“I am Pierre!” he announced.
“Who else?”
“Inside!” The kitchen knife hacked off a piece of tie.
“Your knife is a trifle vulgar and out of style,” I told him as I backed into the room.
“Everybody is a critic!” he snarled. “I spit on them! I care nothing for style. I paint what I feel!”
“Very laudable. And what do you feel?”
“Right now I feel like painting with blood. Your blood. And Françoise’s. Where is she?”
“In the closet,” I told him honestly. I was beginning to understand the psychology of Pierres.
“Really?” He proved my point. “Then how do you explain that?” His outstretched arm pointed dramatically at the feet of Françoise the prostitute sticking out from beneath the drapes.
“Poor workmanship,” I told him. “They’re supposed to be floor-length.”
“We shall see!” He stalked over to the drapes like a hound dog who’s cornered a fox. Delicately, he pushed the drapery aside with the tip of his kitchen-knife. The nipple and half of one of the breasts belonging to Françoise the prostitute appeared. “As I thought!” he sneered. “It is my Françoise!"
Man! Talk about ego! Two Pierres had already flunked out on bosoms, and now this Gallic beatnik was all set to stick a label on only half of one mammary. “What makes you so sure?” I couldn’t help goading him.
“I have painted this breast a thousand times. I would know it anywhere.”
“You wouldn’t like to bet on that, would you?”
“We already have a bet, M’sieur. Your life against my apologies.”
“You lose!” Françoise the prostitute stepped forth with a giggle.
“My apologies, M’sieur." Pierre the artist retreated in confusion. “I would have staked my canvas—”
“Forget it,” I told him. “Don’t go away embarrassed. Just go away.”
“Of course.” He fairly slunk out of the room.
“Look,” Françoise the prostitute said, “are you going to make love to me or not? I haven’t got all night, you know.”
“We’d never make it,” I told her. “There’s an express Pierre due on the northbound track any second now.”
“M’sieur?”
“Forget it. I’m probably wrong, anyway. Now that I think of it, all the Pierres are accounted for. Yep, three and three. Unless there’s a Françoise Laval hiding in the ice-box, we’ve used up the Pierre supply for the evening.”
“Whatever are you talking about, M’sieur?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a little joke between me and Lewis Carroll. See what I mean, Alice?”
“My name is Françoise. Françoise Laval.”
“Of course it is. And a highly original name it is, too. Now, Françoise Laval, let’s just get down to the business of --”
“So you found her, Signor Victor!”
I whirled around to find Luigi Tortorizzi standing in the doorway.
“You didn’t even knock!” I protested. “Everybody else did.”
“So sorry. The door was opened, and so Vito and I just came in.” Vito stepped out from behind him and pointed a revolver at my groin.
“And your name’s not even Pierre!” I grumbled. “Are you sure you haven’t gotten your nights mixed?”
“We are sure, Signor Victor.” Luigi flashed his white teeth at me in a humorless smile. “I would say we picked exactly the right night. And the most propitious moment, as well. Just in time to relieve you of the responsibility of Françoise Laval.” He turned to Françoise the prostitute. “Please get dressed, Signorina.”
She shrugged, fished her clothes out from under the bed, and did as he asked.
“Vito, will you escort the Signorina to the car we have waiting?” Luigi instructed.
“Say, what is all this?” Françoise the prostitute wanted to know.
“Have no fear, Signorina,” Luigi assured her. “No harm will come to you. And you will be paid for your time.”
“I’d feel a little less afraid if the two of you weren’t waving those guns around,” she observed. Then, with a sigh, she accompanied Vito from the room.
“And now, Signor Victor," Luigi said when they were gone, “I shall take the greatest pleasure in concluding my business with you.” The click of the safety being released on the revolver he was hefting sounded ominously loud in the room.
“Why hold grudges, Luigi?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“Oh, I don’t, Signor Victor. But my bladder does. I’m afraid it still hasn’t gotten over that traumatic plane trip. So inconsiderate of you. My bladder doesn’t forget. And, alas, it is very vindictive.” His finger squeezed the trigger.
But it squeezed a moment too late. His attempt at humor had cost him his advantage. Unseen by him, Lucky Pierre had appeared in the doorway just in time to see what was happening. The tough little kid sprang at Luigi an instant before the Mafia killer fired. He was just quick enough to deflect the shot, and an instant later his teeth were sinking into Luigi’s gun-hand.
I sprang to Lucky Pierre’s aid, but I wasn’t quite fast enough. Luigi wrenched free of him, sent the boy hurtling toward me, and sprinted from the room. By the time I had untangled myself from the urchin, it was too late to catch him.
“Merde! They’ve made off with Françoise Laval. And after all the trouble I had getting her!” Lucky Pierre was disconsolate.
“Well, there’s plenty more where she came from,” I comforted him.
“You don’t understand, M’sieur Victor. It was very diffcult to persuade her to leave what she was doing and come up here to see you. There were many complications, and I was quite proud of myself for having overcome them.”
“And justly proud, I’m sure,” I soothed him.
“Oui. The first I knew of her was when I ran into this pimp, a brute mountain of a man—--Pierre by name—who was on the rampage because his only woman, his sole support, had run away from him. Seems she finally got fed up with his using her for a punching bag. He couldn’t understand it, poor dimwit. ‘She never complained before’, he told me. ‘I always thought she liked it.’ Still, he was more furious with her than puzzled.”
“I‘ve had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman,” I told the lad. “I’m afraid all my sympathies are with the lady.”
“Oui? Well, you‘re’an American. You don’t really understand women. Anyway, when he told me her name and described her, I got really interested. And when he mentioned the fact that she’d run off from him once before and gone so far as to leave France, I thought to myself that this might well be the Françoise Laval you are seeking, M’sieur Victor. So I made some discreet inquiries and learned that she was hiding out at the establishment run by Madam Harry.”
“Madam Harry? You’ve got to be kidding!”
“No. That is what they call her -- him-—it.”
“Don’t get hung up on the gender,” I advised him. “Go on with your story.”
“Oui. Well, Françoise Laval went to work in the circus there and—”
“The circus?"
“Oui. Madam Harry puts on one of the finest exhibitions in Paris.”
“Oh. That kind of a circus.”
“That’s right. Now, Françoise’s particular act in this circus is to make love with a Belgian shepherd police dog.”
“Why not a German shepherd?”
“C’est la guerre. We French have still not forgiven the Boche. A German shepherd would be an atrocity. A Belgian shepherd provides merely one more bizarre act to watch in a circus filled with such acts."
“I see. Go ahead.”
“Well, M’sieur, I watched Françoise’s act. Rarely have I seen two performers enjoy their work to such an extent. When it was over, the dog practically purred. And Françoise’s satisfaction was a testimonial to the breed. It was then that she did something which clinched the fact that I had to send her to you.”