With that reflection Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation of concern escaped him. Lying on the ground by the side of the bench was a small oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the solicitude of a chemist’s counter. It could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it had evidently fallen out of the youth’s overcoat pocket when he flung himself down onto the seat.
In another moment Gortsby was scudding along the dusk-shrouded path in anxious quest for a youthful figure in a light overcoat. He had nearly given up the search when he caught sight of the object of his pursuit standing irresolutely on the border of the carriage drive, evidently uncertain whether to strike out across the Park or make for the bustling pavements of Knightsbridge.
He turned round sharply with an air of defensive hostility when he found Gortsby hailing him.
“The important witness to the genuineness of your story has turned up,” said Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap. “It must have slid out of your overcoat pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on the ground after you left. You must excuse my disbelief, but appearances were really rather against you, and now, as I appealed to the testimony of the soap I think I ought to abide by its verdict. If the loan of a sovereign is any good to you—”
The young man hastily removed all doubt on the subject by pocketing the coin.
“Here is my card with my address,” continued Gortsby. “Any day this week will do for returning the money, and here is the soap — don’t lose it again; it’s been a good friend to you.”
“Lucky thing your finding it,” said the youth, and then, with a catch in his voice, he blurted out a word or two of thanks and fled headlong in the direction of Knightsbridge.
“Poor boy, he nearly broke down,” said Gortsby to himself. “I don’t wonder either; the relief from his quandary must have been acute. It’s a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging only by circumstantial evidence.”
As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little drama had taken place he saw an elderly gentleman poking and peering beneath it and on all sides of it, and recognized his earlier fellow occupant.
“Have you lost anything, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, a cake of soap.”
James Powell
The Friends of Hector Jouvet
This is the 296th “first story” to be published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine... a charming story, a “gay, carefree, light-hearted” story, with wonderful touches of humor and insight...
The author, fames Powell, is a Canadian in his early thirties. Following graduation from the University of Toronto, he studied and taught in France for three years. Then he worked several years for a New York publisher and for a newspaper in the midwest. At the time he wrote his first-published story, it was a sort of breathing spell, a change of pace, from his work on a first novel.
We certainly look forward to another deeply chuckling and gently ironic story by Mr. Powell...
The old man came up the path that sloped between the benches and flowerbeds, but he stopped short of the edge of the cliff where Brown stood waiting. Instead, he sat down on a bench a few yards away, drew a folded newspaper from his coat pocket, and began to read.
Brown hesitated. His French wasn’t really that good and for a moment he couldn’t think of the verb “to follow.” When he remembered, his chin started to tremble, and throwing his cigarette over the edge he went up to the old man.
“Why are you following me? Is it good to follow people? I do not like being followed. Do you like being followed?” These were all the forms of the verb Brown could muster and rather than start over again, he stopped.
The old man, who had been listening attentively, slipped the newspaper back in his pocket and smiled. “I am afraid you are mistaken, young man. I am not following you.” His English was meticulous and the quiet conviction of his words told Brown it was the truth.
“Oh,” said Brown, and stepped back in confusion.
“Actually,” said the old man, as if to cover the other’s embarrassment, “I come here quite often. The sea is blue; the rocks are white. I have always thought that this would be the ideal place for a visitor like yourself to see our gay, carefree little principality for the first time. Regrettably that is impossible, for to come upon this prospect first, one would have to scale the cliff.”
“Maybe a good place to see San Sebastiano for the last time, then,” said Brown with a half smile.
“Ah, you are leaving us?” asked the old man sadly. “Well, I hope you have seen more of our happy, light-hearted city than the inside of the Casino.”
“I guess that was about as far as I got,” admitted Brown.
“But that is terrible, terrible,” said the old man, throwing up his hands in mock horror. “But all is not lost and if you will permit me I can still point out a few highlights from here.”
He led Brown back to the edge of the cliff. “Below us, of course, is the harbor and over there, the romantic old quarter. Its reputation is exaggerated, I assure you. Our women are not promiscuous; songs have been written about that. On the left you have our celebrated Reptile Museum founded by Prince Adalbert, an ardent herpetologist and the grandfather of our present prince. My father had many stories of the misadventures of the good Prince Adalbert who prowled the streets of San Sebastiano at all hours hunting snakes with his forked stick, returning the salutes of the policemen and chatting quietly to himself.
“And there, behind the Cathedral, you can see the roof of the Casino into which, you are perhaps aware, the citizens of the principality are not allowed to enter. That is quite appropriate. A good host does not laugh at his own jokes.”
Brown took a wrist watch out of his pocket, looked at it, and put it back.
“Am I keeping you? I hope not,” said the old man. “Actually I cannot stay much longer myself. I must see a friend off on the train — the 4:45.”
“You don’t have much time,” warned Brown.
“Enough for a bit more of our history,” said the old man, leading Brown back to the bench. “Were you aware, for example, that our mineral waters were held in high esteem as early as the days of the Romans? One might wonder why, since it is quite sulphurous and abominable. Perhaps they had more horrible diseases in classical times than we do today.
“Within the memory of my grandfather, the elderly and infirm flocked to San Sebastiano to take our waters. They sat on park benches and scowled at our pigeons; they let themselves be pushed along our promenades in wicker chairs; they pulled wry faces and sucked at our mineral waters. But we were more than a spa. We were renowned for personal sobriety and dignified compassion toward those who frequented our life-giving waters.
“Yes, believe it or not, the gay, carefree people of today’s San Sebastiano were all that. In the generation preceding the Franco-Prussian War acute depression of the liver was fashionable and our waters were highly recommended. Those were the fat years for us, years of building, and as it later turned out, of overbuilding. For with the close of the War an epidemic of disorders of the spleen swept across France and non-Germanic Europe. Less carbonated waters came into style and almost overnight our little city was as deserted and forlorn as an overgrown cemetery. Today one is at the top, tomorrow at the bottom.”
Brown’s mouth worked soundlessly. Then he said, “Life is a real double-crosser.”