Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (5 page)

“My friends,” the Russian shouted, embracing heartily the painter and the reporter who hurried to meet him. “My brothers but for whom I should have been no doubt already one year in hell. . . . But excuse me ... I forgot my manners. . . .” And with a sweep of his well-gloved hand he indicated the interior of the cab in which was sitting, ostensibly nervous but game, what appeared at first glance to be an American business man. At second glance, there was no doubt about it.

“Meet Mr. K. Parker Seldon,” said Kvek, slapping all three on the back and shoulders. “Mr. Seldon is a friend of Hugo Weiss.”

“In that case, have a drink,” Hjalmar Jansen said. Before taking his place at the table, Kvek instructed the porter to drive the Citroën around the corner to the
rue
Delambre.

“I've bought my old cab, my former companion in misfortune,” the Russian said. “I'm going to drive it until the register has gone as high as it can go, then have another and a larger register installed beside the original one. You don't know what it means to drive without accepting tips.”

“Did they ever tip you for driving like that?” asked Mr. Seldon, feeling himself all over.

“My pardonable anxiety to reach my friends . . .” The former colonel paused, then cried out as if in pain: “But Evans! Where's Evans? We can't drink without Evans ...”

“Oh, yes we can,” Tom Jackson assured him. “The dragnet's out for Evans and he's flown the coop.”

“Ah, Europe. Ah, old times,” said Kvek. “No doubt we shall find him.”

“What brings you back to Paris?” Hjalmar asked.

“Orders,” Kvek said simply. “Mr. Weiss sent me to take care of Mr. Seldon.”

“God help Mr. Seldon,” Tom Jackson grunted, and the business man smiled.

“Mr. Seldon is chairman of the board of directors of the American Jar and Bottle Corporation,” Kvek continued.

“By Yesus,” said Jansen.

“He's a fugitive,” the Russian said, and ordered another round of drinks. At those words, both Jansen and the reporter looked at the stranger with heightened interest.

“Shake,” the Norwegian said, and wrung the business man's hand.

“Perhaps I should explain,” Mr. Seldon began. He was a little out of his element, but anxious to be a good fellow just the same. “Our company . . .”

“Jars and bottles,” murmured Jackson.

“Our company,” Seldon continued, “in which Mr. Weiss has a controlling interest, is under a cloud. A rival, Mr. T. Prosper Stables ...”

“We've heard of him, the crook,” said Jansen.

“Exactly. Mr. Stables is heavily involved in cans, wants to wreck the bottle trade. With that in mind, he has started a rumor on Wall Street that our company is insolvent, has pulled wires and instigated an official investigation ...”

“So you flew the coop?” asked Jansen.

“Precisely,” Seldon said, and smiled again.

“But Weiss is on the level,” Jansen said, firmly. Hugo Weiss was his benefactor and friend and, no matter how many double whiskies the Norwegian painter had drunk, he was not disposed to listen to any slurs on Weiss's integrity. “The man who says he isn't gets his neck broke,” Hjalmar added.

“Oh, we're all on the level, more or less,” said Seldon. “The fact is, we're leading Stables into a trap. Our company's sound, the books are in order. Between you and me, we're about to declare a good fat dividend. I've disappeared in order to give credence to Stables' rumor. Do you see? Ah, it's perfect. Our stock will go down to the cellar when word gets around that I've fled.”

“I don't get you. If your stock goes down, you lose money, don't you?” Jackson interposed.

Seldon winked. “When our stock goes down to the lowest figure, Weiss and a few of the rest of us will buy up what's outstanding. Then, when the investigators find everything shipshape and I show up again, the stock will go up, will rocket, in fact. Weiss will clean up another fortune, Stables will lose millions. Do I make myself clear?”

If he had not made himself clear to Hjalmar Jansen, who never thought about money when he had it, or Jackson, who was beginning to feel the double whiskies, the visiting American had surely got the point across to Dr. Balthazar St.-J. Truc, who had become so intrigued with what he was overhearing that his elbow had slipped and he had doused his pin-striped trousers with
Vichy fraises.
When the dark slim man in powder blue beside him started to make a remark, the doctor held his fingers to his lips for silence. The tanned athletic man with the Wedgwood blue eyes, the other member of the doctor's party, was reading the cricket scores in the London
Times.
Across the notes about livers in mustard and honey-colored shades, Dr. Truc was scribbling hastily “American Bottle and Jar will dive, then rocket.”

And all innocent of this, at the other table, K. Parker Seldon was saying to Hjalmar Jansen: “I've heard a lot about you boys.”

T
HE
Salle des Pilulles, or Hall of Pills, in the Louvre Museum was one of a series of small but comparatively well-lighted rooms in the long wing of the palace that stretched eastward on the north side of the large inner courtyard. To reach it, the ordinary tourist would turn left at the Winged Victory, pass through a roomful of pagan jewelry, another in which Egyptian cats predominate, a third filled with vases and pots, and then would brace a guide who, if he didn't misunderstand, would point the way northward, through a series of rooms including the Pavilion Sully, after which the tourist, if still in the money, would turn right and proceed perhaps thirty yards along a narrow passage. Within the memory of the living attendants at the famous Museum, no visitor had ever asked to go there directly, although many had lost their way to the
Spring,
the
Mona Lisa, The Music Lesson
or
Madame Recamier
and had stumbled into the Hall of Pills unawares.

Such wayfarers, were they discerning, had not gone unrewarded, for in that small secluded room hang several excellent paintings, too small to be effective among the large ones in the main galleries.

It was to the Hall of Pills that Chief of Detectives Frémont led Evans and Miriam, after the short uneventful drive from the Salle Gaveau. The vast national museum, former habitat of kings and courtiers, was surrounded that evening with a cordon of police who were glad of the extra pay, but, inside, the faces of the regular attendants were dismal indeed. At least they seemed that way until one caught sight of the woeful countenances of Attendants Angorre and Dubonnet who had been on duty in the fatal room when the theft had occurred.

Homer Evans said little until he and his companions were face to face with
The Flirt
who was smiling across the frame at a blank and empty space that caused Frémont to groan and wring his hands. The little lady, so deftly painted that she seemed alive, was giving the unsightly wall the eye in a most inviting manner, so wistfully that Miriam caught her breath and sighed. Charming and woman-like was the little figure, dainty although solid, willing, but all in vain.

“Frémont, worthy friend,” said Evans. And he put to him the hypothetical case about the two matched pearls at Cartier's.

‘I'm an imbecile,” the Chief said, miserably. “Perhaps I should resign. . . . But wait. Perhaps the thief was interrupted.”

With a few well-chosen words, Evans demolished that theory a second time, and with impressive variations. “The object of this blatant performance was not theft,” he said with finality.

“Not theft? Three million francs not theft? Then what, in the name of God?” the chief of detectives said, with indignation.

“Not a dealer or collector on earth would buy the thing. What's clearer than that?” demanded Evans.

“But there must be thousands of rich Americans who wouldn't know the missing painting,” Frémont objected hopefully.

“That type would never buy small paintings, and they'd insist on cracked and faded ones. Watteau used colors that are vivid to this day. Just look at
The Flirt.
Does that painting look old?”

“The devil knows,” said Frémont disgustedly. “It surely doesn't look like three million francs or even ten old Russian rubles, as far as I'm concerned. I hope, my friend, that you're not already looking for far-reaching complications. This case is open and shut. Some ass has pinched the smallest chunk of public property belonging to the citizens of France. We've got to get it back, that's all. I ask nothing more than that.”

“Unfortunately, our problem is not so simple. Reflect, friend Frémont. Some persons unknown have taken from the wall a completely unsalable canvas.”

“Perhaps they didn't know.”

“They know a great deal. Too much for our comfort, in fact. They know how the public and guards behave at ten minutes before closing time. They know how inaccessible is the Hall of Pills. They understand the ways of publicity, how much can be said and written of
The Pansy.
They know how to catch the imagination and interest of the people of Paris and of France, that the Marquis de la Rose d'Antan is in parts unknown; that the Louvre's director, M. Pierre Joseph des Murs is confined to his home with the gout and has been since Easter day. It would not be going too far to suggest that they know that the Chief of Detectives Frémont will be held responsible, and to whom he would appeal for help. There's a clever master mind at the back of this, directing every move and laughing, at this moment, most heartily up his sleeve.”

Frémont's face had grown, if anything, a shade more gloomy than those of Angorre and Dubonnet, whose spirits Evans' tone of calm authority had perked up a bit. “Don't tell me,” groaned the chief of detectives, “that we must make another assault on men of high standing. Already I'm looked on askance by that fortunate and powerful category. They whisper among themselves that I do not know when to stop, that I am ready to upset the political and governmental structure of my country to satisfy an over-reaching personal ambition and vanity. I, who ask only to be a humble officer, inconspicuous and only moderately paid. Did I not refuse the office of prefect?”

“Where is the prefect, by the way? Has he done nothing?”

“The prefect was appointed because of his genius for doing nothing,” Frémont said. “He called me in, smiling in that bland way of his. Oh, butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. ‘Well, Frémont,' he said to me. ‘Here's a case right in your line. Art. I give you a free hand, complete and absolute authority and confidence. To show you how I trust you, I'm going to take a fishing trip at the outset of this important investigation. And when the case is solved I shall obtain for you, if not the Legion of Honor, at least my personal thanks, inscribed on official note paper and bearing the seal of our beloved Third Re/files/17/05/09/f170509/public/ That's what he said, and that's what he's done. And between the words his oily voice uttered, I could hear an ominous undertone. ‘Here's where I get rid,' he was saying to himself, ‘of a troublesome upstart who not long ago presumed to fill large sections of our prison with some of the most illustrious names in heraldry.' ”

“By all means let the prefect fish, provided he keeps within bounds of the game laws,” Evans said. “At least, this time we won't be handicapped by a hostile officialdom. Now let's get down to business. Let us use those mysterious organs called our brains and see what they will do for us. First of all, the so-called theft of
The Pansy
is of no consequence. It was committed to raise a smoke screen. I doubt if the painting has left the building. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that it's hidden not too far from where we stand. Shall we have a look around?”

At the sound of those words, Messrs. Angorre and Dubonnet began to gesticulate and gasp for words. “Then we'll not lose our jobs and our pensions, and have to beg through the streets,” the former said.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Evans said, and to Frémont: “Send every guard and watchman away from this wing. We mustn't be disturbed.”

Frémont, stunned, turned to Miriam. “Please, Mademoiselle Montana! Talk sense to him. He'll listen to you. I haven't even grilled these men who were lured away by the well-dressed strangers. What shall I write in my report? What shall I say to the press? We are in France, where at least a semblance of order must be followed. We've got to have suspects. We've got to hold someone, and the natural thing would be to arrest M. Angorre and M. Dubonnet, although I'm convinced they were not bribed.”

“No such luck,” said Angorre, disgustedly. “In my sixteen years of service I've never been offered so much as a bus ticket.”

“I'm sure,” Frémont went on, “that these men won't mind passing a night or two at the prefecture. I'll make them comfortable, and do my best to convince the Director in Chief, M. Pierre Joseph des Murs, to allow them overtime while they're in custody.”

M. Dubonnet, the junior attendant who had but twelve years of service, looked troubled and at last spoke up. “The American savant doesn't understand my predicament,” he said. “I've a wife.”

The sergeant muttered sympathetically.

“But won't she be glad that you're free?” asked Evans.

The junior attendant's embarrassment increased. “You see, gentlemen. It's like this. Mathilde will have read in the papers that a painting worth three million francs was stolen from the gallery in which she knows I am stationed.”

“In accordance with my direction,” interposed Angorre.

“Mathilde's natural assumption will be that I shall be held in custody until the painting is found, and if I show up at home,
in
the middle of the evening like this . . .” Dubonnet emphasized his words with an appealing gesture. “I'm a lost man either way,” he concluded. “If everything's aboveboard, she'll upbraid me for spying and setting traps for her. On the other hand . . . Well, messieurs. You all understand. What one has not actually seen and cannot be sure of lacks fire to sear the soul. At least, to goad to violence and the wrecking of humble families. Do I make myself clear?”