Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (9 page)

“But it's not Zacharie! It's not my husband! Where is he? What's been done with him? He left home this morning, early, and I haven't heard a word,” the woman sobbed.

“I'm very sorry to have disturbed you,” Evans said. “I had been told by Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux . . .”

“Has he seen my husband?”

“Not today, I feel sure. I've just come from the prefecture ...”

“The prefecture,” repeated the woman, dazed. “Then there is something wrong! I beg of you to tell me.”

“I have nothing to tell. I came on a personal errand, because I'd been given to understand that Professor de la Poussière was in the habit of working at night. But if I can be of assistance?”

“He's never stayed away like this before, without a word. What shall I do?”

“The most sensible course would be to notify the police. They'll telephone the hospitals . . .”

At the mention of hospitals, Mme. de la Poussière fainted. Her face, already pale, turned paler. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed, and she collapsed, not without natural grace, into the arms of the concierge.

“Now we're in a fix,” the concierge said. “You've made her ill, and there's no place to stretch her out down here, not even room to sit down in that lodge of mine when my wife's in bed and her duds are all over the only chair.” With that, he handed the unconscious woman to Evans and shrugged his shoulders.

“I'll take her upstairs,” Evans said, “Which floor?”

“The top,” said the concierge. “I'll give the key to your girl friend, here.” Having handed a key to Miriam, the concierge said good night and slammed the door of his cubbyhole.

The stairs of No. 12
place
Dauphine were steep, narrow and numerous, but Evans, now thoroughly committed to the new adventure, bore Mme. de la Poussière aloft with ease. Just after they had passed the third floor landing she began to revive but, finding herself secure, remained limp and motionless until the sixth floor, her habitation, was attained. There, after Miriam had opened the door and Evans had stretched her on the couch, the wife of the Egyptologist murmured her apologies. Already, Evans' reassuring presence had had the effect of calming her overwrought nerves. She sat up, smoothed her hair and listened quite bravely while Homer phoned the prefecture. The chief of detectives was no longer there but Sergeant Schlumberger assured Evans that no reports had come in concerning Professor de la Poussière or any other man of his approximate age or description.

“He's probably with a woman,” the bluff Alsatian said, and in spite of Homer's efforts to muffle the remark it carried to the couch on which Mme. de la Poussière was sitting, in faded but becoming negligée.

“I think that is highly improbable, unless the woman has been dead these hundreds of years and is wrapped in kilometers of bandages,” Madame said with dignity. “I would pray in church for any girl who could get his mind away from antiquity for a while.” She bowed her head. “I tried, when I was younger . . . I don't mean to say,” she added, loyally, “that Zacharie has callously neglected me. But one doesn't like to feel, when one is the object of affectionate attentions, that one's husband has his mind on occurrences several thousands of years before Our Saviour . . . But forgive me. I'm burdening you with my confidences. I assure you, monsieur and mademoiselle, that I've not said as much, in the nature of complaint, since our marriage in 1903.”

“Perhaps he's carrying on his studies elsewhere,” Evans said. “There are mummies in various museums.”

“I telephoned the Louvre several times,” she said. “That's where he started for, I think. Someone called him from there. But the operator was very short with me, and told me grudgingly that the Professor was not in the building. Ah! Manners these days.”

“He works there frequently?” Homer asked.

“There's a mummy there about whom or which he's recently unearthed new information. You'll see the tablets spread out on his desk in his study just to your right. Since those things were shipped to him, he has spent half his time laughing, the Lord knows why. At all hours of the night one could hear him guffaw, to such a point that the neighbors put in a complaint. Since then he's tried to chuckle, but he can't. He's got a hearty laugh, and a sense of humor, so they say. I know nothing of ancient Egypt so I can't share his merriment.”

It could be seen that Mme. de la Poussière was by no means devoid of humor herself, and that, in her normal condition, she had put up with her lot with admirable philosophy. She was past middle age but carried her years extremely well, with much of her former beauty and all of her charm. Readily she granted Evans permission to enter the professor's study, and Miriam followed as far as the door. The large low-vaulted room had three dormer windows. The floors and all the furniture were strewn with open books, papyrus scrolls, photographs, engravings and drawings of pharaohs, queens, artisans, toilers and slaves. The walls were papered with pictures and blueprints of monuments, idols, obelisks, cross sections of pyramids, plans of palaces, maps of plains and of rivers, gods and goddesses in profile, generals and armies, players of the harp and psaltery, blowers of horns and trumpets. In spite of the multitude of objects, a sort of order seemed to show through the appearance of confusion.

Evans went straight to the desk on which were spread five broken tablets, pieced together like jigsaw puzzles. He stared at the hieroglyphics chiseled upon them and turned to Miriam with eloquent dismay.

“And to think,” he said, “that for a man who knows enough, these tablets are filled with laughter that is fresh and irresistible after five thousand years. And also to think, that with all the nonsense with which I have crammed my idle head, not a single scrap of knowledge helpful to us now can be found. I have never felt so completely a fool.”

“You couldn't help it,” Miriam said, defensively. “How were you to know what to study?”

“How, indeed . . . Well. No use weeping over sins of omission. Let's be on our way.” Returning to the salon, where Mme. de la Poussière rose to bid them good night, Miriam put her arm impulsively around the older woman's waist.

“Mr. Evans will find your husband. Will you try to go to sleep?” she said.

“You're both very kind. I'll try,” said Mme. de la Poussière.

The
place
Dauphine is a quiet little square on the He de la Cite, with a small park in the center and a few obscure hotels and old residences ranged closely on all sides. Not fifty yards away is the busy Pont Neuf, where market trucks and wagons rumble all night long to help in the colossal task of feeding Paris, but the sounds that reach the
place
are softened and subdued. On the eastern side, the jail, the Palais de la Justice, and the Sainte Chapelle introduce an atmosphere of spiritual and temporal authority which does not overshadow the square. There are dim doorways, shuttered windows, time-stained walls and in the center a few chestnut trees beneath which are short cement walks and a half dozen benches. Two street lamps, spaced well apart and cloaked with foliage, furnish just the right amount of light. It was in that
place,
that had been Paris when cows were still grazing in St. Germain des Pres, where Evans and Miriam found themselves standing after their interview with Mme. de la Poussière. Homer was in a brown study, walking as if in his sleep, his mind, now thoroughly aroused, making in-effectual sallies in all directions. Miriam, who was accustomed to his moods, kept step with him, her hand on his arm, and followed his lead as carefully as if they had been in the midst of a crowded dance floor, notwithstanding the emptiness and silence of the
place.
Scarcely without his knowing it, Evans decided abruptly to sit down on a bench and undoubtedly that impulse saved his life. A shot rang out, a flash lighted one of the shade trees. Another shot followed before the echo of the first got started. As, with a horrid crash, a body dropped heavily through the branches of the tree and collided with the concrete walk, Homer saw Miriam standing tensely, smoking automatic in hand.

“Look out! There may be more of them,” he said, and drew her to the shelter of the nearest tree trunk. There was no further sound and no motion, except for a single twitch on the part of the man on the walk. They waited a breathless moment, then hurried toward him.

“Oh, Homer!” whispered Miriam, almost in tears. “Have I been hasty again? Was I wrong to fire when I saw that flash?”

For answer Evans showed her his hat, through the top of which a bullet had passed. “It's lucky one of us was on the job,” he said. “Let's have a look at this chap. . . . But, of course, with the prefecture so near, we'll have to call Schlumberger and let him start from scratch.” He looked at Miriam steadily. “How are the nerves? O.K.?”

“If you're not going to scold me,” she said.

“Stand guard half a minute, and I'll call the regulars,” he said, and set off at a brisk walk for the prefecture. Within a few seconds he was standing beneath the balcony of Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux. The doctor was inside, engaged in color photography.

“I say, doctor,” Evans called, and the medical examiner appeared on the balcony. “Sorry to interrupt, you know, but Miss Leonard's just shot a man. He's dead, worse luck, so you'll have to rally round.”

“You're joking,” said the doctor incredulously.

“Honor bright! And I've got to notify the sergeant, or can you do it by phone? The body's in the
place
Dauphine.”

“The devil!” said Toudoux, tearing off his white apron and muttering. Hearing the doctor's irate voice on the phone, Evans hastened back to where Miriam was standing. Except for a small pool of blood in the shadow of the corpse, no change had come about. That is, no outward change. Inwardly, Miriam had suffered what practically amounted to a revolution. She remembered Evans' words in the Hall of Pills, how he had hinted so strongly that the thief who had taken
The Pansy
had known whom Frémont would call on for aid. The whole thing was a trap, she believed, and it was she who had deceitfully led Homer into it. Already he had missed death by an accidental three centimeters and Heaven only knew what was to follow. She must confess her duplicity, she had decided, and that, she was sure, would mar their remarkable friendship. The first act of trickery, the first lack of straightforwardness. Would he ever trust her again? And after all her resolutions and talk about non-interference with his life and habits. She almost dreaded his return but when finally he reached her side she had no time to unburden herself, for Sergeant Schlumberger, sprinting well for a man of his age and even disposition, was only two seconds behind. Later, they heard the measured tread of Dr. Hyacinthe Toudoux who was rounding the corner from the Quai de l'Horloge and growling audibly as he carried his well-worn satchel.

“Little thanks for a scientist in the public service,” he said aloud, to all whom it might concern. “Not an atom of consideration. Young women are given guns. They go off. Pouf! And not only some bum or other bites the concrete but the best photograph of the effects of California wine, mixed fruit salads and improperly prepared abalone is over-exposed and spoiled.
Zut, alors!
Show me what's left of this intruding nitwit. Hmmmm. Death was instantaneous, occurred about five minutes ago—between five and six—from a bullet wound, Colt .45 caliber, fired by . . . What the devil is your name, Mademoiselle? . . . Thank you. Good evening or morning. I trust I shan't be troubled again.”

And the irate doctor scribbled a certificate, using the back of the bench as a desk, signed it with a flourish and handed it gruffly to Sergeant Schlumberger, who had already ascertained that the corpse had not even as much as a used Metro stub for papers.

Having received the sergeant's permission, Evans kneeled beside the body. He pried open the mouth and switched on his flashlight.

“Hmmmm. Doesn't speak English,” he said, and rose to his feet again.

The Alsatian officer, already unnerved, almost exploded.

“Would you mind telling me,” he asked, “how the devil you are so sure this man was not conversant with your illogical and bothersome lingo? And perhaps, since I've got to make a stab at handling this case, you'd go further and tell me what difference it makes, even if he had spoken Portuguese or Sanskrit? He took a shot at you, was blown from a tree with a most lucky shot . . .”

“Lucky, indeed,” said Miriam, indignantly. Then a window was opened far above and faint screams were heard. Dr. Toudoux, who had not reached the corner, wheeled impatiently.

“One moment, doctor, if you please,” Evans said. He sensed at once that Madame de la Poussière had heard the shots and had dragged herself at last, in terror, to the window. Miriam already was pushing the concierge's bell but the latter was not responding. It took several sharp raps of Sergeant Schlumberger's club on the windowsill to bring the concierge to his senses.

“Can a man never sleep?” he shouted.

“Wake up, in the name of the law,” said Schlumberger gruffly.

Evans, meanwhile, had explained the situation as best he could. They all accompanied Dr. Toudoux to the sixth floor of No. 12 where the professor's wife was struggling heroically against incipient hysterics.

“My husband,” she gasped, beginning to shake, then go rigid.

Dr. Toudoux, meanwhile, had taken a small phial from his case and, in his agitation, failed to conceal it from Evans. On the label was written:

                
Oleum crotali confluenti
*

                
Tine, argalli Texarkanae
**

Seeing that Evans had read the label, the doctor's ruffled face relaxed and he smiled somewhat sheepishly. “The American Mickey Finn,” he murmured, and within a few minutes Mme. de la Poussière was sleeping soundly, if not peacefully.