“Perfume?” the little Frenchman echoed. “What in Satan’s foul name—”
“Well, sor, I ain’t one o’ them as sees a woman’s skirts a-hidin’ back of ivery crime, though you an’ I both knows there’s mighty few crimes committed that ain’t concerned wid cash or women, savin’ when they’re done fer both. But these here cases have me worried. None o’ these men wuz married, an’, so far as I’ve found out, none o’ them wuz kapin’ steady company, yet—git this, sor; ’tis small, but maybe it’s important—there wuz a smell o’ perfume hangin’ round each one of ’em, an’ ’twas th’ same in ivery case. No sooner had I got a look at this pore Eldridge felly hangin’ like a joint o’ beef from his own doorpost than me nose begins a-twitchin’. ‘Wuz he a pansy, maybe?’ I wonders when I smelt it first, for ’twas no shavin’ lotion or toilet water, but a woman’s heavy scent, strong an’ swate an’—what’s it that th’ ads all say?—distinctive. Yis, sor, that’s th’ word fer it, distinctive. Not like anything I’ve smelt before, but kind o’ like a mixin’ up o’ this here ether that they use ter put a man ter slape before they takes ’is leg off, an’ kind o’ like th’ incense they use in church, an’ maybe there wuz sumpin mixed wid it that wasn’t perfume afther all, sumpin that smelt rank an’ sickly-like, th’ kind o’ smell ye smell when they takes a floater from th’ bay, sor.
“Well, I looks around ter see where it’s a-comin’ from, an’ it’s strongest in th’ bedroom; but divil a sign o’ any woman bein’ there I find, ’ceptin’ fer th’ smell o’ perfume.
“So when we runs in on th’ Trivers suicide, an’ I smells th’ same perfume again, I say that this is sumpin more than mere coincidence, but th’ same thing happens there. Th’ smell is strongest in th’ bedroom, but there ain’t any sign that he’d had company th’ night before; so just ter make sure I takes th’ casin’s off th’ pillows an’ has th’ boys at th’ crime lab’ratory look at ’em. Divil a trace o’ rouge or powder do they find.
“Both these other fellies kilt theirselves at night or early in th’ mornin’, so, o’ course, their beds wuz all unmade, but when we hustle over ter th’ Kensington Apartments ter see about this Misther Atkins, ’tis just past three o’clock. Th’ doctor says that he’s been dead a hour or more; yet when I goes into his bedroom th’ covers is pushed down, like he’s been slapin’ there an’ got up in a hurry, an’ th’ perfume’s strong enough ter knock ye down, a’most. Th’ boys at th’ crime lab say there’s not a trace o’ powder on th’ linen, an’ by th’ time I gits th’ pillows to ’em th’ perfume’s faded out.”
He looked at us with vaguely troubled eyes and ran his hand across his mouth. “’Tis meself that’s goin’ nuts about these suicides a-comin’ one on top th’ other, an’ this perfume bobbin’ up in every case!” he finished.
De Grandin pursed his lips. “You would know this so strange scent if you encountered it again?”
“Faith, sor, I’d know it in me slape!”
“And you have never met with it before?”
“Indade an’ I had not, nayther before nor since, savin’ in th’ imayjate prisence o’ them three dead corpses.”
“One regrets it is so evanescent. Perhaps if I could smell it I might be able to identify it. I recall when I was serving with le sûreté we came upon a band of scoundrels making use of a strange Indian drug called by the Hindoos chhota maut, or little death. It was a subtle powder which made those inhaling it go mad, or fall into a coma simulating death if they inspired enough. Those naughty fellows mixed the drug with incense which they caused to be burned in their victims’ rooms. Some went mad and some appeared to die. One of those who went insane committed suicide—”
“Howly Mither, an’ ye think we may be up against a gang like that, sor?”
“One cannot say, mon vieux. Had I the chance to sniff this scent, perhaps I could have told you. Its odor is not one that was soon forgotten. As it is”—he raised his shoulders in a shrug—“what can one do?”
“Will ye be afther holdin’ yerself in readiness ter come a-runnin’ if they’s another o’ these suicides, sor?” the big detective asked as he rose to say good-night. “I’d take it kindly if ye would.”
“You may count on me, my friend. À bientôt,” the little Frenchman answered with a smile.
THE STORM HAD BLOWN itself out early in the evening, but the streets were still bright with the filmy remnant of the sleety rain and the moon was awash in a breaking surf of wind-clouds. It was longer by the north road, but with the pavements slick as burnished glass I preferred to take no chances and had throttled down my engine almost to a walking pace as we climbed the gradient leading to North Bridge. De Grandin sank his chin into the fur of his upturned coat collar and nodded sleepily. The party at the Merrivales had been not at all amusing, and we were due at City Hospital at seven in the morning. “Ah, bah,” he murmured drowsily, “we were a pair of fools, my friend; we forgot a thing of great importance when we left the house tonight.”
“U’m?” I grunted. “What?”
“To stay there,” he returned. “Had we but the sense le bon Dieu gives an unfledged gosling, we should have—sapristi! Stop him, he is intent on self-destruction!”
At his shouted warning I looked toward the footwalk and descried a figure in a heavy ulster climbing up the guard rail. Shooting on my power, I jerked the car ahead, then cut the clutch and jammed the brakes down hard, swinging us against the curb abreast of the intending suicide. I kicked the door aside and raced around the engine-hood, but de Grandin disdained such delays and vaulted overside, half leaping, half sliding on the slippery pavement and cannoning full-tilt against the man who sought to climb the breast-high railing. “Parbleu, you shall not!” he exclaimed as he grasped the other’s legs with outflung arms. “It is wet down there, Monsieur, and most abominably cold. Wait for summer if you care to practise diving!”
The man kicked viciously, but the little Frenchman hung on doggedly, and as the other loosed his hold upon the rail they both came crashing to the pavement where they rolled and thrashed like fighting dogs.
I hovered near the mêlée, intent on giving such assistance as I could, but my help was not required; for as I reached to snatch the stranger’s collar, de Grandin gave a quick twist, arched his body upon neck and heels and with a blow as rapid as a striking snake’s chopped his adversary on the Adam’s apple with his stiffened hand. The result was instantaneous. The larger man collapsed as if he had been shot, and my little friend slipped out from underneath him, teeth flashing in an impish grin, small blue eyes agleam. “A knowledge of jiu-jitsu comes in handy now and then,” he panted as he rearranged his clothing. “For a moment I had fears that he would take me with him to a watery bed.”
“Well, what shall we do with him?” I asked. “He’s out completely, and we can’t afford to leave him here. He’ll surely try to kill himself again if—”
“Parbleu! Attendez, s’il vous plaît!” he interrupted. “Le parfum—do you smell him?” He paused with back-thrown head, narrow nostrils quivering as he sniffed the moist, cold air.
There was no doubt of it. Faint and growing quickly fainter, but plainly noticeable, the aura of a scent hung in the atmosphere. It was an odd aroma, not wholly pleasant, yet distinctly fascinating, seeming to combine the heavy sweetness of patchouli with the bitterness of frankincense and the penetrating qualities of musk and civet; yet underlying it there was a faint and slightly sickening odor of corruption.
“Why, I never smelled—” I began, but de Grandin waved aside my observation.
“Nor I,” he nodded shortly, “but unless I am at fault this is the perfume which the good Costello told us of. Cannot you see, my friend? We have here our laboratory specimen, an uncompleted suicide with the redolence of this mysterious scent upon it. Help me lift him in the car, mon vieux, we have things to say to this one. We shall ask him, by example, why it was—”
“Suppose that he won’t talk?” I broke in.
“Ha, y
ou suppose that! If your supposition proves correct and he is of the obstinacy, you shall see a beautiful example of the third degree. You shall see me turn him inside out as if he were a lady’s glove. I shall creep into his mind, me. I shall—mordieu, before the night is done I damn think I shall have at least a partial answer to the good Costello’s puzzle! Come, let us be of haste; en avant!”
DESPITE HIS HEIGHT THE salvaged man did not weigh much, and we had no trouble getting him inside the car. In fifteen minutes we were home, just as our rescued human flotsam showed signs of returning consciousness.
“Be careful,” warned de Grandin as he helped the passenger alight. “If you behave we shall treat you with the kindness, but if you try the monkey’s tricks I have in readiness a second portion of the dish I served you on the Pont du Nord.
“Here,” he added as we led our captive to the study, “this is the medicine for those who feel at odds with life.” He poured a gill of Scots into a tumbler and poised the siphon over it. “Will you have soda with your whisky,” he inquired, “or do you like it unpolluted?”
“Soda, please,” the other answered sulkily, drained his glass in two huge gulps and held it out again.
“Eh bien,” the Frenchman chuckled, “your troubles have not dulled your appetite, it seems. Drink, my friend, drink all you wish, for the evening is still young and we have many things to talk of, thou and I.”
The visitor eyed him sullenly as he took a sip from his fresh glass. “I suppose you think you’ve done your Boy Scout’s good deed for today?” he muttered.
“Mais oui, mais certainement,” the Frenchman nodded vigorously. “We have saved you from irreparable wrong, my friend. Le bon Dieu did not put us here to—”
“That’s comic!” the other burst out with a cackling laugh. “‘Le bon Dieu’—much use He has for me!”
De Grandin lowered his arching brows a little; the effect was a deceptively mild, thoughtful frown. “So-o,” he murmured, “that is the way of it? You feel that you have been cast off, that—”
“Why not? Didn’t we—I—cast Him out? Didn’t I deny Him, take service with His enemies, mock at Him—”
“Be not deceived, my friend”—the double lines between the Frenchman’s narrow brows was etched a little deeper as he answered in an even voice—“God is not mocked. It is easier to spit against the hurricane than jeer at Him. Besides, He is most merciful, He is compassionate, and His patience transcends understanding. Wicked we may be, but if we offer true repentance—”
“Even if you’ve committed the unpardonable sin?”
“Tiens, this péché irrémissible of which the theologians prate so learnedly, yet which none of them defines? You had a mother, one assumes; you may have sinned against her grievously, disappointed her high hopes in you, shown ingratitude as black as Satan’s shadow, abused her trust or even done her bodily hurt. Yet if you went to her sincerely penitent and told her you were sorry, that you truly loved her and would sin no more, parbleu, she would forgive, you know it! Will the Heavenly Father be less merciful than earthly parents? Very well, then. Who can say that he has sinned past reconciliation?”
“I can; I did—we all did! We cast God out and embraced Satan—” Something that was lurking horror seemed to take form in his eyes, giving them a stony, glazed appearance. It was as if a filmy curtain were drawn down across them, hiding everything within, mirroring only a swift-mounting terror.
“Ah?” de Grandin murmured thoughtfully. “Now we begin to make the progress.” Abruptly he demanded:
“You knew Messieurs Eldridge, Trivers and Atkins?” He flung the words more like a challenging accusation than a query.
“Yes!”
“And they, too, thought they had sinned past redemption; they saw in suicide the last hope of escape; they were concerned with you in this iniquity?”
“They were, but no interfering busybody stopped them. Let me out of here, I’m going to—”
“Monsieur,” de Grandin did not raise his voice, but the look he bent upon the other was as hard and merciless as though it were a leveled bayonet, “you are going to remain right here and tell us how it came about. You will tell of this transgression which has caused three deaths already and almost caused a fourth. Do not fear to speak, my friend. We are physicians, and your confidence will be respected. On the other hand, if you persist in silence we shall surely place you in restraint. You would like to be lodged in a madhouse, have your every action watched, be strapped in a straitjacket if you attempted self-destruction, hein?” Slowly spoken, his words had the impact of a bodily assault, and the other reeled as from a beating.
“Not that!” he gasped. “O God, anything but that! I’ll tell you everything if you will promise—”
“You have our word, Monsieur; say on.”
The visitor drew his chair up closer to the fire, as if a sudden cold had chilled his marrow. He was some forty years of age, slim and quite attractive, immaculately dressed, well groomed. His eyes were brown, deep-set and drawn, as if unutterably weary, with little pouches under them. His shoulders sagged as if the weight they bore was too much for them. His hair was almost wholly gray. “Beaten” was the only adjective to modify him.
“I think perhaps you knew my parents, Doctor Trowbridge,” he began. “My father was James Balderson.”
I nodded. Jim Balderson had been a senior when I entered college, and his escapades were bywords on the campus. Nothing but the tolerance which stamps a rich youth’s viciousness as merely indication of high spirits had kept him from dismissal since his freshman year, and faculty and townsfolk sighed with relief when he took his sheepskin and departed simultaneously. The Balderson and Aldridge fortunes were combined when he married Bronson Aldridge’s sole heir and daughter, and though he settled down in the walnut-paneled office of the Farmers Loan & Trust Company, his sons had carried on his youthful zest for getting into trouble. Drunken driving, divorce cases, scandals which involved both criminal and civil courts, were their daily fare. Two of them had died by violence, one in a motor smash-up, one when an outraged husband showed better marksmanship than self-restraint. One had died of poison liquor in the Prohibition era. We had just saved the sole survivor from attempted suicide. “Yes, I knew your father,” I responded.
“Do you remember Horton Hall?” he asked.
I bent my brows a moment. “Wasn’t that the school down by the Shrewsbury where they had a scandal?—something about the headmaster committing suicide, or—”
“You’re right. That’s it. I was in the last class there. So were Eldridge, Trivers and Atkins.
“I was finishing my junior year when the war broke out in ‘seventeen. Dad got bulletproof commissions for the older boys, but wouldn’t hear of my enlisting in the Navy. ‘You’ve a job to do right there at Horton,’ he told me. ‘Get your certificate; then we’ll see about your joining up.’ So back I went to finish out my senior year. Dad didn’t know what he was doing to me. Things might have turned out differently if I’d gone in the service.
“Everyone who could was getting in the Army or the Navy. We’d lost most of our faculty when I went back in ’18, and they’d put a new headmaster in, a Doctor Herbules. Fellows were leaving right and left, enlisting from the campus or being called by draft boards, and I was pretty miserable. One day as I was walking back from science lab, I ran full-tilt into old Herbules.
“‘What’s the matter, Balderson?’ he asked. ‘You look as if you’d lost your last friend.’
“‘Well, I have, almost,’ I answered. ‘With so many fellows off at training-camp, having all kinds of excitement—’
“‘You want excitement, eh?’ he interrupted. ‘I can give it to you; such excitement as you’ve never dreamed of. I can make you—’ He stopped abruptly, and it seemed to me he looked ashamed of something, but he’d got my curiosity roused.
“‘You’re on, sir,’ I told him. ‘What is it, a prize-fight?’
“Herbules was queer. Everybody said so. He c
ouldn’t have been much past thirty; yet his hair was almost snowwhite and there was a funny sort o’ peaceful expression on his smooth face that reminded me of something that I couldn’t quite identify. He had the schoolmaster’s trick of speaking with a sort of pedantic precision, and he never raised his voice; yet when he spoke in chapel we could understand him perfectly, no matter how far from the platform we were sitting. I’d never seen him show signs of excitement before, but now he was breathing hard and was in such deadly earnest that his lips were fairly trembling. ‘What do you most want from life?’ he asked me in a whisper.
“‘Why, I don’t know, just now I’d like best of all to get into the Army; I’d like to go to France and bat around with the mademoiselles, and get drunk any time I wanted—’
“‘You’d like that sort of thing?’ he laughed. ‘I can give it to you, and more; more than you ever imagined. Wine and song and gayety and women—beautiful lovely, cultured women, not the street-trulls that you’d meet in France—you can have all this and more, if you want to, Balderson.’
“‘Lead me to it,’ I replied. ‘When do we start?’
“‘Ah, my boy, nothing’s given for nothing. There are some things you’ll have to do, some promises to make, something to be paid—”
“‘All right; how much?’ I asked. Dad was liberal with me. I had a hundred dollars every month for spending money, and I could always get as much again from Mother if I worked it right.
“‘No, no; not money,’ he almost laughed in my face. ‘The price of all this can’t be paid in money. All we ask is that you give the Master something which I greatly doubt you realize you have, my boy.’
“It sounded pretty cock-eyed to me, but if the old boy really had something up his sleeve I wanted to know about it. ‘Count me in,’ I told him. ‘What do I do next?”
A Rival from the Grave Page 66
