The Solar Pons Omnibus Volume 1 by August Derleth

Author:August Derleth [Derleth, August]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-04-23T07:00:00+00:00

The Adventure of the Crouching Dog

The train had stopped at Chudleigh, and Solar Pons, chafing at every delay in our return to London from Cornwall and the puzzling matter of the Innkeeper's Clerk, had lowered the window and stuck his head out. He stood so for a few moments, looking up and down the station platform, his hands clasped behind his back; then he drew back into our compartment.

"You may think London is England, Parker," he said. "But it is not so. Out there is England —in a thousand villages and hamlets scattered across the face of the loveliest countryside in the world." He waited upon no comment from me to add, "At this point we are approximately two hundred miles and five hours from Paddington."

The guard's whistle sounded, and the train moved on.

Pons sat down after raising the window once more, for, though the October sunlight was warm, the wind that came in through the open window was chill.

We had hardly settled back for the remainder of our journey when there was a sharp rap on the door of our compartment, and a voice asked, "Mr. Solar Pons?"

Pons leaped to his feet and threw open the door.

A ticket inspector stood there with an envelope in his hands. He thrust it at Pons. "For you, sir."

Pons thanked him.

Standing with his back to the door, he tore open the envelope and drew out a telegram.

"So," he said, having read it, "it was premature to count on Paddington today." He threw the document to me. "I can hardly refuse Ramsey."

I read the message, "standing by at exeter. please join me. horrible crime at jowett close. ramsey." I looked up. "Who's Ramsey?"

"Sir Roderick Ramsey, Chief Constable of Devon. An old friend," replied Pons. "He must have telephoned Mrs. Johnson at 7B, and tracked us away from St. Mawes in the same fashion." He looked at his watch. "It can't be more than an hour to Exeter. Presumably he'll be at St. David's. We can only wait on our arrival there."

At the Great Western station in Exeter a tall, imposing man, whose most distinguishing feature was a fierce moustache, strode toward us as we descended from our compartment. He wore a rumpled tweed suit beneath a motoring jacket, and on his head a checkered cap; he carried a swagger-stick under one arm. His grizzled face, with his moustache and the bristling eyebrows, lent him the appearance of the popular screen-star, C. Aubrey Smith.

"My dear Pons!" his voice boomed across a hundred feet of the station platform. "Sorry, and all that —interrupt your journey — know how anxious you must be to get back to London." But with this he was upon us. He caught hold of Pons's hand and shook it vigorously, acknowledged Pons's introduction to me with equal vigour, and went on, lowering his voice only a trifle, "It's poor Larry Jowett —been done in —found him with his head crushed —all torn — some animal —horrible thing."

By the time we had passed through the crowd at St.

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