Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (3 page)

A few minutes after Homer had returned to his place, the group of young people dispersed, mostly two and two, and the huge square grew slowly tranquil. Behind, and to the right, stood Notre Dame. Across the bridge and slightly downstream was the Conciergerie. The fountain on the starboard side introduced a playful note. But it was not the historical monuments on which Evans had his eye. The clock said half past seven, the hour for dinner, so his gaze was resting on the awning of the Restaurant Rouzier where, at just that time of year, the chef was able to procure crayfish that were worthy of what he had learned to do to them. With the ease that characterized all his actions, Evans paid the small sum due the waiter, added a tip that was right for the quarter, and guided Miriam across the cartracks to a table
chez
Rouzier where the headwaiter, after two years, remembered him by name and was immediately solicitous. He did not murmur “crayfish” as if Monsieur Evans were a barbarian and needed prompting. He merely tried to express in pantomime a faint suggestion of what the crustaceans might taste like, and Rouzier's headwaiter, had he chosen, might have been a second Debureau.

First, needless to say, there was a cool dry Pouilly, chilled but by no means iced, and once the meal had reached the coffee stage and the unlabeled brandy known to the wine-steward as “The Opal” had been served, Homer settled back in his chair and assumed that air which Miriam knew preceded a moment of confidence.

“I had a strange feeling at the Dôme tonight,” he began. “I hope our friends won't be offended. . . . We left them rather abruptly, you know.”

“Of course they won't mind,” said Miriam.

“It wasn't when I read the headlines. It was the story that followed,” he said. “You know, sometimes I feel quite alone in the world . . . No, not that, exactly.” He backed up for a fresh start and reached for her hand, for at the suggestion that he was lonely an icy grip had chilled Miriam's heart until it felt like an over-frosted mint julep.

“I meant that I felt as if
we
were alone in the world,” he continued.

“That's better,” she said and sighed.

“The point is this. We are all sitting quietly. An old man distributes newspapers. You read. I read. Our friends all read, and so do perfect strangers. This happens at the Dôme, in the
place
St. Michel, the Café de la Paix, in every corner of Paris. Not only the intellectuals but the laborers read, the courtesans, good wives, shop girls, street walkers. Everybody sees the preposterous tale spread with ink upon paper and nobody seems to grasp its absurdity, let alone its implications.”

“I love it when you talk this way,” said Miriam, so pleased with his sudden animation that she almost purred. She had been uneasy about Homer lately, although she would not admit it even to herself. There had been times when she had been ready to believe she was somehow at fault. But now . . . His voice interrupted her reveries.

“Miriam, my dear. Here is
En-Tout-Cas.
The story is only one column
in
length. The reporters didn't have much time. Read it carefully, not too fast, and tell me, for the sake of my peace of mind, what seems inconsistent to you.”

Obediently she took the paper and read the story, line by line. And at the end she looked up in dismay. “I'm stupid. I know I am. I don't see how you can put up with me,” she faltered.

“You mean that you swallow that yarn at its apparent face value?” he asked, astonished.

She reached for his hand and pressed it almost prayerfully. “Tell me what's on your mind. I can listen well, at least ...”

“That's what I meant about feeling alone. The entire population of this city, the center of world culture, successor to the glories of Greece and Rome, fails to see what is as plain as day. Darling. Think! Reflect! This so-called theft was carefully planned, was it not?”

“I suppose so . . .”

“The exact hour. The most valuable small painting among the thousands in the Museum, in fact, the only one worth anything like three million francs that could be slipped under one's coat without making a bulge. The only painting of such value that was hung in a small room I One of a series of rooms watched by the same attendants! One of the few paintings that had a literary value, that could be written and talked about world without end! The well-dressed confederates who asked just the right questions and put up just the right front to lure away the unfortunate pair of guardians, named respectively Angorre and Dubonnet! I wouldn't want to be in their shoes, because there's no one under them to whom they can pass on the blame. Now, dear. Have I said enough? What is wrong with the picture? What smells unmistakably of the humble cod?”

“Homer. Let me ask you a question. Suppose you were in a concert hall and Fritz Kreisler were playing the violin? Would you feel like whistling aloud?”

Evans flushed, then smiled with his unfailing good nature.

“All right. I'll stop stalling and get down to cases. Let us approach the matter in another way. Suppose that in Cartier's small show cases in the rear of the store were two expensive pearls, quite carelessly guarded. What should you say about a clever thief who made elaborate and successful plans to steal one and who left the other in the case, although he must have had room in his pocket?”

“You mean
The Flirt?”
Miriam asked, all interest now.

“Precisely. The whole thing doesn't make sense.”

“Perhaps the thief was interrupted. Maybe he had to duck with half the loot . . .”

“There is nothing in the story that indicates he may have been interrupted. The attendants were otherwise occupied. The press states categorically that no other persons except the well-tailored pair were
seen
in the vicinity. The thief, naturally, kept out of sight. But any innocent bystanders or tourists who had wandered in would have been eager to present themselves to the authorities. Think of the publicity . . . No. The interruption theory is not sound, although it was bright of you to think of it.”

“Then how do you explain it?” Miriam asked.

“Not so fast, my darling. We haven't considered all the inconsistencies yet. You realize, of course, that Watteau's
The Pansy
or any other of his authenticated paintings is as well known to dealers and collectors as the Eiffel Tower is familiar to the public. The authorities estimate the value of the missing canvas at three million francs, but how and where could it be sold for three francs, three sous, even? Remember the poor duffer who stole the Mona Lisa? He nearly went crazy, and after two years had to give himself up. No, Flower of Montana! The object of this sinister performance is not theft. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And still you have seen a city full of people who have gulped down the tale, hook, line and sinker.”

He looked across at Miriam and was disturbed by the change in her. Her eyes were glowing, her breathing had accelerated. Her hands were clasped.

“How wonderful,” she said, her words pouring one upon the other. “You're going to solve it, aren't you? We're going to have another unforgettable time. . . .”

But Evans' face grew severe. “Stop that, young lady,” he said sharply. “I'm going to do no such thing. I'm going to pursue the even tenor of my way. I'm going to revel in idleness.” He leaned closer across the table. “You always forget, my dear, that I've thought this thing out again and again and always have arrived at the same conclusion. A life of action and accomplishment is not for me. I have written one book, painted one quite passable painting, and just once I was trapped by circumstances into playing the detective. Never again. For no reason whatsoever. If the French authorities are so careless as to permit unknown persons to strip the Louvre of its entire collection, I shall stay on the sidelines and remember the paintings as best I can.

“What you don't seem to grasp is that a man must choose one course or another. Either he must be a go-getter and bustle about ruthlessly devouring what and whom he may, or he must develop his faculties of observation and contemplation and refrain from pointless activity. I like life and what it has to offer, when I can be tranquil and enjoy it. Now why on earth should I interfere with this interesting Johnny who has entertained us all today? No doubt he'll carry on farther, if no busybodies intervene. And anyway, if he becomes dangerous to the public, Frémont will have a chance to add to his laurels. It's quite a while since the chief was in the public eye.”

“You know how poor Frémont feels about a case in which art is concerned. He gets an inferiority complex you could hang your hat on. Most people do, you know. Couldn't you call on him, at least, and give him the right steer? Tell him just what you've told me, so he won't be all at sea . . .”

“And succumb to his pleadings to give him a hand. No! I know myself. I can't refuse anyone face to face. I'm going to duck. I'm going to get out of sight until this blows over. Tonight we're going to hear the
Plaisirs champêtres
of Monteclaire . . . Never heard of Monte-claire? I thought so. Nobody knows about the French composers. Well. After you have heard that andante, you'll understand what I mean about tranquillity. And after you've heard the presto at the end we'll take a taxi straight to the Gare du Nord and the next train to Langres. Never heard of Langres? Not surprising. It's one of the most fascinating old walled cities of France but no tourists stray as far east as that, or if they do they can't see the country for the battlefields. Come on. We mustn't be late for the concert. And not one word about the Louvre or Watteau or the troubles of our good friend Frémont, Chief of Detectives. Agreed?”

“If you think best,” she said, and meekly followed.

Whenever the French Society of Ancient Instruments got together for a performance or a public rehearsal, Homer Evans was to be found in the audience, seated ten rows back and just left of the center, his sensitive and saturnine face reflecting the moods of the music and the epoch in question. Merely to see the viola da gamba, the viola d'amour, the lute, the harpsichord and the horns just evolving from their use in the hunting field gave Homer a most agreeable sensation, a sort of awareness of the continuity of human effort and the inexhaustibility of the source from which it springs. He liked to enter at the exact moment when he could seat himself in comfort, not so soon as to allow time for nerve strain in waiting, not so late as to be hurried. When he and Miriam took their places, the Salle Gaveau was half filled and the tone of the audience was more sympathetic than is usually established in the popular concerts, where half of the customers are under some sort of compulsion.

Miriam had eyes for nothing but the clavecin, for it had been at Homers suggestion that she took up the study of that old instrument after having gone stale with the piano, because of over-emphasis of technical exercises. The first number was a Gavotte by Sartrou, a little-known composer who had been first horn player in the royal orchestra of François I. It began with a haunting, simple theme, a rare combination of spontaneity and sophistication that only the pioneers in the musical art could hope to attain. Miriam listened rapturously, but for once her attention wavered. What was wrong?

As part one of the program proceeded, she was able to crystallize her feelings. She was worried about Evans. No use denying it any longer. He had not, just lately, been at his best. She had listened faithfully to all he had said about the futilities of exertion and the virtues of inaction, nevertheless she could not forget the days when he had been engaged so brilliantly in the rescue of Hugo Weiss and the breaking of the smuggling ring and she wondered if, for once, she might be right and her idol might be wrong. Would not a little excursion in quest of the missing Watteau be just the thing to put Evans in tiptop form again?

When intermission came, and the
Plaisirs champêtres
were imminent she softly excused herself and, as if placed there for her temptation, in the ladies' room was a convenient phone. Trembling with apprehension, but impelled by a force she could scarcely understand she dialed a number and was promptly rewarded by a soft response, the voice of Hydrangea, the former Blackbird who had won the heart of Sergeant Frémont and, at Evans' instigation had forsaken her beloved Harlem for the
place
de la Contrescarpe. Hydrangea's apartment was in the Hotel Murphy et du Danube Bleu and there the Chief of Detectives felt safe from the eyes of the world.

“I'm so glad you called,” Hydrangea said in her rich mezzo voice. “The Chief's been looking everywhere for Mr. Evans.”

“We're at the Salle Gaveau,” whispered Miriam and hurried from the phone with a glance at her shapely hands, as if she feared the instrument had left a guilty impress there. The act of duplicity once having been performed a wave of guilt swept over Miriam. How could Homer fail to read her thoughts? But Evans was thinking of the music to come and scarcely was aware of her return. While the first movement was being played, Miriam found it difficult to compose herself, but once the harpsichord began that deliberate descent that opens the andante she was sure that all was for the best. The theme rose and fell, repeated itself with subtle variations. The ‘cello questioned, the viola da gamba replied. Subject was resolved into predicate and through it all the miraculous harpsichord worked out its satisfying pattern of sound, so touching and inevitable, so timeless and of the earth. Evans was lending to the music his refined attention, feeling each nuance, and the magnetic attraction of the firm home tone; the inescapable “do,” the natural beginning and ending.

There was a moment of utter silence, then the third movement began, the wild country dance whose only restraint was effectiveness. Then the fourth, from which the great Beethoven was not ashamed to lift a theme for one of his piano sonatas many years later. With the stunned crackle of applause, Evans rose and so did Miriam. There was one more number on the list, but whatever it was would be anticlimax. Side by side they walked up the aisle and noiselessly passed through the doorway. They were aroused by the sound of a familiar voice.