The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  “Save your breath,” I said. “I don’t savvy half what you say, anyhow—”

  His face lit up, and he switched into English.

  “American, are you? Well, what the purgatory do you mean by assaulting me that way?”

  “Good Lord!” I exclaimed. ‘When a man saves your life, you jump on him! In another—”

  “Oh, you make me tired!” he snapped. “You’re another fool tourist who thinks this is America. Don’t you know such things don’t happen here? They have jams, but accidents are rare, and they never run over anyone except—”

  “Suit yourself,” I told him. “In another jiffy you’d have been the exception, that’s all.”

  He laughed suddenly and put out his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I was thinking about something, to tell the truth. Perhaps you’re right. Allow me—”

  He extended a card. I read: “Peter J. Clancy, D.D.S.,” and then heard the suggestion that we have a drink. I assented.

  “Sorry I haven’t a card, Doc,” I said. “My finances haven’t extended that far yet. I came over here to take a newspaper job, got done out of it, and am on my way to book steerage home again. Here’s a cafe. My name’s Jim Logan.”

  We strolled into the cafe and ordered a drink, and I took stock of Clancy.

  He was a queer duck. He was small, about five foot five in his boots, and had long gray hair and a gray imperial. His clothes were black once, perhaps, but now they were greenish and frayed; he wore the red ribbon of the Legion in his buttonhole. His face was wrinkled—kindly, shrewd wrinkles, they were—and his eyes were very bright, of a piercing gray. He wore the wide-brimmed black felt hat of the Parisian, and looked as French as they make them.

  “Glad to meet you, Logan,” he said. “I’ve lived here fifteen years, and sometimes I get pretty homesick. So you’re going back steerage, eh?”

  “Anyway at all,” I said, sipping my Rossi. “This is the land of liberty, all right, but what I need is a job and not liberty.”

  “Very well,” he said, with a nod. “I’ll give you a job—if you can tell me the difference between a Sydney View and a Saint Helena grilled.”

  For a moment he had me stumped, until I saw in his eyes that he was earnest enough, and deadly serious. Then I laughed. If this was a test, he had chosen it just right for me!

  “The difference would be about a hundred dollars, if both were in good condition,” I said. “Or, the difference between high value and worthlessness, as you prefer.”

  “Good!” he exclaimed. “Then you collect stamps?”

  “I don’t,” I told him frankly. “But I used to. And I know a good deal about ’em. Do you?”

  “Everybody in France does,” he said. “Bless my soul, this is providential, Logan! Do you know, I’m really in need of you? Can you speak French?”

  “Army French,” I said. “I can understand it perfectly, but I’m no linguist.”

  “Better and better! And I perceive you’re something of a boxer, from the way you handled your feet. You’re powerful, you have a good brain, and you’re not afraid to look at a dead man, or you’d not be in the newspaper game. I can use all these qualities.”

  “How?” I asked, rather amused, to tell the truth. “Pulling molars?”

  “No.” He glanced at his watch and paid for the drinks, with a careful French tip. “We’ve got time—just. Have you a pencil? Give me that card of mine.”

  I gave him card and pencil. He scribbled a few words in French and returned them to me.

  “My office is at 33 Bis, Rue Cambon,” he said. “Second floor, French style—you’d call it the third. You have some money?”

  “Enough for my steerage passage home.”

  “Good. I needed a messenger—and I have him.” He drew me out on the sidewalk as he spoke. “Take a taxi and go to the Prefecture of Police, the central bureau on the Ile de la Cite. Ask for the prefect himself—show this card. It’ll get you instant admittance. Tell him I want to take over the case of the stamp dealer Colette, who was murdered this morning in his shop in Rue St. Honore, just around the corner. Tell him I’ll go there at twelve-thirty and want him to have all arrangements made to put me in charge.”

  I took him by the arm.

  “Listen, Doc,” I said quietly. “This cat can jump three ways. Either you’re crazy, you’re trying to work a practical joke on a tourist, or else I’m in over my head. Which is it?”

  He looked at me, and broke into a laugh.

  “Oh! I forgot to explain, Logan. You see, I’m pretty well known at the Prefecture, but my connection must remain unknown to the public at large. I often take over interesting cases. This is most interesting—”

  “Are you a dentist or a detective?” I demanded. “Both,” he said. “And good either way, young man! I’ll give you a hundred a month—not francs, but dollars—and all the rewards that happen along, to throw in with me.”

  “You’re on,” I said. “I’ll take a chance once, anyhow, and if the prefect kicks me out, no harm done. I’ll be back at your office by noon, if this is on the level; if not, I’ll be back there before then.”

  I hopped a passing taxi and went on my way.

  * * * *

  To be honest, it seemed to me that the little dentist was probably just a bit cracked in the upper story. From what I had seen of Paris, however, this was nothing extraordinary, as anybody would know from walking down the street a few blocks. If, by any accident, he could make good on his promises, I would get on the inside of a few police jobs and this would mean the glad hand to me at any newspaper office. I was risking nothing except being kicked out at police headquarters, so it was a good gamble.

  As my taxi purred up the quay toward Notre Dame, however, and I thought things over, I grew less positive as to Clancy’s mental disturbance. Those sharp gray eyes of his were very sane, very humorous, sparkling with vigor and acuity. It was much more likely that he was putting over a practical joke, and that I would find myself politely deposited outside the Prefecture with a gendarme for company.

  “Well, I can risk that, too,” I reflected. “Wonder if there was a murder in Rue St. Honore this morning? Come to think of it, I did see quite a crowd down toward Castiglione. But that test question of his—there was a queer one!”

  No mistake about it, either. Only for the odd chance that I knew something about stamp collection, about which all the French are crazy, Clancy would not have gone on with his line of talk. This went to show he was in earnest, and the whole affair left me up in the air and puzzled.

  * * * *

  We got to the Prefecture at last, and I passed the sentries without difficulty. Having applied for a card of identity after being tipped off how to do it easily, I knew how much stock to take in the usual methods of reaching anybody in Paris. Pull, influence and the back door were all invented by Frenchmen.

  I reached the offices of the prefect, and they were crowded. I beckoned the gendarme and gave him Clancy’s card. It bore, in French fashion, a tiny miniature cross of the Legion of Honor after his name. With the card, I gave him a ten franc note.

  “My business is important, and I’m in a hurry,” I said.

  He shrugged and disappeared through a doorway. In two minutes he was back again, holding the door open for me. Then I had an idea whether or not my friend Clancy was crazy.

  I was ushered into an office, where the prefect sat behind his desk, talking with a man whom I recognized instantly from his pictures. He happened to be the Premier of France, the actual ruler of a nation whose president is a figurehead meant to preside over charity bazaars. I waited. The Premier rose, shook hands, and departed. The chief of police looked at me and then stood up for the usual handshake and polite phrases.

  Summoning up my best French, which was perfectly understood by chauffeurs and the usual Parisian, but which made educated Frenchmen grin, I gave him Clancy’s message. He fingered his flowing whiskers, and then nodded.

  “Very well, it shall be as M. Clancy wishes
,” he said. “Tell him, however, that there is no mystery whatever in this case. Certain fingerprints were found, left by the murderer. They were investigated. The man who made them was arrested forty-five minutes ago. He cannot account for his whereabouts during the early hours of the morning, and M. Colette was murdered shortly after nine o’clock, upon his arrival to open the shop. The murderer had been hiding there. He is a common Apache with a bad record, Gersault by name.”

  “I’m surprised,” I said.

  “Most people are usually surprised by the efficiency of Paris police,” he returned, beaming on me. I gave him a smile.

  “No, it’s the other way round, monsieur. I’m surprised that you should be so far behind the times as to place any dependence on fingerprints. It has been proved over and over in the American courts that they can be forged. There are different ways of transferring the fingerprints of an innocent man to the scene of a crime. The chief of police of Los Angeles was charged with a crime by a friend, who thus demonstrated the feasibility of transferring prints, for by all evidence the chief was guilty. The Australian courts have recognized these things and have dismissed—”

  The prefect rubbed his whiskers the wrong way, in some agitation.

  “We are aware of these things, my friend,” he said hastily. “We are aware of them, I can assure you, and shall bring them all into consideration. In the meantime, you will honor me by informing M. Clancy that full details of the affair will be waiting for him at the scene of the crime, by twelve-thirty. I shall be very glad to place the case in his hands, and pending the result of his inquiry we shall do nothing, beyond keeping the man Gersault in prison.”

  He bowed, I bowed, and with the parting ceremonial handshake, I got away.

  It was five minutes to twelve when I reached Clancy’s address in Rue Cambon. It was an old barn of a place, gained through a courtyard, and his offices were old-fashioned and high-ceilinged. He had a patient in his dental chair, and nodded to me.

  “I’ll be free presently,” he said, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “So you didn’t get kicked out?”

  “No,” I said, and let it go at that.

  * * * *

  I had a look around the outer or waiting-room. Obviously, the old chap had an eye for good furniture, and knew a rug when he saw one; he had few of the gimcracks which crowd the usual office of the French professional man.

  At one side of the room was a big, glass-doored cabinet, standing open. An unmistakable loose-leaf album lay inside, and I could not resist the temptation to take it out and have a look. Then I saw half a dozen other albums below. Glancing over the book, I found that Clancy had a superb collection of Great Britain and colonies, largely in blocks of four. Then I put back the album, as he escorted his patient to the door, and turned to meet him.

  “Isn’t it rather injudicious to leave the cabinet open?” I asked.

  “Nothing there worth your time or trouble,” he answered. “Shut it, and come along inside. We’ll have a chat, and get a bite to eat when the opportunity offers.”

  He must have left the cabinet open by forgetfulness, since it had a spring lock, opening only to some intricate key. He motioned me to the dental chair, and I declined promptly.

  “Too reminiscent, thanks.”

  “Please yourself.” He offered a cigarette. “Of course, our friend the prefect has caught the murderer by this time?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “It’s the usual custom, unless the affair is something very simple or very big. Well, what happened?”

  I told him, and he listened in silence until I had finished. Then those bright gray eyes of his flamed suddenly.

  “So you didn’t think it unusual that the Premier would be calling on the chief of police, eh?”

  I whistled. Now that he mentioned it, the incident was unusual—in the ordinary course of nature, it would have been the other way round. I said so, and he nodded.

  “Of course, of course. However, the prefect is unlike the majority of his countrymen. He is not a stamp collector. He collects something, of course—a Frenchman has to collect something—but he runs to coins.”

  “Old or new?” I queried facetiously. Clancy chuckled.

  “Old. Hm! Our little murder case, except for the Premier calling on the prefect, would be simple robbery—”

  “How do you know the call has anything to do with this case?” I demanded.

  “I don’t. I just make a guess, my good friend! But yes, it would be simple robbery.”

  He was silent for a moment, smoking thoughtfully, then he broke into explanation.

  “Colette had a pair of the Niger Coast one-pound surcharge—of which only two copies were ever in existence. It is less known than the Mauritius ‘post-office’ stamp, but equally rare. The two stamps were overprinted together, and one was subsequently torn off and used. What became of it is unknown; neither the sender nor the recipient was a collector, apparently. The other one came into Colette’s hands about six months ago. He has advertised it at the price of twenty-five thousand dollars, but has not yet sold it. Thus, an apparent motive for robbery.”

  “The police have arrested a man named Gersault, of the Apache class, on the strength of his fingerprints,” I reminded him.

  “And Gersault will probably confess,” said Clancy. “We must look up everything and everyone connected with him, and lose valuable time—humph! Meanwhile, we’d better get along to the late and lamented Colette’s place. When we have played our little parts to the satisfaction of M. le Prefect and his men, we’ll begin the serious end of the business—humph!”

  * * * *

  For the time being, he forgot me, and went into dreamy abstraction. He reached down his black felt hat, put it on and made for the door, stroking his gray imperial. I followed him.

  In two minutes we were in the Rue St. Honore, and strode along till we reached the tiny shop of Colette. The steel shutters were pulled down, leaving the only entrance at the rear, by way of the courtyard. A gendarme stood there—not the usual agent, but the rarely seen gendarme, in all his glory—and he saluted Clancy at once. Clancy nodded recognition.

  “Ah, the prefect sent you, eh?”

  “To receive you, monsieur,” said the gendarme. He took out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Clancy, who pocketed them impatiently. “The formalities have been finished, but everything has been left untouched for your inspection.”

  We went in, and he switched on the electric light. Narrow-fronted as it was, the shop was twenty feet deep. In the right-hand corner at the back, facing the rear entry, was a large safe. Anyone standing at the safe would be invisible, for the entire window and front door were closed in by cards of stamps offered for sale. Colette’s body lay before the safe.

  “Stabbed?” demanded Clancy abruptly.

  The gendarme, who apparently had charge of the case, nodded.

  “Under the left arm, monsieur. The main artery, not the heart.”

  “Where is the knife?”

  “Not found, monsieur, but it was no knife. It was a long, stiletto-like blade, very thin. The doctor could only judge from the nature of the wound.”

  “Of course,” said Clancy. He had an irritating way of saying the two words, as though everything was clear to him. After the two questions, he disregarded the body and turned his attention to the safe. “Gersault’s fingerprints were found here?”

  The gendarme nodded and showed us. The safe door was partly open, and Clancy took a magnifying glass from his pocket, pushing open the door. The shelves were filled with albums, small classeurs or pocketbooks for stamps, and loose sheets. Below these was a row of small drawers, one standing open and empty. Clancy pointed down at it.

  “Gersault’s fingerprints there, also?”

  “Yes, monsieur,” answered the gendarme.

  “And on the front door, also?”

  ‘Yes, monsieur.”

  “How much money did Gersault have on him when arrested?”

&n
bsp; “Two thousand-franc notes, six hundred-franc notes, two ten-franc notes, eighteen francs in bronze, two ten-centime copper pieces, and two five-centime nickel pieces,” said the gendarme without hesitation. “Also, five Italian thousand-lire notes.”

  “Ah!” said Clancy in a curious tone. He turned and looked at me gravely. “Logan, never dare tell me these police are not efficient!”

  He went to the safe and peered into it, inquisitively. On the upper shelf was a row of little books or carnets bound in morocco. One projected slightly beyond its fellows, and it was bound in red, instead of in black like the others. Clancy suddenly reached up and pulled it from its place, and gave it a quick examination. Then he sniffed.

  “So that’s it!” he exclaimed. “There’d be no prints, of course—gloved hands.” He swept around and thrust it under my nose. “Know the smell?”

  “Apple-blossom,” I said promptly, wondering what he was driving at.

  “Hm! They’re so used to scenting themselves—” He broke off, and handled the little carnet almost reverently. “He kept his rarities in this. A true collector, Colette! Now, Logan, we’ll see! Everything neat, immaculate, in the best French manner—except this little book of rarities! It’s obvious. Everything’s obvious!”

  I watched him go through the little book page by page, entirely disregarding the two of us. Here and there he lifted a specimen carefully to inspect its back. There were things in this booklet to make my fingers itch; the rare first printings of Newfoundland, French and English colonials, early Mauritius—all with prices penciled beneath, of from one to ten thousand francs, even more.

  Clancy turned page after page. About two thirds of the way through, he came to a page on which was a ruled oblong in the center, but no stamp. Below the oblong was this inscription:

  No. 37, Gibbons—10s., in black, on is.—$25,000

  The price of twenty-five thousand dollars, in dollars, showed that Colette had hoped to sell the vanished stamp to some American tourist or dealer. One might have equally set a value on the unique Guiana rarity, on the Venus de Milo, or any other treasure of which only one specimen exists. And Clancy examined this blank page very carefully with his magnifying glass, and then held it under my nose.