“She doesn’t look it,” I observed.
“Hm! Does any woman ever look it? Though at the back of my mind I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, and Gersault will go to the guillotine for the murder. Why should a marquise murder a stamp-dealer?”
“I never said she did,” I returned.
“Well, get the yarn, old man, and then spill it to me.”
I promised and we separated.
* * * *
Since it was now past two, I made for the Hotel Drouot, having nothing better on hand. I knew the place slightly—knew it well enough not to seek my quarry on the first floor, where only cheap things were sold. The upper floor was devoted to collections and art sales, and for this I struck.
Passing down the central hall, glancing at the huge rooms to either hand, I came to a pause. To my right was the sale—chairs and benches three deep around a green baize table the length of the room, with a scanty crowd standing behind. Before the table was the desk of the auctioneer and accountants. Commissaires displayed the lots, passing them around. To one side of the desk sat the expert, who looked as though he might possibly, as a baby, have suffered the indignity of a bath. He was handing out the lots.
I wormed my way along to a good spot and waited. British colonials were being sold. A scraggy old woman and a fat collector were pushing a first issue Nauru ten-shilling to fabulous prices. Dealers around me whispered; the woman had ten million stamps in her collection, the fat man was an industrial millionaire. Both were fools, said the dealers angrily.
The next lot came up, and I started at hearing its description. Niger Coast, ten-shilling surcharge on English five-penny! The catalog value of the stamp was fifteen hundred francs. No dealer would pay more than five or six hundred for it at the outside. The expert started the lot at fifty francs.
The old woman and Fatty pushed it up to a hundred at once, then others chipped in and it went to two hundred. “Two-fifty,” said the expert, with a magnificent air. This staggered the others: your Frenchman counts the centimes, let alone the francs! However, Fatty came back, and the old woman snapped into the bidding again, and they shoved it up to four hundred.
Then, close beside me, spoke out a cool, lazy drawl. “Five hundred!” I looked at the bidder. He was faultlessly attired and looked much out of place here. He had been tailored and hatted at the best establishments; was young, fairly good-looking, and like four out of five French people, ran to nose.
The old woman glared; Fatty looked stupefied. The expert barked: “Cinquante!” in a savage tone, as though to frighten off the exquisite. The latter waited until the ivory hammer rose, then spoke again.
“Six hundred.”
The expert shoved a dirty hand in the air, as though to say that the fool could take the lot for all of him. Fatty examined the stamp, and nodded a bid. The old woman fought him up to seven hundred. Again the ivory hammer rose, and again the fashion-plate near me spoke.
“Seven-fifty.”
One could see the old woman committing murder in her mind. “Soixante!” she snapped, and Fatty stuck with her. Youth and beauty let them contest it up to nine hundred, then came in with a flat bid of a thousand. All eyes went to him. Fatty pulled at his collar apoplectically and shook his head. The old woman snapped a raise of ten francs, and the exquisite went to eleven hundred. That was killing. The hammer fell, and the commissaire handed him the stamp.
“Name and address, monsieur, if you please.”
“Levallois, twenty Avenue Wagram.”
* * * *
He paid, took his change, and then he sauntered out carelessly. I watched one or two more lots go, but lost interest. I departed, sought the chauffeurs’ rendezvous near the end of the Passage Jouffroy, and ordered a demi of brune.
Levallois! It was a keen letdown to me. Here was a Frenchman sufficiently interested in Niger Coast stamps to pay eleven hundred francs—much more than actual value—for one. I had confidently expected to hear him give the name of Galtier. It was a stamp of the same set as that for which Colette had been murdered, and the man had obviously attended the sale in order to buy this one stamp and no others. My disappointment, then, was acute. My notion of connecting Marquise d’Auteuil with the crime, through him, had suffered a setback. If this had only been Galtier, I would have been convinced.
I went along to my lodgings, across the river, and got into my glad rags. By the time I got out and dined—the usual restaurant does not serve until seven—it was nearly eight, and I went on to Clancy’s apartment-office. I found him working over some dental instruments.
“Going fancy, are you?” he exclaimed. For response, I handed him the card of invitation Brady had given me.
“Nine o’clock—that means nine-thirty,” he commented. “On the trail of the Marquise, eh? You’ve begun, but not finished, a good day’s work.”
“Then you think—”
Clancy shook his head. “I don’t. It’s fatal, in this game. I had an interesting talk with Gersault.”
“Then you learned something?”
“No. The type of man, not the talk, was interesting. Not a sound tooth in his head, and knows a dozen places to get absinth by asking for Rossi-Vermouth.”
“Sounds rather silly.”
“All life is silly,” said Clancy, and gave me a cigarette. “Why do any of us ever do anything? Crackling of thorns under a pot, as the preacher said a long time ago. Why did Colette deal in little bits of paper? Silly. Sillier still to have any thousand-lire notes in his safe. Sillier still of Gersault to take them. Why did the Premier call on the prefect of police?”
“I’ll bite,” I said. “Why? What are you hinting at?”
“Politics,” and Clancy chuckled. “Come, give an account of yourself.”
I did so.
“Interesting,” he commented. “This Levallois is a friend of Galtier. You’ll see him there tonight. I’m half tempted to be there myself—hm! Of course. By the way, Madame de Lautenac is in town. She moves in the same set. Well, run along! See you tomorrow if I’m not there tonight.”
I ran along, feeling rather disgusted with my new profession.
* * * *
The reception at a big mansion in the Avenue Kléber, being political, was a full-dress affair, “le smoking” being held to its strictly masculine place by fashionable Paris. My poor glad rags looked nothing at all amid the uniforms, for your Frenchman runs to decoration and medals in quantity, and is happy as a child when wearing high colors.
Lebrun was not hard to locate. He was almost a dwarf in size, but his pride made up for lack of inches. When I presented Brady’s card, he shook hands warmly and spoke in English of a sort.
Yes, any friend of M’sieur Brady might rest assured of his services. Of course, I would want to know who was who. He began pointing out couples, lingering with appreciation upon their titles, and then going into a cynical chronicle of their doings. It was amusing, but in the midst of his discourse I caught a passing breath of apple-blossom.
To trace it was impossible. Everyone was perfumed insufferably, new arrivals were coming in every moment, and I gave it up. Then Lebrun interrupted some highly spiced tale to indicate a man just entering.
“There is Galtier, Jean Galtier.”
I caught at the name. “The stamp collector?”
Lebrun shrugged. “Why not? Everyone collects stamps—perhaps Galtier does.”
Pale-haired, chalky of face, indeterminate, thin-lipped, a man of perhaps thirty-five, Galtier looked no man to be the lover of a fashionable beauty. I understood that these women reduced their lovers to a platonic state, however, making them fetch and carry more like dogs than men. For such a part, it struck me, this Galtier would be an ideal subject.
“What does he do?” I asked.
“What would you do, if you could spend a thousand francs before breakfast and not miss it?”
“Probably what he does,” I said, and laughed.
“You would find him interesting,” said Lebr
un.
The spacious, ornately decorated salon, with its shifting groups, was well filled. For the moment Lebrun left me, to speak with some friends. Galtier came toward me, looking around as though in search of someone, until he was within three feet of me. Then he spoke suddenly as someone tapped him on the shoulder. That someone was Levallois.
“Ah, my dear friend! I was looking for you—”
“And,” said Levallois, laughingly, “your dear friend will undertake no more such commissions! It was very amusing, but a filthy place, filthy people—bah!”
“You got it?” demanded Galtier.
Levallois nodded. “Eleven hundred francs, and the tax besides—”
“Spare me the details,” said Galtier. “You did not bring it? Then, in the morning.”
“Yes. An excellent copy, too. You now have the set complete?”
Galtier shook his head mournfully. “Nobody will ever complete it,” he replied. “There are two I can never hope to see, at any price.”
* * * *
Obviously, Levallois had been buying the stamp at that sale for his friend. Good! My hopes rose. I knew, too, that even if Galtier possessed the stamp stolen from Colette, his statement would still be correct, for three of those stamps are extremely rare. Of two, only two copies were printed, and five copies of the third, making them easily among the rarest stamps in the world.
Did Galtier hope to get one of the five copies, or did he already have Colette’s stamp? His words gave no clue, yet his manner showed that the hobby was an absorbing one to him. I was now convinced that my time had not been wholly wasted. Somehow, Galtier would prove to be connected with the murder in the Rue St. Honore.
Again, suddenly, the tang of apple-blossom drew my gaze swiftly around. Now I saw the Marquise, recognizing her instantly. She was approaching Galtier, and Levallois turned away. Galtier bowed over her hand, and my eyes went to the diamond-studded object on her corsage—a tiny stiletto, an ancient bit of gold-work. Its hilt would have meant a year’s income to me. Small as it was, it was large enough to let out a man’s life.
The two talked together, low-voiced. Galtier seemed embarrassed, and I thought she must be reproaching him. I could build it up in my mind—despite Clancy’s remark anent the folly of thinking. Galtier would never murder for the sake of a stamp, which he might buy, but here was a woman who would put her soul in pawn for the sake of the man she wanted.
Galtier had cooled toward her, then, and she wanted to keep him. She, not he, had gone to Colette’s shop. Perhaps Colette had promised the stamp to someone else, and refused to sell it; perhaps she was unable to pay some extortionate demand. Perhaps she had tried to steal it, and had been detected—
No. Somehow, it wouldn’t hold water, though it was very plausible. I could not see a woman like this one killing Colette, though she had both strength and courage for it. Then her voice lifted a little and reached me clearly.
“Tomorrow, then, before dejeuner. A surprise for you, my friend—”
So, then, it was settled! She had the stamp, and on the morrow would hand it over to him; such a gift would cement him firmly. She was safe enough, for the supposed murderer was already in custody and the stamp would not be traced—indeed, only Clancy had divined its loss.
* * * *
The two parted. Galtier stood alone, rubbing his forehead and looking distinctly relieved at her departure. Exactly. He was tired of the intrigue, and she was mad to get him back at her beck and call.
Meantime, I thought, watch Galtier and let her alone. She had the stamp. The chief thing would be to call at her house in the morning, and obtain it. Clancy must handle this end of it, naturally. Galtier moved about the place, speaking, shaking hands, kissing fingers. He still seemed searching. Levallois had disappeared in the throng. I followed Galtier, feeling awkward and conspicuous, yet exultant over my success—
Apple-blossom again! Galtier swung around, and a sparkle of animation came into his face as he bowed above the hand of a very brunette, almost swarthy, young woman. Her lack of any jewelry was noticeable. So was the brilliance of her eyes, the extreme vigor and depth of her personality. She was beautiful, and she had character plus. Galtier retained her hand and beamed at her.
“It is good to see you again, mon ami!” she said. “You see, since you would not come to Cannes, I have come back to Paris!”
“But you did not tell me!” he ejaculated.
She laughed. “I waited for tonight. You are leaving?”
“I am due at the Opera, to my sorrow, madame!”
“But that does not take the entire evening,” she said, with a significant look. Galtier gave her an eager smile, and murmured something I could not hear. Undoubtedly, he was going to call on her later in the evening, whoever she was.
Knowing now that Galtier was bound for the Opera and later for her, I felt it was no use hanging on his trail longer, and I might as well drift along. I obtained my things, and left the place, pausing at the entrance to light a cigarette.
Two men were standing outside, talking. One was a tall man in brilliant uniform—the minister of something, war or foreign affairs or state—and the other was very short and dressed up to the nines. Both had their backs to me. Suddenly the shorter man swung around, showing his decorations in all their glory—
“You might bring up a taxi for me, Logan,” he said.
I was stupefied, then went on past and at the street hailed a taxi. Clancy here! Then something was up! I waited, standing in the porte-cochere to which the taxicab had come. A moment more, and Clancy appeared. He took my arm, and told the chauffeur to wait.
“But, m’sieur,” came a flunky protesting, “it is not allowed here—there will be other vehicles—”
“The other vehicles,” said Clancy dryly, “may go somewhere else.”
The flunky waxed indignant. A gendarme, stationed outside the place, came up to us; he was the same who had come as messenger from the prefecture. The flunky appealed to him hotly.
“But what has M. Clancy said?” asked the gendarme.
“That this species of a taxicab must stand here while others—”
“Then it must stand here,” said the gendarme, and that was that.
Clancy drew me to one side, out of earshot, and lighted a cigarette.
“We’re waiting for a lady,” he said.
“I know,” I told him. “I’ve got the whole thing clear enough now—”
* * * *
He smoked silently while I outlined the case, but made no comment until I was through. Then he chuckled.
“Suppose you listen to me—I’ve been busy. First, Gersault told me a queer yarn. He passed the door of Colette’s shop, saw it open, saw a woman come out. He had a back view of her only. Then, glancing into the shop, he saw a pair of feet—and knew something was up. He was sharp enough to slip in. An open safe, a dead or dying man—why resist? He went for the cash, got it, and slipped out and away. He left fingerprints, however.”
“And the woman was the marquise?”
“It was not,” said Clancy, and laughed at my disconcerted expression. “The description doesn’t fit her—she’s tall, above the average. Well, you ran down the apple-blossom, and I ran down the narrowed trail. All the time, I was wondering about Colette being an Italian, and the thousand-lire notes Gersault had grabbed with the rest. There was one lady unaccounted for, your Madame de Lautenac, presumably gone to the Riviera. I found she had gone last week.”
“So she’s out of it too, then?”
“Not at all. She returned to Paris the night before Colette was killed. So I looked her up—yes, my friend, I’ve been a busy man today! She has an apartment in the Avenue Friedland, not far from here; she is presumably a widow, but little is known about her. I had a chat with her concierge this afternoon.”
Significant enough. To every apartment-block a concierge—a registered person, too, who must be responsible, who must be known to the police as of good character. Male or female, a c
oncierge in Paris does not get the place easily. He knows every detail in the life of his tenants.
“Two minutes after you left me this evening,” went on Clancy, “the concierge telephoned me that Madame de Lautenac was departing shortly to this reception. Also, her bonne a tout faire had departed, and her maid was leaving for the night. So I dressed and went to her place—and searched it. I had some luck, but there are many points I do not understand, so we must wait for her to explain them.”
I was bursting with questions, but just then came out to us the same dignitary who had been talking with Clancy on the steps. The gendarme, at one side, saluted him impressively. He glanced at me, and then spoke to Clancy, with an anxious air.
“You did not say, monsieur, when you would let me know—”
“M. le Ministre is going to the Opera, I think?” said Clancy reflectively.
“But yes. We are very late now—but it is Faust, which matters nothing until the ballet at the end—”
“Very well,” said Clancy. “When the ballet begins, monsieur, I will come to your loge, with the treaty.”
The minister started. “You—you are certain?”
“I have promised, monsieur,” said Clancy. He enjoyed being theatrical, and laughed softly to himself when the minister departed.
“The treaty?” I demanded. “Clancy, what in the devil’s name are you driving at?”
He touched my arm. “You’ll learn presently—there she comes, now! Madame de Lautenac, poor woman! Come along.”
I stared. The woman descending the short steps toward us, ordering her car brought up, ordering our taxi out of the way, was the brunette with whom Galtier had made an appointment. Madame de Lautenac! And she was unescorted.
My friend removed his hat and bowed. “Madame, I have a taxicab awaiting you,” he said pleasantly.
She looked at him, with a puzzled frown. “You mistake, monsieur.”
“Not at all, madame,” returned Clancy. “If you will honor us, we will escort you home in our taxicab, instead of in your car. Unless, of course, madame would prefer going direct to the prefecture with a gendarme.”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 84