Pons had a worried expression on his ascetic features.
"According to my client's telegram. He is currently preparing for an ambitious new play at the Negresco Theatre in London."
He looked moodily out of the carriage window at the fleeting images of the countryside.
"It is unfortunate, but could not have been better from the point of view of the person who is threatening his life." "Why so?"
Solar Pons stood up, gathering his coat and case.
"Ah, here we are at our destination, Parker."
He looked at me somberly as I buttoned my own overcoat.
"The play is a modern piece called Death Comes to Thornfield. Hardcastle himself plays the victim of a particularly diabolical murder!"
2
The day, if anything, seemed even colder when we descended at the small station near Guildford. The cab our client had enraged was waiting in the station forecourt and a drive of about fifteen minutes brought us to a handsome, Edwardian house of some three stories, standing in well-wooded grounds of about five acres. Pons was silent as our vehicle crunched over the gravel of the drive between the handsome lodges with their overhanging eaves of red tiles which flanked the white-painted gates.
We were evidently expected for the gates were open and as we drove through I could already see a white-haired man in a green-baize apron who hurried from the entrance of the larger lodge and locked the tall iron gates behind us. The drive wound up between somber banks of rhododendron whose lighter green did little to relieve the deep shadows of the heavy pines and firs which bordered the carriageway.
But the house itself, with the pale winter sun sparkling from its well-kept façade and reflected back from a multitude of white-framed windows, had a cheerful aspect and I could see two tennis courts through a gap in the trees and, across the broad lawns and the rose garden, desolate now in winter, could be glimpsed the metal framework of a diving stage and the heavy boarding covering a large swimming pool. I glanced at my companion mischievously.
"There is money here, Pons."
"Is there not, Parker. Ah, unless I am mistaken, here is our client himself."
And indeed, the handsome, somewhat florid figure of the former matinee idol was descending the steps toward us, a pack of Irish wolfhounds at his heels. The cab ground to a stop and the driver got down to unload our baggage while the actor effusively pumped my companion's hand.
"Good of you to come, Mr. Pons! I am extremely grateful. And this is your equally celebrated friend, Dr. Parker?"
He turned to me with a winning smile and gripped my hand strongly.
"Hardly celebrated, Mr. Hardcastle." "You are too modest, Dr. Parker. Boswell and Johnson, eh, Mr. Pons?"
Pons glanced at me, sparks of humor dancing in his deep-set eyes.
"The simile is hardly apposite from a physical point of view, Mr. Hardcastle, but I take it it was kindly meant," he said gravely.
"Indeed, Mr. Pons. But come along in. It is dreadfully cold out here on these steps."
He hurried us up into the shadow of a great porch while a black-coated manservant carried our bags. During the ascent I had time to study my host properly. His features were familiar to me, of course, through cinema performances and stage appearances, but he seemed even taller and broader than I remembered. He must have been over fifty by now but was still handsome in a fleshy way and had tremendous "presence," as those in the stage profession call it.
His eyes and his flashing smile were his greatest features and though his complexion was ruddy and florid, indicative to me of a long indulgence in alcoholic spirits, he was still a fine figure of a man and would pass for a good while yet, with skillful make-up and stage lighting.
He was dressed in a thick suit of country tweeds with a waistcoat and his theatrical and flamboyant appearance was emphasized by the gaily colored silk scarf loosely knotted round his neck and tucked into the vee of a blue silk shirt. The ensemble was Bohemian and on anyone else would have looked slovenly but it suited him perfectly.
We were met in the large, tiled hall by a striking-looking blonde woman of about thirty-eight, and I recognized the actress Sandra Stillwood before Hardcastle introduced her as his wife. She came forward with a smile and shook hands, while the wolfhounds loped about the hall as though they would demolish the furniture in their boisterousness.
A shadow passed across her handsome features as she led the way into a massive drawing room which contained many oil paintings and drawings of herself and her husband in their various stage and screen roles. Bowls of hothouse flowers were set about here and there and though a large fire burned in the stone fireplace, the room was already warm from the radiators set round the walls.
"Lunch will be served within the hour, gentlemen," said Mrs. Hardcastle. "In the meantime may I offer you a sherry?" "Excellent idea, Sandra," boomed Hardcastle, waving away the butler, who had followed us in and now stood awaiting his instructions.
The big actor went to a silver tray standing at one end of a grand piano, which contained a great many bottles and glasses. He busied himself with pouring the sherry for us and mixing drinks for himself and his wife. Pons went to stand near the fireplace and looked at the lady of the house thoughtfully.
"What do you think about this business, Mrs. Hardcastle?"
"I prefer to be known as Miss Stillwood, Mr. Pons," the fair woman said, a feint flush on her cheeks.
She glanced across at her husband.
"I have not yet retired, though Ellie sometimes acts as though I had."
Hardcastle gave a somewhat strained smile and brought the drinks over to myself and Pons. We waited until our host and hostess also had glasses in their hands.
"Success, gentlemen."
"I will drink to that, Mr. Hardcastle."
Solar Pons moved over to a high-backed chair at Mrs. Hardcastle's invitation and sat down, crossing his thin legs and looking for all the world as though he were at ease in his own drawing room. Once again I marveled at the effortless way in which he dominated every gathering without appearing to do so.
"I asked you a question, Miss Stillwood."
The blonde woman took a tentative sip at her drink, wrinkled her nose at her husband and pondered her reply.
"It seems, inexplicable, Mr. Pons. Why should anyone want to go to all the trouble of making those wax models?"
"Why indeed?" said Solar Pons politely, his eyes on Hardcastle. "But you do not deny the matter is serious?"
The blonde woman's eyes flashed and I saw for a brief movement the dynamic beauty that had flowered to such memorable art in innumerable films and plays.
"I deny nothing, Mr. Pons! It is damnable. Poor D'Arcy! But the whole thing seems so pointless. And Ellie is making such a fuss of the business. I keep telling him to pull himself together but he is terrified."
There was an undertone of contempt in her voice as she glanced affectionately at her husband and I saw him redden under her look.
"Damn it all, Sandra," he exploded. "It is not you who is the target, after all."
"You have a point, Mr. Hardcastle," said Pons soothingly. "We may as well get down to facts at once. I should like first to see those models you have already received. And of course, the latest parcel."
"Certainly, Mr. Pons. They are locked in the safe in my study. We will go there as soon as we have finished our drinks."
"Excellent."
Solar Pons rubbed his hands together and held them out toward the fire. His eyes had a far-away expression in them.
"The wrappings and enclosure were identical to the others?'
"Exactly, Mr. Pons. I have them all still."
"And again posted from London?"