THE ADVENTURE OF THE THREE RED DWARFS
A Solar Pons story
By August Derleth
(From Regarding Sherlock Holmes: The Adventures of Solar Pons, Copyright 1945 by August Derleth)
Version 1.0 - January 19, 2002

THE AFFAIR OF the Three Red Dwarfs, as it is chronicled in my notebooks, stands among those cases most typical of Solar Pons' method, and ranks, in the brevity of its problem and the almost pedestrian acuteness of Pons' observation with the adventure of the Black Narcissus, which it followed. It was one of those cases marked by unusual features which Inspector Jamison of Scotland Yard habitually brought to the attention of "the Sherlock Holmes of Praed Street," as the papers were even then beginning to call Pons.

Jamison came to our lodgings at 7 Praed Street one afternoon in early May, following a period of enforced idleness which had irked Pons, coming into the room puffing heavily, his chubby face red with the exertion of climbing the stairs.

"Ah," murmured Pons, eyeing him with delight, "there's been a murder."

Jamison followed Pons' gaze to the small spot of blood on his trousers at the knee.

"The body was on the floor, I see," Pons continued, "and since it bled profusely, I should not be surprised to learn that the victim was stabbed to death."

Jamison looked at Pons in admiration and amazement.

"Was it a man or a woman?" asked Pons.

"A man," replied Jamison hurriedly. "But how you heard, I don't know."

An expression of annoyance crossed Pons' face. "You have only to use your eyes, Jamison," he retorted. "Those stains on your trousers are obviously blood stains. The condition of your knees shows you to have been creeping about on the floor. The fact that you were creeping about on a floor where you stained your trousers with blood suggests that there has been a murder rather than a suicide, for in the latter case you would not have come to me. If there was so much blood on the floor that you could not avoid it in your examination of the body, I infer that the victim bled profusely, and that in turn leads me to suspect that a knife was used and drawn from the wound."

Jamison nodded glumly.

"Suppose you tell us about it," suggested Pons.

"The matter is right in your line," began Jamison.

"And have you given up, then?"

"Certainly not. I have my own theory of the crime."

"So? Let us have the details." Pons lit his pipe and sat back in his chair, contemplating Jamison in silence.

"Well, it's like this, Pons," began Jamison. "You know those two authors--the collaborators--up in St. John's Wood? The same two the papers had so much about a few days past?"

"Brighton and Lane, eh? Writers of realistic fiction, and quite prolific, I believe. I am under the impression that Lane is also an artist and has had several exhibitions. They recently published a monograph on chess which struck me as rather well done. Which was murdered?"

"Lane, the younger of the two. Stabbed twice. The first wound was not fatal, but the second must have killed him almost at once, for it penetrated the heart. In the second wound we found the weapon--an Italian stiletto, his own property. Besides the wounds we found some suspicious bruises on his head and on his left wrist. There was nothing about that could have made the marks nor was there anything he could have hit while falling, for he lay well away from the wall, toward the middle of the room, and there was no furniture near him."

"Any sign of a struggle?" interrupted Pons.

"None. The room is as spick and span as if nothing had ever happened there--not a mark. Just between us, it's my idea that Lane killed himself."

Pons looked at Jamison incredulously. "Don't you think that it would be more reasonable to believe that Lane would have made sure the first time, had he wished to kill himself?"

"I don't know. The circumstances are peculiar. Brighton called us. He was quite incoherent, and said that something had happened to Lane, and that we'd better come at once. When we got there, we found him nervous as a cat. He was pacing the floor holding a paint brush in one hand and a pot of paint in the other."

"Most singular," murmured Pons. "You asked him about it, I hope?"

"Oh, yes. He explained that he'd been painting, and indeed, we could see his work in the kitchenette."

"Hm!" said Pons. He pondered a moment in silence. Then he asked. "What was the coroner's decision?"

"He tends toward murder--as I said, I don't agree. Lane had been dead an hour when we arrived."

"An hour!" exclaimed Pons. "And where was Brighton all this time?"

"Oh, everything's satisfactory. Brighton was puttering around in the garden all the time, and only discovered his colleague when he entered the house. The body was on the floor of a typical lounging room looking out on St. John's Wood terrace. He called us directly after finding Lane."

"Of course, you asked him whether he had heard a disturbance in the house?"

"Yes, certainly. He had heard nothing. As a matter of fact, he did not even know that Lane was in the house, for he had gone out early in the morning, and Brighton had not heard him come in."

Pons considered this. "The body, you say," he went on presently, "bears bruises, which look as if they might have been inflicted in a struggle. Yet there are neither signs of a struggle in the room, nor is there any evidence of noise suggesting that there was a struggle. Decidedly perplexing. Have you examined into the motive of the murder?"

Jamison nodded. "Yes, we've unearthed a motive, Pons. It was Brighton who set us on that. It seems that over a month ago Lane wrote an article on a fellow journalist, dished him up pretty well done, I'm afraid. Of course, no names were mentioned, but for those in the know, the journalist is pretty obvious--so I am given to understand. At any rate, two weeks ago Lane got a short note from this fellow, telling him that scores would soon be even."

"You have the note?" Pons cut in.

"No. Brighton says that Lane destroyed it; Lane looked on the matter as a joke."

"Of course, you have the man's name?"

"We're not sure of that. Brighton says the fellow Lane had done up was a journalist on the Mirror staff--of John Estenham. But Brighton says he did not see the note, and therefore he doesn't know whether the signature was that of Estenham."

"Estenham?" repeated Pons musingly. "The name is familiar. Did Brighton say--does the man chronicle the races?"

"Why, yes," said Jamison, "it seems to me that Brighton said something about it. Yes, I believe he did."

"Then you may dismiss Estenham from your list of suspects; he was killed three days ago in a motor crash at the Sussex Chase. Have you no other suspects?"

Jamison shook his head. "None. But we haven't gone far with the enquiry. Brighton says he cannot think of anyone who'd want to harm Lane, and he can't believe that Estenham had a hand in this business."

"We can rule Estenham out," said Pons shortly. "Of course, you formed some opinion of how the crime was committed?"

"From the look of things it's pretty obvious," said Jamison. "Lane entered the house, removed his outer clothing and made himself comfortable in the lounging room. Shortly after, someone entered from the street--there might have been an argument, a struggle, and Lane was killed. It is either that, or Lane killed himself. If the unknown had seen Lane enter the house, and knew also that Brighton was working in the garden, it would have been a comparatively easy matter to follow and kill Lane."

Pons closed his eyes for a moment in reflection. Abruptly he rose and went over to a wastebasket, in which he began to rummage, and from which he at last extracted a thick book catalogue, which had come in yesterday's post. With this he returned to his chair. He began to page through the catalogue.

"Ah," he murmured at last, "here we have it. 'Chess...Chess and the Human Mind--A Monograph, by H. C. Brighton, with a commentary by Gerald Lane.'" Pons read for a moment in silence; then he looked up and said, "I think we'll run up to the scene for a bit, eh? What do you say, Parker?"

I nodded. It was a foregone conclusion that the possibility of an adventure with Pons took precedence over anything else I might have in mind.

Our taxicab drew up before a modern, one-storey house of white stucco, set modestly away from the street. There was a roofed-over terrace at one side of the building, and beyond this, the latticed-in garden could be seen. It was on the terrace that Brighton met us. He made a curious figure as he came rushing from the house clad in a flowing lounging robe of black silk and scarlet crepe. He was handsome, but his features were somewhat disfigured by the large horn-rimmed glasses he wore.

"Mr. Solar Pons at last," he said in a hurried voice as he came on. "Perhaps now we'll have some light on this horrible affair." He glanced significantly at Jamison.

"Mr. Brighton, I take it?" said Pons dryly.

"Yes, yes, certainly," replied Brighton in a nervous, jerky voice. "I suppose you would like to see the body at once." Then, without giving Pons time to answer, he turned and led the way quickly into the house through the French doors which were thrown open on the terrace.

Jamison had given us an idea of the position of the body. We saw it now, with a sheet covering it, and beside it stood a constable on guard. Pons nodded silently to the constable, and bent to pull the sheet from Lane's body. The young, fair-haired man lay as Jamison had described him, partly on his side, partly on his back, his right arm flung out, his left turned in toward the body, indicating in its direction the stiletto in the body. Pons looked searchingly at the corpse, throwing an occasional glance at the French doors, through which the murderer might have entered. Then he bent to scrutinize the two bruises of which Jamison had spoken, one on the head, the other on the left wrist, but at last he rose from his crouching position and re-covered the body. He stepped carefully away from the blood-stained floor and turned upon the bespectacled author, whose sharp eyes had followed Pons' every move.

"Was Mr. Lane left-handed?" Pons asked abruptly.

"Yes--yes, anyone can tell you," replied Brighton in a breathless voice.

Pons nodded abstractedly and continued, "I understand that you were in the garden prior to your discovery of the body. You were not aware that Mr. Lane was in the house?"

Brighton shook his head. "I had no idea Gerald had returned."

"You heard and saw nothing, then?"

"No. If you care to verify, you'll see that the greater part of the garden extends to the rear of the house, out of sight of the terrace. I was at the extreme end of the garden and neither saw nor heard anything unusual."

"Nothing unusual," repeated Pons. "Did you hear anything usual? Some familiar sound or sounds that struck you, but which you were able to accept unconsciously?"

Brighton appeared to think. "Why, yes, now that you put it that way. There was a peculiar sloshy sound--as if someone were washing something with a soggy rag, slapping the rag against some surface. Sort of a dull sound, accompanied occasionally by the sound of running water. This lasted for some length of time, and ceased only when I entered the house."

"What did you think it was?"

"I assumed that one of the neighbors was washing something--their homes are not so very far away--or that Gerald had returned. It did not strike me that the sound was continual for over an hour, but it must have been, for I remember hearing it but at the same time not noticing it during my work. I heard it, too, when I entered the house."

"Quite so. And what time was it when you entered the house?"

"I think it was just about noon. I couldn't say exactly, but it was between a quarter of twelve and noon."

"Now tell us just what you did when you discovered the body," suggested Pons.

Brighton stuck his hands deep into his pockets. "Of course," he began, "I was deeply shocked, more than I can say. Gerald and I have been living together for six months, and we had become quite attached to each other."

"You found the body at noon," Pons cut in. "Exactly what did you do?"

"I called Scotland Yard at once," replied Brighton in an injured voice which Pons affected not to notice.

"Very good," interrupted Pons again. "You called the Yard, and Jamison responded. I daresay it took the Yard some time to get Jamison out here--what did you do in the meantime?"

Brighton hesitated; his face began to color slightly. "Well, Mr. Pons, it was a funny thing. The sight of Gerald dead there on the floor simply bowled me over. I was so nervous--I am very nervous, you will have noticed--and I was very much upset. After I had called the Yard, I tried to collect my thoughts, and out of everything, one thought stood out."

"And that?"

"Two days ago Gerald had expressed a wish that three dwarf figures which he had procured in Germany should be colored for him--he wanted them a cardinal red; now, this thought came to me again and again, and what I ended up in doing was to paint those figures. They're out in the kitchen now. I painted them--I was just finishing when Mr. Jamison came, as he can tell you."

"And these figures," said Pons, "where were they standing?"

Brighton indicated a mantel above a fireplace across from the open french doors. "They were on that mantel."

Pons nodded. "I understand that apart from his work as an author, Mr. Lane was accomplished also as an artist of no small repute. Might I ask why he did not himself paint the figures?"

Brighton contemplated the covered body on the floor. "Gerald was a very busy man, Mr. Pons. Nor was such work quite within his scope. Landscapes, seascapes--yes, those Gerald could do, but to coat these figures and still retain the original delicacy of their construction and execution, this Gerald knew himself incapable of doing. But I've done such things before; you'll see them in all the rooms."

"Indeed," murmured Pons.

Brighton fixed his large eyes on Solar Pons and regarded him unblinkingly. Pons stepped to one side and walked a short distance to a door leading into an inner room; through this he peered momentarily. From the door he turned and said, "I understand that you've been occupying this house for six months--you furnished it, I take it?"

"Yes," answered the author. "I furnished my room and the dining-room; Gerald furnished his room and the lounging room; we went together on the kitchen and the smaller room.

"Ah, so?" murmured Pons, obviously interested. "I should like to see Mr. Lane's room."

"Very well," assented Brighton. "Please follow me." He turned, passing Pons, and entered the inner rooms through the door at which Pons was standing.

Pons followed.

Alone, Inspector Jamison and I turned at once to each other. "It doesn't seem we're getting very much ahead," said Jamison.

"Lane's left-handedness ought to mean something since Pons mentioned it," I suggested.

"It indicates for one thing that there was certainly a struggle," said Jamison, and would perhaps have said more, had not Pons popped into the room at that moment.

"Have you looked into the adjoining dining-room, Jamison?" asked Pons.

"Haven't moved," said Jamison.

"So? Well, take a look at it."

Pons stepped aside and Jamison moved briskly forward. Brighton appeared in the doorway and watered the proceedings with a puzzled face. In a moment Jamison was back.

"Well, Jamison?" asked Pons.

"Funny room, Mr. Pons. Highly decorative, I'd say."

"Quite so," said Pons. His eyes were eager and he now moved forward again and took his stand at the French doors, looking out across the terrace to a yard adjoining the garden, separated only by a hedge, where a child was playing at building a sand or mud castle.

"Is there anything you could suggest?" asked Jamison in a troubled voice.

Pons turned slightly. "I would call your attention to the peculiarity of this room."

Jamison looked bewildered; he cast a rapid glance around him. "But there's nothing peculiar about this room." he protested.

"That is the peculiarity!" returned Pons.

At the same moment Pons stepped from the room and ran lightly across the terrace. He vaulted the hedge and entered the adjoining yard, where he squatted beside the child and his mud-castle.

"Dear me," murmured Brighton. "What a strange temperament Mr. Pons has. Rather . . rather . ." He broke off and looked helplessly at Jamison, who was standing and staring at Pons in sheer amazement. "Do you think he's quite--quite right?" suggested Brighton hesitatingly, blinking owlishly through his glasses. "His actions, now . ."

Indeed, Brighton was in a measure justified, for Pons was obviously assisting the child to build his mud-castle. I stepped closer to the French doors, the better to observe the two. Pons was evidently absorbed, but I could see that he was talking to the child at the same time. The child, however, appeared older than I had guessed at first sight--a boy, about four years of age.

For fully ten minutes Pons stayed with the child. When be came back, it was only when he stepped into the room that the tension broke.

"Well, Mr. Pons, whatever this room lacks in peculiarity you--you certainly make up for," said Brighton uneasily.

"Indeed, Mr. Brighton," said Pons, smiling. "My peculiarity, however, has just enabled me to discover the source of the curious sloshing sound you heard this morning."

"You don't mean the child?" put in Jamison.

"Precisely. The sloshing sound rose from the child's patting the sand onto the castle, which you will see is already quite far advanced, showing that it has been in the process of erection for some hours. The sound of running water came from a hose, which he can turn on or off at the nozzle whenever he wishes. It follows, then, that the child was building his castle at the time of Mr. Lane's death."

Jamison and Brighton turned quickly to Pons.

"You questioned the child?" asked Jamison.

Pons nodded. "He heard the struggle of which we already have evidence; hence it follows that the struggle was muffled, since the child, directly across from the open French doors heard it, and Mr. Brighton, in the rear did not."

Pons turned to Brighton. "There has been some mention of a note--a threatening note received by Mr. Lane shortly before his death."

Brighton nodded. "Yes, but it has been destroyed. It was directed to Gerald by some journalist. Mr. John Estenham, I think, for Gerald had lately written a sharp burlesque of Estenham. "

"Mr. Estenham was killed three days ago at the Sussex races," said Pons. "Were you aware of this?"

Brighton nodded easily. "Yes, I knew that."

Jamison bristled. "Why didn't you tell us that this noon? When we questioned you?"

Brighton looked surprised, "Why, I thought you knew, of course. If you read the papers---of course, everyone reads the papers."

Jamison subsided. Pons repressed a smile.

"Had Mr. Lane no other enemies?" asked Pons.

"I wouldn't say Estenham was an enemy, Mr. Pons. It's a case of journalism. If he did send that threat, I don't think he sent it seriously. No, I don't think Gerald had any enemies."

"Very good. I should like to have a look at the burlesque that Mr. Lane wrote; I daresay there's a copy of it about."

"Yes, there's a copy in my room," said Brighton. "I'll get it for you."

Hardly had the author disappeared into the dining-room before Pons was up and out through the terrace like a shot. He vanished around a comer before either Jamison or I could move.

A few minutes elapsed.

Brighton returned and looked absently around the room. "Where is Mr. Pons?" he asked.

Even as he spoke Pons stepped into the room from the terrace. He was wiping his hands on a large handkerchief, which he proceeded to stuff into his top-coat pocket. I saw that both his pockets were heavily weighted down; from one a corner of newspaper projected.

"Ah, Mr. Brighton," he said, "you have the burlesque.'

Brighton extended the folded clipping to Pons without a word. He fixed his large, unblinking eyes on Pons, and continued to regard him as he read here and there from the article.

"The great Mr. Pain,'" began Pons, "'has again caused somewhat of a furore by a report on the races, with which he is entirely too familiar. We are told that Mr. Pain has profited by the races; indeed, Mr. Pain is now engaged in financing a new theatrical project, in which he will take the leading role, while directing the show and incidentally also financing it.... Mr. Pain is a great asset to certain of us; no doubt of it.' Hm! Hm!" muttered Pons, and read the remainder of the article in silence. Looking up at last, he said, "I notice that this article isn't signed."

"That's quite usual, Mr. Pons. Very often we do not sign our articles. I think that is how Estenham recognized the author of this satire."

"Indeed," mumured Pons. "I understand that Mr. Lane himself had quite an interest in the theatre?"

Brighton nodded. "Gerald had been an actor since he could walk. His mother was the actress, Jenny Lane. You remember her."

"Quite so. And did Mr. Lane also report races occasionally? This article shows quite a knowledge of racing."

'"Gerald used to report races in his earlier days. I think that he still followed them quite eagerly, and often placed money there."

"Thank you, Mr. Brighton. One more thing. I understand that the stiletto which killed your colleague was his own property. Exactly where was this weapon before it was taken up today?"

"Just over on that small stand there," said Brighton, indicating the stand in question. It stood just at one side of the entrance to the room from the hall.

Pons moved rapidly to the stand and examined it. Jamison followed him with his eyes.

"The murderer picked it up as he came in and came directly at Lane," suggested Jamison.

Pons nodded abstractedly, but made no reply. I could see from the puzzled expression on his face that he was in deep thought. Finally he left off his examination and looked over at Brighton.

"I think that will be all. We can do no more here," he said, turning to Jamison. "You might call at our lodgings in about an hour, Jamison. I may have something for you. In the meantime, you may have the body moved."

In our rooms once more, Pons proceeded to empty his topcoat pockets of the heavy objects wrapped in newspaper. I stared at Pons in curiosity, but I forbore to question him, preferring to wait until he himself spoke of his find. But I was to be disappointed, for, after slipping into his dressing-gown, Pons gathered up his burden and disappeared into his laboratory, where I soon heard the sound of running water, punctuated at intervals by muttered ejaculations from Pons.
It was three-quarters of an hour before he finally emerged, and by that time my curiosity knew no bounds.

"Well," I asked "what have you been doing?"

"Putting our little problem together in its proper order, Parker."

I saw now that he held in his hand a curiously carved manikin, a troll figure, Austrian in origin.

"The other two are in the laboratory," said Pons. "This is the only one we're concerned with."

"Lane's three dwarfs, are they?"

He nodded silently. He placed the dwarf upon the table and regarded it fondly.

"I thought they were red," I put in.

"So they were," said Pons. "I have just now removed the paint 71."

"Why?"

"To ascertain which of the three made the bruises on Lane's body, and to prove to myself that the figures were painted not because Lane wished it so, but because one of them was stained with blood."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"This wood, as you see," Pons went on imperturbably, takes stain very easily. Even now I have not been able to get all the paint off; yet, it's easy to see under scrutiny where the original blood-stain was. I have no doubt that Brighton carefully washed off what blood he could, but he could not wholly remove the stain. Therefore, rather than destroy these attractive figures, he thought to cover them with paint so as to hide the blood-stain."

"Then Brighton is the murderer!"

Pons chuckled. "'Brighton hasn't the courage to kill anything--yet he has the cleverness to try to foil the police investigation by cloaking what little evidence there is."

"He knows who killed Lane, then?"

"He knows all about the matter, Parker," replied Pons. "Let me assure you that it's not as mysterious as you have imagined.''

At this moment there was a ring at the doorbell, and shortly after, Jamison strode into the room, excitement showing in his face.

"There's been a new development, Pons," he said eagerly.

"Indeed?"

"You remember those red dwarfs Brighton mentioned?"

Pons nodded.

"Well, they're gone. Someone's made off with them. Brighton is quite upset about the affair."

"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Pons. "Because I took them myself."

"You!" exclaimed Jamison.

"Yes. Here's one of them," continued Pons, handing to Jamison the dwarf he had been discussing.

"But this isn't red," protested Jamison.

"No, certainly not. I cleaned them in order to get to the bottom of this matter."

"You have the murderer!" exclaimed Jamison.

"There is no murderer," said Pons.

"Ah, it was suicide after all! I was right at first, then?"

"It was not suicide," continued Pons with maddening imperturbability.

"Well," said Jamison in justifiable exasperation, "I'm certain he didn't die of heart failure."

"But almost the same, Jamison," chuckled Pons. "the entire matter was somewhat of an accident." Pons reached down into his wastebasket and drew forth a newspaper, through which he searched diligently before finding what he sought. At last, however, he folded the paper and extended it to Jamison, indicating a paragraph to him. "Read it aloud," Pons suggested. "I'm afraid I had a slight lead on you at the outset."

"The artist and author, Mr. Gerald Lane, was today fined twenty guineas for assault and battery committed on the person of Mr. Eldridge Morton, the art critic, whose comments on his work aroused the temper of Mr. Lane. Mr. Lane, it will be remembered, was recently severely reprimanded in this court for a like offense; he is well known in artistic circles for his furious outbursts of temper.'"

"You see it now, I hope," said Pons.

Jamison shook his head. "it doesn't help me in the least," he said. "But surely this fact alone did not lead you to the solution of the case?"

"No, certainly not," said Pons. "But reflect, I called your attention to my other point, in noting the peculiarity of the room in which we found the body. If you care now to re-examine the house in St. John's Wood, you'll see that every room furnished by Brighton is marked by a radical clash of colors--no true artist can tolerate such gaudy, showy decorative effects as those colored figures in the other rooms. Lane's rooms are in splendid harmony. Yet we were told that he had wished to have his German troll figures painted a cardinal red--a color altogether out of harmony with his room. That, Jamison, was one of my points. There was nothing peculiar about the room, but, after you look into the dining room, that very fact becomes a peculiarity."

"Then Brighton deliberately blocked our investigation," put in Jamison.

"I fear he did," agreed Pons. "But his work was clumsily done; any amateur could see through it."

"Yet I did not."

"Well, it's really quite elementary," said Pons. "At the outset, it should be perfectly obvious that the author of that article in the paper was not Lane at all, but Brighton, and that the subject had nothing at all to do with the man Estenham but concerned Lane. Note the curious point of the name of the subject, Pain--what more similar in mockery to Lane? Then too, throughout the entire article the parallelism of character between Pain and Lane is too obvious. There was no note from Estenham, of course, but Brighton rather cleverly invented this point to befog the police."

Jamison looked uncomfortable.

"Couple this fact with what we knew at the outset. It was certainly inconceivable that Lane should want to break the harmony of his room by introducing red figures; this struck me at once. Then I thought of the reputed violence of Lane's temper, and when I read the article itself, my suspicions were definitely formulated and I lacked only the proof, which I already had in my pocket. Now that I've cleaned the figures, I have ascertained that on one of them there is still evidence of a blood-stain."

"Then it was this that made the bruises on Lane's body," Jamison cut in.

Pons nodded.

"But if the entire matter was an accident, why should Brighton strike him like that--assuming it was Brighton who inflicted the bruises?"

"It was," Pons assented. "That, however, is equally elementary. You have only to recall Lane's violent temper and imagine what a rage he flew into when he discovered that the author of the satiric article was Brighton. He found this out and rushed home immediately to take issue with Brighton. He was in a violent temper, naturally. Brighton was probably not in the garden at all, but was somewhere in the house. By the time that Lane had his outer clothing off, Brighton had heard him, and he came into the room where we found the body, wondering what had brought Lane home. Thus it was that the child next door heard the struggle that followed and Brighton did not, because Brighton was there, in the room.

"At the moment that Brighton entered the room, Lane undoubtedly caught up the first weapon that came to hand--his stiletto. Brighton instinctively moved to protect himself, and took up the only weapon within his reach, one of the little manikins on the mantel behind him. He had no wish to injure Lane, knowing that the violence of his temper passed quickly, but he did not want to be slashed if he could help it. Therefore, he struck at Lane's left hand--Lane was left-handed--hoping to disarm him. When this was not effective, most probably Brighton seized hold of Lane's left hand, dropping the manikin, and struggled with him--the result was the first wound inflicted on Lane.

"Undoubtedly, in the course of the struggle, Lane pressed Brighton pretty hard, and Brighton clung all the while to Lane's left hand, so that in the end, when Brighton was forced to the wall, it was pure accident that the stiletto impaled Lane. You probably noticed in your examination of the body that the left arm was twisted toward the stiletto; I daresay that's as good a point as any--it strikes me as more or less throwing the weight of evidence on the fact that Lane's hand was clasped about the weapon when it entered his heart. And then it is needless for me to say, I suppose, Lane must have fallen near the dwarf that Brighton had dropped, so that it became blood-stained.

"Of course, it's clear that, after his first fright, Brighton became calculatingly cool; the man who wrote the monograph on chess emerged then, and laid elaborate plans to foil an investigation. And in this he might well have succeeded, had his artistic leanings not bidden him keep the figures, the one of which was so blood-stained that he could not wash it all away, by painting them.

"His motivation in hiding the facts was, naturally enough, the fear that the facts might be misconstrued."

Pons paused and lit his pipe.

"You might take the manikins back to him, Jamison," he added. "And pray don't think of prosecuting Brighton, for a capable barrister will efficiently clear Brighton of all blame in the matter, especially since there is Lane's previous record to bring forward."