only one implication to be drawn if the servant had to break the door in. The key was not in the lock. Therefore it had to be on the other side.”
“Perhaps he wished a private interview with his wife and during the quarrel rage overcame him?”
“Perhaps, Parker. But we do not even know there was a quarrel. That must await my own questions to your Mr. Tregorran.”
“Excellent, Pons! I would feel so much happier if you would just give us the benefit of your immense skill in these matters.”
“Flattery, Parker, flattery!”
But Solar Pons had a twinkle in his eyes as he said the words. Before he could say anything else there was a ring at the bell, a muffled conversation in the hall below and the tread of feet ascending the stairs. A few moments later there came a deferential tap at the door and the good-natured features of our amiable landlady, Mrs. Johnson, were thrust into the room.
“Inspector Jamison to see you, Mr. Pons!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. A cup of coffee, Inspector? There is still plenty in the pot.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pons.”
The somewhat deflated figure of Jamison sank into the chair proffered by Pons. He took the coffee-cup I held out to him with a grateful expression on his features.
Pons doffed his old grey dressing-gown and took up his jacket from the back of a chair in a corner. He looked at our visitor with an alert expression in his deep-set eyes.
“It is some while since we last met officially, Jamison. That little business of Romaine Schneider, was it not?”
The Scotland Yard man put down his cup in the saucer with a faint chink in the silence of our sitting-room.
“This is a little different to that, Mr. Pons,” he said with a smirk. “In fact I would not be here at all if it were not for an urgent plea by Mr. Aramis Tregorran’s solicitor.”
“Strange that you should seek my advice in another artistic matter, Inspector. First a sculptor, now a painter.”
Pons looked at me with a little mischievous smile of enjoyment playing about his mouth. Inspector Jamison seemed discomfited but he nevertheless took another sip of the coffee before replying.
“Not at all, Mr. Pons. It’s the clearest-cut case of murder I’ve ever seen. You’ve no doubt come to the same conclusion if you’ve read this morning’s paper.”
“Why are you here, then?”
“Because of this urgent request by the accused’s solicitor, Mr. Pons. And because Tregorran specially asked Dr. Parker to seek your advice. He swears he is innocent. It is ridiculous, of course, but I would not like it to be thought that the Yard had not given him every chance. And as your name was mentioned…”
“Of course, Inspector. You are noted for fairness,” murmured Solar Pons blandly.
He took a turn about the fireplace, the blue smoke from his pipe making little eddying whorls around his lean, dynamic figure. He came back to stand in front of the Inspector.
“All the same you are not certain, are you?”
Jamison shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“To tell the truth there are one or two odd points,” he mumbled.
“Exactly,” said Solar Pons crisply. ‘The small matter of the key to the studio for example.”
Jamison stared at Pons in amazement.
“How on earth did you know that, Mr. Pons?”
“It was self-evident if The Times report had any accuracy.
And it is not usual to find The Times slack in such particulars.”
Jamison scratched his head.
“You are right, Mr. Pons. We could not find the key at all.”
“Yet the door had to be broken in?”
“Exactly.”
Solar Pons looked at me with a little smile of triumph.
“Nevertheless, things look extremely black for Mr. Tregorran, doctor,” continued the Inspector, noting the look of relief on my face. “I should not get up your hopes too high.”
“Where is Mr. Tregorran at this moment, Jamison?” asked my companion.
“At Chelsea Police Station, still being questioned, Mr. Pons. He has been detained overnight, of course.”
Pons inclined his head. “Naturally.”
I turned to Jamison.
“I trust that my friend has been afforded every facility to contact his friends and legal advisers.”
Jamison gave a short, barking laugh.
“You may be sure of that, doctor. Would I be here otherwise? And I have already allowed him to see his solicitor.”
“You have made your point, Jamison,” said Solar Pons.
“There is no complaint on that score.”
“You will come then, Mr. Pons?”
“Most certainly, though if you have been unable to unravel the matter, it is extremely unlikely that my humble efforts in the same capacity would do better.”
“You are making sport of me, Mr. Pons.”
“Only a little, Inspector,” said Pons with a thin smile.
“But first I have a fancy to see the scene of the murder. We will visit Chelsea Police Station afterwards, if you please.”
“As you wish, Mr. Pons. The studio is just as we found it, though the body has been removed, of course.”
My companion turned to me.
“Are you free, Parker?”
“Certainly, Pons, if you require me. It is my rest day.” ‘That is settled, then. Lead on, Inspector.”
-2-
Tregorran’s house turned out to be one of those modest looking white-painted, flat-chested houses in which Chelsea abounds, set back in a cobbled mews. Like most houses of its type its unassuming three-storey exterior concealed large, gracious rooms and unostentatiously displayed wealth. As we alighted from Jamison’s police vehicle, Pons walked over to the minuscule front garden, set back behind blue-painted railings and raked the facade of the building with his keen, penetrating eyes.
Watched silently by myself and the Inspector he passed through an archway at the side and glanced up at a staircase which led to an outside door at the top of the steps.
“That is the studio?”
“That is so, Mr. Pons. Mr. Tregorran had it built so in order that his sitters and other clients could come and go without disturbing the household.”
“Eminently practical.”
Pons stood in deep thought, his hand pulling at the lobe of his right ear as I had so often seen him.
“I have a mind to look at the scene of the crime without disturbing the household either. Is that practicable?”
“Certainly, Mr. Pons. The door is unlocked and there is a constable on duty.”
We followed the Inspector up the steps and found ourselves in front of a glassed-in porch. The inner door gave on to a small lobby in which the main entrance of the studio was set.
“There is no key to the outer door of the porch, Mr. Pons,” Jamison volunteered. “And so far as Mr. Tregorran is concerned, never has been.”
“I see.”
Solar Pons stepped forward as Jamison opened the polished mahogany interior door. He stood frowning at the bronze key in the obverse side of the lock.
“Is this key normally in the lock?”
Jamison looked surprised.
“No, Mr. Pons. It is Mr. Tregorran’s own key which he usually keeps on his desk. This door is usually kept locked unless he is expecting visitors.”