“What did she do?”
“She combed and brushed the dog. And then the dog took the comb in his teeth and brushed her hair—the hair on her head, and the lower patch as well. So, as soon as the show was over, I sought her out and persuaded her to come to see you directly. It wasn’t easy, M’sieur. She has become very attached to that dog, and she wanted to bring him with her. But I convinced her that you would pay her well.”
“Fine. Except that you forgot one small detail,” I told him. “You got your timing a little fouled up. You forgot that I already had one Françoise Laval scheduled for eleven tonight.”
“The stripper!” Lucky Pierre slapped one small hand to his forehead. “How could I have been so stupid? A thousand pardons, M’sieur Victor. I hope having the two of them here didn’t ruin things.”
“Well, it did complicate them. Plus the fact that I had three to contend with, not two. The model picked the same time to show up.”
“But where are they?” Lucky Pierre looked around in puzzlement.
“One’s in the closet. One’s in the bathroom,” I told him. “And one’s flown the coop with the opposition. With my luck, she’s probably the one I’m looking for.”
As if to prove I wasn’t exaggerating, both girls chose that moment to come out of hiding. Lucky Pierre looked impressed as they entered, both still naked. He counted off three fingers, shook his head, looked at me with admiration and murmured, “C’est magnifique!”
“I have to get back to the Naughty Nude, chéri,” Françoise Laval the stripper told me. “It has been most stimulating around here, but we shall have to postpone our assignation for another time.”
“I too must leave, M‘sieur,” Françoise the model announced. “If I do not return soon, my Pierre will brood. He becomes so deeply depressed when I am not there that I am afraid he may harm himself. You know how artists are.”
“Now wait a minute!” I barred the door. “Neither one of you is leaving until we get this settled!”
“Get what settled?” they chorused.
“Just who is the real Françoise Laval!”
“I am!” they sang out together.
“The one who left,” Lucky Pierre chimed in just to complicate matters further.
“Now hold it. Hold it,” I said. “There’s quite a bit of money at stake here, and -”
“Money!” All three of them loosed a hosanna. “What money?”
“A million. Probably more.”
“In dollars?” Lucky Pierre stayed the practical businessman.
“Yes, in dollars.”
All three of them sat down. Suddenly the two girls weren’t in such a hurry to leave anymore.
“It’s a legacy,” I explained. “And it goes to the one who can prove she’s the Françoise Laval named in the will of a London bordello owner named Brigitte Kelly.”
“Brigitte Kelly!” both girls exclaimed. “I knew her well.”
“And so did the Françoise Laval who left,” Lucky Pierre insisted. It was obvious that his brain was working overtime to figure a way of cutting himself in if his candidate was the lucky one.
“We’ll see,” I told them. “It’s very simple for the right Françoise Laval to identify herself. All she has to do is tell me the names of the two girls with whom she went to Rome.”
“That lets out my Françoise Laval,” Lucky Pierre sighed. “When she left Paris she went to Brussels. Nowhere else. She mentioned that when she was telling me about her dog.”
“It’s a nice try, but I lose,” Françoise Laval the stripper admitted. “I’ve never been to Rome, either. And I guess there’s no point in my inventing a couple of names.
We all looked at Françoise Laval the model.
“Barbara Thomas and Gina Moretti,” she said positively. “I am the Françoise Laval you are seeking, M’sieur.”
“Then we have a lot to talk about,” I told her.
“But not tonight,” she said. “I really must get back to my Pierre.” She stood up to leave.
“That’s a pretty cavalier attitude to take toward so much money,” I told her.
“Perhaps. But Pierre says money has no importance anyway.”
“Your Pierre sounds downright un-French!” Lucky Pierre told her. “What kind of an inspiration is that for the youth of our nation?”
“Easy, boy.” I calmed him down. “How can I get in touch with you?” I asked Françoise.
“You can’t. Pierre would have a fit. I will contact you.”
“Make it tomorrow, will you?”
“I will try.”
On that note, the three of them left. It was the last I was to see of Françoise Laval the stripper. Lucky Pierre was seeing Françoise the model back to the garret she shared with Pierre the artist. He had shifted allegiance quickly once the identification was positive. His little child’s mind hadn’t quite figured out the angle yet, but he was going to stick as close to her as possible until it did.
As for myself, I went to bed. I slept like a log and didn’t get up until almost noon. Then I had some breakfast sent up. I didn’t want to leave my quarters for fear I’d miss the call from the bona-fide Françoise.
It was almost three o’clock when the phone finally rang. But it wasn’t Françoise. It was Albert Smythe Tarleton of Dombey of Dover, and his voice was urgent. “I have to see you right away.” He named a cafe in the working class district of Paris. “I’ll be dressed like a dock-worker and waiting for you,” he told me. “Just wear a shirt and pants. You don't want to be conspicuous.”
I joined him within the hour. My hat was off to him. He looked the part all right. Nobody would have taken him for an upper-class Englishman.
“It is imperative that you find Barbara Thomas as quick1y as possible, Mr. Victor.” He came straight to the point.
“Why so much more imperative now than before? What’s happened?" I asked him.
“Because if the Mafia gets to her first they may end up with the entire inheritance. You see, Gina Moretti has waived her claim.”
“I know that.”
“Yes. But what you don’t know, Mr. Victor, is that the Mafia has nailed down Françoise Laval. One of their agents married her this morning. That means that they’ll see to it that she too relinquishes her claim. That leaves only Barbara Thomas between the legacy and Brigitte Kelly’s uncle, which is to say the Mafia.”
“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Who married Françoise Laval? And which Françoise Laval did he marry? And how do you know all this?”
“With the Mafia hampering our investigation, Dombey of Dover took the precaution of keeping tabs on their men after their arrival in Paris. They were followed to your place last night where, as you know, they made off with Françoise Laval. This morning one of them married her.”
His voice turned sharp. “What are you laughing about, Mr. Victor? This is no laughing matter!”
“I only hope it was Luigi who married her,” I gasped, managing to control my mirth.
“No. It was his partner. The one they call Vito.”
“Too bad.” I chuckled again. “And they didn’t even ask me to the wedding!”
“Will you please explain this levity, Mr. Victor?”
“Sure. They snatched the wrong one. The Françoise Laval that Vito married is not Françoise Laval the heiress.”
“You’re sure of that?"
“Positive. I’ve located the real Françoise Laval, and I should be seeing her soon. I’m hoping she’ll be able to give me a lead on Barbara Thomas.”
“Then I am greatly relieved, Mr. Victor.” He got to his feet. “I will be in contact with you.”
I watched him walk off down the street. He was about a half-block away from the cafe when the lorry started for him. It was a large truck, and from the way it shot away from the curb I would have guessed the driver had his foot down to the floorboard. Tarleton tried to get out of the way, but it happened too fast. The right fender caught him solidly and sent him flying a good twenty feet.