Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  James considered these points. “But you are making a case against stealing the treasures,” he objected.

  “Indeed I am,” beamed Beautrelet. “And, in fact, the icons were not taken!”

  “I must confess, I am getting extremely confused,” James said with a frown. “You are arguing that no crime has been committed.”

  Beautrelet shrugged. “Well, there is the matter of breaking and entering, and criminal trespass–but, other than that, no crime has been committed–yet. What has occurred is merely the setting for the real crime–and a rather cunning one at that.”

  “But I’m blowed if I can see what the crime is yet!” James exclaimed in exasperation.

  “That is because you were not present when the final clue was uttered,” the detective consoled him. “I, however, was. Director Voisin mentioned that the icons would be sent to the Louvre in the morning, in seven packing cases.”

  James blinked. “Seven? But there were eight cases in the room.” He smiled depreciatingly. “I don’t normally count such things, but I was in there a while, and had little else to occupy my mind.”

  Beautrelet chuckled. “Yet you did note the one salient fact–seven cases are being sent out, but there are eight awaiting pickup.” He examined his new friend with curiosity–did the English boy have the brains to work the rest out for himself?

  After a moment, James’s face lit up. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “The thieves brought in the extra crate… filled with replicas of the icons they wished to steal, no doubt. This crate must be marked in some way, so that they can tell it apart from the crate with the real icons… Then, when the crates are removed, the thieves will intercept the van carrying them and steal the crate that they want.” He considered a moment further, then nodded with conviction. “They will set the raid up, like the raid on the Museum, so it will look as though they have failed again. There will, after all, still be seven packaging crates on the truck when they leave. The fakes will go on display at the Louvre. Sooner or later, someone will spot the deception, but by that point, the real icons will have been sold to collectors and the thieves long vanished.”

  Beautrelet beamed. “James, I do believe you have followed my thought processes almost exactly. We shall make a detective of you yet.”

  “Right,” James said, putting down his utensils. “So we now tell the Police?”

  “No, we do not,” Beautrelet said sharply. “And that for two reasons. Firstly, because it is clear that there is someone on the inside working with the gang. This person must have supplied them with precise descriptions and photographs of the icons so that replicas could be forged, and must, clearly, be the one who is watching over the shipment. I do not have enough evidence to accuse any specific individual, so if the Police strike now, the truly guilty man will go free.”

  James nodded, understanding this. “And the second reason?”

  “The Police have the same facts that we have; if they are not bright enough to follow them to the same conclusion we have, then I do not see why they should have the credit for the arrest of the thieves. Let the glory come to those who have worked for it.”

  The English boy’s face lit up. “You propose that we capture the gang ourselves?”

  “I do indeed.”

  James looked worried again. “Just the two of us? There may be many of them, and they may well be armed.”

  “Are you any good with a pistol?” Beautrelet asked him, casually.

  “I’m a decent shot,” James assured him. “I’ve had plenty of practice–I grew up in India, and did a lot of hunting.”

  “Fine. Then you shall carry my spare pistol, and I shall have one also. But I do not aim to get into a fight–I am sorry to have to say it, but I am not a terribly bold man. I prefer the cerebral arts to fisticuffs, and usually leave that side of things to the Police. No, I propose we arm ourselves simply in case of the unexpected. I propose also that we follow the delivery van, unseen, and then wait for the robbery. Once it is accomplished, we must then follow the thieves back to their hiding place, and the alert the local constabulary. They are professionals, and I am happy to leave the actual capture to them. I have, however, one small problem yet to overcome in my plan.”

  “And that is?” James prompted.

  “How we shall be able to follow the thieves without being observed doing so by them. I shall have to think about it for a while.”

  James shook his head. “No, I do believe that I can work something out,” he said. “The only problem is that what I have in mind isn’t exactly legal.”

  Beautrelet made an airy gesture. “We shall be preventing a major crime–I should think my standing with the Police is good enough that bending the rules a trifle will be overlooked.” He regarded James with amusement. “What do you have in mind?”

  The English youth shook his head. “Let me plan it out before I tell you,” he suggested. “Meanwhile, do you think we could manage some sort of disguise? It might be a good idea.”

  Beautrelet beamed; if there was one thing he enjoyed, it was in assuming a really convincing disguise. “I imagine that something of the sort might be arranged.”

  “It would help if you could make me look a trifle older,” James suggested.

  “A fake beard and moustache should do admirably,” the detective decided. “And I shall become an itinerant painter–there are some sights hereabouts well worth a canvas or two, if I were only skilled enough.”

  “Right,” James said, happily. “Then let’s finish eating, and get to work.” He lay down his utensils.

  Beautrelet smiled at his eager young friend. “I think we have time for a little pastry first...”

  The following morning found Beautrelet at his easel two blocks from the Château, watching carefully whilst sketching the building. A large, noisy truck had drawn up earlier, and four workmen were engaged in loading the crates aboard. They were being watched carefully by several Policemen under the personal supervision of Commissaire Guichard. The good Commissioner had glanced over at Beautrelet several times with evident suspicion, but the disguise the detective wore–a goatee beard, a monocle and painter’s smocks–served to hide his true identity from his friend.

  All that was missing was James. The young man had vanished yesterday afternoon for a while in his own disguise, and had reappeared at supper time evidently rather proud of himself. He refused to explain how he had arranged for the truck to be followed, merely promising that they would not be observed. Then he had vanished after breakfast, and failed to reappear.

  The rear of the truck was closed up, and there was a round of paperwork that was signed. Beautrelet was getting quite alarmed that his companion was still missing. It was starting to look as though his plans would crash and burn.

  “Sorry I’m late,” James apologized, hurrying up. “But I had the devil of a time getting petrol. Some of your countrymen are lazy beggars at this time in the morning. Am I too late?”

  “No,” Beautrelet informed him, considerably relieved. He gestured, though carefully–he did not wish to draw attention. “They are just about ready to leave.”

  “Then perhaps we should also,” James said. “I’ll give you a hand with your art supplies, if you like.” Together, they packed everything away. They stopped at the café on their way, slipping the materials just inside the door, and then James led the way out of the town and into a large field.

  Beautrelet stopped dead in his tracks, his face ashen. “What is that contraption?”

  James laughed easily. “That contraption, as you call it, is one of the most advanced airoplanes in the world–the Morane-Saulnier Type L. There are only a half-dozen yet constructed, and I was lucky indeed to be able to borrow it. It isn’t likely to be missed for a couple of hours yet.”

  “An aircraft?” the detective spluttered. “You propose that we use that... monstrosity to follow the van?”

  “It’s the best idea,” James said, airily. “Those thieves will be looking behind them on the roa
d for pursuit–not hundreds of feet over their heads.”

  “But... but... that machine must be very noisy!” Beautrelet protested.

  “They won’t hear a thing over the racket their own motor is making,” James answered. “Besides, we’ll be pretty high up–at least a thousand feet.”

  “A thousand feet?” the detective said, weakly. “In the air? My friend, you are insane! I told you before, I am not the most courageous of men, and I much prefer that my feet stay planted firmly on the ground. Besides, I do not trust these airplanes–they have a great tendency to crash.”

  “Not this beauty,” James said happily, stroking the fabric of the fuselage. “It’s got a very reliable Gnome Lambda 7 cylinder rotary engine, and it flies like a dream. I know–I had to fly it here this morning. Come on, you’ll love it.”

  “I would hate it–if I were to try it, which I shall not!” The detective shook his head. “I am not getting into that death trap for anything this world has to offer!”

  James sighed. “Well, then, I guess the crooks will get the better of us, because there’s no other way to follow them without their knowledge.” He sighed heavily. “I guess I’ll just have to live with failure, then–the knowledge that they have beaten us.”

  Beautrelet was no fool, and could see immediately James’s aim. But, at the same time, he had to confess his hand was well-played. If there was one thing Beautrelet would never allow, it was defeat. He knew it was stubborn pride and a touch of arrogance in his own character, and no doubt a flaw. But he would never allow himself to be beaten. Swallowing hard, he screwed up every last little bit of courage he possessed–and, as he had confessed, it was not a large supply–and he set his hand to the fragile craft.

  “Help me aboard,” he said through gritted teeth.

  James helped him into the second seat, and then hopped cheerfully into the pilot’s seat. “Engine’s still warm and we shouldn’t have much problem,” he announced. The beastly machine roared to frightening life, and it took every gram of will-power the detective possessed not to leap, screaming, from the machine and back to the safety of the dear Earth.

  Then James let out the throttle, and the plane taxied across the field, gathering speed as it went. It had to be going far faster than Beautrelet had ever traveled before–certainly more than 50 kph–and then it somehow managed to stagger into the air. Beautrelet was wishing sincerely he had not breakfasted so well.

  The ground fell away below him, and he fought back panic that threatened to overwhelm his reason.

  “This is the life, eh?” James laughed, his voice snatched away by the wind through the struts.

  Life? This looked like death to Beautrelet! They were being suspended in the air only by the strength of a noisy, smelly engine and a large wing above their heads. At any second the whole insane contraption might fail, and they would plunge to their inevitable and grisly deaths... He strove to force this ghastly image from his mind.

  James maneuvered the craft around, and a moment later he called out: “There’s the road to Paris, and I can see the truck on its way. Take a look.”

  “You must be insane,” Beautrelet complained. “I have no intention of staring over the side of this machine. I shall merely sit here and suffer.”

  “Oh, chin up, old man,” James said cheerfully. “You’ll get to love this in no time at all.”

  “You are quite correct,” the detective agreed. “At no time at all will I get to love this. Keep your attention on the road, and I shall sit quietly here and panic until we are on the ground once again.”

  The journey was an absolute misery. Beautrelet sat as still as he was able, eyes screwed shut, attempting to breath regularly. Fear almost overwhelmed him, and it was only by shutting out the thought of what they were doing that he was able to remain seated. He allowed James to do the work, being updated by the young man from time to time.

  “Ah!” James called, finally. “The truck has stopped! Some kind of a blockade.” Beautrelet’s stomach almost exited his mouth as the mad English youth dropped the plane down for a closer look. “A tree has been felled, which has forced the truck to stop. Ah, here’s a second truck, blocking retreat–obviously the crooks we’ve been expecting. They have guns held on the workmen, and have started to unfasten the back of the truck. A couple of the men have gone in... and they’re bringing out one crate and transferring it now... The workmen are being held in the cab, so they haven’t seen it go... And here now comes the Police escort. They’ve seen the crooks, but the crate has been hidden.”

  “Naturally,” said Beautrelet. “Now the thieves will allow themselves to be chased away, and when the shipping truck is examined seven crates will still remain. Once again, a successful failure on the part of these villains!”

  “Right,” James agreed, swooped their plane around again. “I’m now following the thieves’ truck. This is all rather exciting, isn’t it?”

  “It will be if and when we return to the Earth safely,” Beautrelet assured him. He was not at all assured that this was likely. He could picture any number of things going wrong with their flimsy craft, and see it spinning from the sky in his mind’s eye and crashing back to the solid Earth, killing them both... He was on the verge of fainting from hysteria when he heard James call out again.

  “The van’s stopped at a large old house,” he yelled over the howl of the wind and the pounding of the engine. “It’s on the outskirts of this small town. I think we had best alert the Police now.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” Beautrelet. “This infernal device is not fitted with a telephone.”

  “Drop a message,” James said cheerily. “I wrote one before we started, and put it into a small pouch. We simply drop down low enough and lob it at the first Policeman that we find. It alerts him to follow us, and call in reinforcements.”

  Beautrelet had to admit that James was performing well in his detective duties. But the most important thing, to him, was their imminent landing, and his successful return to Earth. As soon as James had located a Policeman and dropped the message, he flew slowly back toward the house where the thieves had holed up. Then he looked for a field large enough to land in.

  “Hang on tight,” he called over his shoulder. “The landing’s always the trickiest part.”

  “But you have done it before?” Beautrelet howled.

  “Well–just the once. I’ve never been allowed in a plane on my own before this morning.”

  “What?” Beautrelet almost did faint that time. “This is the first time you have flown this craft?”

  “The second–the first was when I borrowed it. In fact, it’s only the second time I’ve flown any airoplane. But it’s jolly easy, really–I haven’t had any problems, have I?”

  “He’s insane,” the detective muttered to himself. But it was probably a good thing he had not known this information earlier–if he had, nothing would have induced him to clamber into this Hellish contraption!

  James took the plane down, and Beautrelet felt a distinct thump as the wheels touched the ground, bounced once, and then settled back. James cut the speed, and the craft gradually came to a halt. Beautrelet, with a cry halfway between thanks and terror, leaped from the craft, and fell onto his knees, kissing the ground.

  “Never,” he vowed, “never will I step into one of those Devil’s devices again!”

  “Buck up,” James said, laughing, as he jumped lightly down. “That was the most awful fun. And we’re safe and all in one piece.”

  “You are a maniac!” Beautrelet swore. He shuddered and pulled the tattered remnants of his courage together. “But now, let us meet the Police and go and capture the thieves.”

  That part of the adventure, at least, was simply effected. The local gendarmes, happy to show their big-city rivals how efficient they could be, raided the large house and captured the art thieves without a shot being fired. An hour later, Commissioner Guichard arrived, a surprised look on his face.

  “But... there
was no robbery!” he exclaimed.

  Beautrelet, having regained his equanimity at last, laughed. “That’s what they wished everyone to believe. But James and I knew otherwise.”

  Guichard gazed at the art treasures, half-unpacked from the shipping crate. “I shall have these returned to the Museum at once,” he said.

  “Not yet, please, Commissaire,” Bernardine suggested. “We still need to capture the ring-leader of this little plot. He glanced at his pocket watch. “In an hour or so, the villain should arrive.”

  “How can you be so certain?” the Policeman asked.

  “Because this is the half-day for the Château de Fontainebleau,” Beautrelet explained. “And our mastermind will hurry here once it is closed to examine his haul. So, we have your men hide, and allow everything to look normal. And then we wait for our trap to be sprung.” He glanced over at James, who was sleeping soundly in a comfortable chair. “Ah, the resilience of youth. You would hardly know, Commissaire, that only a short while ago, he and I were in peril of our lives a thousand feet above this house.”

  “I’m surprised he managed to get you into a plane,” the Commissioner commented.

  “No more than I am. But now–we wait.”

  Sixty eight minutes later, the front door opened and closed. A man’s voice called out, and Beautrelet and Guichard both stiffened. James sprang suddenly awake, the loaned pistol in his hand.

  The door to the room opened, and Monsieur Poitevin stepped through–and stopped, stunned, as three pistols were leveled in his face. “What does this mean?” he cried in shock.