“What does this mean, Pons?” I stumbled out.
I looked at the figures in amazement, the blood draining from my face.
“Hugo Foy’s late wife was the daughter of a Bolivian tin millionaire, Parker. She left three million pounds sterling in trust for her son at her death.”
I looked at the document again, hardly daring to analyse the thoughts raised within my own mind. They were ugly, unbelievable thoughts and I felt a small bead of perspiration trickle down my forehead.
“Her son inherits the money at the age of twenty-one.” “Precisely, Parker.”
I raised my head from the paper.
“And if the son dies before attaining his majority that vast sum of money passes unconditionally to Hugo Foy. It raises ugly possibilities, to put it no higher.”
Solar Pons’ face was grim.
“Perhaps, Parker, perhaps. There is the question here of his relations with his wife.”
I stared at my companion blankly.
“You are surely not suggesting that Mrs. Foy’s own death was not due to natural causes? Great Heavens, Pons!”
Solar Pons shook his head slowly.
“I am suggesting nothing, Parker. But we must be alert to all possibilities in such a matter. These waters may be deeper than the Colonel imagined.”
I looked at him sharply.
“There is something you have not told me, Pons.”
“You are distinctly improving, Parker. I have already cabled to the Swiss police this morning.”
He brought out a buff form from his pocket and passed it to me. I scanned the printed wording, coldness irradiating my spine. It was from Zurich and said simply:
FOY CHILD ILL IN ENGLAND. WRITTEN REPORT FOLLOWS. — VAUCHER.
Pons put his hand on his lip as the heavy tread of Mrs. Johnson sounded on the stairs.
“We will take this up again after lunch is concluded, Parker.”
-6-
I was called away that afternoon on an emergency concerning an elderly patient and saw little of Pons for the next two days. Fortunately, my patient was well out of danger by then and I was able to relax my efforts. The hospital to which I had had him conveyed was in the Holborn area and I was on my way to the nearest Tube station when I was arrested by the sight of a newsvendor’s placard at the entrance. It proclaimed in heavy black type: CRISIS IN PARAGONIA. “TIGER” MARCEAU SAYS HE WILL RETURN.
I would probably have thought little more of it — after all, crises in South America are hardly uncommon — when my eye was taken by another handwritten poster for The Star next to the previous announcement. That proclaimed: SOUTH AMERICAN SHARES SLUMP; HUGO FOY AT CENTRE OF CRISIS. With Colonel Mortimer’s choleric face flashing before me I hastily paid my halfpenny and plunged into the depths of the station. On my way home I perused the headlines and stories with deep interest, almost missing my stop in consequence.
There were two major stories; the crisis in Paragonia itself and the moves to combat it by the military dictator in charge: and two pages of gloomy City news inside regarding the landslide in South American shares. Apparently a gigantic new industrial scheme in that unhappy country involving a dam and a hydro-electric power plant, essential to the economy of the country, was endangered.
I must confess I could not at first see whether the military crisis had been engendered by the share fluctuations or the other way around but when I read that the conglomerates which Hugo Foy controlled were behind the hydro-electric scheme I began to see the deep nature and gravity of the situation.
I arrived home plunged in gloom, not only because the plight of such wretched countries always involves human suffering on a colossal scale, but because I was concerned also with Mortimer’s potential financial loss and the additional problems in which this might involve Pons. I was prepared then for a sombre countenance on Pons’ part but was staggered on my arrival at 7B to find the room blue with smoke; my friend puffing furiously at his pipe as he sat at the centre of it, engrossed in a pile of evening newspapers; his eyes shining with excitement; and every atom of his being infused with decision.
“Ah, you have seen the papers, Parker!” he said crisply. “We progress!”
“You cannot mean it, Pons,” I replied. “I see nothing but chaos and difficulty for that unhappy country.”
“Tut, Parker,” he said irritably, though his dancing eyes belied the tone, “Passing shadows. The mere effect of a cause which is no longer obscure to me. It is as though the Foy case is spread out clear and plain where all was murky before.”
I put my case down and slumped into my armchair.
“I wish you would make yourself more intelligible, Pons,” I complained. “It is far from clear and plain to me.”
We were interrupted at that moment by the thunderous tread of feet on the stairs and the somewhat dishevelled form of Colonel Mortimer literally erupted into the room. He clutched a newspaper in his hand and his eyes had a dull glitter which I did not like.
“Have you seen the news, Mr. Pons!” he groaned. “It is utter disaster for the Foy empire.”
“Pray do not distress yourself, Colonel,” said Pons coolly. “On the contrary, as I have just been telling friend Parker here, we begin to see daylight.”
Mortimer slumped into the chair I held out for him, suddenly conscious that he must present a somewhat ludicrous sight.
“You cannot mean it, Mr. Pons!”
Pons cast me a glance of amused sympathy.
“You are beginning to sound like friend Parker, Colonel,” he said. “Nevertheless, what I say is nothing but the literal truth. These events in Paragonia present me for the first time with a chain of connected events. I have already been in touch with friend Jamison.”
I stared at my friend bewilderedly.
“For what purpose, Pons?”
“Why, Parker, the reason is surely obvious. We must have official backing where there are people of diplomatic status involved. And we have little enough time to lose.”
Colonel Mortimer was a trifle more himself again. I hastened to pour him a glass of brandy and water from the sideboard, which he took in great gulps as though it were a bitterly cold day and he just rescued from drowning.
“It is obvious, Mr. Pons, you know a great deal more than we do. This is a serious business.”
“It is, Colonel,” said Pons grimly. “It is far more serious than a mere matter of stocks and shares. Human life is at stake and I cannot afford to make the slightest miscalculation!”
I stared at him, my features, I fear, stiffening with astonishment. He rose from his chair and put his hand gently on my arm.
“Patience, my dear Parker. The Colonel’s problems are connected merely with scraps of paper. Human life is something else again.”
“I most certainly agree with you, Mr. Pons,” said Colonel Mortimer stiffly, draining the last of his tumbler. “You must forgive me, sir. You have only to say if I can be of any service.”
Pons’ voice had moderated as he turned toward our visitor.
“Your sentiments do you great credit, Colonel. Believe me when I say I have the matter well in hand. And if I bring this business to a successful conclusion well, then, the enterprises in which Mr. Hugo Foy is engaged will recover of themselves. My advice to you is to go home and get a good night’s sleep. I will be in touch with you just as soon as I have anything concrete to report.”
The colour was back in Colonel Mortimer’s cheeks now. “As you will, Mr. Pons,” he said, shaking my companion by the hand. “I have every confidence in you, sir.”