The Cavalier of the Apocalypse

by Susanne Alleyn

6

  They learned nothing more from the corpse and left a quarter hour later, the parcel of clothing under Brasseur's arm. Aristide hoped Derville would be sufficiently awake, at nine o'clock in the morning, to receive them. His manservant admitted them and ushered them into the salon to wait, where Derville joined them, yawning, a quarter hour later.

  "How can I help you, then, Monsieur Brasseur?" he inquired warily, after Aristide had introduced his companion. "I'm sure I know nothing about any sordid criminal matters."

  "We wanted only to take advantage of your particular knowledge," Aristide assured him. "You know all about the latest fashions, and I'm sure you're acquainted with the best tailors in the city-not socially, of course."

  Derville smiled. "I expect I could recognize the work of a few of them."

  "Perhaps you could identify the tailor who cut this waistcoat or shirt."

  Brasseur untied the parcel and laid out the clothes across the two dainty armchairs. Derville inspected them, rubbing the cloth between his fingers and frowning. "Hmm?bad stain there across the front, of course. And what idiot thought he could wash silk, and ruined the fabric completely? What a pity."

  Aristide opened his mouth to tell him that the marks were the remains of a vast bloodstain, but he caught Brasseur's minuscule shake of the head from out of the corner of his eye, and said nothing as Derville continued.

  "Well, the shirt is new enough, perhaps made by a doting wife who's good with her needle, but it's certainly not from some common back-street tailor shop; I could name you three or four good tailors, including my own, who would make a gentleman's shirt of this quality."

  "What about the waistcoat?" rumbled Brasseur.

  "Ah, yes, the waistcoat; that's a different story. That's a fine piece of work, and good fabric. See how well the stripes are aligned at the seams, and how stiffly the collar stands up? And the buttons." He pointed to the self buttons covered with the same silk fabric whose narrow stripes subtly shaded at one edge, thread by thread, from wine-red to a deep rose-pink against the pale cream background. "Those are excellent. A bit staid overall for my taste, but you can recognize the quality immediately. Where on earth did you get these, monsieur?"

  "Off a dead man, Monsieur Derville."

  "Dead!"

  "Yes, monsieur. We were hoping you could help us identify him through his clothes. A fine master tailor ought to recognize his own work right off, and he'll know who bespoke it."

  Derville thought for a moment. "I see?well, I know of only a couple of tailors who do waistcoats as fine as this one: I should think it's Noguier's work. He has an establishment on Rue du Faubourg St. Honor?."

  "Noguier," Brasseur muttered, scribbling down the name.

  "Be sure to mention my name when you visit. I fear you wouldn't get past the front door, otherwise."

  "A police card does wonders, monsieur," Brasseur said woodenly. "Even for a fellow in a shabby black suit two years old."