At the table next to us a party of two women with their escorts talked in strident tones, decrying music, food and entertainment. As a match flared I caught sight of them. The women were the sort one might expect to see at night clubs, powdered, painted, curled and bleached until all semblance of their natural selves had vanished. Curiously, although they wore the irreducible minimum of clothes, they seemed overdressed. One of the men faced from me; the other I saw full face in the orange flare of the match, and instinctively I hated him. Somehow, for all his obviously freshly-shaven face and spotless linen, he seemed unclean. Dark-skinned he was, swarthy as a mulatto, with curling black hair, full, red lips and dancing black eyes. But though he smiled it seemed to me he did so more in contempt than merriment, and the gleam in his eyes was decidedly more malicious than jocund. Handsome he was, certainly, but in the way that Mephistopheles is pictured; cruel, arrogant and vicious.
“My Gawd,” I heard him sneer, “d’je ever see a cornier show?”
The match winked out, and as the darkness hid him from me I heard the clinking chime of metal on the tiled floor. He had offered the ultimate in insults to the club’s talent, flung a fistful of coppers to them.
The lights flashed on and de Grandin beckoned to a waiter, handing him a note. In a moment young Strapoli joined us.
“You have something to tell me, sir?” he asked as we shook hands.
“Not now, a little later, perhaps,” returned de Grandin. “First, I would have you tell me something. You recognize this picture, hein?” From his pocket he produced a small photograph and showed it to Strapoli.
The young man studied it a moment, and I saw his face go pale. “Yes, sir!” he replied emphatically. “That’s the house I saw last night when Stephanola put her hands against my eyes. I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s a real place, then?”
“Assurément, very real,” de Grandin answered somewhat grimly, “and your recognition of it makes clear something which has puzzled me. I think I know now what it is that Mademoiselle la Morte Amoureuse attempts to tell us, and why. Attend me, if you please, my friend: It is more than merely probable that she will come to you again, and when she comes it is a certainty that she will show another of these mansions in the sky to you.”
“Yes, sir?” expectantly.
“Précisément. When this occurs you are to notify me instantly. You comprehend?”
“But suppose she comes at night, as she most likely will—”
“Whether morning, noon or night, my friend, you are to let me know immediately. It is of the greatest importance.”
Mystified, but willing to co-operate, Strapoli turned to rejoin his band, but as he passed the table next to ours he tripped, stumbled, and fell full length upon the floor.
“You”—he rose, eyes blazing as he faced the dark-skinned man who had flung coppers to the dancers—“you tripped me!”
“Yeah, I tripped yuh. So what?” the other countered, rising from his chair and lurching forward menacingly.
Strapoli’s hand drew back, but before he had a chance to strike, the other was upon him, bringing up his knee and striking him violently in the stomach. It was as foul a blow as I had ever seen, and Strapoli crumpled to the floor, the breath completely knocked from him.
“Get fresh wid me, punk, will ya?” snarled the swarthy one. “For two cents I’d send yuh where I sent—” he broke off, laughing, and turned to his companions.
“C’mon, let’s blow this lousy joint,” he ordered.
Astoundingly, none of the waiters or attendants made a move to stop him as he swaggered from the place, and as we lifted Tony to his feet I whispered, “Don’t you want to prosecute him? He attacked you without provocation, and both Doctor de Grandin and I will testify we saw him start the fight—”
“Oh, no, sir, thank you,” he mumbled as he rearranged his clothes. “We wouldn’t dare do that.”
“No, and why, not?” asked de Grandin.
“That’s Niccolo Frezzi—Nick the Brute—sir; he’s the toughest mug in town. They’d lie for me and beat me up if I had him arrested. No one ever dares to cross him.
“He’s suspected of all kinds of crimes, but the police can’t pin anything on him, and if anybody dares appear against him, even in a traffic case, he’s sure to get a dreadful beating in a day or two. Everybody knows that Nick the Brute does it, but there’s never any legal proof of it, so—”
He brushed a fleck of dust from his sleeve and walked unsteadily to his place on the bandstand.
IT WAS HARDLY DAYLIGHT when the call came. Strapoli’s voice was half hysterical.
“She’s been here, sir,” I heard him tell de Grandin as I picked up the extension telephone which stood beside my bed. “What? Yes, sir; she showed me another house—”
“Très bon, my friend, arise and dress. I shall join you instantly—”
In five minutes we were rushing through the dawn-gray streets toward Strapoli’s apartment, pausing only to pick up Costello.
“Sure, an’ this hunch o’ yours had better be a good one,” the sergeant growled as he climbed in beside us. “Gittin’ a man up at th’ crack o’ dawn—”
“Be quiet,” broke in de Grandin. “Unless I am much more mistaken than I think we shall crack other things beside the dawn before we finish this day’s work. You have a two-foot length of hose in readiness?”
“Hose?—Fer th’ love o’ Mike, sor—”
“Exactement. Did not you say you would enjoy a conversation with this so vile Niccolo—you and a length of rubber hose?”
“O’ course, sor, but—”
“No buts, my friend. I have the idea who this Niccolo is. If all goes as I think that it will go, I shall deliver him into your hands before so very long.”
STRAPOLI WAITED FOR US on his doorstep.
“Sorry I couldn’t call you sooner,” he apologized, “but I fell asleep again when Stephanola left, and just woke up a little while ago.”
“Never mind,” de Grandin answered. “You are sure that you can recognize the house she showed you.”
“Certain, sir.”
“Très bien.” Slowly, looking carefully from right to left we cruised the residential sections of the city, beginning at the eastern suburbs, weaving slowly across town, finally threading through the wider avenues of the west end.
Abruptly, “There it is; I recognize it!” Tony called as we idled past a big house in Tunlaw Street. “I’d know it anywhere.”
Costello consulted a typed list. “Yep, this is one of ’em,” he announced. “Th’ Fanshaws live here, but they’re all in Florida. We have instructions to kape a special watch on it.”
“U’m? Let us see how well instructions have been carried out,” de Grandin replied as we walked across the lawn.
Step by careful step we circled the place, testing door and window fastenings. Everything was in order.
“All right, sor, an’ where do we go from here?” the sergeant asked.
De Grandin took his chin between his thumb and forefinger. At length: “Who has the keys?” he asked.
Costello referred to his list again. “They’re at th’ family lawyer’s, but—”
“No buts, if you will be so kind. Secure them all soon, and bring at least two officers to mount guard in the house. The robber has not yet appeared, but I am confident he will.”
All day we waited for a summons to the Fanshaw house, but none came. By dinner time de Grandin was as nervous as a cat; when nine o’clock had sounded he was almost frantic.
“She cannot do this,” he declared. “But no, she cannot make the fool of Jules de Grandin.”
“What the deuce are you maundering about?” I asked.
“No matter, let us go and see for ourselves. I will phone Monsieur Strapoli to accompany us; he is not due at Casa Ayer till eleven.”
The big old house was quiet as a tomb as Strapoli, de Grandin, Costello and I let ourselves in at the kitchen door.
“Seen anything?” the sergeant
asked the patrolman waiting in the kitchen.
“Everything quiet as the stock exchange on Sunday, sir.”
“Umph? What’s next, sor?” the sergeant asked de Grandin.
“First we reconnoiter the terrain, then we sit and wait his coming. Be assured, he will come, my friends. The dead do not make jokes.”
From room to room we walked, led by the beam of his flashlight. The place was still with that dead silence peculiar to deserted houses, and I had an eery feeling we were not alone, that unseen eyes were on us, watching with sardonic amusement.
“Halte la!” de Grandin ordered as we paused upon the threshold of the drawing-room. “A silence, he is coming, I think!”
Softly, so softly that it might have been mistaken for the scraping of a wind-blown branch against the window-pane, a sound came to us from the high French window overlooking the side garden. It came again, louder this time; then a sharp click sounded as the sash swung inward.
Against the back-drop of the cloudy starless night the window showed oblong and dark; dark and empty, like a hole. Then, barely darker than the outer darkness, we saw it: a man’s form cased in skin-smooth tights, head covered by a tight hood—no chance for fallen hairs to give police a clue—hands encased in what seemed rubber gloves.
For a moment he paused on the sill like a cat about to leap down from a fence; then soundlessly he dropped into the room and seemed to fade into the shadows.
We were four to one, and two of us were armed, but for an instant terror gripped me by the throat. There was something so inhuman in the tight-clothed burglar, such a suggestion of uncanny cruelty and power. . . .
De Grandin broke the spell. “Eh bien, Monsieur le Voleur, you are very welcome!” he announced. “We have waited long, but not with patience—”
Flashlights cleft the blackness, and like miniature lightnings came the flamings of two pistols, then a third. Boots pounded on the hardwood floors as the two patrolmen rushed to join us. I saw a shadow loom against the window for an instant, then saw it topple inward as a whirring missile struck it.
“Tur-rn on th’ lights, ye omadhauns!” Costello bellowed, and after a brief fumble a switch clicked, almost blinding us with the sudden brilliance from the chandelier Before the window lay a figure cased in clinging black silk jersey like an acrobat’s costume, save that a hood-like helmet covered neck and chin and head, leaving only a small oblong of face visible, and this was barred by the wisp of a black silk mask. Beside the supine body lay de Grandin’s little automatic; a larger weapon was half clutched in one of the man’s flaccid, rubber-gloved hands.
Costello leaned and snatched the mask off of the fellow’s face. I recognized him instantly: the man who threw the coppers at the Casa Ayer, then tripped and beat Tony Strapoli.
“Well, well,” the sergeant chuckled. “Nick th’ Brute in person, an’ not a movin’ pitcher. We got dead wood on ’im at last—”
“He is also the Niccolo mentioned in the poor Sainpolis girl’s diary,” de Grandin added.
“Th’ divil!”
“Not quite, but almost, mon sergent. See, I saved him for you. I might have shot him, but I chose to throw my pistol at his head and stun him.”
“Whatever for, sor? Why should ye be so tender—”
The little Frenchman grinned, “Did not I hear you once remark that you would like a quarter-hour’s conversation with this one —you and a piece of rubber hose? Very well, then. You would not enjoy such a conversation with a wounded man.”
“Be gob, ye’re right, sor. It’ll be a pleasure—”
“Doctor!” one of the patrolmen called. “This feller’s hit bad—”
In our excitement we had failed to notice that Strapoli was not with us. Now we turned to see him lying by the farther wall, a spreading stain across his shirtfront. From the corners of his mouth there welled twin rivulets of blood. De Grandin gave a softly deprecating exclamation. “C’est trop fort—he is shot through the lung, my friend. See, it is a pulmonary hemorrhage!”
Strapoli’s pulse was weakening rapidly, almost all semblance of expression had faded from his eyes, yet as we knelt beside him he achieved the vestige of a smile.
“Mon pauvre garçon,” whispered de Grandin, “we have him in a vise, he cannot wriggle from the clutches of the law this time, and we shall make him pay through the nose—”
Strapoli paid no heed. His almost-vacant eyes were fixed on something which we could not see, something which appeared to be a foot or so above and before him. He raised his hands, palms facing, then drew them downward toward him. The pantomime was perfect. He held a face between his palms, drew it closer, closer to his own . . . “Stephanola!” he murmured, and we saw his lips form in a kiss, then fall apart as a bright cataract of blood poured through them, and he fell back, supine, on the floor.
The two policemen arranged him, folded hands across his breast, dropped a coat over his face. De Grandin knelt in prayer a moment, then bounded up to join Costello.
“An’ it’ll be th’ hot squat for yours, bozo,” the sergeant was saying almost jocularly to the man in tights who was now regaining consciousness. “Ye’ve made a monkey o’ th’ law a long, long time, but this time we’ve put th’ finger on ye. Ye’ll not be batin’ th’ rap this time. Them rubber gloves ye’re wearin’, wid th’ pore gur-rl’s prints stuck on ’em, will pin a dozen burglaries on ye, but ye’ll niver do a day o’ time for ’em. Oh, no, my bucko! Ye’ve kilt a man in th’ commission o’ th’ felony o’ housebreakin’, an’ it’s th’ electric chair that ye’ll be warmin’ before firecrackers pop, so help me.”
The two patrolmen were arguing. “Of course I didn’t put it there,” denied one hotly. “Where the devil would I get it in this empty house; besides do I look like an undertaker or sumpin’?”
“Well, where’d it come from, then?”
“Whist, ye divils, have ye no shame? Where’s ye’re rayspict for th’ dead?” Costello, reproved in a bull-bellow. “What’s all th’ fussin’ for?”
“Aw, Sarge, Milligan says I put this flower on ’im, an’ I told him he was fulla prunes. Where’d I get a flower in this place?”
“What flower?” broke in Costello.
“This one, right here, sir,” the young patrolman pointed to Strapoli’s body.
Clasped in the pale hands folded on his breast Strapoli held a lovely Gloire de Dijon rose, fresh, dew-jeweled, breathing out a cloud of perfume from its golden heart.
“Do not dispute, mes enfants,” de Grandin ordered. “We know the donor of that flower.” He laid a hand upon his breast and made a sweeping bow to the great empty room. “Félicilations, mes amis,” he said, as if congratulating an affianced couple.
“QUITE YES, BUT HOW can one explain it otherwise?” he said as we forgathered in my study shortly after midnight. “Did not she give the explanation when she first appeared to young Strapoli? But certainly. ‘I have sinned, but there is a way open to forgiveness,’ she told him. Of course, if she could bring this so vile Niccolo to justice she would acquire merit, perhaps attain to pardon for her self-destruction.
“She and the young Strapoli were in love, hence en rapport. She could, it seems, appear to him at will, while others could not sense her presence.
“When first he told us of his experience, how she laid her hands upon his eyes and made him see that mansion in the sky, I thought the whole occurrence too fantastic to be other than a dream.
“Ha, but next morning when you came with tidings of the burglary, I had at once the thought:
“‘He saw a house, a big, fine, empty house last night . . . such a mansion has been burglarized . . . Jules de Grandin, get a picture of that house and show it to the young Strapoli. If he recognizes it as the one his vision showed him, that is what she meant.’
“Parbleu, I did; he did, and the case was proved. Assurément.
“‘She has foreknowledge of the naughty Niccolo’s intentions,’ I tell me. ‘When next she gives her lover the impression of
a house, we have only to go there and wait his coming.’
“Tenez, she came again. She showed him another house; he told us; we searched until we found the house of his vision. We waited there—voilà.”
The House of the Three Corpses
WE WERE WALKING HOME from Mrs. Douglas Lemworth’s garden party.
Once a year the Old Dragon of Harrisonville Society holds a “fair” for blind and crippled children, and if you are engaged in the professions you attend, buy several wholly useless knickknacks at outrageous prices, drink a glass of punch or cup of tea and eat a cake or two, then leave as unobtrusively as possible. Even in most favorable conditions her parties are horrendous; tonight it had been a foretaste of Purgatory.
Though dark had long since fallen, the city sweltered in the mid-June heat. Sidewalks and roadways were hot to the touch; even the moon, just past the full and shaped like a bent pie-plate, seemed panting in a febrile sky. Absolutely stirless, the air seemed pressing down like a black blanket dipped in steaming water, and as Jules de Grandin simmered outwardly he boiled with fury within.
“Grand Dieu des chats,” he fumed, what an abominable soirée! It was not bad enough that they should stifle us with vapid talk and senseless laughter, that they should force us to be polite when we wished to shed our coats and shoes and act the rowdy; non, cordieu, they must pile insult upon injury and give us sacré lemon punch to drink! I am outraged and affronted. I am maimed for life; never shall I get my face straight from that dreadful taste!”
Despite my own discomfort I could not forbear a grin. The look of wrathful incredulity upon his face when he discovered that the lemonade was only lemonade was funnier than anything I’d seen in months.
“Well, cheer up,” I consoled as we turned from the side street into the avenue, “we’ll be home soon and then we’ll have a Tom Collins.”
“Ah, lovely thought!” he breathed ecstatically. “To shed these so uncomfortable clothes, to feel the cool gin trickle down our throats—morbleu, my friend, is not that strange?”
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