A serious breach in the Béchoux-Barnett friendship seemed to have been
caused by the affair of the Old Dungeon at Mazurech, and the fleecing
of Georges Cazévon, so that when a taxi came to a halt in the rue
Laborde and Inspector Béchoux leapt from it and hurled himself into the
office of his friend, Jim Barnett, no one was more surprised than the
latter.
“This is indeed a pleasure,” he said, advancing with alacrity. “Our
last parting was rather in silence and tears, and I was afraid you were
feeling sore. And is there anything I can do for you in a small way
this merry morning?”
“There is.”
Barnett shook the inspector warmly by the hand.
“Splendid! But what’s up? You look positively apoplectic. Please don’t
burst in my office.”
“Kindly be serious, Barnett,” said poor Béchoux stiffly. “I’m working
on a most complicated case from which I particularly want to emerge
triumphant.”
“What’s it all about?”
“My wife,” said Béchoux, and there was anguish in his tone.
Barnett’s eyebrows shot up.
“Your wife?” he echoed. “Then you’re married?”
“Been divorced six years,” was the laconic answer.
“Incompatibility?”
“No. My wife found she had a vocation for the stage! The stage—I ask
you! Married to an inspector of police and she wanted to go on——”
Béchoux sneezed abruptly and violently, giving Barnett time to ask:
“Then she became an actress?”
“A singer.”
“At the Opéra?”
“No. The Folies Bergère. She’s Olga Vaubant.”
“What, not the lady who does the Acrobatic Arias? But she’s wonderful,
Béchoux. Olga Vaubant is a superb artiste. She has created a new art
form. Her latest number brings down the house. It’s sheer
genius—absolutely. You know, she stands on her head and sings:
“‘I’m in luck, I gotta boy
Fills his momma’s heart with joy—
Yes, you otta see my Jim!’
And she’s your wife!”
“Was,” said Béchoux shortly. “Well, I’m glad you like the lady’s
performance. I’ve just been honored with a note from her.”
He produced a sheet of rose-colored notepaper, with an embossed crimson
O in one corner. Scrawled in pencil and dated that very morning was the
following message:
“My bedroom suite has been stolen. Mother in a state of collapse. Come
at once.—Olga.”
“The moment I got this,” said Béchoux, “I telephoned the préfecture.
They had already been called in on the case, and I obtained permission
to collaborate with the men who are handling it.”
“Then why are you all of a dither?” asked Barnett.
“It’s—it’s because this will mean meeting her again,” said Béchoux,
ashamed and furious.
“Are you still in love with her?”
“Whenever I see her—it’s idiotic, but something comes over me—I can’t
help myself. I feel myself blushing like a schoolboy. My mouth goes dry
and I begin stammering. You must see, Barnett, that I can’t take charge
of the case like that. I should make a perfect fool of myself.”
“Whereas, what you want to do is to impress madame with the cool
dignity, the daring and resource that go to make Inspector Béchoux the
Pride of Paris Police?”
“Er—yes.”
“And you look to me to help you. Béchoux, you can count on me. Now tell
me, what sort of life does your ex-wife lead off the stage?”
Béchoux looked almost pained at the question.
“She is above suspicion and lives for her art alone. If it weren’t for
her profession, Olga would still be Madame Béchoux.”
“Which would be a nation’s loss,” pronounced Barnett solemnly,
gathering up hat and coat.
A few minutes later the two men came to one of the quietest, most
deserted streets near the Luxembourg. Olga Vaubant lived on the top
floor of an old-fashioned house whose bricks breathed respectability.
The ground-floor windows were heavily barred.
“Before we go any further,” said Béchoux, “I am going to suggest that
in this instance you refrain from playing your own hand and making a
dishonorable private profit out of the case, as you have unhappily been
known to do in the past.”
“My conscience ...” began Barnett, but Béchoux waved away the
objection.
“Never mind your conscience,” he said. “Think of the way mine has
pricked me whenever we’ve worked together!”
“You don’t think I’d rob your own ex-wife? Oh, Béchoux, how you wrong
me!”
“I don’t want you to rob anyone,” said Béchoux.
“Not even those who deserve it?”
“Leave Justice to take its course. Heaven has not appointed you as an
avenging angel.”
Barnett sighed.
“You are spoiling all my fun, Béchoux, but what you say goes.”
One policeman was on guard at the door, and another was with the
concierges—husband and wife—who were badly upset by what had happened.
Béchoux learned that the district superintendent and two headquarters’
men had just left after making a preliminary investigation.
“Now’s our chance,” said Béchoux to Barnett. “Let’s get a move on while
the coast is clear.”
As they went up the staircase he explained to his friend that the house
was run on old-fashioned lines, and the street door was kept shut.
“No one has a key, and everyone has to ring for admittance. A priest
lives on the first floor and a magistrate on the second. The concierge
acts as housekeeper to both of them. Olga has the top floor flat and
leads a most conventional existence, complete with her mother and two
old maidservants who have always been in the family.”
They knocked at the door of Olga Vaubant’s flat, and one of the maids
let them into the hall. Béchoux rapidly explained the position of the
rooms to Barnett—the passage on the right led to Olga’s bedroom and
boudoir, that on the left to her mother’s room and the servants’
quarters. Straight ahead was a studio fitted up as a gymnasium, with a
horizontal bar, a trapeze, rings, ropes and ribstalls. Strewn about the
place were Indian clubs, dumb-bells, foils, and so forth.
As the two men entered this vast room, something seemed to drop in a
heap at their feet from the sky-light. The heap resolved itself into a
slender, laughing boy, with a mop of untidy red hair framing the
delicate features of a charming face. Wide green eyes, tip-tilted nose,
slightly crooked mouth—all were unmistakable, and Barnett immediately
recognized in the pajama-clad “boy” the one and only Olga Vaubant. She
exclaimed at once in the Parisian drawl that has its parallel in the
Londoner’s cockney:
“Maman’s all right, Béchoux. Sleeping like a top, bless her. Lucky,
isn’t it?”
She made a sudden dive floorwards, stood on her hands and, with her
feet waving in the air, began singing in a husky, thrilling contralto:
“I’m in luck, I gotta boy,
Fills his momma’s heart with joy—
And believe me, Béchoux, you fill my heart with joy, too, old dear,”
she added, standing up. “You’re a real sport to have got here so soon.
Who’s the boy-friend?”
“Jim Barnett. He’s an old—acquaintance,” said Béchoux, vainly
attempting to control his twitching countenance.
“Fine,” said Olga. “Well let’s hope between the pair of you you’ll
solve the mystery and get back my bedroom suite. I leave it to you. Now
it’s my turn to do a bit of introducing,” as a bulky form hove up from
the far end of the studio. “May I present Del Prego, my gym instructor?
He’s masseur, make-up expert, and beauty doctor, and he’s the darling
of the chorus. Regular osteopath, he is, for dislocation and
rejuvenation! Say pretty to the gentlemen, Del Prego!”
Del Prego bowed low. He was a broad-shouldered, copper-skinned fellow,
genial of countenance and vaguely suggesting the clown in his
appearance. He wore a grey suit, with white spats and gloves, and held
a light-colored felt hat in his hands.
Immediately, gesticulating violently and speaking with a marked foreign
accent, he began to discourse on his method of “progressive
dislocation,” larding his outlandish French with phrases in Spanish,
English, and Russian. Olga cut him short.
“We’ve no time to waste. What do you want me to tell you, Béchoux?”
“First,” said Béchoux, “will you show us your bedroom?”
“Right! Half a mo’.” She sprang up in the air, caught on to the
trapeze, swung from that to the rings, and landed at a door in the wall
on the right.
“Here you are,” she told them, kicking it open.
The room was absolutely empty. Bed, chairs, curtains, mirrors, rugs,
dressing-table, ornaments, pictures—all gone. Furniture removers could
not have made a better job of it. The place was stripped.
Olga began to giggle helplessly.
“See that? Thorough, weren’t they? They even pinched my ivory toilet
set. Almost walked off with the floor-boards. Don’t you think it’s a
shame, Mr. Barnett?” she went on, addressing Jim, her eyes wider than
ever. “I’m a girl that’s real fond of good furniture. All pure Louis
Quinze it was, that I’d collected bit by bit—and they all had a
history, including a genuine Pompadour bed! Why, furnishing this room
cost me nearly everything I made on my American tour.”
Abruptly she broke off to turn a somersault, then tossed the hair off
her face and went on cheerfully:
“Oh, well, there’s plenty of good fish in the sea and I can replace all
that lot. I needn’t worry so long as I have my india rubber muscles and
my bee-yewtiful cracked voice.... What are you looking at me like that
for, Béchoux? Going to faint at my feet? Give us a kiss, and let’s get
on with any questions you want to ask before we have the rest of the
police force back on the scene.”
“Tell me exactly what happened,” said Béchoux.
“Oh, there isn’t much to tell,” answered Olga. “Let’s see, last night,
it had just gone half-past ten.... Oh, I should have told you, I left
here at eight with Del Prego, who escorted me to the Folies Bergère in
maman’s place.... Well, as I was saying, it had just gone the
half-hour, and maman was in her room knitting, when suddenly she heard
a faint sound like someone moving about in my room. She rushed along
the passage, and found two men taking my bed apart by the light of a
flash-lamp! The light was switched off at once, and one chap sprang at
her and knocked her down while the other flung a tablecloth over her
head. How’s that for assault and battery? Poor old maman! Then, if you
please, these two blighters calmly proceeded to remove the furniture
bit by bit, one of them carrying it downstairs, while the other stayed
in the room. Maman kept quiet and managed not to scream. After a while
she heard a big car starting up in the street outside, and then she was
so overcome with the strain that she fainted right off.”
“So that when you got back from the show——?” prompted Béchoux.
“I found the street door open, the flat door open, and maman lying
unconscious on the floor of my room. You could have knocked me down
with a feather!”
“What had the concierges to say?”
“You know them, Béchoux. Two old dears who’ve been here for thirty
years now. An earthquake wouldn’t rouse ’em. The only sound they ever
hear is the door-bell. Well, they swear by all their gods that no one
rang between ten o’clock, when they went to bed, and next morning.”
“Which means,” said Béchoux, “that they had no cause at any time during
the night to pull the string that opens the door.”
“You’ve said it.”
“Did the other tenants hear nothing?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Then the conclusion is——”
“How do you mean, conclusion?”
“Well, what do you make of it?”
Olga’s expression was one of wrath.
“Don’t be an idiot! It’s not my business to make anything of it. That’s
your job, Béchoux. In a moment you’ll have me thinking you as big a
fool as those policemen we’ve had all over the flat.”
“But,” faltered Béchoux, “we’re only beginning.”
“Can’t you get action with what I’ve told you, you boob? If that pal of
yours there isn’t any brighter than you, I can bid my Pompadour bed a
fond farewell!”
The “pal” at this point stepped forward and asked:
“On what particular day would you like your bed back, madame?”
“What’s that?” said Olga, staring at this stranger to whom, up to now,
she had paid but slight attention.
Barnett became glibly detailed.
“I should like to know the day and hour on which you desire to regain
possession of your Pompadour bed and of your furniture, etcetera.”
“Is this your idea of a joke?”
“Let’s fix the day,” said the imperturbable Barnett.
“To-day is Tuesday. Will next Tuesday be satisfactory?”
Olga’s eyes widened, and widened yet again. She could not make Barnett
out a bit. Suddenly she began to rock with mirth.
“You are a one, I must say! Where did you pick it up, Béchoux? Out of
the asylum? I must say your friend’s got a nerve. In a week, he says,
cool as you please. You might think the bed was in his pocket! You’ve
got another thing coming if you fancy I’m going to waste my time with
two mutts like you.” With a hand on the chest of each, she pushed them
vigorously into the hall. “Out you go, my lads, and you can stay out!
And don’t think I’m going to let myself be fooled by a couple of rotten
jokers!”
The studio door slammed violently on the two “rotten jokers,” and
Béchoux groaned aloud.
“And we’ve only been in the flat ten minutes!”
Barnett was calmly examining the hall. He then talked to one of the old
servants. After that, he went downstairs to the concierges’ quarters
and questioned the pair of them. He then hailed a passing taxi, giving
the driver his address in the rue Laborde. Inspector Béchoux, deserted
and aghast, stood forlornly on the pavement and watched the
disappearing chariot of his friend.
However much Jim Barnett held Inspector Béchoux spellbound, the latter
stood in even greater awe of the imperious Olga. He never dreamed of
doubting her assertion that Barnett had turned the whole thing off by
making a promise no one could take seriously.
This gloomy view of affairs was confirmed next day when he called at
the office in the rue Laborde and found Barnett lolling back in an
armchair, his feet upon his desk, smoking peacefully.
“Really, Barnett,” said Béchoux in exasperation, “if this is your idea
of getting down to things, we may as well give up the case. Back at the
house we’re all hopelessly at sea. We none of us know what to make of
it. We are agreed on certain points, of course. The main thing is, that
it’s a physical impossibility to enter the place, even using a skeleton
key, unless the door is opened from the inside. Since none of the
residents can be suspected of being concerned in the burglary, we are
driven to two unavoidable conclusions: first, that one of the thieves
had been in the house, concealed, since early in the evening, and this
man let in a confederate; second, that he could not have got inside
without being seen by one of the concierges, as the street door is
never left open. But who can have been in the house ready to admit the
other thief? That’s what floors us, and I don’t see how on earth we’re
going to find it out. Have you any theory, Barnett?”
But Barnett was silent, absorbed in blowing smoke-rings. Béchoux’s
words might have fallen on deaf ears, but he continued:
“We’ve made a list of people who called during that day—there weren’t
many—and the concierges are positive that every single one of them left
the house again. So you see we’re without a clue. We can easily
reconstruct the modus operandi of the crime, but its authors elude us.
What do you make of it all?”
Barnett gave a prodigious yawn, stretched his arms and legs till they
cracked, and then drawled:
“A perfect peach!”
“Wh-what’s that? Who’re you calling a peach?”
“Your ex-wife,” Barnett told the astonished Béchoux. “She’s as much of
a knock-out off the stage as she is on. So full of joie de vivre, so—so
electric! A regular gamine. Wonderful taste, too. I just can’t get over
the idea of her investing her earnings in that Pompadour bed! Béchoux,
you’re a lucky dog!”
“I lost my luck pretty quickly—only kept it a month!”
“A whole month? Then what are you grumbling at?”
Next Saturday saw Béchoux back at the Barnett Agency, trying to rouse
his torpid ally, but Barnett was wreathed in smoke and silence, and
Béchoux got no satisfaction.
On Monday he came in again, thoroughly depressed.
“It’s a mug’s game,” he averred, “the men on the job are utter idiots,
and all this time Olga’s bedroom suite is probably on its way to some
port or other for shipment abroad. It’s maddening! And what do you
suppose all this makes me look like to Olga—me, a police inspector, I
ask you? Why, she thinks I’m the most colossal ass that ever stepped.”
He glared at the imperturbable Barnett, absorbed in his eternal
smoke-rings, and let loose the full force of his fury.
“Here are we, up against an entirely new type of criminal—fighting men
who must be adepts in their own line—and there you sit, you—you
lotus-eater, and don’t lift a finger to help!”
“One quality in her,” said Barnett, musing aloud, “pleases me more than
all.”
“What?” shouted Béchoux.
“Her naturalness—her superb spontaneity. She is absolutely devoid of
anything theatrical, any pose. Olga says exactly what she means,
follows her instincts and lives according to impulse. Béchoux, she’s a
marvel!”
Béchoux brought his fist down on the desk with a bang.
“Would you like to know what she thinks of you? She thinks you’re a
D-U-D, dud! She and Del Prego can’t mention your name without hooting.
They speak of you as ‘That boob Barnett—that crazy bluffer’....”
Barnett heaved a sigh.
“Harsh words! How can I prove the cap doesn’t fit?”
“By ceasing to wear it,” suggested Béchoux grimly. “To-morrow is
Tuesday, and you’ve promised to produce that Pompadour bed!”
“Good lord, so I have!” said Barnett, as if realizing it for the first
time. “The trouble is, I haven’t the faintest idea where to look for
it! Be a sportsman, Béchoux, and ladle out a word of advice.”
“If you can lay hold of the thieves, they’ll know where to find the
bed.”
“It might be done,” said Barnett. “Got a warrant?”
Béchoux nodded.
“Right. Then telephone the préfecture to send two of their beefiest men
to-day to the Odéon Arcades, near the Luxembourg.”
Béchoux looked both surprised and irresolute.
“No fooling?”
“Absolutely not. Do you think I relish being thought a boob by Olga
Vaubant? And, anyway, don’t I always keep my promises?”
Béchoux thought hard for a moment. Something told him that Barnett
meant what he said, and that during the last week, while he had lolled
in his armchair, his brain had been alert and busy with the problem. He
remembered Barnett’s dictum that there were times when meditation
proved more profitable than investigation. Without further hesitation,
Béchoux took up the telephone and called up one, Albert, who was the
right-hand man of the chief. He arranged for two inspectors to be sent
to the Odéon.
Barnett heaved himself out of his chair, and the clock struck three as
the two men left the Agency.
“Are we going to Olga’s flat?” Béchoux asked.
“To that of the concierges,” Barnett told him.
When they arrived Barnett conversed in low tones with the concierges
and asked them to say nothing of his and Béchoux’s presence in the
house. They then stationed themselves in the rear of the concierges’
quarters, concealed behind a voluminous bed-curtain. By peering out at
each side, they could see anyone leave the house, or enter it when the
door was opened.
They saw the priest from the first floor pass. Then came one of Olga’s
old servants, carrying a market-basket.
“Who on earth are we waiting for?” whispered Béchoux. “What’s your
game?”
“To teach you your job! Now then, not another word!”
At half-past three Del Prego was admitted, resplendent in white gloves,
white spats, grey suit and grey Stetson. He waved a greeting to the
concierges and went up the stairs two at time. It was the hour for
Olga’s gym lesson.
Three-quarters of an hour later he left the house, returning shortly
with a packet of cigarettes he had gone out to buy. His white gloves
and spats flickered up the stairs.
Three other people came and went. Suddenly Béchoux hissed in Barnett’s
ear:
“Look, he’s coming in again for the third time. How on earth did he get
out?”
“By the door, I suppose.”
“Oh, surely not,” said Béchoux, albeit less authoritatively. “That is,
unless he caught us napping. Eh, Barnett?”
Barnett pushed back the curtain and answered:
“The time has come for action. Béchoux, go and pick up your beefy
friends.”
“And bring them here?”
“That’s the stuff.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going up aloft. When you get back, I want all three of you to
station yourselves on the landing of the second floor. You’ll get word
when to move.”
“Then it’s zero at last?”
“It is, and pretty stiff odds. Now, off you go, and make it snappy.”
Béchoux was off like the wind, while Barnett mounted to the third floor
and rang the flat bell. He was shown into the studio-gymnasium where
Olga was finishing her exercises under Del Prego’s supervision.
“Fancy that now, here’s that bright boy Barnett!” called Olga from the
top of a rope-ladder. “Our Mr. Barnett, the Man of Mystery!” She peered
at him from between her shapely legs. “Well, Mr. Barnett, I hope you’ve
got my Pompadour bed with you!”
“Almost, but not quite, madame. I hope I’m not in the way?”
“Not a bit.”
The incredible Olga continued her evolutions at Del Prego’s curt
commands. Her instructor alternately praised and criticised, and
occasionally gave a brief personal demonstration. He was himself a
trained acrobat, but vigorous rather than supple. He seemed out to
demonstrate his prodigious muscular strength.
The lesson came to an end, and, Del Prego put on his coat, fastened his
snowy spats, and gathered up his white gloves and ash-colored hat.
“See you to-night at the theatre, Madame Olga,” he said.
“Oh, aren’t you going to wait for me to-day, Del Prego? You might have
escorted me. You know maman is away.”
“Impossible, madame, I fear. Much as I regret, I fear I have another
appointment before dinner.”
He made for the door, but before he got there he was brought up short
by Jim Barnett, who stood in his way.
“A word with you, my friend,” said Barnett, “since chance has
obligingly brought us together.”
“I’m sorry, but really....”
“Must I, then, introduce myself afresh? Jim Barnett, private detective,
of the Barnett Agency—Inspector Béchoux’s friend.”
Del Prego took another step towards the door.
“A thousand apologies, Mr. Barnett, but I’m in rather a hurry.”
“Oh, I won’t keep you a moment. I only want to call to your
remembrance——” He paused dramatically.
“What?” snapped Del Prego.
“A certain Turk.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“A Turk called Ben-Vali.”
The professor’s face wore an expression of stony blankness.
“The name means nothing to me.”
“Then perhaps you may remember a certain Avernoff?”
“Never heard of him either. Who were they both, anyway?”
“Two—murderers.”
There was a brief, pregnant pause. Then Del Prego laughed noisily and
said:
“Scarcely a class among which I care to cultivate my friendships.”
“And yet,” pursued Barnett, “rumor persists in urging that you knew
both men well.”
Del Prego’s glance travelled like lightning up and down Barnett’s form.
Then he snarled, with scarcely a trace of foreign accent:
“What are you getting at? Cut out the mystery stuff. I don’t go in for
riddles.”
“Sit down, Signor Del Prego,” suggested Barnett. “We can chat more
comfortably sitting down!”
Del Prego was fuming with impatience. Olga had come up to them, full of
curiosity, looking like a bewitching boy in her gym kit.
“Do sit down, Del Prego,” she said, laying a hand on the professor’s
arm. “After all, it’s about my Pompadour bed.”
“Just so,” said Barnett. “And I can assure Signor Del Prego that I am
not asking a riddle. Only, on my very first visit here after the
robbery, I was forcibly reminded of two cases that made rather a
sensation some time ago. I should like his opinion on them. It’ll only
take a few minutes.”
Barnett’s attitude had subtly changed from one of deference to one of
authority. His tone was unmistakable in its note of command. Olga
Vaubant found herself feeling impressed by this strange man. Del Prego,
overborne, merely growled:
“Hurry up, then!”
Barnett began his story:
“Once upon a time—three years ago, to be precise—there lived in Paris a
jeweller called Saurois. He and his father shared a big top-floor flat.
This jeweller formed a business connection with a man named Ben-Vali.
The latter went about in a turban and full Turkish costumes, baggy
trousers and all, and traded in second-grade precious stones, such as
oriental topazes, irregular pearls, amethysts, and so forth. Well, one
evening, on a day when Ben-Vali had called several times at his flat,
Saurois came back from the theatre and found his father stabbed to
death, and all his jewels gone. The inquiry revealed that the crime had
been committed not by Ben-Vali himself—he produced an unshakable
alibi—but by someone he must have brought round in the afternoon. But
they never managed to lay hands on the assassin, nor on the Turk. The
case was shelved. Do you remember, now?”
“I’ve only been in Paris two years,” Del Prego parried swiftly. “And,
anyway, I don’t see the point....”
Jim Barnett went on:
“Nearly a year before that a similar crime took place. The victim in
this case was a collector of medals called Davoul. It was established
that the man who killed him was brought to his place and hidden by a
Count Avernoff, a Russian, who wore an astrakhan cap and a long
overcoat.”
“Why, I remember that,” exclaimed Olga Vaubant, who had turned suddenly
pale.
“I saw at once,” continued Barnett, “that between these two cases and
the burglary of your bedroom there existed not, perhaps, a very close
analogy, but a certain family resemblance. The robberies of Saurois the
jeweller and of Davoul the medal collector were both the work of a pair
of foreigners, and here again the method is identical. I mean, in each
case there was the introduction of an accomplice who was responsible
for the actual crime. The problem is—how were those accomplices
introduced? I own that at first this completely baffled me. For the
last few days I have been thrashing the solution out in silence and
solitude. Working with the two given quantities, so to speak, of the
Ben-Vali crime and the Avernoff crime, I set myself to reconstruct the
general scheme—the ‘constant’—of a crime-system that had probably been
applied in many other cases unknown to me.”
“And did you succeed?” asked Olga breathlessly.
“I did,” Barnett told her. “Frankly, the idea is superb. It’s the
highest form of art—a manifestation of creative genius, wholly original
in conception and execution. While the ordinary run of thieves and
gun-men work with great secrecy, disguising themselves sometimes as
plumbers or commercial travellers to gain entrance to a house, these
people keep full in the limelight, and do the job without any attempt
at concealment. The more observation they meet with, the better pleased
they are. The method is for one of them quite openly to enter a house
where he is already a frequent visitor, and his comings and goings are
familiar to the residents. Then, on a chosen day, he goes out ... and
comes in again ... and goes out once more ... and comes in yet again
... and then, while this man is in the house, another man comes in who
is so like the first man in appearance that no one spots the
difference! And there you have your accomplice introduced. The first
man leaves the house again, quite openly, and his accomplice remains
there concealed. Then, in the watches of the night, the first man
returns to the house, and is admitted by the accomplice. Ingenious,
isn’t it?”
Then, with a peculiar intensity in his tone, Barnett went on, now
directly to Del Prego:
“It’s genius, Del Prego, absolute genius. Ordinary crooks, as I said,
try to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible in their criminal
pursuits. They wear nondescript, neutral clothing, and do their best to
merge with their surroundings like creatures of the jungle. But the men
I’m telling you about realized that the great thing in their scheme was
to make a vivid and outstanding impression—to attract plenty of
attention. A Russian wearing a fur cap, or a Turk in baggy trousers is
a conspicuous and unusual figure. If such a man is habitually seen four
times a day going up and downstairs in a house, no one will notice
whether he comes in once oftener than he goes out. The point is,
though, that the fifth time he comes in, it’s the accomplice! And no
one suspects it. That’s how it’s done, and I take my hat off to the
inventor. It stands to reason that a man must be a master criminal to
evolve and apply such a method—the kind of arch-crook who only occurs
once in a generation. To me it is obvious that Ben-Vali and Count
Avernoff are the same person. From this, isn’t it only logical to
conclude that this man has materialized a third time, in yet another
guise, in the particular case which concerns us? He began by being a
Russian, later on he appeared as a Turk, and this time—well, who comes
here who, besides being a foreigner, dresses rather unusually?”
There was a dead silence. Olga put out a hand towards Barnett as if to
stop him from she hardly knew what. She had only just tumbled to what
he had been leading up to all this time, and the realization frightened
her.
“No, no!” she cried. “I won’t have you accusing people!”
Del Prego smiled blandly.
“Come, come, Madame Olga, don’t get upset. Mr. Barnett will have his
little joke.”
“That’s it, Del Prego,” said Barnett, “I will have my little joke.
You’re perfectly right not to take my yarn of mystery and adventure
seriously—that is, not until you know the finish. Of course, there’s
the obvious fact that you’re a foreigner, and that your get-up is
calculated to attract attention. White gloves ... white spats.... And,
of course, too, you’ve got one of those mobile, india rubber faces,
which could pretty easily turn you from a Russian into a Turk, and from
a Turk into a shady adventurer, nationality unspecified! And, of
course, you’re well known in this house, and business brings you here
several times a day. But, after all, your reputation for honesty is
unblemished, and you enjoy the patronage of no less a person than Olga
Vaubant. So no one would dream of accusing you.
“But what was I to think? You see my difficulty, don’t you? You were
the only possible suspect, and yet you were above suspicion. Isn’t that
so, madame?” He turned to Olga for confirmation.
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, eyes feverishly bright. “Then who are we to
suspect? How can we find out who did it?”
“Aha,” said Barnett, “that’s simple enough. I’ve set a trap for the
mystery mouse!”
“A trap? How could you do that?”
“Tell me, madame,” said Barnett, “Baron de Laureins telephoned you on
Saturday? I thought so. And yesterday he came to see you here?”
Olga nodded, full of wonder.
“And he brought you a chest full of silver, engraved with the Pompadour
crest?”
“That’s it,” said Olga, “on the table. But——”
Barnett cut her short. In the manner of a fortune-teller he continued:
“Baron de Laureins, who is very hard up, is trying to sell the silver
which is a family heirloom that has come down to him from the
d’Etoiles, and he has left it in your care until to-morrow.”
“How ... how do you know all this?” Olga was quite scared.
“I,” said Barnett, “and the Baron—very new noblesse! Have you displayed
the handsome silverware to your admiring friends?”
“Certainly.”
“And, on the other hand, I take it your mother has had a telegram from
the country, summoning her to the bedside of your ailing aunt?”
“How on earth do you know that?”
“I sent the telegram. Oh, believe me, I’m the whole works! So your
mother went off this morning, and the chest stays in this room till
to-morrow. What a temptation for the unknown friend who so cleverly
burgled your bedroom to get up to his tricks again and snaffle the
chest of silver. Much easier than a suite of furniture!”
Olga, now thoroughly alarmed, demanded:
“Will the attempt be made to-night?”
“Of course it will,” Barnett assured her.
“Oh, how awful!” she wailed.
Del Prego, who had listened to all this in silence, now got up.
“What’s so awful, madame?” he asked, with a faint sneer. “Forewarned is
forearmed. You have only to ring up the police. With your permission, I
will do so at once.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” protested Barnett. “I shall need you, Del Prego.”
“I fail to see in what way you can require my services.”
“Why, in helping to arrest the accomplice, of course!”
“Plenty of time for that, if the attempt is to be made to-night.”
“Yes, but do bear in mind,” urged Barnett gently but firmly, “that the
accomplice was, in each case, introduced beforehand!”
“You mean he’s already in the flat?” asked Del Prego.
“He’s been here for the last half-hour,” declared Barnett.
“Since I arrived, you mean?”
“Since you arrived the second time,” said Barnett quietly. “I saw him
as plainly as I see you now.”
“Then he’s hiding in the flat?”
Barnett pointed to the door.
“In the hall there’s a clothes cupboard which hasn’t been opened all
the afternoon. He’s in there.”
“But he couldn’t have got into the flat on his own!”
“Of course not.”
“Then who opened the door to him?”
“You, Del Prego.”
The brief statement was almost shockingly abrupt.
Even though from the beginning of the conversation Barnett’s remarks
had been obviously aimed at the gym instructor, becoming increasingly
plain in their import, yet this downright attack took Del Prego by
surprise. Rage, fear, and the determination to act swiftly were easily
discernible in his changed expression. Divining his adversary’s
perplexity, Barnett took advantage of it to run out into the hall. He
jerked a man out of the cupboard, and pushed him, struggling, before
him into the studio.
“Oh,” cried Olga, utterly taken aback, “then it’s true!”
The man was the same height as Del Prego. Like Del Prego he wore a grey
suit and white spats. He had much the same type of greasy, mobile
countenance.
“Milord has forgotten his hat and gloves,” said Barnett, and clapped an
ash-colored hat on the man’s head, at the same time handing him a pair
of white gloves.
Struck dumb with amazement, Olga drew slowly from the scene of action,
and, never shifting her gaze from the two men, proceeded to climb a
rope-ladder backwards. It had now fully dawned on her what kind of man
Del Prego was, and what frightful risks she had run during the time
spent in his company.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Barnett said, laughing. “Not as like as twins, of
course, but they’re the same height and have much the same sort of
physiog., and what with that and their dressing in duplicate, they
might be brothers!”
The two crooks were recovering from their confusion, and simultaneously
began to realize that, after all, they were only up against one man,
and that a poor-looking specimen, with apparently a wretched physique
under his shabby frock-coat.
Del Prego spluttered some words in a foreign language which Barnett
translated immediately.
“No use speaking Russian,” he observed, “to ask your friend if he’s got
a gun handy!”
Del Prego shook with rage and spoke again in a different language.
“Unluckily for you,” Barnett told him, “I know Turkish inside out.
Berlitz has nothing on me. Also, I think it only fair to tell you that
Béchoux—you know, Olga’s policeman husband that was—is waiting on the
stairs with two friends. If that gun goes off, they will break down the
door!”
Del Prego and the other man exchanged glances. They saw they were
cornered, but they were the sort that doesn’t give in without putting
up a stiff fight.
Without seeming to move, they drew imperceptibly closer to Barnett.
“Fine!” the latter told them genially. “You propose to set upon me and
finish me off at close quarters, do you? And when I’m done for, you’ll
try to elude Béchoux. Now then, madame, keep your eyes open and you’ll
see something! Tom Thumb and the two Giants! David and the twin
Goliaths! Get a move on, Del Prego. Brace up, now! Try springing at my
throat for a start!”
The distance between them had lessened again. The two men stood tense,
ready to hurl themselves on Barnett.
But Barnett most unexpectedly forestalled them. In a flash he had dived
to the floor, seized a leg of each and brought them crashing! Before
they had time to counter, the head of each was being ground into the
floor by an implacable, murderous hand. They gasped convulsively,
choking in Barnett’s vise-like grip. Their countenances took on a
purple tinge.
“Olga!” called Barnett with perfect calm, “be a good girl and open the
door and call Béchoux, will you?”
Olga dropped, monkey-like, from her ladder, and tottered rather than
ran out of the room, calling “Béchoux! Béchoux!”
A moment later she returned with the inspector, babbling excitedly to
him:
“He did it! Bowled them both over single-handed! I’d never have
believed it of him!”
“Behold,” said Barnett to Béchoux, “your two bright lads. Just slip the
bracelets on them so that I can let ’em come up for breath! You needn’t
worry about fixing them too tightly. They’ll come quietly, won’t you,
Del Prego? All lamb-like and pretty!”
He rose from the floor, gallantly kissed Olga’s hand, while she
regarded him in ever-growing wonder, and chortled gaily:
“How’s that for a haul, Béchoux? Two of the most cunning criminals in
Paris snared at last. Really, Del Prego, you must allow me to
congratulate you on your methods!”
He dug the professor playfully in the ribs, while the latter was
powerless, handcuffed to Béchoux, and continued jubilantly:
“My good man, you’re a genius. Why, when Béchoux and I were on the
watch downstairs, I, having tumbled to your trick, naturally saw that
it was not you the third time, but Béchoux, who didn’t know, soon
swallowed the bait and really thought the gentleman in white gloves,
white spats, grey hat and grey suit was the same Del Prego that he had
already seen pass several times. So Del Prego the Second was able to go
quietly upstairs, sneak through the door—which you had left ajar for
him—and hide in the hall cupboard. Exactly the same tactics as you
employed on the night when the bedroom suite disappeared into space.
You can’t deny it, Del Prego, you’re a genius!”
Barnett was by now bubbling over with sheer exuberance. With a flying
leap, he was astride the trapeze; in a moment he was twirling like a
top round and round an upright pole; he swung on to a rope, then to the
rings, then up the ladder he went, swaying like a sailor in the
rigging. The tails of his ancient frock-coat flapped stiffly,
disapprovingly behind him, the venerable garment seeming to protest
against these unseemly gambols.
Olga gave a little gasp as he unexpectedly landed at her feet, bowing
low.
“Feel my heart, madame; beating quite normally. And I’m not the least
bit out of breath. Don’t you wonder, Béchoux, how I keep in training?”
He snatched up the telephone and called a number.
“That the préfecture?... Extension two, please.... That you, Albert?
Béchoux speaking.... It doesn’t sound like my voice?... Well, I can’t
help that. Now then, listen. You can report that I have just arrested
two murderers who are wanted for the Olga Vaubant robbery.”
He hung up, and held out a hand to Béchoux.
“The laurels are all yours, old chap. Madame, it’s time I took my
leave. What’s up, Del Prego? You are not regarding me with that warm
affection I could desire!”
Del Prego was muttering furiously:
“There’s only one man alive who could get the better of me ... only
one....”
“Who’s that?”
“Arsène Lupin!”
Barnett laughed as though he would split.
“Bully for you, my boy. You ought to have been a Professor of
Psychology. And then you would never have got yourself into this
mix-up!”
He had another joyous spasm, bowed to Olga, and went off in a gale of
merriment, humming that catchy little tune:
“Yes, you otta see my Jim!”
Next day Del Prego, overwhelmed by the case against him, revealed the
whereabouts of the garage in the suburbs in which he had hidden Olga
Vaubant’s bedroom suite. This was on the Tuesday. Barnett had fulfilled
his promise.
Béchoux was sent out of Paris on a fresh case, and was away some days.
When he got back he found a note from Barnett.
“You must own that I have played strictly fair. There hasn’t been a sou
of profit for me in the whole business—none of the ‘pickings’ that have
distressed your gentle soul in the past. It is satisfaction for me to
know that I retain your friendship and respect!”
That afternoon Béchoux, who had made up his mind to part brass-rags
once and for all with Barnett, went along to the office in the rue
Laborde. The office was closed, and there was a notice on the door
which read:
“Closed on account of a sudden attachment.
Reopening after the honeymoon trip.”
“And what the hell may that mean?” muttered Béchoux, smitten with
sudden vague anxiety. He rushed off to Olga’s flat. It was shut up. He
rushed on to the Folies Bergère. There he was told that the star had
paid a large forfeit to break her contract and had gone off on holiday.
“Nom d’un Nom d’un Nom!” spluttered Béchoux when he got out in the
street. “Is it possible?... Instead of collaring some cash, can he have
used his triumph to ... can he have dared to....”
The cloud of suspicion grew bigger and blacker. Béchoux became frantic.
How was he to learn the truth? Or rather, what course could he take
that would keep the truth from him, and save him from appalling
certainty in place of his suspicion?
But Barnett was not the man to leave his victim in peace. At intervals
the unlucky Béchoux was the recipient of highly colored post-cards,
scrawled with even more lurid legends:
“Oh, Béchoux! One moonlight night in Rome!”
“Béchoux, next time you’re in love, bring her to Sicily!”
And from Venice: “If you were here, Béchoux, I should have to stop you
jumping in a canal!”
“I will never forgive him this, never! He has outraged me past hope of
pardon! Next time I will have my revenge!”
And, like a mocking echo, he seemed to hear Olga’s husky tones:
“I’m in luck, I gotta boy
Fills his momma’s heart with joy.
Yes, you otta see my Jim!”
X