Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (20 page)

The big painter, having convinced the boat crew of his authority, notwithstanding his disguise, dismissed the regular boatmen and at once took charge. He was convinced that the St. Julien Rollers had not hidden their victim or victims within the city limits, so Parisians who were strolling along the
quais
in anticipation of the
aperitif
hour were astonished by the spectacle of a speed boat rushing down stream at thirty-five miles an hour, weaving recklessly in and out between tugs, scows, barges and pleasure craft and leaving a tempestuous wake that sent its waves splashing noisily against the ancient walls and bridge abutments. The
Deuxieme Pays
ducked around the Ile du Cygne (Swan Island), passed the stark rows of factory chimneys at Suresnes and was approaching St. Germain, to the delight of bathers and pleasure seekers in canoes and rowboats who liked being jounced by the waves.

As soon as he had left behind the river resorts on the outskirts of Paris, Hjalmar throttled down the engine and swept both shores with practiced eye.

“He said to inquire along the way,” said Kvek, hopefully, as a riverside cafe swept into view when they rounded a bend.

The big Norwegian, who also was thirsty, steered the craft to the bank, where its splutter caused a team of plow horses to forget their day of toil and stand on their hind legs. The landscape, with trees clustered and drooping by the riverside, long straight roads with double files of poplars stretching toward the hills in the distance, dark patches of alfalfa, fields of ripening grain, caused Lvov Kvek to gasp with admiration and relief. He had liked New York and had been hospitably received there, but the hunger he had developed for trees and green fields was appeased by his nearness to the French countryside. Tom Jackson, on the other hand, was hankering for solid city pavements, and when it was suggested by his companions that he get up from his bunk and have a drink, he turned the color of spread Roquefort cheese and threatened his shipmates with bodily harm.

The proprietor of the café recognized Hjalmar, who was known all up and down the river because of his frequent trips on barges, but could tell him nothing strange or interesting. At the next five stops the success of the investigators was equally barren. Just upstream from Mantes, however, was moored an ungainly barge in need of paint which was labeled “The Poor but Honest”
(Le Pauvre, Neammoins Honnête)
on which Hjalmar had made the trip from Paris to Havre more than once, because of his fondness for old Matthieu, the owner, his wife, and particularly his daughter Marie who was at the tiller. The barge was loaded with asphalt, in sacks, and Matthieu told them that on Sunday, two days before
The Pansy
was stolen, a car with a Paris number had driven alongside and a dark man dressed in brown, with heavy eyebrows, had climbed awkwardly up the ladder to the deck and had purchased two sacks of asphalt, at a price old Matthieu had mentioned only as a ceiling for bargaining. In order that the well-dressed customer might avoid soiling his clothes, Matthieu had carried the two sacks to the automobile and placed them in the back, where a rumble seat had evidently been removed to make room for a baggage compartment. Furthermore, a bottle-green launch about fifteen feet long, with a coffin-shaped cabin, black oil-cloth cushions and a crooked rudder, had hove to at seven in the morning, only the day before, and a city chap, wearing a cap and a scarf around his neck, but no sash to indicate that he was a workman, had asked Matthieu where, if anywhere in the vicinity, one could buy a can of gasolene. The bargeman had directed them to a wayside filling station not five hundred yards away, after trying to convince the launchful of suspicious-looking characters that in Mantes, just downstream, they could buy all the gasolene they wanted at the
quai.

“That's the gang we're looking for,” Hjalmar said. His problem had been simplified. Instead of a blanket order to gather information, he now had a definite aim, to find the bottle-green launch.

“They can't eat the damn thing,” he reflected, but he knew that from Mantes to the sea the Seine was fed by innumerable creeks and rivulets concealed by saplings, willows and high marsh grasses and that several canals afforded detours which complicated his task. There was a clear stretch of river before them, however, so Hjalmar started off at full speed. The
Deuxieme Pays
cut through the water, bow rising, stern almost submerged and above the groans of Tom Jackson, Hjalmar thought he detected a knocking, so he lashed the helm and hopped forward to investigate. He was still tinkering with the engine when the launch passed Luneville.

Lvov Kvek, who was acting as lookout in the bow, saw at that moment rippling on the river's surface a small school of what appeared to be calling cards, and scooping up one he read the words: “K. Parker Seldon.” Without hesitation he dove into the current, and, expecting that his shipmates would see him and stop the launch, he struck out for the shore with his powerful Caucasian crawl. Unfortunately, Tom Jackson just then was suffering a spasm of what he insisted was indigestion and Hjalmar had his ear close to the roaring engine, which was performing in a way that would have satisfied many a less critical master. It was only when, after leaping back to the tiller to negotiate a sharp bend, he noticed Kvek was not in the bow. He assumed that the wine aboard the “Poor but Honest'' had made the Russian drowsy and that Lvov had gone below for a snooze.

Homer Evans, at the moment when Kvek quit the
Deuxieme Pays,
was sitting on the running board of the chief of detectives' limousine while Melchisadek was struggling with the second flat tire that had delayed them. Reluctantly, Homer had to give up the idea of reaching Luneville ahead of Hjalmar and the launch. In trying to keep watch of the river traffic, he had got into dead end roads several times and one of them, the one on which the limousine was resting with a list to starboard, had been sprinkled with horseshoe nails. Nevertheless, Evans was not depressed. He had been thinking hard since he had set out from the Hotel Murphy et du Danube Bleu and had reached some definite conclusions.

The Singe and his gang had got Frémont, entirely un-according to plan, and didn't know what to do with him. That to Evans was as clear as day. The chief of detectives, who had been slugged by mistake, probably in the dark, was not an asset to the Rollers, but a liability.

“If I can make a trade ... if by agreeing to take back Frémont, no questions asked, I can also get Professor de la Poussière, or at least ensure his safety, I shall have made a fair start on this case,” Homer said to himself. “After that, with Frémont directing the police, we can start looking for the murderer of the Marquis de la Rose d'Antan.”

A black cat more than two feet long glared at Homer and Melchisadek from a clump of rushes, then stepped malevolently across the road in front of them. Melchisadek, who had not liked the omens before, tried in vain to keep his knees from knocking together.

“Are you sure, Mr. Evans, that you ought to go to Luneville? You won't find no million-dollar pictures down there. They used calendars to put up on the walls,” Melchisadek said.

“Come on. There's no time to lose,” said Evans.

The chauffeur sighed, and they started off again. Fifteen minutes of hard going, through dust and ruts, brought them to a paved road on which was a sign: Luneville, 1 kl.

“Drive in, and stop at the paint store,” Evans said.

“You won't find no paintings . . .” the nervous chauffeur began, but he checked himself and tried to mind his own business. Mr. Evans got men into tight places, but contrived to get them out again, was the assurance he tried to dish out to himself. In the central square of Luneville stood a shop with a brightly striped awning and pillars painted green and yellow. It was the local paint shop, all right, and Melchisadek pulled up in front of it, expecting at the very least a shower of machine-gun bullets. Instead of that, a pleasant old man wearing a smock and artist's flowing tie came toward them from a near-by saloon.

“Good afternoon,” Evans said, in his most winning manner. He had forgotten again that he was dressed as an Apache and, until he recalled that unfortunate fact, was at a loss to understand the misgivings reflected in the paint dealer's face.

“Have you any quick-drying paint?” Evans asked.

The paint man looked relieved but Melchisadek's face fell. He liked the limousine as it was, a shiny dignified black.

“For autos?” the paint dealer asked.

“No. Boats,” Evans said. “Which color dries quickest?”

“You know, monsieur, you're the second man from Paris who's asked me that. Just yesterday a fellow came in, dressed as you are, and he wanted some boat paint too. ‘What color gets dry quickest?' the fellow asked me.”

“And what did you tell him?” Evans inquired.

“
‘Terre verte.
Earth green,' I said. But he didn't want green. He took Indian red. That dries almost as quick, but if you slap in a lot of drier it doesn't look as well.”

Homer bought two cans, one green, one red. The paint man, still puzzled, and not without reason, watched his customer drive away and scratched his head. Evans directed Melchisadek to leave the car in the shade of a tree just off the lane that led to the river.

“Can you swim?” Evans asked.

“I never had to,” Melchisadek answered. “See here, Mr. Evans, do you think sho'nuff we'll find the Chief in a town like this? He's never been in swimmin' since I've known him.”

“You'll see the Chief before dinner time,” Evans said.

He walked along the bank until he saw a sign “Boats for Rent” and hired a small flat skiff and some fishing tackle. Melchisadek brightened still more. Above all things he loved to fish at twilight and had not had a chance to do so since the days of the A. E. F. Smiling, Homer took the oars and handed the tackle and bait to the chauffeur. They idled along, downstream, passing boathouse after boathouse and any number of motor-boats, sailboats and rowboats moored to posts along the banks. Evans' face showed disappointment. Not one of the shelters or crafts he saw had any discernible marks upon them of the St. Julien Rollers. At last, to Melchisadek's surprise, Homer opened the can of red paint and emptied the contents into the river.

“That won't do no good to the fish, Mr. Evans,” the chauffeur said. He had already caught four
goujons
and his fisherman's instincts were thoroughly aroused. At that, Evans tossed in the empty can and watched it carefully. It floated a few feet, then filled, capsized and sank to the bottom, where it caught, now and then, a stray beam of the setting sun and flashed back a wavering reflection.

“No good,” said Evans. “The Singe is too bright to leave cans in plain sight. He would have buried them.”

Around a bend, and in a sheltered cove, Evans nosed the skiff to the bank, got out, and told Melchisadek to find a good spot for fishing near by and to wait for him. The Negro scarcely heard him, so intent he was in fondling the four small fish he had.

“Ah, the simple candid mind,” said Homer to himself, wistfully. “The spirit akin to nature, in tune with its logic, unaware of complications. Enjoy yourself, my friend. I, less fortunate, must root and grub for hidden cans.”

Behind the boathouses along the shore was a growth of scrub alders and, among them, cat-o'-nine-tails and rushes. Near by, on a light rise of ground stood a deserted blacksmith's shop. Evans crawled on his hands and knees, for once thankful he was wearing someone else's trousers, and gasped with pleasure when he saw, on some leaves of a bush, two small spots of Indian red. It was not long before he had also found some loose earth, which he explored with his jack-knife and was rewarded by uncovering three empty cans, with labels identical with that he had thrown into the river.

“But where is the boat?” he asked himself. From a point as near as he could approach without exposing himself, it did not appear that the craft could have been dragged into the shop. There were no signs of Rollers, no trodden grasses, except in the rear. Aware that darkness would soon be upon him, he worked his way in the upstream direction into the thicket and soon found some swampy land with a small creek connecting with the Seine and concealed by such a rank growth of plants that from the river it was practically invisible. There, on its side in only three or four inches of water, lay a motorboat freshly painted Indian red and covered with branches.

That was enough for Evans. Straightening himself and brushing off his damp knees as best he could, he walked back to the rear of the blacksmith's shop and pounded on the door. There was no answer, but faint slits of light indicated that someone was inside.

“I want to see The Singe,” he said, loudly. “Open up. I've got news from Godo.”

There was no answer, but Homer thought he heard a muffled consultation.

“Who are you?” someone asked gruffly, from inside, after a tense pause.

“I'll tell that to The Singe,” Homer said. “Do you want everyone in town to hear us talking?”

The door creaked, then opened a crack, and a pair of wary eyes looked out from the dimness. Abruptly the door dosed again, there was more muttering, then someone said, “Come in.”

As he entered, Evans was tackled from three directions. One gangster dived at his legs, another tried to pin his arms, a third raised a sock stuffed with sand. Homer made no resistance.

“What the hell?” he asked calmly. “You're three against one. Why don't you hear what I've got to say? Then do what you like, you damn fools. I've got news, I tell you.”

“What news?” asked the man who had hold of Homer's arms, and who smelled of Eau de Quinine.

“I'm telling it to The Singe. Not you mugs,” said Evans, relieved that the sock had been slipped back in its owner's pocket.

“You'll tell us, all right, if we get to work on you,” said the man at his legs, loosening his grip. That was his mistake. With his knee, Evans flopped him over while he caught the heads of the other pair and banged them, face foremost, together. When the trio began to recover, Homer had them covered with his automatic and their hands went reluctantly upward.