Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (10 page)

“I have found your formula invaluable in certain emergencies,” the doctor said, when all was quiet again.

They took seats in the salon and refreshed themselves with a glass of excellent wine. Its soothing effect was soon apparent, and Evans spoke first.

“You asked me, a while ago, how I knew that the corpse spoke no English,” he said to the perspiring sergeant. “As you know, the ‘th' sound occurs often in that language, and to pronounce a ‘th' one must press with considerable force with the top of the tongue against the upper front teeth. The chap who passed away just now had not pressed against those teeth with his tongue or even a toothbrush for a considerable length of time. Do I make myself clear?”

“To a certain point,” said the sergeant, “but why that mildly disgusting fact is important to us I still cannot fathom.”

“A French gang is involved, the members of which spend much of their time dancing. That I deduced from the soles of the shoes, which are worn smooth to the tips of the toes. Now which French gang, unilingual and having headquarters in a Bal Musette, would go to extreme lengths to shorten my inoffensive existence?”

“The St. Julien Rollers, I suppose,” the sergeant admitted grudgingly. “But nearly all of them are on Devil's Island.”

“The few who are left must have gathered other un-desirables around them. I propose that you see what you can learn about the recent activities between the
rue
des Deux Ponts and the boulevard St. Germain,” Homer said.

“I'll have to inform M. Frémont,” the sergeant said. “And the way he was feeling tonight, I don't relish the experience.”

“Why not let him sleep until morning? It's well after dawn as it is,” Evans asked. “He solicited my help on this case, and I'll take the responsibility. But,” he continued, turning to Dr. Toudoux, who was pouring another round of drinks, “since Professor de la Poussière is nowhere to be found, could you perhaps recommend another learned man who might serve my purpose?”

“With pleasure,” said Dr. Toudoux, whom the smooth white Bordeaux had thawed more than a little. “I happen to know that when the absent professor was wrestling with a problem particularly difficult he was in the habit of consulting a man who, although unknown among the savants and explorers, had a knowledge of ancient Egypt that commanded the respect of friend Zacharie. I refer to Lazare, of the
place
St. André des Arts, Hot-seat Lazare as he was brutally called in his school days. And that, my friends, reminds me of an old and nearly forgotten story. I see that the sergeant's able assistants are removing the body to the morgue and since we all have time and the tale is not without relevance, if you are going to interview the man, I'll begin.”

He settled himself in an easy chair, lighted a fresh cigar, and, with a glance at the sleeping patient, continued.

“When Professor de la Poussière was at the height of his fame as a teacher at the Sorbonne, he had in his class one pupil for whom he had the highest hopes. The young man was poor, so poor that he was conspicuous among his classmates, who, for the most part, were rich and aristocratic. I am speaking of Lazare Dufour, who today is the humble proprietor of that taxidermy shop named
Au Sens de Mesur
in the
place
St. Andre des Arts.

“Lazare was brilliant, but incurably shy, lacking social graces and living completely alone. As long as he could remain inconspicuous, he was able to absorb knowledge with fantastic aptitude. The moment he thought he was attracting attention, he grew tongue-tied and miserable. For that reason, Professor de la Poussière seldom called on him in class, but he had won the young man's confidence and friendship so that they had long talks in private, talks which quickly became, to all intents and purposes, consultations.

“Having a free ticket one night to the Comèdie Française and being unable to use it, the professor offered it to Lazare, who accepted eagerly. He had never been inside a theater and the performance entranced him. The piece, I believe, was Molière's
Les Femmes Savants
and the unhappy young student, lonely beyond belief, felt himself a part of a living, speaking company in which he could remain invisible. That, for him, was Paradise. The performance that night was poorly attended, so after the intermission, Lazare stole up to a seat nearer the stage. Before the act had proceeded far, there was a tug at his shoulder, and an angry old woman began upbraiding him in hoarse whispers, other spectators began to hiss for silence, and a crotchety old man in evening clothes began making a terrible scene. The old man was the late Marquis de la Rose d'Antan, father of the present minister of Beaux Arts, I believe.

“Well, the upshot was that the curtain was rung down and an altercation followed in which young Lazare was so crushed and embarrassed that he nearly swooned. The Marquis, it seemed, did not care for the opening acts of the play and Lazare had taken the seat he had reserved for the finale. For the young man to retreat to the seat he should have occupied was not enough. The irate nobleman, inflamed by the jibes of the hostile crowd, asserted that he would not accept a hot seat, nor change it for another. He called in the police and the next day entered suit against Lazare and the Comèdie Française. The case was the talk of Paris, Lazare, more dead than alive, was lampooned in the press, laughed at in the streets and, after becoming a comic celebrity, was reprimanded and fined and for weeks was unable to force himself to return to school. When he did appear in class, his classmates, for the most part, refrained even from smiling, but in his consternation Lazare took the wrong seat again, this time the one belonging to the Marquis' son and the latter, an arrogant fellow, complained that the chair was too hot when he tardily entered the classroom.

“The Sorbonne, mademoiselle and gentlemen, lost a brilliant student that day and Lazare, instead of becoming our foremost Egyptologist, became proprietor of a taxidermy shop that came to him from a distant relative he had never seen. Bear in mind poor Lazare, my friends, when you are on the verge of discourtesy. Remember that one drop of ridicule may burn like an acid and destroy a priceless fabric fate is weaving.”

There were tears in Miriam's eyes as the doctor finished speaking and she was about to confess, again, when Evans rose and beckoned her to follow.

“I shall have words with this sensitive man,” he said, “and shall take the utmost care not to bruise his tender feelings.”

*
Prairie rattlesnake oil.

**
Arkansas lettuce, a variety of loco weed found only in eastern Texas and Arkansas.

T
HE
Chief of Detectives Frémont, after a harrowing session with the star reporters of the morning papers, had rushed out of the prefecture without making his usual tour of inspection. The journalists, outwardly, had been respectful but in each of their questions the worried Chief had felt an undercurrent of mockery and of glee. The theft of the famous
Pansy,
coming as it did after a long dearth of piquant news, was proving to be jam for the Paris papers. The suspects, Angorre and Dubonnet, had failed to impress the gentlemen of the fourth estate, although the pair had been photographed in various poses and their statement, carefully edited by the prefectorial stenographer, had been accepted under protest. A round of the art dealers in the
rue
la Boëtie and the boulevard Haussmann had netted an even half dozen copies of the missing painting, but only two of them had been done with sufficient skill to warrant their submission to a board of experts. In short, not only the veteran reporters but also the cubs had seen clearly that Frémont was stalling and sparring for time, and they all made much of the fact that both the prefect, Philippe de la Chemise Farcie, and the minister of Beaux Arts, the Marquis de la Rose d'Antan, had found it convenient to remain away from the center of activities.

Having at last shaken off the watchdogs of the press, Frémont had dismissed for the night his faithful chauffeur, Melchisadek Knockwoode, and had walked all the way to the
place
de la Contrescarpe. He tried to snatch a comforting beer in several of the cafes en route, only to be driven away by the constant chatter about the stolen Watteau and the laxness of officialdom generally and of the police in particular. Now and then the Chief derived comfort from his recollection of Evans' promise of developments tomorrow, but in his heart of hearts he feared that the said developments, if they occurred, would prove more embarrassing, if possible, than those of the day just passed. Alone on the narrow streets he skirted the Pantheon and L'Eglise de la Montagne St. Genevieve and a few moments later inserted his key in the door of the Hotel Murphy et du Danube Bleu.

Hydrangea, her dusky countenance eloquent with solicitude, received him with open arms.

“Man. Your poor head is burning hot,” she murmured tenderly, and busied herself with cool towels, aspirin and simple household remedies to which the Chief found it difficult to respond. “Has Mr. Evans found that little picture yet?” she asked. “I declare, I don't see why everybody should make such a fuss about a thing like that.”

The chief of detectives was too tired to attempt an explanation. He had found in the past that his sweetheart's sense of values differed radically from that of the Paris public, in more ways than one, and he loved her for her simplicity. As weary as he was, the Chief was in no mood for sleep, so he sat at the back window for a breath of air and Hydrangea, after mild attempts to induce him to rest, gave up and soon was in slumber. How long he sat there, Frémont did not know. The stars grew dim and disappeared, the first rays of dawn sought out familiar towers. His window looked out over the
rue
Cardinal Lemoine and directly beneath it was a two-story structure on the ground floor of which was a popular dance hall, the Bal des Vêtements Brulés. The second floor contained six rooms, five of which were rented to transients for periods ranging from twenty minutes to forty-eight or even sixty hours.

The neighborhood clocks had been striking five, at intervals, for nearly half an hour when Frémont saw a slim young man, with checkered cap drawn over one eye and a suit of loud but faded pattern fitting snugly in the back, leave the front doorway of the long-dark Bal des Vêtements Brulés and, staying close to the wall as if by long habit, start walking toward the boulevard St. Germain. Had the Chief not been sure he had seen that cap and suit before, and always in suspicious circumstances, he would have stifled his impulse to follow. As it was, he felt impelled to do so.

Tiptoeing from the room in which Hydrangea slept, he descended the stairs, made his way hastily to the boulevard and was rewarded by seeing his quarry cut across toward the
place
St. Michel. There Frémont picked him up again, and, with the skill he had acquired when he had occupied a much less important position in the force, he shadowed the cap and pinch-back coat across the Pont St. Michel, along the
quai
and into the
place
Dauphine. There, the young man become noticeably cautious, and Frémont ducked into a doorway to watch. The other looked in every direction and finally darting with address from lamppost to tree, stood still beneath a quiet chestnut in the center of the
place.
The young man gazed upward into the thick foliage of the tree. He spoke a few words which Frémont couldn't catch, looked more closely, then seemed to be startled by something he saw on the concrete walk. So suddenly and quickly that Frémont himself had difficulty in following his movements, the youth hurried out of the
place,
alarm written all over his wasp-like back.

The chief of detectives was torn between two impulses: first, to have a look at the tree and the sidewalk; and second, to continue the chase. It was the first to which he succumbed. The tree looked very much like other chestnut trees, but on the sidewalk was a stain, rather carelessly swabbed up, of what Frémont thought was blood. In an instant his brain, hitherto lethargic, got into action and with it his legs. He caught a taxi on the fly as it was passing the statue of Henri IV.

“The
place
de la Contrescarpe,” he said, showing his badge, “and don't stop for anything.”

Luckily the traffic was light at that hour, so in record time the Chief was again at the window of Hydrangea's apartment in the Hotel Murphy et du Danube Bleu, not without, however, having passed beneath the eagle eye of Bridgette Murphy, the proprietress. The taxi waited, according to instructions.

Frémont reached his vantage point none too soon. The young man in cap and tight suit, now practically on the run, rushed into the Bal des Vêtements Brulés and closed the door behind him. That was enough for Frémont. He decided to investigate. Leaving Hydrangea still sound asleep he descended softly the rear flight of stairs to the kitchen, this time without being observed by the proprietress, and in less time than it takes to tell was out of doors and in the
rue
Cardinal Lemoine. He tried the door of the dance hall, found it was not locked, and entered. The light was dim inside and the Chief could hardly make out the empty tables and chairs around the rim of the dance floor. With uncertain step he continued, trying to make no sound, but it had been many years since he had trod a dance floor and that of the Bal des Vêtements Brulés had been waxed to a point where only experts could safely venture on it. His foot slipped, there was a crash and the back of Frémont's head came in brusque contact with the polished boards. He was not quite unconscious but definitely
hors de combat.
When he felt himself pinned by several sets of arms and heard himself cursed in the spiciest slang to be heard on the entire Left Bank, he tried to resist. Promptly he felt a thud on his already battered head and after that, oblivion. Had the Chief known it, it was a silk sock stuffed with sand that had accomplished his final downfall.