Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  The Police were still buzzing about the Musée du Château de Fontainebleau when Isidore Beautrelet ambled up to the entrance. Most of the men appeared bored, but were attempting to seem active. Beautrelet could tell, however, that they were studiously doing nothing of any importance. While he knew that sometimes persons entered the Police force with low aims, it was a trifle puzzling that so many of them should be concentrated in such a small area. It was even more puzzling when he discovered that they were there in the company of Commissaire Guichard, an efficient and uncommonly able officer whom Beautrelet had once had occasion to assist. It was not like him to tolerate such obvious inefficiency in his men. They were, however, efficient enough to refuse entry to Beautrelet, but sent word to the Commissioner.

  “Beautrelet!” the Policeman called out a few moments later, hurrying to greet the young student. “I don’t know how you managed to hear of this so quickly, but I am sorry to say that there can be nothing in this minor mystery that could possibly be of interest to you.”

  Beautrelet spread his hands. “In all innocence, Commissaire,” he vowed, “I was not even aware that there was any mystery.”

  “Indeed? Then why does your arrival coincide with a bungled burglary attempt?”

  Beautrelet smiled. “Simple chance,” he said. “I am currently occupied at university with the study of art, and the Musée de Fontainebleau has an exceptionally fine collection of medieval icons. I am here purely as a member of the public, hoping to broaden my grasp on the finer points of such masterpieces.”

  “I must confess I am relieved,” Guichard said. “For one ghastly moment, when I saw you striding up the pathway, I was certain that there was some dreadful crime that I was completely overlooking, and which you were already well upon your way to solving.”

  The young man laughed. “Nothing like that, at all. As I said, I had no idea that any crime had been committed.”

  “Technically, one hasn’t,” the Commissioner said. “The would-be thieves were disturbed and left the premises empty-handed. I am here merely in the attempt to see if they left any clues as to their identity behind. But the search has been unsuccessful–they were too professional to make such mistakes.”

  “Indeed?” Beautrelet now understood why so many Policemen were attempting to look useful without actually working–there was nothing to find, so little need to exert oneself. “Then I am sorry I caused you any consternation. Do you have any notion when the Museum will be opened to the public again? I have made a fairly strenuous trip out here, and would hate to be turned away without seeing the remarkable triptychs they possess.”

  Guichard shrugged, a gesture that involved moving much of his upper body; it was most expressive. “The general public–I do not know. But for you, I am sure I can arrange something. Come with me.” He led the way inside the neo-Gothic building, where two worried-looking gentlemen were pacing impatiently. The Museum Director, an older man, with thinning grey hair slicked and precisely combed back, rushed with as much dignity as he was able to meet them.

  “Commissaire,” he said, urgently, “nothing was stolen, nothing was harmed. How much longer must we be inconvenienced by all of these brutish bluecoats clomping about my premises?”

  “Monsieur Voisin,” the Policeman said politely, “we are completing our investigation and will shortly be leaving. In the meantime, may I be permitted to introduce you to Monsieur Isidore Beautrelet? He is a student of art, and I would ask you to be kind enough to allow him to study whatever he wishes.”

  The second man had arrived by now, and at the name his eyebrows shot up. “Isidore Beautrelet?” he asked. “The celebrated young detective? You have called him in to consult upon this minor case?”

  Guichard shook his head. “No, Monsieur Poitevin, he is not here in any capacity save that as a student of art. He wishes to examine your triptychs to aid him in his studies in school. I merely introduce him to you gentlemen in the hopes that you will be kind enough to extend him courtesies beyond that of the average member of the public.”

  “But of course, Commissaire,” Poitevin agreed. “We would be most pleased.” He turned to Beautrelet. “In fact, you have timed your visit just right–for today we are packaging the triptychs in seven cases for shipment to the Louvre Museum tomorrow morning, where they will be on display for several months.”

  “This is all very well,” the Director complained to the Commissioner. “But when may we get back to normal? And when will you remove your suspect?”

  “Suspect?” Beautrelet’s eyes sparkled. “Come, Inspector, you made no mention of having seized a villain!”

  “Hardly that,” Guichard laughed. “He is merely a young boy who cannot account for his activities too well. I would not even call him a suspect–merely suspicious. He’s a young Englishman who speaks remarkably good French, but who appears to me to be a trifle lunatic.”

  “You intrigue me,” Beautrelet confessed. “A crime that is not a crime, and a suspect who is not a suspect? It seems a shame that there is no real mystery here then, all things considered.”

  “There’s nothing to get your fertile little brain overly interested,” the Policeman insisted.

  “Quite,” Poitevin agreed. “It was merely a botched robbery, and the thieves managed to steal absolutely nothing. The young Englishman was merely lurking about and unable to account for himself. I’m sure he’s merely a simpleton, like so many of that island race.”

  Beautrelet sighed. “Then it is perhaps a bad thing that all of this non-mystery has excited my perhaps overly-active imagination. Might I be permitted to learn the facts of this non-case?”

  “They are simply told,” Guichard replied. “At 2 a.m., the night guards made their rounds and found nothing amiss. They retraced their steps precisely on schedule at 2:27 a.m., and discovered a door ajar. One of the guards sounded the alarm, and three men promptly fled through the gardens. The guards telephoned the police, the Director and Monsieur Poitevin. We all arrived here roughly together. While these two gentlemen examined for any missing objects, I and my men searched for clues. But the thieves were obviously professionals, and had left nothing to be discovered.”

  “And my assistant and I checked the collection thoroughly,” Monsieur Voisin added. “We soon ascertained that nothing had been stolen. The thieves were obviously interrupted before they could steal anything.”

  The Commissioner nodded. “And one of my men, searching the general area, came across a young English boy who was not able to explain his presence here with any clarity, so he was apprehended.”

  “Interesting,” Beautrelet commented. “There is nothing missing, and the guards say that the men were carrying nothing?”

  “Nothing,” Voisin confirmed.

  “Might I perhaps be allowed to see the room in which they were disturbed?” Beautrelet asked the Director. After a moment, the older man shrugged.

  “The Police have thoroughly investigated, but I can see no reason to refuse such a simple request. If you would follow me?” He led the way from the entrance hall into a side room.

  Beautrelet noted that the walls were lined with paintings, none of which were of great value or of interest–minor works for the most part by French landscape painters. There were also some small statues on pedestals, including two which even his untrained eye could see were Greek originals, dating back to at least 300 BC. They appeared to be quite fine. “Curious,” he commented.

  “What is?” asked Director Voisin, frowning.

  “Assume for a moment, if you are able, that you are an art thief. You determine to break into the Musée de Fontainebleau. What among the collection would you steal?”

  “Why...” The older man spluttered a moment, and then scowled. “I would take the icons, I imagine.”

  “So, too, would I,” Beautrelet agreed. “Yet, if I recall the floor plans for this Museum correctly, the icons are housed upstairs, are they not?”

  “Yes,” Poitevin agreed. “I imagine that the thieves int
ended to head there, but were startled and fled instead.”

  “Yes, I think most people would imagine that,” Beautrelet agreed. “Is it not odd, then, that they took nothing?” He gestured toward the two statues. “Even if I were fleeing in fear from the guards, I think I would have the presence of mind to help myself to those rather valuable objects.”

  “Perhaps the thieves did not realize how valuable they are?” Poitevin suggested.

  “That is always possible,” Beautrelet agreed. “But you would imagine that anyone attempting to rob an art museum would know the value of what they are stealing.”

  “Unless they were focused in on stealing a certain set of items,” Guichard offered. “They may have been specialists.”

  “Again, it is possible.” The young man rubbed his hands together. “Now, what about your suspect? Pardon me, your non-suspect?”

  The Commissioner laughed. “Whatever he is, I think you’ll find him interesting.”

  He led his friend to a door marked Privé, and they passed into a rather crowded office. There was a desk and a set of filing cabinets, but a large portion of the room was taken up with a number of packing cases. Into what small space was left were crowded a bored-looking policeman and a teenaged boy who looked decidedly cross.

  He was fair-haired, and appeared to be about 14–though, as he was small, Beautrelet decided he might just be a little older. He stood straight, and controlled his temper with obvious difficulty. Guichard gestured toward the youth. “This is Mr. James Big… Big…” He stumbled over the name and finally gave up, shrugging. “One of those impossible, unpronounceable English names.”

  “No matter,” Beautrelet decided. “James will do nicely.” He smiled at the youth, receiving another scowl in return. “Now, perhaps you can explain why you are found so close to a spectacularly unsuccessful robbery?”

  “I know nothing about any robbery,” the young man growled. “I was merely coming to the Museum to talk to the Director about his cousin.”

  “My cousin?” Voisin spluttered, confused. “Do you know him?”

  “Not at all,” James replied. “But I should like to. Is he not the man who, partnered with the redoubtable Monsieur Blériot, who constructed aircraft until quite recently?”

  “Oh, that folly!” The Director sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid he is. It’s all nonsense, you know. It will never catch on.”

  The youth glared at him. “This? This from a man whose country has invented the aerial show? It would seem that your career of glorifying the past has left you dwelling there also–the airoplane is the coming thing,” he pronounced. “It will shape our very future. Mankind will no longer be bound by the shackles of the ground, but will soar to wherever his imagination can take him. And I aim to be in the forefront of those so soaring.”

  Beautrelet couldn’t help chuckling at this statement, which earned him another of the boy’s dark glares. “You are evidently an aero enthusiast,” the young detective commented. “I find it difficult to believe you had anything at all to do with this robbery.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell these idiotic Policemen for more than an hour now,” James growled. “But they refuse to listen.”

  “We have listened now,” Commissaire Guichard pointed out. He turned to Beautrelet. “My friend, I cannot simply release this youth until my investigations are complete. Perhaps I could impose upon you to keep an eye on him for me, and so free up the energies of my men?”

  Beautrelet considered the proposal. There was something in this stiff-backed and stiff-necked young man that he found appealing. Truth be told, James reminded him of himself, but a few years back. And it might not be a bad idea if he had a hand in what he was already starting to plan… “Very well, Commissaire,” he agreed. “If James is agreeable, I will happily take him into my custody.”

  “Are you another of these damnable Policemen?” the young man demanded.

  “No; like you, I am a student. I merely dabble in detection as a sideline.” He held out a hand. “My name is Isidore Beautrelet.”

  “James Bigglesworth,” the other replied. After a moment’s hesitation, he shook the offered hand.

  Beautrelet could see why Guichard had faced problems attempting to pronounce such a surname! “Well, James,” he said, “perhaps you’d be kind enough to accompany me? While the Commissaire clears up what details he can, I should like to have a chance to examine the triptychs I came to see, before they are packaged and shipped away. We do not have much time, it would seem.”

  The young man’s face fell–he clearly had little interest in art, and wished only to get into his beloved aerial craft. Beautrelet had a little pity for the youth, but a little art education could hardly hurt James. Monsieur Poitevin took them up the wide marble stairs to the room where the icons were stored in cases that, he noted, were wired for an electrical alarm. James attended rather sullenly, but Beautrelet found immense pleasure in examining the exquisite workmanship. From time to time, he pointed out details to the young man–the subtle workmanship of the gold leaf on one piece, the enameling on a second, or the subtle placement of jewels to enhance the scene on a third. Despite his initial sullen response, James soon began pointing out details without being prompted.

  “You enjoy the artwork after all,” Beautrelet commented with a slight smile.

  “It’s not as good at the work Monsieur Blériot manages on his rotary engines,” James answered, “but there is skill of a kind here, and they are rather pleasing to the eye.” He considered for a moment. “Are they very valuable, then?”

  Beautrelet nodded. “I hesitate to use the word priceless, for each does have a price, but they are certainly irreplaceable–and much desired. There are collectors who would love to have these in their own hands, even if theft were involved.”

  “But the thieves apparently mucked the whole thing up,” James said.

  “So the Police believe,” agreed the detective.

  James didn’t misunderstand the comment. “But you do not?” he asked, finally showing a little life.

  “I do not,” Beautrelet agreed. “The thieves, as the Police agree, were professionals. And yet they managed such a gross mistake as to not know the times the Museum guards made their rounds? Does that not sound like a contradiction in terms?”

  “Yes,” James agreed, thoughtfully. “If I were going to rob this place, that’s one of the first things I’d want to discover. I’d need to know how long I had to swipe the stuff.”

  “And yet the Police would have us believe that these criminals were not as smart as two scholars, eh?” Beautrelet grinned. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I find myself growing famished. Why do we not talk further over a plate in the local café?” And he steadfastly refused to be drawn on the subject of the robbery attempt until they were both seated and dining on a rather pleasant dish of chicken.

  “Right,” James said, his mouth rather full, “you don’t buy this theory that the robbery was unsuccessful, then?”

  “Not quite,” Beautrelet answered. “I do not believe that it should be termed a robbery at all. The aim was never to steal anything.”

  James halted, his next fork load close to his mouth. “Then why break into the Museum at all?”

  “Precisely!” Beautrelet beamed. “The Police, assuming the purpose to be robbery, do not consider any other possibility. I, on the other hand, approach the matter in my own way.”

  “You mean, you work like Mr. Sherlock Holmes–search out clues, and add them together to solve the mystery?” said James.

  “I do not,” Beautrelet replied, somewhat primly. “That sort of thing is all very well for Mr. Holmes, but it has little bearing on my methods. What I do is to examine the crime. I then form a theory as to how it is committed, and why, and then I go in search of the evidence necessary to prove me either correct or incorrect. Once I am certain I know how the crime has been committed, then I know what evidence must be there for my theory to be true. So!” He sat back fro
m his meal and steepled his fingers together. “I begin with the idea that the thieves–we may as well call them that, even though they stole nothing–yet!–accomplished their purpose in breaking into the museum. Knowing the timetable the guards must follow, they allowed themselves to be seen and chased, empty-handed, from the premises. If they did not take anything from the museum, then, logically, their mission was to bring something into the place.”

  “Something in?” James was clearly confused. “Why would they want to do that?”

  “That is the very essence of the problem,” Beautrelet said, with some satisfaction. “When we know the answer to that, then we shall uncover the whole plot. So–their aim was not to steal, but to plant something in the Museum. Something that will make their intended target simpler to steal later, clearly. Their target must be the icons–aside from the fact that they are the most valuable items that the museum owns, we know that many of them are soon to be sent to the Louvre on loan for several months. The matter of the timing can hardly be coincidental. Now, as well-guarded as this museum is, the Louvre is so much more defended. Since the theft of the Mona Lisa from there two years ago, security has been increased and improved. The chance of stealing the icons from there must be minuscule. So, they are to be taken here.”

  “But they weren’t taken,” James argued.

  “No, and why not? For the first reason, because it would take time to steal them. You were in that room with me, and saw the exhibits. All of the items are under glass, and there are electrical alarms affixed the cases. No doubt a moderately skillful thief could get around this problem, but it would take time. And time is what our criminals do not have. The guards make their rounds in such a fashion that the rooms are examined every seven minutes. That is clearly not enough time to steal the icons, no matter how expeditious the thief is.”

  “I see,” James nodded. “But you said this was only the first reason; there are more?”

  “One other,” Beautrelet informed him. “Let us assume that the thieves did somehow manage to steal the icons and make their getaway. The alarm would be raised within minutes. Sleepy as the Police are in this town, even they would be able to respond in time, perhaps, to intercept the fleeing villains. And, in any case, even if the thieves escaped, everyone would know that the icons were missing, and a watch would be set for them. The icons are indeed beautiful and valuable, but there are not many places where they could be sold. Oh, the jewels and gold in them would be intrinsically valuable, but it is as complete works of art that they would fetch the most money–and once word of the theft was issued, the market for the icons would close.”