Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (13 page)

“You get the idea,” Evans said. “Now let's hurry to the Louvre.”

An attendant entered with the early editions of the afternoon papers. Schlumberger, in the absence of his chief, had been obliged to face the representatives of the press and had stuttered and contradicted himself so badly in trying to explain the absence of the chief of detectives that the reporters had left in high dudgeon and each edition outdid the preceding in lambasting the department.

The above was one of the milder headlines which was eagerly read when the clients of cafes from one end of Paris to the other gathered to enjoy aperitifs and scandal. The
En-Tout-Gas,
however, went further than its competitors. Its editor proclaimed that an American fugitive who was wanted by the police in the United States for having played fast and loose with a large bottle corporation was being sheltered and abetted in his crime against widows and orphans by high officials of the Paris police. In substantiation of its charges, this vehement newspaper stated that the culprit, a Mr. K-S. Porcière, had arrived on the
Ile de France,
had been whisked to the Plaza Athènée, and within five minutes had disappeared. No word of this had been given the press, which was the only guardian of public interest, the
En-Tout-Cas
asserted, and cited this as proof of official complicity.

“The public demands that the prefect divulge these important and shady occurrences, with a full explanation of his silence to date,” an editorial began. It got hotter as the writer warmed to his task.

“Will the Prefect, Monsieur de la Chemise Farcie, respond to this reasonable demand? That, Parisians and Frenchmen, is unlikely. Monsieur is busy, fishing. Where? Ask the chief of detectives, if you please.

“The chief of detectives, it seems, is not in his office. Neither is he in the Musée du Louvre, from which priceless paintings disappear like carp from a tank. Where is he? Ask one of the sergeants. Which one? The senior. Only he is in authority.

“The senior sergeant, one Schlumberger, nearly bites off his tongue. The Chief is out, he says. Out where? He's working on the case. Which case? The sergeant stammers. He does not know.”

The demoralization of Sergeant Schlumberger was complete. It was the only time in the course of his long faithful service that his name had been mentioned in the papers. “One Schlumberger. Bites tongue. Police complicity,” he was muttering, as he started for the national museum. But since no word had been received from the Minister of Justice, he agreed to take along Kvek, Hjalmar and Tom Jackson in his personal custody.

At the main entrance of the Louvre, Sergeant Bonnet was waiting. With him, in a state of hysteria because of the disappearance of Frémont, was Melchisadek Knock-woode. The east wing had been cleared and the guards and watchmen who had been removed from their posts of duty were playing cards and chatting in the entrance lobby. Evans and Lazare took the lead, with Miriam, Jansen and Schlumberger close behind them. Kvek and Bonnet brought up the rear. They proceeded through a long subterranean passage between files of Roman sculptures, passed through arches and up and down short stairways until none of them except Homer or Lazare could have found his way out in an hour. When finally they entered the long narrow chamber in which were the heavy stone sarcophagi, Evans halted, sat down on the edge of one of the ponderous lids, and gathered his forces for instructions. First he warned them to touch nothing and to keep well behind him when he went into the Egyptian room, but as he was talking he suddenly rose to his feet and started examining the lid of the sarcophagus.

“This has been chipped,” he said, in astonishment. “And recently.” He took out his magnifying glass, then searched the floor for the missing fragment of stone. It was not to be found.

“Sergeant Bonnet,” he asked. “Has anyone been in this chamber today?”

“Not a soul, I assure you,” the sergeant said.

“You're sure it hasn't been swept?”

“I swear it,” replied the earnest detective.

“I'd like to have a look at the under side,” Homer said. For he had determined not to let the minutest detail escape him.

Hjalmar and Kvek stepped forward, and with grateful grins which bespoke how glad they were to have something tangible to do, took hold of the enormous stone lid. Stretched between them was the granite statue of an Assyrian prince of whom little else was known. They tightened their grips and lifted. Centimeter by centimeter the great lid rose. It was without hinges, its weight having been considered sufficient to keep it in place.

“What shall we do with it?” Hjalmar asked.

“Turn it crosswise and rest it near the foot, so we can look in,” Evans said.

They all peered in, and Melchisadek started running, dodging wildly between statues, for in the ungainly stone chest was reposing, face down, a wrapped Egyptian mummy. Instantly Lazare took charge, and motioned the others back. He beckoned Homer to stand by and help him.

“Lift it carefully,” he said. “I'll take the head and you the feet. Ah! Thank God it's uninjured! There now. Upsy daisy, slowly. Capital! Now we'll turn him over, left over right. That's the way. Let him down gently to the floor.”

That having been accomplished, the old man knelt quickly, stared at the cobra-shaped hood, swathed in bandages, and then, to the astonishment of everyone present began to laugh uproariously.

The two sergeants frowned. There was a time and place for everything according to their notion, and the fact that an Egyptian mummy had been lying face downward in an Assyrian sarcophagus meant nothing whatever to them.

“It's Tout-or-Nada, the young wag, himself! In death as in life, forever the clown,” said Lazare, holding his sides. His laughter was so contagious that Lvov Kvek and Jansen could not help joining in, until the solemn walls of the chamber set up a rumble of echoes.

Then, as suddenly as he had grown merry, Lazare became grave. Admonishing the others by no means to approach or touch the mummy, the old man, followed by Homer, set out at a brisk trot for the Egyptian room. There, before their companions had had time to catch up with them, they began lifting the cover of the mummy case fourth from the left, removed the inner lid, and both dropped down to their knees.

“A table! We must unwrap him,” said Lazare. So Hjalmar and Kvek removed a glass case of ancient tools and relics from the bench on which it had rested. Hastily Evans and the old man brought forth and stretched on his back what seemed to be another well-wrapped mummy.

“Begin at the knee,” said Evans tensely. “That's where I got the sample.” And to Sergeant Bonnet he whispered a terse request for the official photographer. Before the latter had arrived, Lazare had removed the wrappings from the knee and the upper calf of the leg, disclosing, not the dry preserved flesh of an Egyptian monarch but the slightly discolored skin of a corpse.

Sergeant Schlumberger began to clutch at his hair and to burble, and Evans, to calm him, said soothingly:

“Now here's your story for the papers! And it ought to satisfy the most exacting of them, for, unless I am mistaken, this unfortunate man is the Marquis de la Rose d'Antan.”

“Not the Minister of Beaux Arts?” the officers exclaimed with horror.

“The same,” said Evans. In their excitement, none of them noticed the change that had come over Lazare. He had ceased unwrapping abruptly. His formerly benevolent face was distorted with emotion the nature of which was impossible to fathom. Miriam, remembering what a tragic part the dead marquis had played in the old man's career, hastened to Lazare's side. He seemed to be afraid of her, in an agony of embarrassment and self-consciousness.

Sergeant Schlumberger, still hoping the wrapped corpse might not prove to be a high official, was not as considerate as he might have been in less trying circumstances.

“Unwrap the face, if you please,” he said. “There's no time to be lost.”

Because of the harshness of his tone, Lazare lost all control of his nerves and backed away into a corner. “No! Not that one,” he muttered. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I'm not well. I shall have to leave you.” In trying to get out he stumbled against a small showcase which crashed to the floor, scattering signet rings on which were carved the hawk and the vulture, first dynasty bracelets of gold, turquoise, amethyst and lapis lazuli, and a small ivory tablet which set forth, had anyone except the distracted Lazare known it, the prescription for hair restorer used by Khenti Athuthi's queen (3345-3289
B.C
.), a mixture of dog's claws, donkey's hooves and boiled dates. Weeping and mumbling the old man sat on the floor, trying to gather the ancient treasures in his hands.

Evans whispered quickly to Miriam and gently she led Lazare away. Of those present, they were the only ones who understood in part what had happened. “Don't leave him until he's himself again,” said Homer and Miriam nodded, tremulously.

A moment later, the official photographers came panting in, followed by Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux. Evans, meanwhile, continued unwrapping the remains.

“What now?” demanded the doctor, gruffly. His study of human livers and California wine had been interrupted again and he was so much disturbed by that fact that he had not looked closely at the swathed object stretched out on the bench. In his haste, in fact, he mistook it for a mummy and almost exploded.

“I am willing and it is my duty,” he said, “to deal with bodies, but there's a limit. If you think I shall try to fix the time of death of prehistoric relics you have overestimated my amiability.” The doctor turned on his heel and was about to leave the room when Evans suavely tried to set him right.

“What you see here,” he said, “unless I am very much mistaken, has been until very recently the Marquis de la Rose d'Antan.”

“An insufferable fathead,” grunted the doctor, still unconvinced.

“I'm not disputing that, but he's entitled to the service the Republic gives freely to all citizens.” Evans said. “His body, wrapped as you see it here, was placed in the mummy case which properly belonged to a chap named Tout-or-Nada just before five o'clock yesterday afternoon, and if death occurred before this bandaging began, the late Marquis must have been dead before half past three.”

“What makes you so sure this is the Marquis?” asked Dr. Toudoux. “As far as I'm concerned, it could be Mata Hari.”

“Not with hair on her leg,” Sergeant Schlumberger said. “But I should like an answer to the question, just the same.”

Evans smiled. “Of all the missing men connected with this case, M. de la Rose d'Antan is the only one who fits this particular mummy case. Professor de la Poussière is far too tall, and even our middle-sized American, who furthermore was alive long after five yesterday afternoon . . .”

Kvek began to weep and to bellow. “Do you mean K. Parker Seldon has been murdered, too? I'm disgraced. I shall never live it down. What shall I say to Mr. Weiss, my benefactor, who entrusted him to my care?”

“Be patient, all of you,” Evans said. “Here, Kvek. Start in on the left leg. Hjalmar, continue with the right, where Lazare left off. I'll have a go at the head, and we'll make better progress. And please do not think that an unrelated series of murders and kidnappings have taken place on the same day, by chance. The incidents are all of a piece, and were carefully planned, excepting the disappearance of Frémont. His removal, you may be sure, was decided upon on the spur of the moment. It does not fit into the picture.”

The Russian and the husky painter were making the bandages fly, and it was not five minutes before even the most skeptical among those present was sure that the corpse was not that of Mata Hari. At the head, Evans was making rapid progress, too.

“Don't be afraid of tearing the cloth,” he said. “It's not Egyptian but modern. Ah! It's the Marquis, all right.”

The medical examiner brought out his bandage scissors and after snipping the remaining linen away he made a brief examination, much handicapped by the fact that the inner organs had been removed and the Marquis had been hastily embalmed in the style of bygone days.

“How the devil can I say how he died, when he's as full of foreign gums and asphalt as a third class pharmacy in Belgium?” spluttered Dr. Toudoux. “We'll have to remove him to my laboratory, where probably I can do no better.”

T
HE
modest success of Sergeant Schlumberger in his police career had been due to his sterling Alsatian character, generous but stubborn, and his simple common sense. His mind, never brilliant, worked on principles he had learned in the early grades of school. In the words of the immortal Rabelais, “He had both feet firmly on the ground.” Astounded and dismayed as he was by the discovery of the body of the Marquis de la Rose d'Antan, he did not lose his head or indulge in flights of fancy.

“If one Egyptian mummy contains one corpse,
X
Egyptian mummies contain
X
corpses,” was the way he worked it out.

Consequently, after the remains of the minister of Beaux Arts had been carted away, Evans had to restrain the sergeant, almost forcibly, from ripping open with a pair of garden shears from the Louvre's broad green lawn, the mummy of Tout-or-Nada which was still lying on its back near the Assyrian sarcophagus.

“How do we know that it does not have the President of the Republic inside?” demanded Schlumberger, sweat beading his broad wrinkled forehead. “And look at this one.” He made a pass with the shears at the remains of Kephere, Neferkere or Keneferre Huui (2837 to 2814
B.C
.). It's about the size of the prefect, Monsieur de la Chemise Farcie. It might even be your middle-sized business man.”

“God forbid! Don't say that,” groaned Kvek.