Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10

by Dell Magazines

  “‘Afterward,’ he said, ‘I bring the three of you comfortably home in the motor car.’

  “He sat up and puffed his cigarette for a moment; then he said softly: “‘If you quite understand we will not keep the others waiting.’

  “The full import of the man’s plans came suddenly to Monsieur le Docteur le Duc de Borde, and he sprang up shouting. Instantly the Spaniard leaped to the floor.

  “‘Let us be going, señor!’ he cried.

  “Then he jabbed his lighted cigarette down on the table. A flash of light ran to the leather chair. Monsieur le Docteur rushed into the hall and tried to open the door to the street, but the hall was dark and he was unable to find the bolt that held the door. Each moment he expected the house to be blown to atoms. Fortunately, for an instant, the light was switched on, illuminating the hall and the great library. Monsieur le Docteur le Duc de Borde saw the Spaniard on the floor, groping for his broken powder train. He also saw the bolt holding the door and in a moment he was outside, running down an old garden path. He broke through a hedge into the street and continued to run madly, with his head down. Finally, running thus, overwhelmed with terror, Monsieur le Docteur le Duc de Borde collided with a gendarme.

  “Monsieur le Docteur was incoherent then. The gendarme took him to the Department of Police. It was morning when he came before the prefect. That official laughed at the story of Monsieur le Docteur le Duc de Borde. Wine had carried monsieur into the region of the fancy! Since Monsieur le Docteur le Duc de Borde was of the French diplomatic corps he was at liberty to go. But the story! Monsieur must pardon his incredulity. And, in fact, what proof had Monsieur le Docteur le Duc de Borde of this adventure? True, there was the silk stocking in his pocket! But, monsieur”—the speaker made an elegant gesture—“I ask it of you, what does a silk stocking prove on the morning after?”

  The consuming attention of M. Duclos, set on the interest of the tale, relaxed. The elegant stranger arose with a laugh that rippled through the Café des Oiseaux. He pointed to the clock.

  “Ah, monsieur," he cried, “have I not proved my point? Here is a tale infinitely below the genius of M. Poe, and yet, see what it has done! It has held Monsieur Duclos, a dealer in jewels of the Rue des Petits Champs, for some thirty minutes in the Café des Oiseaux. And it has held him against his anxiety to guard his shop—against his fear for his thirteen diamonds. Observe, monsieur; it is late. The gendarme Jacques Fuillon has gone out at the end of the Rue des Petits Champs for some thirty minutes by the clock!”

  He took up his cane and gloves from the table. He lifted his silk English opera hat from his curled and perfumed hair.

  “I bid M. Duclos good morning.”

  M. Duclos did not rise.

  “A moment, monsieur,” he said.

  The stranger paused. “Does not M. Duclos hurry to his shop?”

  The dealer in jewels shrugged his shoulders. “What is the use, monsieur?” he said. “I am already late and there remains this question of M. Poe’s tales to settle. And, besides, monsieur is charming. And this I must charge against this argument: told by another, monsieur’s tale might not have held one so well. Such a quality goes very far. What one among us could resist monsieur? Not la petite Hugette, nor yet la veuve Consenat. Monsieur takes his liberty with the heart of the one and the clock of the other.”

  The elegant stranger regarded M. Duclos now with a certain interest, but his gallant manner remained. He bowed.

  “Monsieur does me too much honor.”

  Not so. M. Duclos did but recognize a merit. But the question of the tales: he must be permitted his opinion.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “those concerning M. Dupin I continue to regard as the masterpieces of M. Poe; and, for the following reason, which monsieur will himself deem excellent when he has heard it.”

  M. Duclos leaned forward on the table.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “on yesterday morning I noticed a crumb of plaster on the floor of my shop, in the Rue des Petits Champs. Now, monsieur, what is a crumb of plaster? It is nothing. But for these tales of M. Poe—but for these warnings of M. Dupin—I should have passed it over. But having, through the courtesy of monsieur, read these tales, I reflected. Whence came this crumb of plaster? Why, obviously, monsieur, from the ceiling above. I examine that ceiling and I find there a tiny crevice. I go into the shop of Hugette above. I remove the carpet. Ah! I find a hole cut in the floor!”

  M. Duclos paused. The elegant stranger had taken one swift stride, stopped abruptly and now stood, very pale, his gloves clutched in his fingers, his eyes on the door of the Café des Oiseaux. Something moved out there in the Rue des Petits Champs.

  M. Duclos continued softly:

  “Ah, monsieur, that is not all. To point out how the gendarmes could take the poor creatures who were to execute monsieur’s design was an unpleasant duty; but to entertain monsieur until they should come for him—that has been a pleasure.”

  M. Duclos did not finish his discourse. He was interrupted by a cry. The Café des Oiseaux was filled with gendarmes.

  Originally published in the Saturday Evening Post, December 31, 1910, collected in The Nameless Thing (1912), Kindle Edition (2009).

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