Monsieur Gassire’s first waking thought that morning was for the safety
of the bundle of securities which he had brought home the previous
evening. He stretched out an exploring hand, and encountered the bundle
still safely on the little table by his bed.
His mind set at rest, he proceeded to get out of bed and begin the
business of dressing for the day.
Nicolas Gassire was a short, corpulent man with a shriveled hawk-face.
He was an outside broker doing business in the Invalides quarter of
Paris, with a sound clientele of worthy bourgeois. These latter
entrusted their savings to him and were rewarded by the singularly
attractive profits he netted for them, in part from lucky speculations
and in part from his own little private business of money-lending.
He had a flat on the first floor of a narrow old house of which he was
the owner. This flat comprised a hall, his bedroom, a dining-room which
he used as his office, and another room in which his three clerks
worked. Right at the back there was the kitchen.
Gassire’s economy led him to do without a servant. Every morning at
eight the concierge, a stout, cheerful, active woman, came up with his
post and petit déjeuner—a cup of coffee and a croissant, which she laid
on his desk—and then cleaned up the flat.
On the morning in question the concierge departed at half-past eight,
and Monsieur Gassire, as was his custom, breakfasted in leisurely
fashion, opened his letters and glanced through the morning paper while
he awaited the arrival of his clerks.
Suddenly, just five minutes before nine, he thought he heard a noise in
his bedroom. Remembering the bundle of securities which he had left in
there, he jumped up, overturning his coffee-cup in his agitation. In a
twinkling he was in the other room, but—the bundle of securities had
vanished! At the very same moment he heard the hall-door on the landing
slam violently.
Monsieur Gassire tried to open it, but it was a spring lock and he had
left the key on his desk. He was afraid that if he went to get it the
thief would escape without being seen.
He therefore opened the hall window, which gave on the street. It was
physically impossible for any one to have had time to leave the
building. In any case, the street was empty.
Mastering his excitement, Monsieur Nicolas Gassire refrained from
crying “Thief!” But, a minute later, when he caught sight of his head
clerk coming towards the house from the direction of the neighboring
boulevard, he beckoned furiously to him.
“Hurry up, Sarlonat!” he cried, leaning out of the window. “Come in,
lock the street door and don’t let any one out. I’ve been robbed!”
As soon as his commands had been obeyed, he hastened downstairs,
panting and distraught.
“Tell me, Sarlonat, have you seen anybody?”
“Not a soul, monsieur.”
He hurried to the concierge’s little room, which was wedged between the
foot of the stairs and a small, dark courtyard. She was sweeping the
floor.
“Madame Alain, I’ve been robbed!” he cried. “Is any one hiding here?”
“Why, no, monsieur,” faltered the poor woman in utter bewilderment.
“Where do you keep the key to my flat?”
“I put it here, monsieur, behind the clock. Anyhow, no one could have
taken it, for I’ve not stirred out of my room this last half-hour.”
“That means that instead of coming down the thief must have run
upstairs. Oh, this is terrible, terrible!”
Nicolas Gassire went back to the street door. His other two clerks had
just come on the scene. Hurriedly, in a few breathless words, he gave
them their orders. They were to let no one enter or leave the house
until he came back.
“You understand, Sarlonat? No one.”
He dashed upstairs and into his flat. In an instant he had grabbed hold
of the telephone.
“Hello!” he bawled into the mouthpiece, “hello! Put me through to the
Préfecture!... No, I don’t mean police headquarters, you fool, I mean
the café de la Préfecture ... what number is it?... How should I
know?... Hurry!... Give me information.... Oh, be quick, be quick,
can’t you!”
Dancing with rage the little man at last succeeded in getting on to the
proprietor of the café, and thundered:
“Is Inspector Béchoux there? Then call him to the telephone—at once.
Hurry ... hurry! I want him on business. There’s no time to lose....
Hello!... Inspector Béchoux? This is Gassire speaking, Béchoux.... Yes,
I’m all right ... at least, I’m not ... I’ve just been robbed of some
securities—a whole bundle.... I’m waiting for you.... What’s that? Say
it again!... You can’t come? You’re off on your holiday? Holiday be
hanged, man! Béchoux, you must come, as quickly as possible! Your
twelve African mining shares were in the bundle!”
Monsieur Gassire heard a volcanic monosyllable at the other end, which
fully reassured him on the score of Inspector Béchoux’s purpose and
promptitude. Indeed, it was barely a quarter of an hour before
Inspector Béchoux arrived, running, his face a study in abject anxiety.
He rushed up to the stockbroker.
“My Nigger Boys! My Twelve Little Nigger Boys! All my savings! What’s
become of them?”
“Stolen, along with the bonds and shares of other clients ... and all
my own securities.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes, from my bedroom, half an hour ago!”
“Damnation! But what were my Nigger Boys doing in your room?”
“I took the bundle out of the safe at the Crédit Lyonnais yesterday to
deposit it at another bank, nearer here. And I made the mistake of——”
Béchoux’s hand descended heavily on the other’s shoulder.
“I shall hold you responsible, Gassire. You will have to make good my
loss.”
“How can I? I’m ruined.”
“What do you mean? You have this house.”
“Mortgaged to the hilt!”
The two men faced each other, convulsed with rage and shouting
unintelligibly.
The concierge and the three clerks had also lost their heads, and were
barring the way to two girls from the top floor, who had just come down
and were quite determined to be allowed out.
“Nobody shall leave this house!” roared Béchoux, beside himself with
fury. “Nobody shall leave this house until my Twelve Little Nigger Boys
are restored to me!”
“Perhaps we’d better call in help,” suggested Gassire. “There’s the
butcher’s boy ... and the grocer ... they’re both dependable.”
“Not for me,” the inspector pronounced with decision. “If we need some
one else we’ll telephone the Barnett Agency in the rue Laborde. Then
we’ll notify the police. But for the moment that would be sheer waste
of time. Action is what we want!”
He tried to control himself and to regain the pontifical calm that best
befits a police inspector. But he was trembling from head to foot, and
his quivering mouth betrayed his distress.
“Keep your head,” he told Gassire. “After all, we have the whip hand.
Nobody has left the house. The thing is to retrieve my little Nigger
Boys before any one can find a way of sneaking them out of the
building. That’s all that really matters.”
He turned to the two girls and began to question them. He ascertained
that one was a typist who copied reports and circulars at home. The
other gave lessons in flute-playing, also at home. They were both
anxious to get out and do their marketing before lunch, but Béchoux was
adamant.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this door stays closed for the morning.
Monsieur Gassire, two of your clerks shall mount guard here. The third
can run errands for the tenants. In the afternoon the latter will be
allowed out, but with my permission only in each case, and all parcels,
boxes, baskets or packages of any kind will be submitted to a rigorous
search. You have your orders. Now, Monsieur Gassire, it is for us to
get to work. The concierge will lead the way.”
The building was so planned as to make investigation easy. There were
three upper stories, with a single flat on each floor. This made four
flats in the house, counting that on the ground floor, which was
temporarily unoccupied. Monsieur Gassire lived on the first floor. On
the second dwelt Monsieur Touffémont, an ex-Cabinet Minister. The top
floor was partitioned off into two flatlets, occupied by Mademoiselle
Legoffier, the typist, and Mademoiselle Haveline, who taught the flute.
That morning Monsieur Touffémont had left at half-past eight for the
Chambre des Députés, where he was president of a commission. Since his
flat was cleaned by a woman who came in daily at lunch-time and had not
yet arrived, they decided to await his return.
First, then, they explored the girls’ rooms thoroughly, and satisfied
themselves that the missing securities were not there.
Next they searched every corner of the attic at the top of the house,
getting up there by means of a ladder.
After this, choking with dust, they came downstairs again and searched
the courtyard and Monsieur Gassire’s own flat.
Their efforts went unrewarded. In bitterness of spirit, Béchoux brooded
over the unkind fate that had overtaken his Twelve Little Nigger Boys.
Towards noon Monsieur Touffémont came in. He proved to be an earnest
parliamentarian, burdened with the type of portfolio proper to the use
of an ex-Cabinet Minister. His industry commanded the respect of all
parties in the house, and his rare but masterly interventions could
make a Cabinet tremble apprehensively.
With measured tread he approached the concierge’s room and asked for
his letters. Gassire came up to him and told him of the theft.
Touffémont gave him that grave attention he seemed to bestow even on
the most flippant utterances. Then he promised his coöperation if
Gassire decided to call in the police, and urged at the same time that
they should search his flat.
“You never know,” he said. “Someone might have got in with a skeleton
key.”
Accordingly they searched the flat, but here again they drew a blank.
Béchoux and Gassire tried to keep one another’s courage up by voicing
each in turn his meed of hope and comfort, but their words rang hollow
and their faces grew drawn and pale.
At last they thought they would go in search of refreshment to a small
café just opposite, so placed that they could keep an eye on the home
all the time. But when they got there, Béchoux found he had no
appetite. The Twelve Little Nigger Boys lay heavy on his stomach.
Gassire said that he felt dizzy. No, he wouldn’t take anything, thank
you. They both went over and over what had happened, trying to find
some ray of reassurance in the prevailing gloom.
“It’s quite obvious,” said Béchoux. “Someone got into your flat and
stole the securities. Well, as the thief can’t have escaped from the
building, that means that he or she is still in the house.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Gassire.
“And if he or she is in the house, my Twelve Little Nigger Boys are
there too. Hang it all, they can’t have flown out through the roof!”
“Not unless they were nigger angels,” suggested Gassire.
“So,” Béchoux went on, ignoring him, “we are forced to the conclusion
that——”
He never finished the sentence. Suddenly a look of terror came into his
eyes, and he stared speechless at someone who was jauntily approaching
the house opposite.
“Barnett!” he whispered. “Barnett! How did he get to know of this?”
“You mentioned him, and the Barnett Agency in the rue Laborde,” Gassire
confessed, not without hesitation, “and I thought that, in the
appalling circumstances, it was just worth giving him a ring.”
“You fool!” spluttered Béchoux. “Who’s in charge of the case, anyhow?
You or me? Barnett has nothing to do with this. We must be on our guard
against him or there will be the devil to pay. Let Barnett in on this?
Not much!”
Béchoux was quite sure in his own mind that Barnett’s assistance would
prove the last straw. Jim Barnett in the house and on the case would
only mean that, if the mystery were solved, a bundle of securities,
including Twelve Little Nigger Boys of vital import to their owner,
would surely vanish into thin air.
He tore across the street, and, as Barnett raised his hand to the bell,
he seized his arm and said in trembling tones:
“Get out! Hop it! We don’t want your help. You were called in by
mistake. Cut along now, and be quick about it.”
Barnett gave him an astonished stare full of reproach and childlike
innocence.
“My dear Béchoux, what’s the matter? Tell your Uncle Barnett! You seem
a trifle rattled, old lad. Still sore about the grandfather clocks of
Baron de Gravières? And those gold teeth? Left, right!”
“Get out, I tell you!”
“Then they told me the truth just now on the telephone? Have you really
been robbed of your savings? And don’t you want your Uncle Barnett to
lend a helping hand?”
“My Uncle Barnett can go to hell!” declared Béchoux, furious. “I know
all about your helping hand! It goes into other people’s pockets and
helps itself.”
“Are you in a stew because of your Twelve Little Nigger Boys?”
“I shall be if you come poking your nose in!”
“Oh, all right. I leave you to it!”
“You’re off, then?” Béchoux’s frown cleared.
“Rather not! I’ve come here on business.”
He turned to Gassire, who had joined them and was holding the door
ajar.
“Can you tell me if Mademoiselle Haveline lives here—Mademoiselle
Haveline who teaches the flute? She took second prize at the
Conservatoire.”
Béchoux grew wrathful.
“Huh, you’re asking for her because you’ve just seen her brass plate up
there....”
“Well,” replied Barnett, “haven’t I a perfect right to learn the flute
if I like? It’s a free country!”
“You can’t come here.”
“Sorry, but I am consumed with a passion for the flute.”
“I absolutely forbid it.”
For sole answer Barnett snapped his fingers in the other’s face and
pushed past him into the house. No one dared bar his way. Béchoux, his
heart full of misgivings, watched him ascend the first flight of stairs
and vanish out of sight.
It must have taken Barnett only a little while to get started with his
teacher, for in ten minutes’ time wobbly scales on the flute began
floating down from the top floor. Mademoiselle Haveline’s pupil was on
the job!
“The scoundrel!” cried Béchoux, his anxiety increasing every minute.
“With him in the house, heaven help us!”
He set to work again madly. They ransacked the empty ground floor flat,
also the concierge’s room, in case the bundle of securities had been
thrown down somewhere. It was all fruitless. And the whole afternoon
the sound of flute practice went on, like a mocking goblin under the
eaves. Béchoux nearly collapsed beneath the strain.
At last, on the stroke of six, Barnett appeared, skipping down the
stairs and humming a ribald tune. And, as he went, he swung to and fro
a large cardboard box.
A cardboard box! Béchoux, with a strangled exclamation, seized it and
snatched off the lid. Out tumbled some old hat-shapes and bits of
moth-eaten fur.
“Since she is not allowed to leave the house,” Barnett explained
solemnly, “Mademoiselle Haveline has asked me to throw this stuff away
for her. I say, isn’t she a peach? And what a flautist! She thinks I am
full of talent and says that if I keep on at it I shall soon be able to
qualify for the post of blind man on the church steps. Ta, ta!” And he
was gone.
All night long, Béchoux and Gassire mounted guard, one inside and the
other outside the street door, in case the thief should try to throw a
parcel out of a window to an accomplice waiting below. And next day
they set to work again, but all in vain.
At three o’clock that afternoon Barnett was on the scene again,
carrying the empty cardboard box. He went straight upstairs, nodding
affably to poor Béchoux in the manner of one whose time is well and
fully occupied.
The flute lesson began. Scales, followed by exercises. The critical
listener would have detected plenty of wrong notes.
Suddenly all was quiet. The silence continued unbroken, until Béchoux
was thoroughly puzzled.
“What on earth can he be up to now?” he wondered, as he pictured
Barnett busy with those private researches which would assuredly
culminate in some extraordinary discovery.
He ran upstairs and stood listening on the landing. No sound came from
Mademoiselle Haveline’s room. But a man’s voice was distinctly audible
in the next door flatlet of Mademoiselle Legoffier, the typist.
“Barnett’s voice,” thought Béchoux, his curiosity now at white-heat.
Then, incapable of holding back any longer, he rang the bell.
“Come in!” called Barnett from within. “The key is in the lock
outside.”
Béchoux entered the room. Mademoiselle Legoffier, an attractive
brunette, was sitting at a table by her typewriter, taking shorthand at
Barnett’s dictation.
“The hunt is up, is it?” said the latter. “Carry on, old man. Nothing
up my sleeves”—he mimicked a conjurer—“and as for Mademoiselle
Legoffier——” That damsel blushed discreetly; her arms were bare to the
shoulder.
“Well,” Barnett continued, “I’m dictating my memoirs. You won’t mind if
I go on?”
And, while Béchoux peered under the furniture, he proceeded:
“That afternoon Inspector Béchoux dropped in while I was dictating my
memoirs to a charming young lady called Legoffier. She had been
recommended to me by her friend, the flautist. Béchoux searched high
and low for his Twelve Little Nigger Boys, who heartlessly persisted in
eluding him. Under the couch he collected three grains of dust; under
the wardrobe a shoe-heel and a hairpin. Inspector Béchoux never
overlooks the slightest detail. What a life!”
Béchoux stood up and shook his fist in Barnett’s face, volleying abuse.
The other went on dictating, and the detective departed in a fury.
A little later Barnett came down with his cardboard box. Béchoux, who
was keeping watch, had a moment’s hesitation. But his fears conquered
him and he opened the box, to find that it contained nothing but old
papers and rags.
Life became unbearable for the unhappy Béchoux. Barnett’s continued
presence, his quizzical attitude and freakish pranks threw the
detective into fresh fits of rage. Every day Barnett came to the house,
and after each flute lesson or shorthand séance, he would display his
cardboard box.
Béchoux did not know what to do. He had no doubt that the whole thing
was a farce and that Barnett was ragging him. All the same, there was
always the chance that this time Barnett really was spiriting away the
securities. Suppose he was kidnapping the Twelve Little Nigger Boys?
Suppose he was smuggling his haul out of the house?
Béchoux was forced to rummage in the box, empty it and run his hands
over its oddly assorted contents of torn clothing, rags, old feather
dusters, broom handles, ashes and potato peelings. And this made
Barnett roar with laughter.
“He’s found his shares! No, false alarm! He’s getting warm ... try that
lettuce leaf! Ah, Béchoux, what a lot of quiet fun you manage to give
me, bless you!”
This went on for a week. Béchoux lost the whole of his holiday over the
wretched business, and made himself the laughing-stock of the
neighborhood. For neither he nor Nicolas Gassire had been able to stop
the tenants from attending to their own affairs, even while allowing
their persons to be searched on exit and entrance. Gossip travelled
apace. Gassire’s misfortune became known. His terrified clients flocked
to the office and demanded the immediate return of their money.
As for Monsieur Touffémont, the ex-Cabinet Minister, who came under the
amateur surveillance four times a day, to his great annoyance and the
interruption of his customary routine, he was all for calling in the
police officially, and urged Gassire to take this course without
further delay. The situation could not be prolonged indefinitely.
At last things came to a head. Late one afternoon Gassire and Béchoux
heard sounds of violent quarreling coming from the top of the house.
Two high-pitched voices were raised in rival but continuous clamor, the
uproar punctuated by stamps and screams. It sounded most alarming.
The two men hurried upstairs. On the top landing Mademoiselle Haveline
and Mademoiselle Legoffier were doing battle. Standing over them like
an umpire was Jim Barnett!
Although quite unable to restrain the combatants, Barnett wore an
expression of genuine enjoyment. The girls continued to fly at each
other, their hair like that of Furies, and their frocks getting torn to
shreds. The air was thick with Parisienne invective!
After heroic efforts the pair was separated. The typist promptly went
into hysterics, and Barnett carried her into her flat, while the flute
teacher proceeded to expound her wrongs to Béchoux and Gassire on the
landing.
“Caught them together, I did,” shrilled Mademoiselle Haveline. “Barnett
was mine first, and then I caught him kissing her! I can tell you, he’s
up to no good, that Barnett. He’s a queer sort and no mistake. Why
don’t you ask him, Monsieur Béchoux, what his game’s been up here all
this week, questioning the two of us and poking his nose everywhere?
I’m going to give him away, though. He knows who the thief is. It’s the
concierge, Madame Alain. But he made us swear we wouldn’t let on to
you. Another thing, he knows where those securities are. Didn’t he tell
us: ‘The securities are in the house, and yet not in it, and they’re
out of it, and yet in it’? Those were his very words. You want to be
careful of him, Monsieur Béchoux!”
Jim Barnett had finished with the typist and now came forth. Taking
Mademoiselle Haveline by the shoulders, he pushed her firmly through
her own front door.
“Come along, professor mine, and no idle gossip, if you please! You’re
going right off the handle. Stop talking nonsense and stick to the
flute. I don’t want you playing in my band!”
Béchoux did not stay any longer. Mademoiselle Haveline’s sudden
revelation had shed a ray of light on the case. He now saw that the
thief must be Madame Alain. He only marveled that he could ever have
overlooked her guilt.
Spurred by his conviction, he rushed downstairs, followed by Nicolas
Gassire, and burst in upon the concierge.
“My Africans! Where are they? It was you who stole them!”
Nicolas Gassire panted at his heels.
“My securities! Where have you put them, you thief?”
They each took hold of the poor woman, shaking her violently and
overwhelming her with abuse and questions. She seemed quite dazed by it
all, but stuck bravely to her protestations of innocence and ignorance.
When at last they let her be, she retired to bed and passed a sleepless
night. Next morning the inquisition recommenced, and that day and its
successor were long hours of unrelieved ordeal for the poor woman.
Béchoux would not for a minute admit that Jim Barnett could have made a
mistake. Besides, in the light of this definite accusation, it was easy
to put the right construction on the facts of the case. The concierge,
while cleaning the flat, had doubtless noticed the unaccustomed bundle
on the table by the bed. She was the only person who had the key to the
flat. Knowing Monsieur Gassire’s regular habits, she might well have
returned to the flat, seized the securities, run off with them, and
taken refuge in the little room where Nicolas Gassire found her when he
rushed downstairs.
Béchoux began to get discouraged.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s obvious that this woman is the guilty party. But
still we’re no nearer a solution of the mystery. I don’t care if the
criminal is the concierge or the man in the moon. It makes no odds as
long as we are still without news of my Twelve Little Nigger Boys. I
can see that she had them in her room, but by what miracle did they
leave it between nine o’clock and the time we searched her belongings?”
All their threats, and the “third degree” cross-examination to which
she was subjected failed to make the fat Madame Alain disclose any
helpful information. She denied everything. She had seen nothing. She
knew nothing. Even though there was now no doubt of her guilt she stood
firm.
“We’ve simply got to settle this,” Gassire told Béchoux one morning.
“You know that Touffémont overthrew the Cabinet last night. The
reporters will be here any minute to interview him, and we can’t
possibly go searching them, too.”
Béchoux agreed that they had come to an impasse.
“But keep smiling,” he urged, “for within three hours I shall know the
truth.”
That afternoon he called at the Barnett Detective Agency.
“I was waiting for you to drop in, Béchoux,” said Barnett amicably.
“What do you want?”
“I want your coöperation, Barnett. I’m at a loss what to do.”
This was unvarnished admission of defeat. The inspector’s surrender was
unconditional. Béchoux was making the amende honorable.
Jim Barnett clapped him friendliwise on the back, then took him by the
shoulders and rocked him gently to and fro, by sheer geniality sparing
the other humiliation. This was no meeting of vanquished and victor.
Rather was it a scene of reconciliation between two comrades.
“To tell you the truth, Béchoux, I was awfully cut up about that
misunderstanding between us. I couldn’t bear to think of our being
enemies. It worried me till I could hardly sleep at nights!”
A frown clouded Béchoux’s brow. His professional conscience pricked him
sore for being on friendly terms with Barnett. He cursed the unkind
fate that forced him to collaborate with a man he felt sure was a
crook, and to incur obligations to the fellow into the bargain. But
there are moments and circumstances when even the just man stretches a
point. The loss of a dozen valuable African mining shares explained
Béchoux’s course of action.
Swallowing his scruples, he whispered:
“It’s the concierge, of course?”
“It is she for the reason, inter alia, that it could not be any one
else.”
“But how do you account for a woman who has always been honest and
respectable suddenly turning crook?”
“If you had troubled to make a few inquiries about her you would know
that the poor creature is afflicted with a son who is a thorough bad
hat. He is always sponging on her. It was on his account that she
suddenly gave way to temptation.”
Béchoux jumped up.
“Did she manage to give him my shares?” he asked anxiously.
“Of course not! Do you think I should have allowed a thing like that? I
regard your Twelve Little Nigger Boys as sacred.”
“Where are they, then?”
“In your own coat-pocket.”
“Please don’t joke about it.”
“But, Béchoux, I’m not joking. I never joke in times of stress. Look
for yourself!”
Béchoux’s hand went gingerly to his coat-pocket, felt in it and took
out a large envelope which bore the following superscription: “To my
friend Béchoux.” With trembling fingers he tore it open. Oh, joy, his
Nigger Boys were restored to him, all twelve! Clutching the precious
shares to his breast, he turned very pale and closed his eyes. Barnett
hastened to revive him with smelling salts held under the nose.
“Sniff hard, Béchoux. This is no time to faint.”
Béchoux did not faint, though he surreptitiously wiped away a few tears
of relief. He was inarticulate with emotion. Of course he had no doubt
but that Barnett had stuffed the envelope into his pocket the moment he
came into the Agency, while they were making up their differences. But
anyhow there were the Twelve Little Nigger Boys in his still trembling
hands, and Barnett’s virtue was for him untarnished.
Reviving suddenly, he began capering about, dancing a kind of Spanish
jig shaking imaginary castanets.
“I’ve got them back! My own little pickaninnies! Bless you, Barnett,
for a friend in need. From now on there is only one Barnett—Béchoux’s
preserver! You deserve a statue and a drinking fountain. You are one of
our truly great men. But how on earth did you bring it off? Tell me
all.”
Once again Barnett’s little way was a source of amazement to Inspector
Béchoux. His professional curiosity thoroughly aroused, he asked:
“Won’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Barnett’s tone was one of amused indolence.
“How you unravelled everything! Where was the bundle? ‘In the house yet
out of it,’ was what you said, I believe?”
“‘And out of the house but in it,’” added Barnett with a laugh.
“What does it mean?”
“D’you give it up?”
“Yes, yes; I give it up. I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Will you promise never again to take up that chilly and reproachful
attitude towards my harmless exploits, which almost convinces me at
times that I must have wandered from the straight and narrow path?”
“Go on, tell me, Barnett!”
“Ah,” exclaimed the other, “what a story! I’ve never come across
anything more neatly done, more unexpected, more spontaneous or more
baffling. It was at once human and fantastic. And withal so simple that
you, Béchoux, gifted as you are in your profession, were absolutely in
the dark.”
“Well, hang it all, come to the point,” said Béchoux in some annoyance.
“How did the bundle of securities leave the house?”
“Under your own eyes, my bright lad! And not only did it leave the
house, but it came in again. It left the house twice daily, and twice
daily it returned! And under your own eyes, Béchoux, under your bright,
benignant eyes! And for ten days you bowed to it respectfully. You
almost grovelled on your knees before it!”
“I don’t believe you!” cried Béchoux. “It’s absurd. We searched
everything.”
“Everything was searched, Béchoux, except that. Parcels, boxes,
handbags, pockets, hats, tins, dustbins ... all those, but not that. At
the frontier they search all luggage, except the diplomat’s valise.
Naturally, you searched everything but that.”
“What is that?” yelled Béchoux frenziedly. “For goodness sake, answer
me.”
“The portfolio of the ex-Cabinet Minister!”
Béchoux sprang up in astonishment.
“What do you mean, Barnett? Are you accusing Monsieur Touffémont?”
“Idiot, should I dare accuse a member of parliament? In the first
place, that man, an ex-Cabinet Minister, is above suspicion. And among
all members of parliament and ex-Cabinet Ministers—and Lord knows their
name is legion—I regard Touffémont as the least open to suspicion. All
the same, Madame Alain made him a receiver of stolen goods!”
“Then he was her accomplice?”
“Not a bit of it!”
“Then who was?”
“His portfolio!” And, with a broad smile, Barnett proceeded to
elucidate. “A minister’s portfolio, Béchoux, has a personality of its
own. In this world we have Monsieur Touffémont and we have his
portfolio. The two are inseparable, and each is the other’s raison
d’être. You can’t imagine Monsieur Touffémont minus his portfolio—nor
the portfolio minus Monsieur Touffémont. But it happens that Monsieur
Touffémont lays down his portfolio when he eats and sleeps, and on
various other occasions through the day. At such times the portfolio
assumes a separate identity and may lend itself to actions for which
Monsieur Touffémont cannot be held responsible.
“That was what happened on the morning of the theft.”
Béchoux stared at Barnett, wondering what on earth he was getting at.
“That was what happened,” Barnett repeated, “on the morning that your
twelve African mining shares vanished away. The concierge, terrified by
what she had done, and dreading the consequences of her action, could
not think how to get rid of the securities, which were bound to betray
her guilt. Suddenly she noticed the providential presence of Monsieur
Touffémont’s portfolio on her mantelpiece—the portfolio all by itself!
Monsieur Touffémont had come in there to collect his post. He put his
portfolio down on the mantelpiece and proceeded to open his letters,
while Gassire and you, Béchoux, were telling him about the
disappearance of the securities.
“Then Madame Alain had an inspiration of sheer genius. Her room had not
yet been searched, but it was bound to be ransacked in a little while,
and the securities would be discovered. She had no time to lose. She
turned her back on the three of you standing there discussing the
theft. With quick, deft fingers she opened the portfolio, emptied one
of the flap pockets of all its papers, and slipped the securities into
their place. The deed was done, the great bell rung. No one suspected
anything. And when Monsieur Touffémont withdrew, he took away in the
portfolio under his arm your Twelve Little Nigger Boys and all
Gassire’s securities.”
Béchoux never questioned Barnett’s asseverations when they were made on
that particular note of absolute conviction. Instead, he bowed his head
humbly in the Temple of Truth and believed what he was told.
“Certainly,” he said, “I noticed a sheaf of papers and reports lying
about down there that morning, but I paid no attention to it. And
surely she must have given those documents back to Monsieur
Touffémont?”
“I hardly think so,” answered Barnett. “Rather than incur any suspicion
she probably burned them.”
“But he must have asked after them?”
Barnett shook his head and smiled quietly.
“You mean to say he hasn’t noticed the disappearance of a whole sheaf
of his papers?”
“Has he noticed the appearance of the bundle of securities?”
“But—but what happened when he opened the portfolio?”
“He didn’t open it. He never opens it. Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio,
like that of many a politician, is only a sham—a dummy—a useful prop on
the parliamentary stage. If he had opened it he would have demanded the
return of his own papers, and restored the securities. He has done
neither.”
“But when he works....”
“He doesn’t work. The mere fact of a man’s carrying a portfolio does
not necessarily imply that he works. As a matter of fact, the
possession of an ex-minister’s portfolio is in itself a dispensation
from work. A portfolio stands for power, authority, omnipotence, and
omniscience. Last night, at the Chambre des Députés—I was there myself,
by the way—Monsieur Touffémont laid down his portfolio on the rostrum.
You can see that his doing this at such a crisis was tantamount to
announcing publicly that he was once again a candidate for office. The
Cabinet realized that it was lost. The great man’s portfolio must be
full of crushing documents crammed with statistics! Monsieur Touffémont
even undid it, though he took nothing from its bulging compartments. It
was so obvious that he had everything there.... But really, there was
nothing there except your twelve African mining shares, Gassire’s
securities and some old newspapers. They carried the day, however, and
Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio overthrew the Cabinet.”
“But how do you know all this?”
“Because, when Monsieur Touffémont was strolling home from the House at
one o’clock in the morning, a person unknown came into clumsy collision
with him and sent him sprawling on the pavement. Another man—an
accomplice—snatched up the portfolio and replaced the securities with a
bundle of old papers, carrying off the former. Need I tell you the name
of the second man?”
Béchoux laughed heartily. Every time his hand felt the twelve shares in
his pocket he was struck afresh with the humor of the story and of
Monsieur Touffémont’s little adventure.
Barnett, beaming on his friend, concluded:
“That’s all there is to know, and it was in my endeavor to ferret out
the truth and collect evidence in the case that I’ve dictated my
memoirs and taken lessons on the flute. What a pleasant week it’s been!
Flirtations up above and a variety entertainment on the ground floor.
Gassire, Béchoux, Madame Alain, Touffémont ... my own little
marionettes, dancing when I pulled the strings! The hardest nut I had
to crack was that Touffémont could actually be oblivious of his
portfolio’s guilty secret, and be taking your Twelve Little Nigger Boys
to and fro in blissful ignorance. At first it had me absolutely beat.
And how surprised the poor concierge must have been! She must think
Touffémont a common crook, since she certainly believes that he has
stuck to your Little Nigger Boys and the rest of the bundle. Fancy
Touffémont——”
“Hadn’t I better tell him?” broke in Béchoux.
“What’s the good? Let him go on carting his old newspapers about and
sleeping with the portfolio under his pillow. Don’t let on about this
to anyone, Béchoux.”
“Except Gassire, of course,” said Béchoux. “I shall have to explain to
him when I give him back his securities.”
“What securities?” asked Barnett blankly.
“The ones you found in Monsieur Touffémont’s portfolio—they’re his!”
“You must be crazy, Béchoux. You don’t suppose Gassire will ever see
his securities again?”
“Naturally I do.”
Barnett brought his fist down on the table and gave vent to a sudden
burst of righteous indignation.
“Look here, Béchoux, do you know what sort of man Nicolas Gassire is?
He’s a scoundrel like the concierge’s son! He robbed his clients—I can
prove it! He gambled with their money. He was even preparing to steal
the lot. Look, here is his first-class railway ticket to Brussels. He
bought it on the same day that he withdrew the securities from his safe
deposit, not to hand them over to another bank as he told you, but to
bolt with them! How do you feel about Nicolas Gassire now?”
Béchoux could say nothing. Ever since the theft of his shares his
confidence in Nicolas Gassire had been considerably shaken. Still, he
raised the obvious objection.
“His clients are all decent people. It’s not fair to ruin them as
well.”
“Who ever talked of ruining them? That would be disgraceful. It would
upset me terribly!”
Béchoux looked his interrogation.
“Gassire is rich,” observed Barnett.
“He’s broke,” contradicted Béchoux.
“Not at all. I have information that he has enough money to pay back
all his clients and then leave something over. You can be quite sure
that the reason he didn’t call in the police the very first day was
that he didn’t want them meddling in his private affairs. Threaten him
with imprisonment, and watch him skip! Why, Nicolas Gassire is a
millionaire. It’s up to him to right his client’s wrongs, no business
of mine!”
“Which means that you intend keeping the securities?”
“Certainly not! They’re already sold!”
“Yes, but you’ve got the cash.”
Barnett was virtuously indignant and protested that he had kept
nothing.
“I’m merely distributing it,” he declared.
“To whom?”
“To friends in distress and to various deserving charities which I
supply with funds. You needn’t worry, Béchoux. I’m making good use of
Gassire’s money.”
Béchoux did not doubt it. Yet another treasure-hunt in which the prize
was forfeit at the finish! Barnett, as usual, walked off with the
spoils. He punished the guilty and saved the innocent—and never forgot
to line his pockets in the process. Well-ordered charity invariably
begins at home.
Inspector Béchoux found himself blushing. If he made no protest, he
became Barnett’s accomplice. But, as he felt the precious bundle of
shares in his pocket, and realized that without Barnett’s intervention
he would have lost them for ever, he cooled down. It was hardly an
opportune moment to enter the lists!
“What’s up?” asked Barnett. “Aren’t you pleased?”
“Oh, rather,” said the luckless Béchoux hastily. “Delighted!”
“Then smile, smile, smile!”
Béchoux managed a grimace like a watery sunset.
“That’s better,” cried Barnett. “It’s been a pleasure to do you this
small service, and I thank you for giving me the opportunity. And now
it’s time for us to part. You must be very busy, and I’m expecting a
lady.”
“So long,” said Béchoux, and made for the door.
“To our next merry meeting,” answered Barnett.
Béchoux took his leave, delighted, indeed, but at loggerheads with his
conscience and firmly resolved to shun Barnett’s society henceforward.
As he turned the corner of the rue Laborde he noticed the pretty typist
from the Invalides hurrying along. Doubtless she was the lady Barnett
was expecting!
And, a couple of days later, Béchoux saw Barnett at the cinema,
accompanied by the equally charming Mademoiselle Haveline, who played
upon the flute....