signed all her statements, called a cab, and vanished without a word—a habit of hers, as I was to learn.
But Elsie Short was not a girl for the vie silencieuse. On Tuesday she telephoned me three times to see if I had liberated the duck. On Wednesday she called twice and slammed down the phone both times when I said they were still behind bars. Mrs. McCormick had also left an ominous message with Kospoth on Tuesday—She required her parrots no later than Thursday evening at six. If Keats couldn't do this simple errand for her, Bertie would not be pleased.
I had tried my best, of course. I had written and called Soupel. I had reached an assistant consul at the American embassy, who laughed and hung up the telephone. And on Wednesday there had also been a nicely written (if I say so myself) item in the Tribune :
M. Patrice Bassot, 72 years old, a native of Grenoble and dealer in automates and curiosities, was found dead in his shop on the rue Bonaparte late Monday night. Police questioned two American witnesses who discovered the body and have concluded that it was a case of robbery gone bad. Inspector Serge Soupel of the Préfecture tells the Tribune that M. Bassot had recently sold his shop and was planning to return to Grenoble. Thieves apparently tried to take advantage of the victim's age and frailty. When Bassot resisted, Inspector Soupel surmises, he was struck a fatal blow. The Préfecture of Police, he added, has committed its full resources to the investigation. Given M. Soupel's formidable reputation as one of Paris's outstanding crime fighters, the Tribune feels confident of his success.
On the theory of catching more flies with honey, I had sent Soupel three copies of the paper with his name underlined. In return, at Thursday noon he had sent me a handwritten note granting
amnesty to the duck. Not counting the Colonel's rocket from Chicago, this was one of two notes I had received that day.
At the corner of rue Saulnier I looked back at Major Cross, who was still at our table under the arcade, writing in his notebook.
I felt in my pocket and pulled out another slip of paper. This was on plain white paper, not buff vellum, and the handwriting was as round and curved and feminine as a goblet: "Dear Mr. Toby Keats," Elsie Short had written. "If you have finally rescued my duck, which you should not have had in the first place, from the obtuse police, you may bring it to this address today. After seeing your apartment, I will add that admission to the talk is free, since you probably couldn't afford to buy a ticket."
Enclosed was a card with an engraved invitation:
THE AMERICAN WOMEN'S CLUB OF PARIS
announces
a special Christmas presentation
by Miss Elsie Short, Ph.D.:
'Adventures of a Doll Hunter'
Conservatoire des Arts et Metiers,
December 10, 1926, 5–6 P.M.
I looked at my watch. Four-fifteen. Plenty of time to pick up my three birds of Christmas and deliver the duck to Elsie, I thought, and I set out walking quickly toward Soupel's office on the quai des Orfèvres.
If there hadn't been a concert at Notre Dame that afternoon, and several thousand exiting concertgoers blocking my way on the
sidewalk, I might have reached the Préfecture of Police before Serge Soupel left for the rest of the week, out on a case in Versailles. But I didn't, and Soupel's sniffy, punctilious clerk announced that he was certainly not about to release official evidence to a civilian on the basis of a handwritten letter, not until the Inspector came back. I sighed and looked at my watch again.
In an open room behind the clerk's desk, swinging gently in a cage on a shelf, Mrs. McCormick's two automate porcelain parrots communed with their thoughts. Next to them, scruffier than ever, head bowed and drooping in the avian equivalent of a hangdog look, was Elsie Short's copy of Vaucanson's Duck.
I took a step in their direction. The clerk had the double beard then in
But Elsie Short was not a girl for the vie silencieuse. On Tuesday she telephoned me three times to see if I had liberated the duck. On Wednesday she called twice and slammed down the phone both times when I said they were still behind bars. Mrs. McCormick had also left an ominous message with Kospoth on Tuesday—She required her parrots no later than Thursday evening at six. If Keats couldn't do this simple errand for her, Bertie would not be pleased.
I had tried my best, of course. I had written and called Soupel. I had reached an assistant consul at the American embassy, who laughed and hung up the telephone. And on Wednesday there had also been a nicely written (if I say so myself) item in the Tribune :
M. Patrice Bassot, 72 years old, a native of Grenoble and dealer in automates and curiosities, was found dead in his shop on the rue Bonaparte late Monday night. Police questioned two American witnesses who discovered the body and have concluded that it was a case of robbery gone bad. Inspector Serge Soupel of the Préfecture tells the Tribune that M. Bassot had recently sold his shop and was planning to return to Grenoble. Thieves apparently tried to take advantage of the victim's age and frailty. When Bassot resisted, Inspector Soupel surmises, he was struck a fatal blow. The Préfecture of Police, he added, has committed its full resources to the investigation. Given M. Soupel's formidable reputation as one of Paris's outstanding crime fighters, the Tribune feels confident of his success.
On the theory of catching more flies with honey, I had sent Soupel three copies of the paper with his name underlined. In return, at Thursday noon he had sent me a handwritten note granting
amnesty to the duck. Not counting the Colonel's rocket from Chicago, this was one of two notes I had received that day.
At the corner of rue Saulnier I looked back at Major Cross, who was still at our table under the arcade, writing in his notebook.
I felt in my pocket and pulled out another slip of paper. This was on plain white paper, not buff vellum, and the handwriting was as round and curved and feminine as a goblet: "Dear Mr. Toby Keats," Elsie Short had written. "If you have finally rescued my duck, which you should not have had in the first place, from the obtuse police, you may bring it to this address today. After seeing your apartment, I will add that admission to the talk is free, since you probably couldn't afford to buy a ticket."
Enclosed was a card with an engraved invitation:
THE AMERICAN WOMEN'S CLUB OF PARIS
announces
a special Christmas presentation
by Miss Elsie Short, Ph.D.:
'Adventures of a Doll Hunter'
Conservatoire des Arts et Metiers,
December 10, 1926, 5–6 P.M.
I looked at my watch. Four-fifteen. Plenty of time to pick up my three birds of Christmas and deliver the duck to Elsie, I thought, and I set out walking quickly toward Soupel's office on the quai des Orfèvres.
If there hadn't been a concert at Notre Dame that afternoon, and several thousand exiting concertgoers blocking my way on the
sidewalk, I might have reached the Préfecture of Police before Serge Soupel left for the rest of the week, out on a case in Versailles. But I didn't, and Soupel's sniffy, punctilious clerk announced that he was certainly not about to release official evidence to a civilian on the basis of a handwritten letter, not until the Inspector came back. I sighed and looked at my watch again.
In an open room behind the clerk's desk, swinging gently in a cage on a shelf, Mrs. McCormick's two automate porcelain parrots communed with their thoughts. Next to them, scruffier than ever, head bowed and drooping in the avian equivalent of a hangdog look, was Elsie Short's copy of Vaucanson's Duck.
I took a step in their direction. The clerk had the double beard then in
Similar Books
