Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (12 page)

And again the old man excused himself, sat down on the bed, and tried to control his laughter.

“If you chance to see the professor today,” Evans suggested, “please remind him that his wife is uneasy about him. It seems that yesterday he started out in the morning, probably bound for the Louvre. He didn't get to the Louvre and he didn't come home last night. Do you think that is cause for alarm?”

Lazare stopped laughing and was much perturbed. “Dear me,” he said. “Now that's strange. Had he been engaged in some new investigation he would probably have let me know. The letter I showed you was mailed day before yesterday. He was in excellent spirits then.”

“No doubt it will all be explained,” said Homer, not wishing to frighten the old man. “What I came to you about is quite a different matter. Are you familiar . . . ? But of course you are. I want your opinion about some samples of mummy wrappings I have with me. As outrageous as it may seem to you, I was obliged to snip them from two mummies in the Louvre, in the interest of justice, you know.”

“Dear me,” said Lazare, “snipping mummies.”

“I know little of Egyptian textiles, or the practices of Egyptian embalmers,” Homer went on. “But I happen to have read that the best linen woven by the ancients had as many as 450 warp threads to the inch. And I assume that for the grave clothes of a pharaoh, the best was none too good. Am I correct in that assumption?”

“Unquestionably,'' said Lazare, and began pawing the bed and the table top for his other glasses. “I'm sorry,” he said. “We'll have to go to my shop before we can examine your samples properly.” And the old man, thoroughly intrigued, snatched his rumpled felt hat, had a tug at his string tie, and led the way briskly down the ladder and the six steep flights of stairs. The trio trudged wordlessly through the
rue
de la Huchette, across the boulevard St. Michel and entered the shop
Au Sens de Mesur
where Lazare was promptly confronted by an angry woman who had been glaring through the window at a stuffed three-toed sloth which hung indolently from a sawed-off limb of a tree.

“I shall keep this revolting creature hanging at the foot of my husband's bed,” the woman said, with considerable vehemence.

“That should have a salutary effect,” said Lazare.

It seems that the woman's husband had lost his job, which had involved the wearing of a pale green uniform and standing at the foot of a stairway in a haberdasher's shop. And, according to the woman, the husband had accepted his new condition, that of a man with no pay coming in, too calmly, and merely because his wife had contrived to bank a part of his wages over a period of twenty-eight years. The man, if the woman could be believed, spent half of his time in bed, and ate as much, or more, as he had eaten before. The three-toed sloth had been a gentleman friend's idea, a man who had a business of his own and understood a woman's troubles.

“You'd better let me send it to you,” Lazare suggested, for the animal, with its tree trunk, branch and pedestal made a package as large as the customer herself. The woman turned down his suggestion, with muttered comments about delivery charges, and left the shop lugging her ungainly purchase, hard put to keep the pedestal from dragging on the ground.

The old man smiled. “One meets all kinds of people in this business,” he said, “but mostly folks who are slightly original in their ways.”

He led the way to his commodious warehouse in the back, opening the door and waiting politely for Miriam to pass through. To his and Evans' surprise, after they had caught their breath again, the girl recoiled with an exclamation of fright and in a split second a shot rang out and sawdust and bits of snake's skin filled the air. For just inside the door was a prairie rattler, viciously coiled, and Miriam's light step on a loose floor-board had caused the tail to vibrate.

Miriam's contrition surpassed that of poor Lazare, who was apologizing profusely and trying to explain. “I'm terribly sorry,” she said. “I could have sworn the snake was alive, and he wasn't a foot from my ankle.”

The policeman on the beat had heard the explosion, but he was accustomed to hearing the backfire of buses in the
place
St. Andre des Arts and decided quickly that if anything worse had occurred, someone would promptly inform him.

“When I stuff an animal for my own amusement, which is seldom,” Lazare explained, “I make it really life-like. The customers, most of them, don't like that. They want a dead cat to appear different from a live one, in order to stir more deeply their emotions. They want to be constantly reminded that poor Minou or Frou-Frou is no more, and what a little darling she used to be. That snake . . . My dear girl, it's no matter . . . was given me by our mutual friend, Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux, who seemed to have several others. I had forgotten that it was coiled near the door. A thousand pardons. What a shock it must have given your nerves.”

The back part of the warehouse was filled with stuffed monkeys, zebras, cassowaries, gnus, jaguars and other wild and domestic beasts, and rows of shelves contained gulls, macaws, loons, iguanas and other birds and reptiles. At least half the space, however, was devoted to relics of Egypt and volumes, notes and drawings relating thereto.

Evans eagerly produced his two bits of cloth, and Lazare as eagerly reached for them. “This first sample,” Evans said, “is an exceptionally fine piece of cloth, is it not?”

Lazare took the small sample, felt it, sniffed its odor, held it to the light and then put it under a small microscope that was set up on his table.

“I have seldom seen a better example of weaving, of the period just before 2900
B.C
.,” he said, without hesitation.

“And what have you to say about this one?” asked Evans, handing over the second sample, which was the one he had taken first, from the mummy case which stood fourth from the left.

Lazare stroked, sniffed, held the cloth to the light and, without resorting to the microscope said: “I regret to inform you that this one is not Egyptian at all. Offhand, I should say it was French, and of comparatively recent date.”

“Ah! Modern?” asked Evans, eagerly.

“To all intents and purposes,” replied Lazare. “It was woven not earlier than Napoleon's time. I haven't counted the warp, but it's not far from one hundred threads to the inch. You surely must be mistaken in saying that it was taken from an Egyptian mummy of high rank. My dear young man, that would be equivalent to giving a marshal of France a third-class funeral.”

Miriam glanced hastily at Evans, ready, as always, to share his disappointments. To her surprise, Homer was elated.

“Thank you, M. Lazare,” he said, shaking the old man's hand. “You have told me exactly what I wanted to know. I wonder if I might presume still further on your good nature, since Professor de la Poussière is nowhere to be found. Could you come with us, without delay, to the Louvre?”

“If you wish,” said Lazare, excitedly reaching for his hat. “I should like to have a look at the mummy in modern wrappings.”

“We'll stop at the prefecture for Chief of Detectives Frémont,” Homer said.

T
HE
officer who was sent to the Plaza Athènée in quest of K. Parker Seldon returned to the prefecture just in time to meet Evans, Miriam and old Lazare in the corridor. Sergeant Schlumberger was not long in joining them.

“Where's Frémont?” asked Homer. “We've got to go back to the Louvre, and in a hurry. I've come across a clue at last.”

“Where's Frémont, indeed? I wish you could answer the question for me,” the Alsatian said, gloomily, and told what had happened at the Hotel Murphy et du Danube Bleu.

“The devil,” Evans said. “We'll have to carry on without him. Too bad.”

“Let's hear what this man has to say about the American, and them I'm ready,” said Schlumberger, sighing.

The officer made his report. Following the arrival in Paris the day before of the boat train from the
Ile de France,
forty-two American business men had registered at that comfortable hotel, the Plaza Athènée, but only twelve of them could be classed as middle-sized and eleven of them were satisfactorily accounted for. Furthermore none of them was in possession of a book called
Ulysses
or had even heard of it. The resourceful policeman, however, had examined the room in which Kvek and Seldon had paused to wash, on the way to the Dôme, and had gathered up all the baggage and brought it back with him for examination by his superiors.

Lvov Kvek sorted out his own valises, which narrowed the examination down to four suitcases and a flat, oblong package wrapped carefully in cotton wool and waterproof black paper. The suitcases having yielded nothing except clothes and noncommittal personal effects, Evans carefully unwrapped the package.

Both he and Lazare gasped, for the package contained only a tablet of sandstone on which had been recently carved some hieroglyphics. No attempt had been made to make the tablet appear ancient, but Kvek came forward with the information that a messenger from the Manhattan Museum had brought the package to the boat, handed it to Mr. Seldon in the name of Hugo Weiss, and had transmitted with it a note saying that it was to be delivered to Professor Zacharie de la Poussière, 12
place
Dauphine.

“Now you see what you've done,” said Sergeant Schlumberger in despair. “You've linked two of these abominable cases. What shall I do? Is a mere sergeant expected to read Egyptian or Chinese, to replace in such complicated emergencies his chief, his prefect and the Minister of Beaux Arts and Monuments Publiques?”

“Peace, sergeant,” said Evans, introducing Lazare. “We have here a man to whom this tablet will be as clear as the letters which blaze out at night from the Tour Eiffel. And you should be glad your cases are inter-related. That means, solve one, solve all. And think of the credit and promotion.”

“I shall lose my stripes, that's all,” said the Alsatian, “but I thank you for your well-meant words. Am I to understand that you'll not desert me in this pickle of the century?”

“I'll carry on,” Evans said. “But I'll need the services of your prisoners here. Just unlock the two remaining cells, like a good fellow, and we'll hold a council of war.”

The face of the honest Alsatian was a picture of woe.

“Mr. Evans,” he said, miserably. “In your country, still in the pioneer stage, there are no such things as formalities. Precedents do not exist. It is expressly stated in our general orders that no prisoner may be released except on written order of the prefect or the chief of detectives. That rule is iron-clad, and has never been broken. These men have attacked and assaulted more than a dozen officers in performance of their duty, and one of them has forced his way into a public building. The moment we find Frémont, all will be well, but in the meantime . . .”

“Call the Minister of Justice,” Evans said. Then he turned to Lazare. “Do you think the professor, under the circumstances, would object to having us tamper with his mail?” he asked.

“Not at all. By all means, let's have a look,” replied Lazare. “Oh, it's modern,” he said, when the sandstone slab was handed to him. Overcoming his disappointment, he placed the tablet on a desk, got out another pair of glasses, and peered at the characters spread before him. His eagerness changed to bewilderment, and then to dismay. “Dear me,” he said. “I can read what it says but I can't understand it. There is something about a stable . . . er . . . shipments to a stable which is joined to a museum. And that is followed by a text still more cryptic. A Nubian, it seems, has concealed himself or is about to conceal himself in a helter-skelter stack of sawed and split wood. Ah. The end is clear. It's in the nature of a request or warning. ‘Examine secretly and report to H-U-' then comes G or J or perhaps Y . . .”

“Hugo Weiss,” suggested Evans, eagerly.

“Why, yes. Hugo Weiss. Is he someone you know? . . . Too bad the message doesn't make sense. Doubtless it's in code, and the professor has the key,” the old man said.

But Evans, to the astonishment of his companions, was pleased.

“You have given me invaluable aid,” he said to the bewildered old man. “For the first time since I was dragged into this puzzling case, I see a gleam of light. Not blinding, by any means, but a streak which may precede the dawn. Monsieur Lazare. Had you been aware that in the United States is a multi-millionaire named T. Prosper Stables, who has put even philanthropy on a paying basis; that the Croesus just mentioned is the patron and at the same time the beneficiary of several museums; and that he is an enemy of Hugo Weiss, you would not have been bewildered by that inscription. Shipments, certainly of articles Egyptian, are about to be made to Stables' museums. Is that clear?”

“Oh, Homer,” gasped Miriam, and clutched his sleeve.

“As for the Nubian and the sawed and split wood . . . Miss Leonard, what would you say about that?” Homer asked, with a smile.

“A nigger in the woodpile,” she said, her breath coming quickly.

“Exactly,” Evans said. Then he saw that Lazare was still in the fog. “That is an American idiom,” he explained, “meaning that something shady is afoot, that sawed and split wood, metaphorically speaking, is about to be appropriated by unauthorized persons, represented in the figure of speech by a dark-colored stranger. In other words,
Il-y-a quelque chose de louche.
Do you follow me?”

“Ingenious, indeed! I take it that the precious articles in question are not necessarily of wood, but might be of other materials, and that the color of the intruder's skin does not imply a slur on any particular race but rather represents the forces of darkness and evil, personified in Christian mythology by the Devil and in Egypt by the God of Necessity, Mutt-Thaa.”