Aichele had hoped his story would produce a reaction, but he was frankly stunned as M. St. Cloud’s mouth dropped open, and his face went completely pale.
“As you know,” Aichele continued, pretending not to notice the response, “the baron purchased View of Pont Neuf, the very same painting I wanted, for a mere ninety francs. He took no small pleasure in pointing this fact out to me, and that he considered it an amazing bargain. And if that were not enough, none other than Mme. Charles Beauchamp was in attendance at the very same dinner. You certainly know her, as well, since she bought Hotel de Ville at Dusk for an equally trifling sum.”
M. St. Cloud got up from his desk and stood facing Aichele, his arms folded and a scowl spreading across his face. Mrs. Poll, meanwhile, simply stared at Aichele in undisguised astonishment.
“I have two questions, monsieur,” Aichele went on, smiling broadly at M. St. Cloud. “First, please explain why two very rich individuals, both astute investors, have bought from you the work of a singularly unknown and undistinguished artist. Second, presuming there is method to this madness, how do I share in the adventure?”
M. St. Cloud bit grimly on his lower lip. Finally he said, “There is one painting left. I will sell it to you for five hundred francs.”
“Five hundred francs? After the baron paid only ninety for his?”
“Four hundred fifty.”
“Four hundred. Not a franc more. Plus I want a full explanation of just how my four hundred francs will grow, and how much it will grow into.”
“Agreed. A full answer to your question is, of course, impossible; however, I can...”
The front doors of the gallery flew open, and a squad of gendarmes rushed in, hurrying the length of the room toward M. St. Cloud. Even before he turned to look, Aichele knew what was happening, and he threw up his arms in frustration.
“You are M. St. Cloud?” demanded the leader of the squad, none other than Inspector Leroux, an ex-colleague of Aichele’s.
“I am.”
“You are under arrest for the murder of Marcel Sieurac. Take him away.”
Leroux did recognize Aichele and Mrs. Poll, although he was not yet aware of the true depth of the coincidence.
“I did not expect you so soon, Leroux,” Aichele said. “In fact, it was not you I expected at all. Since when do inspectors from the Prefecture investigate hangings in Montmartre?”
Leroux had learned never to be surprised at anything Aichele said or did. “I was in the Eighteenth on other business,” he answered, curtly.
“And that’s a lucky thing. Not many detectives would have come so quickly to the conclusion you have obviously reached concerning M. St. Cloud.”
“So it was the two of you who found the body. The concierge told me a man and woman had been there. You were obliged to remain at the scene, Aichele. You know that.”
“But, inspector, there was nothing we could do for M. Sieurac. And there was nothing I saw that would not be obvious to any competent detective. The chair was impossibly low for a suicide, the victim had suffered a blow to the head, and there was a violent argument between Sieurac and M. St. Cloud at about the time of the artist’s death. So you concluded M. St. Cloud murdered Sieurac. He knocked him unconscious and then hung the body by the neck in an inept attempt to disguise the whole thing as a suicide.”
Leroux had nothing to say. His men were waiting for him. “I will expect the two of you in my office to make a statement.” Then he added, suggesting he did not care if Aichele or Mrs. Poll ever came to his office, “At your leisure, of course.”
Outside, on Boulevard de Rochechouart, Aichele and Mrs. Poll watched as the last gendarme locked the gallery doors.
“Well,” Aichele said, “it seems like Mme. Sieurac’s suspicions were correct, and if it were not for Leroux’s impeccably bad timing, M. St. Cloud would have given us at least the beginning of an explanation. We do have the list of buyers, though, or at least whatever names on it we can think of. I remember the three who were underlined. Do you recall any of the others?”
“You intend to question them?”
“Absolutely. Greedy people are easily tricked, and I am sure that between the two of us we can devise a scenario in which they will speak freely.”
“I doubt that.”
“Oh?” Aichele was questioning the inexplicable smile on Mrs. Poll’s face, along with what she said.
“What we really ought to do is discuss the whole thing with M. St. Cloud’s accomplice,” she said.
“His accomplice? What makes you think he has an accomplice?”
“M. Aichele, when I stood there gawking at poor M. Sieurac, you felt no need to explain to me how you knew the police would go straight to M. St. Cloud and arrest him for murder. I, likewise, do not feel obliged to explain what I know to you.”
“Yes, but...”
“What is good enough for the goose is good enough for the gander.”
“All right. But goose or gander, the idea is to not be roasted and eaten.”
“No promises, monsieur.”
An hour later, and after Mrs. Poll stopped to inquire at a neighborhood bakery, she and Aichele stood at the door of an apartment on Rue Poultier, on the Ile St. Louis. It was an ordinary looking building on the outside, but the interior was ornate and luxurious.
Their knock was answered by M. Boucherot, who needed no introduction since Aichele recognized him from the opening.
“Good afternoon,” he said in a charming voice. He wore a black silk smoking jacket and was clearly flattered rather than annoyed at having strangers at his door. But he made no move to invite them in.
“Good afternoon, monsieur,” Mrs. Poll answered.
“And what may I do for you?”
“Marcel Sieurac is dead,” Mrs. Poll said.
“I know.” M. Boucherot was nothing if not an astute observer, and he recognized Mrs. Poll’s opening gambit as exactly that.
“They arrested M. St. Cloud and charged him with Sieurac’s murder,” she continued.
“I know that, too. The poor fellow sent me a rather desperate message from the Concergerie. Killing Sieurac was hardly necessary, but what’s done is done, n’est-ce pas? Are the two of you newspaper reporters?”
“No, monsieur,” Mrs. Poll said. Aichele stood silently as they had agreed he would do.
“Then who are you, if I may be so bold as to ask?”
“I am Mrs. Poll. This is Paul Aichele. We know that you and M. St. Cloud were swindling Sieurac.”
Boucherot smiled. “St. Cloud was swindling Sieurac, not I.”
“There is irrefutable evidence that you were involved.”
“Oh, of course. Only the police don’t have it, you and your companion here do. But you would be willing to turn it all over to me for a price, correct? Well, madame, I compliment you on your resourcefulness and your quickness. I doubt that Sieurac’s body has even cooled yet. But I am not interested in being blackmailed today, perhaps some other time. Now, if you will please excuse me, I have better things to do than stand here and chat.”
“We do have the evidence, monsieur.” Mrs. Poll’s icy seriousness kept M. Boucherot from closing the door. He waited to hear more.
“And it might, indeed, remain confidential.”
M. Boucherot chuckled with satisfaction. “All right, madame, tell me what your evidence is, and I will tell you what an avaricious fool you are, and we will be done with it.”
“You and M. St. Cloud have surreptitiously acquired a sizable collection of Marcel Sieurac’s work, at extraordinarily low prices. Your object is to sell them at extraordinarily high prices. Of course, there is presently no demand for these paintings, but luckily you are one of the most influential art critics in Paris, and in that capacity you can ‘discover’ Marcel Sieurac. With the proper timing, and perhaps with some assistance from others in the art world who might owe you a favor or two, a flurry of interest in Sieurac’s work can be stirred up. It will not last long, since the most effusive public praise cannot sustain mediocre work by itself. But before the bubble bursts, you will have sold your hoard of paintings at a tidy profit.”