Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (7 page)

The former Colonel Kvek, however, having passed the outer lines was challenged in the second line trenches, as it were, and had to resort to fisticuffs in order to get through the main door. He was sprinting down the slippery corridor toward the Winged Victory, and taking great satisfaction in Schlumberger's order that the enemy's fire be withheld, when an attendant stepped out from behind a stone sarcophagus and gave him the leg. In falling, Kvek struck his head on a bunch of bronze grapes being held by the statue of a Roman youth who had belonged to a Nudist cult. The grapes, the gold-headed cane and Kvek all crashed to the floor and, more surprised than injured, the colonel found himself, a few moments later, being transported, surrounded by cops in uniform, in what unquestionably was a Black Maria.

“My taxi,” he murmured.

“No need to tell your taxi-man to wait,” an officer said. “You'll be lucky if he's still driving a taxi when you get out again.”

So it was that Hjalmar, Jackson and Kvek found themselves in separate cells in the prefecture, the one known as the Goldfish Bowl having been chosen for Kvek on account of the additional charge against him of breaking and entering.

Evans, Miriam and Frémont might have reached the Winged Victory in time to witness the arrests and intervene except for one unfortunate happening. Overcautious, one of the guardians-in-chief of the Louvre had caused a barrier to be set up between the room containing the Egyptian cats and the other filled with pagan jewelry. Therefore, Evans, in the lead, was forced to swerve to the right, push open a side door for employees only, and later found himself
in
the long ebony-paneled gallery in which, among priceless exhibits of faiences and porcelains, repose in showcases the former crown jewels of the kings of France. Swinging doors joined this with a rotunda in which the prize piece was Correggio's
Last Supper.
There the racing trio were blocked again, for the door into the entrance chamber containing Ingres'
The Spring
had been barricaded and nailed. Evans and Frémont finally were obliged to break it down, so that when they reached the main exit all violent excitement there was over.

“A bunch of American drunks tried to crash the gate. We hauled them in,” an officer said.

“Excuse me, but one of them was not American, the one with the stove-pipe hat. I heard Americans swear in '17 and '18 and the inflection was not at all the same. Americans curse short and snappily, like a telegraph. Dot-dash-dot-dot. That way. The well-dressed party let it roll just like coal on a chute.”

Frémont was relieved, but indignant. “Have I trained this police force so badly that you let me be interrupted in a crucial investigation by a passel of inebriates, American, Chinese, no matter what?”

“It wasn't our fault. They just drove up and insisted on entering,” the officer said.

“And who was idiot enough to shoot, in the midst of the world's greatest collection of objects of art and of antiquity?” the chief demanded.

“It was a new man, sir, who's only accustomed to strike duty. I fined him two weeks' pay,” the senior officer said.

“If he has shot some valuable painting, he'll have to pay to have it patched. Is that clear?”

The officer saluted and Frémont turned to Evans. “Perhaps now we can pursue our inquiry without further interruption. Ah, there's Bonnet, God be praised. Bonnet, how fortunate. When did you arrive?”

Sergeant Bonnet was one member of the force who knew about art and had worked with Evans on the Weiss case. He had been in Rouen when the news of the theft of the Watteau had reached him and had hurried back without waiting for instructions.

“Bonnet. Take charge out here,” the chief of detectives said. “Give guns and ammunition to Mr. Evans and Mademoiselle Montana and explain to all concerned how that amazing young lady can shoot. I want the wing in which we are to work cleared of every living and moving thing, and I want that accomplished without disturbing footprints or fingermarks, without puncturing oil paintings or chipping statues. And I should like to have you explain to these blockheads how many days' pay they would lose if one of the smallest pots or vases should chance to be smashed. It would have suited me better if someone had stolen a boiler from a boiler factory, or all the bonds in the Bank of France. But here we are, in a welter of art again, and we must make the best of it. If it were not for Mr. Evans, I'd resign.”

“I'll be careful,” Bonnet said.

A
T LAST
an appropriate night silence settled over the Louvre, and Evans, Miriam and Frémont, who had been standing in the Gallery of Apollo while Bonnet was conducting his mopping-up operations in the eastern wing of the museum, started off toward the
Salle des Pilulles,
or the Hall of Pills, so called because in the days of Francois I it had been used as a laboratory by an apothecary, who conducted a long series of experiments with a view to curing dandruff by homeopathic treatment. It is claimed by one chronicler that King François was so deeply interested in the apothecary's work that once, when the latter spilled a box of pills, the monarch got down on all fours to help look for them. While Homer was telling his companions of this legendary incident, the chief of detectives began to show signs of impatience.

“Don't fidget, Chief,” said Evans, smiling. “I'm going to start investigating right away.” However, when in the room just east of the Gallery of Apollo they came upon a startling showcase filled with statues of Egyptian cats, and illuminated only by the moonlight through the window, Homer stopped again in amazement.

“Egyptian sculpture reached its highest point when animals served as models. What grace! What subtle lines! What patience personified! The cats have been waiting, all these centuries. And see that hawk on the highest pedestal. He belongs to the air as the cats sit firmly on the ground. You should spend some time here, Miriam,” Homer said.

“The cats make me shiver,” she said.

The Chief of Detectives Frémont was not fond of cats or owls, alive or dead, although Hydrangea had three of the former and was expecting more. The only use the honest officer could think of for vases and jars might as well be omitted from this story. And the cases of antique jewelry round about reminded him rather painfully of his Harlem sweetheart's childlike extravagance. Hydrangea had been poor, even after she had reached high proficiency in dancing, and consequently had learned to spend as promptly as possible whatever came her way. Frémont was not the man to carp about expenses, but at times he was hard put to make ends meet. His wife was another of those women who have an obsession about putting money into banks.

“Shall we ever get down to business?
^,,
the Chief asked, rather peevishly, as Evans was explaining to Miriam that what looked like an ordinary earring to Frémont was the conventionalized left ear of a Goddess named Ru or Rau, and sometimes Esphet-Esphet Ru or Rau.

To ease Frémont's mind, Evans sent him out for three pairs of black silk gloves, after which the Chief was to look behind every painting in the Hall of Pills and to report what, if anything, he discovered there. Meanwhile Homer tore himself from the unusual opportunity to view the treasures of antiquity undisturbed, and focused his mind on the plan of the building.

“Let's have a look downstairs,'' Evans said, and was about to lead the way when Chief of Detectives Frémont came larruping out of the Hall of Pills with such impetuosity that Miriam, for a moment, was ready to believe he had found
The Pansy.

“I've an idea! I've a valid theory,” the Chief said, gleefully. “The theft is the work of a fanatic. Isn't it as plain as day?”

“Develop your theory, my friend,” Evans said, good-naturedly.

“I don't know why I didn't think of it before,” said Frémont. “It's the art all around that addles men's brains. My head hasn't been clear since this idiotic theft was announced. M. Angorre, our principal suspect, told me that certain men and women lose their heads about certain of the pictures here, talk to them, even bring them food and leave it surreptitiously, fall in love. Why, there's an old maid who's off her rocker on account of that huge
Last Supper . . .”

“By Correggio,” prompted Evans.

“If one can believe the catalogue,” said Frémont. “At any rate, this unfortunate female haunts the rotunda through which we recently ran in vain, and coos and murmurs about the feet of Christ and the disciples. The bottom third of that vast waste of canvas is almost entirely feet, you know. There are rows of them in pairs beneath the table and even the wildest devotee of oil painting could not say that any one of them was beautiful. It's a wonder your Correggio, whoever he was, wasn't excommunicated for what he did to the feet of the Master.”

“Sandals, you know. The leakage was inevitable,” Evans said, in the best of humor.

“Well, this monstrous woman, as I said, fairly dotes on that array of unsightly feet. She pesters the attendants, asking when the painting
is
to be washed, as if they sent those things to the cleaners. Wants to be present and sponge off the feet herself, poor thing. Her folks won't lock her up because, except for what I have said and her clinging for forty-odd years to her virginity, she is normal.” Frémont's voice rose excitedly. “I tell you, Monsieur Evans, oil painting is sinister and unhealthy. If I were the father of Mademoiselle Montana, here, I'd forbid you to interest her in all this stuff around us. I could see, as you were talking, that she was coming under its spell. Spare this wholesome and resourceful young woman who comes to us fresh from the prairies, the shorthorns, coyotes and buckaroos. Take her to the Bois de Boulogne and row around the lake, make trips on river boats, play tennis or croquet, frequent the zoo. But keep her mind out of this warehouse of abnormalities which pass for art, I beg of you, monsieur.”

“But, your theory . . .” Evans said.

“Some poor soul, without doubt ‘queer,' as you Americans express it, has become enamoured of
The Pansy
and has made away with it. Such a type would not sell the painting for the world, neither would he show it to his friends. He'd hide it away in a bureau drawer, all cushioned and perfumed with lavender, and take it out in secret and at night.”

“I'm sorry,” Evans said. “Your theory won't do. If such a one had gone dippy about
The Pansy
he would have been haunting the Hall of Pills, and both attendants swear that no one has entered there, except by accident, for at least two years.”

The Chief's disappointment was eloquent, so keen that it touched Miriam's heart. “You ought to be glad your theory wasn't sound,” she said, kindly. “Had some fanatic stolen the painting to gaze at in the privacy of his bedchamber we should never have found it. As it stands . . .” She looked at Evans hopefully.

“As matters stand, I'm confident we will,” he said.

Reluctantly, Frémont went back to his task of peeking behind paintings, drawing on his black silk gloves as he re-entered the Hall of Pills. Homer, after a moment of silence in which he dismissed all extraneous matters from his mind, took Miriam's arm. Except for the six small exhibition rooms and the narrow corridor, the entire wing was in darkness and considering that it was half-dark on a bright sunny day it will readily be understood that the darkness it achieved at midnight was impenetrable if not Stygian. Evans had borrowed a strong flashlight from one of the guards and with that had no difficulty in finding his way. After passing the Hall of Pills, he swerved to the left to find a small doorway, stepped carefully between rows of showcases filled with votive and mortuary statues in miniature, and descended a broad stone stairway on which their footsteps echoed ominously.

“We turn left here,” he said, taking a firmer hold on Miriam's arm, which was trembling. The rays of his flashlight, when he raised it, showed a long, low-vaulted chamber. Along the right wall was a long file of stone sarcophagi on the heavy lid of each of which had been carved a full-sized statue of a prince laid out in death. On the left were fragments of sculpture, mounted on pedestals, their grotesque shapes exaggerated by the shadows.

“Oh,” gasped Miriam.

“From here,” Evans said, to reassure her, “we shall pass beneath that heavy stone archway to the left and enter the chamber where gates and portals from the palaces of the Assyrian and Babylonian kings have been set up, at a stupendous cost of research, exploration and engineering. I should like, if we had time and light, to show you a few of them. Instead, we'll turn again to the left, right here, and enter the Egyptian room.”

In the Egyptian room he flashed his torch into the alcove at the left where stood six mummy cases, two of them erect and four resting flat upon the floor.

“We must find the light switch,” he said. “I have a hankering to look about me carefully.”

He found the light switch, after quite a search, for the palace of the Louvre had not been constructed with a thought for electrical contrivances. Having found the switch, Evans swore. It was not an ordinary one that could be turned by hand but required a key, and to get a key they would have to retrace their steps about a quarter of a mile. Instead, he approached a showcase near by in which were small tools and implements which had been fashioned thousands of years before, of crude metal and stone. He opened the showcase, took out a few of the tools and with one of them was able to turn the switch and flood the room with light.

“Oh,” said Miriam, grasping Homer's sleeve. For just outside, in the Salle Henri IV, a huge sphinx in rose-colored granite crouched ominously, as if guarding the tombs. The figure of the Goddess Hathor seemed to spring to life on the wall, where in a bas-relief she was protecting the Pharaoh Seti I. The
Seated Scribe
looked up in astonishment and indignation. Hawk-beaked Horus paused in the act of handing out a libation to the empty air. The towering headdress of Ammon, protector of Tutankhamen, leaned forward in the shadows. Miriam stood perfectly still and as minutes passed noticed that Evans was increasingly baffled. Systematically he passed from one corner to another, his keen eyes scrutinizing each object and container. Once he vaulted to a stone windowsill, shook his head, then jumped lightly to the floor.