Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Marcel Sieurac’s Murder by Erich Obermayr

The opening at Galerie Lefevre was a listless affair. The artist, Marcel Sieurac, was an unknown, and his work was very ordinary. With only one exception, the luminaries of the Paris art world were unanimously absent, and the small crowd that was there was more interested in consuming the free refreshments than in viewing the paintings.

The gallery’s location was partly to blame. True, from its doors on Boulevard de Rochechouart me could throw a rock in any direction and hit an artist, or at least someone standing in a drafty room before a canvas, with brushes and palette in hand. The attics and crannies of Montmartre’s creaking old buildings, which hunkered shoulder to shoulder up and down the steep streets, had been partitioned into hundreds of tiny studios. But their inhabitants could seldom afford an afternoon glass of wine, let alone the price of even a cheap painting. The buying of art was the purview of more prosperous citizens, and they seldom wandered north of the Grands Boulevards.

The true connoisseur did keep an eye on obscure little galleries like Galerie Lefevre, in case some undiscovered genius happened to hang his work on its wall first. Mrs. Poll was a true connoisseur. She was also Paul Aichele’s nominal housekeeper. That is, she did some cleaning on Mondays and Thursdays but only because, as she said, those afternoons would otherwise be insufferably dull. Aichele was not a connoisseur, although he never lacked an opinion about a painting. When Mrs. Poll invited him to the opening at Galerie Lefevre, he gladly accepted.

On the way, Mrs. Poll mentioned that the young Henri Berhard had first exhibited at Galerie Lefevre, but once they arrived she was first to admit that Marcel Sieurac was no Henri Berhard. His work consisted of city scenes, meticulously true to their subjects but also very stiff, especially in their human figures, which looked posed even though they were supposedly engaged in everyday activities.

It took Mrs. Poll only one pass through the exhibit to exhaust whatever potential it had for her, but Aichele found himself enjoying the familiar Parisian sites the paintings presented. And like himself, the artist had taken more than a few long strides down the road of middle age. This was a point in his favor. It was also impossible to watch unsympathetically as Sieurac responded with smiling pleasantries to the vacuous comments of those low echelon denizens of the art world who were there.

The one person of importance was a M. Boucherot, who, Mrs. Poll explained, not only wrote artistic criticism for Le Figaro but authored an immensely popular weekly serial in La Gazette de France under the nom de plume of “Antonin.” The fact that “Antonin” and M. Boucherot were one and the same was, by M. Boucherot’s design, one of the worst kept secrets in the city’s artistic circles.

It was hardly necessary to point him out, since he was holding court in the center of the gallery. The group around him was never smaller than the little knot of spectators around Sieurac. He left after a few minutes, and took most of the crowd with him.

The event had been under way for some time when Aichele and Mrs. Poll arrived, and it seemed to be on the verge of simply ceasing to be, without a ripple of ceremony. Mrs. Poll suggested they adjourn for drinks and, courteous as always, surprised both Sieurac and M. St. Cloud, the gallery owner, by inviting them, too.

M. St. Cloud was a doleful, dark-haired man who had attended the opening in a black frock coat. He declined the invitation, looking appropriately weary and explaining there was work to do yet in closing the gallery. Sieurac, in contrast, readily accepted, and suggested Café Dancourt, half a block north on the square of the same name.

To describe Cafe Dancourt as a hole-in-the-wall would conjure too expansive an image. It consisted of one tiny, gloomy room a few steps below street level. The light was feeble, and the tobacco smoke was thick. Sieurac was instantly recognized, and greeted loudly by the waiter and several customers. They were directed to the premier table, although once the three glasses of beer they ordered arrived, there was no longer room for them all to rest their elbows on it.

Sieurac emptied his glass in the time it took Aichele to light the cigarette Mrs. Poll had taken from her handbag. It was just as quickly refilled. The alcohol eased the furrows on Sieurac’s brow and lightened whatever care it was that had kept his mouth so downturned at the edges. He even looked younger than he had appeared at the gallery, and he was most definitely more at home at Café Dancourt.

“And so what brings you to our little faubourg today?” Sieurac asked, to begin the conversation.

“Your exhibit,” Mrs. Poll answered.

“Come now. All the way out here to see the work of a nobody?” Sieurac drained his second glass and wiped his lips with his sleeve. “If that’s so, what was it you liked so much about my paintings?”

“I did not say I liked them,” Mrs. Poll answered.

“That’s right, you didn’t.” Sieurac turned toward the waiter and called for another glass of beer.

“I did rather like some of your work,” Aichele said. But his comment was too hesitant, and betrayed the difference between a personal opinion and a judgment of true quality.

“Which ones?”

“View of Pont Neuf for example.”

“Oh?” Sieurac sounded skeptical. Then, dismissing the whole thing, said, “You’re not drinking. Maybe you’d rather have cognac. If so, you’re out of luck. They water the liquor here.”

“The beer is fine,” Aichele said, observing that he and Mrs. Poll’s glasses were actually almost empty, and that a suitable exit would then present itself. But before he finished the thought, the waiter had refilled them from a large enamel pitcher.

“Have you ever heard of Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, of Lyon?” Sieurac suddenly said. He did not wait for an answer. “At my age, he had exhibited in all the best galleries, and now he’s somewhere basking in the sun. And do you know what? The only reason anyone ever looked twice at anything he did was because of all those articles that idiot Guerin wrote about him. And do you know why Guerin wrote what he wrote? Because Puvis de Chavannes was Countess Mategna’s lover, and Guerin thought that if he praised Puvis enough the countess would eventually invite him to her salon. He must have written twenty articles, trying to get her to notice him.”

“Did she?” Mrs. Poll asked.

“Of course not,” Sieurac said, as if she should have known. “But everyone in Paris found out who Pierre Puvis de Chavannes was.”

“The critic M. Boucherot was at your opening,” Aichele volunteered. “Perhaps there will be something said in Le Figaro about you.”

“He was at my first exhibit and never wrote a word. Not even an insult.” Sieurac made a pained smile. “He only comes because an opening provides an audience for his pontifications. Are you hungry? They boil cabbage here. If you’re lucky, you even get a morsel of ham. How about it?”

Before either Aichele or Mrs. Poll could answer, their attention, and the attention of everyone else in the room, was drawn abruptly to the entryway, where a very intoxicated woman made an entrance befitting the stage at the Variates. She swept in at top speed, opened her arms to the room, then dropped them quickly to her sides as her bleary gaze settled upon Marcel Sieurac.

She did not waste a moment of the crowd’s attention. “Good evening, dear husband,” she said loudly.

The features of her face were bulky and prominent. Her eyes were narrow, crowded between her thick brow and high cheekbones, which were reddened to match the startling hue of her lipstick. Her skin was rough, even under its veneer of makeup.

“I take it your opening was such a success that you have come to Café Dancourt to pay one last visit before moving on to more rarefied establishments. Tell me, do we have a new address in Saint-Germain? Should I pack my things? Or will you simply buy me an entire new wardrobe?”

Sieurac glared at the woman, angry but forlorn at the same time. The others took in the spectacle with either surprise or amusement, or both. Then the woman released them, striding unsteadily to the bar and saying in a soft voice, “A drink, please.”

“We were planning on dinner at the Chat Noir,” Mrs. Poll said to Sieurac, bringing his attention back to the table. “You are welcome to join us.”

“The Chat Noir is filled with poseurs and half wits,” he answered bluntly.

“But the shadow-shows are said to be quite imaginative.”

“Shadow-shows? That’s what it has come to. Shadow-shows. I have no desire to go to the Chat Noir and see shadow-shows.”

“Then, it has been a pleasure, monsieur,” Aichele said, standing quickly.

Mrs. Poll rose more slowly. “Good evening, M. Sieurac. I wish you the best of luck.”

The woman stood at the bar but turned her back as Aichele and Mrs. Poll passed. Mrs. Poll gave the waiter an extra ten francs so Sieurac’s evening could go on as long as he wanted. The door was closing behind them when Aichele happened to turn and look back into the cafe. He saw through the smoky lamplight that the woman had planted herself squarely in Sieurac’s lap. She held his chin in the palm of one hand and rested the fingertips of the other against his cheek.

It was a five block walk downhill to the Chat Noir.

“Isn’t it true that all great artists lead tempestuous lives?” Aichele said.

“You could say that. But all artists who lead tempestuous lives are not great artists.”

“Of course. But I honestly do like View of Pont Neuf. And I just might buy it. The prices in Galerie Lefevre are certainly right.”

“A true reflection of the value of the work, in my opinion. If you hung View of Pont Neuf on the wall with five other paintings, it would be the last one anybody would notice.”

“I would not buy it to attract attention. It is a competent rendering of the Pont Neuf. Granted, it is not a Renoir, but that is just the point. I might enjoy looking back someday at what the Pont Neuf actually looked like in 1889.”

“Then buy a photograph.”

“It is not the same,”

“Well, you are right about that. But personally, I prefer the view of the Pont Neuf which I carry in my mind’s eye to either M. Sieurac’s work or a photograph.”

They arrived at the Chat Noir. The frosted glass of the double doors fairly throbbed from the excitement within. By the standard of Montmartre nightlife, they were absurdly early, but lucky to get a table. “Phryne” was the night’s presentation, although any story would have played to a capacity crowd. M. Riviere’s shadow-shows were the absolute sensation of the city.

Monday afternoon of the following week, Mrs. Poll arrived at Aichele’s flat on Rue St. Severin and was about to begin the dusting. He diverted her with a glass of red wine.

“There have been some interesting developments with regard to our artist friend M. Sieurac,” Aichele said. “His wife paid me a call the very next day after our meeting. She is really quite pleasant when she’s not in her cups. Some of the hangers-on in Café Dan-court knew who I was, and my profession, probably from my days at the Prefecture. And it so happens she is confronted with a matter requiring the services of a private detective. Namely, she thinks her husband is being swindled by M. St. Cloud.”

“It would not be the first time an artist was taken advantage of by a gallery owner,” Mrs. Poll said. “What is it that makes her suspicious?”

“The exhibit we saw is Sieurac’s second at Galerie Lefevre. The first was about eight months ago. All the pieces in the first exhibit were sold, and almost all the work in the current show has been sold as well. Yet despite this apparent demand for Sieurac’s work, M. St. Cloud continues to set extremely low prices for it. Ridiculously low, according to Mme. Sieurac. And of course her husband’s share is proportionately meager. She suspects M. St. Cloud is up to something, but has no idea what. Her husband is reluctant to press the issue, but she did persuade him to ask M. St. Cloud for a list of the buyers, which, oddly enough, he keeps saying he will produce but somehow never does. Coupled with the fact that the gallery is almost always empty, as you could predict from the small showing at the opening, I think she has a right to be suspicious. I told Mme. Sieurac I would look into the situation, and that definitely includes asking your opinion of the matter.”

Mrs. Poll shrugged. “There are any number of ways M. St. Cloud could cheat Sieurac. He could actually charge the buyers much more for the paintings and pocket the difference, though that is highly unlikely. I seriously doubt that Sieurac’s work could ever fetch more than the prices M. St. Cloud has set for them. It is probably all just a coincidence. On the one hand, the Sieuracs have high expectations, and on the other, the apparent demand for his work might well be the result of the same low prices they are complaining about.”

“Well, I did visit the gallery again,” Aichele said. “And indeed, most of the work was sold. Of course M. St. Cloud was not about to tell me who any of the buyers were. In fact his whole attitude was downright rude, even though I made it abundantly clear I wanted to buy a painting.”

“View of Pont Neuf, I suppose?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. But it is not available. And all the time I was there, not a soul came in. Does that mean M. St. Cloud sells the paintings after hours?”

“That is possible.”

“But so many?”

“It is odd, I admit.”

“The next step was to talk to Sieurac himself. I decided to pay a visit to his studio, the location of which I learned during a brief stop at Café Dan-court. I had an engagement already scheduled for that afternoon, so the visit did have to be arranged for a later time. I have since then sent him two messages, asking for an appointment, and received no reply. So I plan on making an unannounced visit later today, and if you think it would be more interesting than dusting, you are invited to join me.”

Mrs. Poll did have her sympathy for Sieurac, but the low esteem in which she held his work was shown by the time she took thinking the proposition over, and that she agreed to come only if they also stopped at Cimetière Montmartre to put flowers on the grave of an actor she once knew.

The walk from the omnibus stop on Boulevard de Rochechouart up Rue des Martyrs to Rue Antoinette was something of a trek. And if that was not enough, the concierge at Number 40 pointed them up another four flights of stairs to Sieurac’s attic studio.

They paused at the door to catch their breath. It was made of rough, bare planks and had neither handle nor knob. It could only be padlocked shut from the outside with a hasp, which hung empty.

Aichele rapped on the wood several times. The door moved a few inches, and an ominous stillness seeped out the opening. Aichele instinctively gave the door a crisp push. It swung open with a dry creak.

The scene was one of chaos and clutter, and horror.

“My God,” Mrs. Poll whispered.

The studio was large, probably thirty feet on a side. But the room itself seemed smaller because of its steeply sloped ceiling, which was the building’s roofline as well. It slanted downward from the top of the one full wall to a point only a foot or two above the floor on the opposite wall. Three small windows were cut into it and were the only source of natural light. They leaked when it rained, as shown by the long, moldy streaks on the plaster, running down from their corners.

There were half a dozen pieces of furniture altogether. A black drawing room table, its finish long since scraped and chipped beyond repair, lay on its side under the windows. Another table, made of the same rough planks as the door, had been thrust against the low end of the sloped ceiling with such force that one corner was embedded in the plaster. There was a tattered sofa near the door, and three bentwood chairs, all knocked over, were scattered along the length of the room.

Splatters of paint, with shards of glass embedded in them, were everywhere, along with dirty brushes and palettes and hundreds of rough sketches on scraps of paper of every conceivable size and shape. Two easels stood in front of the high wall. One was empty and one held a finished painting. In front of the painting, hanging by the neck from a black, grimy rope, was the body of Marcel Sieurac.

It seemed like a trick, conjured by some macabre magician. The corpse clearly possessed great weight, yet it dangled in the air, two feet above the floor. The black rope looked more like a thread, making a sharp line up to one of the exposed beams that linked the upper part of the high wall to the sloped ceiling. Thence it descended, at an angle, to the steampipe near the floor.

Mrs. Poll stood without moving, consumed by the sight. It was no less gruesome for Aichele, but his experience as a detective had taught him to regard even the most unnerving sight as a simple collection of pieces, to be taken apart and scrutinized and then, he hoped, to be understood.

He circled the body, tilting his head back to look at it, as one would do upon approaching a very tall person. He followed the course of the rope, up to the beam, and down again. He reached out and plucked the length leading to the steam-pipe, producing a dull thump that startled Mrs. Poll and leaving a smudge on his fingers.

He took hold of Sieurac’s wrists, first one and then the other. He turned the hands outward. They were deeply stained with many years’ accumulation of oils and turpentine; some grime was also smeared across the palms.

When Aichele released the wrists, the body rotated slightly, as if stirred by a faint breeze. It was then that he saw the bloodstain on Sieurac’s shoulder. Its source was a dried trickle emerging from the ragged, graying head of hair.

One of the bentwood chairs was on the floor nearby. Aichele righted it and stood on the seat. Straining on his tiptoes, he could see a short, deep cut in Sieurac’s scalp. Alongside it was a bruised, swollen lump.

He stepped down from the chair, and he and Mrs. Poll both immediately noticed the same thing. Aichele pushed the chair beneath the body. Even though Sieurac’s toes pointed down, they were suspended a good six inches above its seat.

There was a sudden, disgusted cry from behind them. It was the concierge, his eyes wide and riveted on the body.

He came closer, peered into Sieurac’s face, and turned away with a grimace. “Is he dead?”

“I am afraid so,” Aichele answered.

The concierge’s eyes darted around the room, finally settling on the painting behind the body. He went quickly to it, and began unfastening it from the easel. He accidently brushed his sleeve against the canvas.

“Blast,” he muttered. The paint was still wet. He picked up a rag from the floor and did his best to wipe the smudge from his cuff.

“You should leave things as they are,” Aichele said. “For the police.”

“But he owes two months’ rent. How much of that am I going to collect from his corpse?”

“Just the same, it would be better if you left everything alone.”

“Who are you to say? And just what are the two of you doing here, anyway?”

“We were here on business.”

“What kind of business? Buying a painting? I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve already bought and paid for this one. You’ve got another think coming, monsieur.” The concierge returned to the painting and finished detaching it from the easel.

Aichele did not exactly stop him from taking the painting, but he stood just enough in the concierge’s way so that in order to get by he would have scraped most of the painting off against Aichele’s jacket.

“I’m not interested in the painting,” Aichele said. “You can have it. But I am interested in what has happened here.”

The concierge suspended his exit.

“The studio is in shambles,” Aichele said.

“Not surprising,” the concierge answered. “There was quite a row up here, an hour or so ago.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“Of course. It’s my job to keep an eye on things. M. St. Cloud was here. He’s Sieurac’s dealer, or business agent or something. They had a disagreement, I think it’s safe to say.”

“About what?”

“How should I know? I was downstairs. All I heard was shouting and thumping and crashing. It went on for several minutes, and I was about to come up and put a stop to it. But things quieted down, and right afterwards M. St. Cloud left.”

“Did you ask him what happened?”

“No. It was none of my business, once it was over. But an odd thing — in spite of all the racket, M. St. Cloud looked very cool and collected, in fact a little bit pleased with himself. There wasn’t a hair on his head out of place. So whatever happened, it had nothing to do with him. Now, monsieur, I would like to take my painting, and there is the unpleasant necessity of notifying the police.”

“Of course,” Aichele answered, stepping out of the way.

“What did happen here, Aichele?” Mrs. Poll asked once they were alone.

Aichele answered, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts. “Sieurac was indeed a creative person. Very creative, and unbelievably desperate.”

This cryptic response was not satisfactory, but before Mrs. Poll could say anything more, Aichele’s attention was drawn to a piece of paper lying on the floor. There was a list on it, in three columns.

“Look at this,” he said. “It is the list of buyers Mme. Sieurac had asked for, along with the paintings they bought and their prices. I wonder if St. Cloud brought it with him today?”

“No,” Mrs. Poll said, bending down and pulling an envelope from the clutter nearby. “Here is an envelope from Galerie Lefevre, probably the one the list came in. It was posted on Friday, and would have arrived here Saturday.”

“So Sieurac had a chance to read it and to stew about it. The list is a distinguished one, to judge from some of these titles. People like this can certainly afford more than rock-bottom prices for their art. For example, the Baron de St. Eugène paid only ninety francs for View of Pont Neuf.”

“Who?” Mrs. Poll asked, coming to Aichele and looking at the list over his shoulder. The baron’s name, along with two others immediately below, had been underlined with thick, angry strokes of black crayon. She was about to say something when Aichele interrupted.

“M. St. Cloud was practically giving Sieurac’s work away to these people. And I think if we can find out why, we can make some sense of what we have witnessed here. But there is not much time.”

Aichele let the list drop and hurried Mrs. Poll out the door.

There were no taxis on Rue Antoinette, and even though they hastened, it took Aichele and Mrs. Poll a good twenty minutes to reach Galerie Lefevre.

M. St. Cloud was at a desk in the back. If it hadn’t been for the smell of his pipe, they would never have known he was there. He did not glance up until they were in front of the desk.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

“I was here last week,” Aichele said, “inquiring about a painting.”

“I remember. And madame was at the opening.”

“I have a story to tell you,” Aichele said, barely concealing his haste.

M. St. Cloud put on a falsely curious expression. “You do?”

“I was at a dinner party at Château Lepaulle over the weekend. The company was exclusive, as you can imagine. Among the guests was a good friend of mine and a customer of yours, the Baron de St. Eugène.”

Aichele had hoped his story would produce a reaction, but he was frankly stunned as M. St. Cloud’s mouth dropped open, and his face went completely pale.

“As you know,” Aichele continued, pretending not to notice the response, “the baron purchased View of Pont Neuf, the very same painting I wanted, for a mere ninety francs. He took no small pleasure in pointing this fact out to me, and that he considered it an amazing bargain. And if that were not enough, none other than Mme. Charles Beauchamp was in attendance at the very same dinner. You certainly know her, as well, since she bought Hotel de Ville at Dusk for an equally trifling sum.”

M. St. Cloud got up from his desk and stood facing Aichele, his arms folded and a scowl spreading across his face. Mrs. Poll, meanwhile, simply stared at Aichele in undisguised astonishment.

“I have two questions, monsieur,” Aichele went on, smiling broadly at M. St. Cloud. “First, please explain why two very rich individuals, both astute investors, have bought from you the work of a singularly unknown and undistinguished artist. Second, presuming there is method to this madness, how do I share in the adventure?”

M. St. Cloud bit grimly on his lower lip. Finally he said, “There is one painting left. I will sell it to you for five hundred francs.”

“Five hundred francs? After the baron paid only ninety for his?”

“Four hundred fifty.”

“Four hundred. Not a franc more. Plus I want a full explanation of just how my four hundred francs will grow, and how much it will grow into.”

“Agreed. A full answer to your question is, of course, impossible; however, I can...”

The front doors of the gallery flew open, and a squad of gendarmes rushed in, hurrying the length of the room toward M. St. Cloud. Even before he turned to look, Aichele knew what was happening, and he threw up his arms in frustration.

“You are M. St. Cloud?” demanded the leader of the squad, none other than Inspector Leroux, an ex-colleague of Aichele’s.

“I am.”

“You are under arrest for the murder of Marcel Sieurac. Take him away.”

Leroux did recognize Aichele and Mrs. Poll, although he was not yet aware of the true depth of the coincidence.

“I did not expect you so soon, Leroux,” Aichele said. “In fact, it was not you I expected at all. Since when do inspectors from the Prefecture investigate hangings in Montmartre?”

Leroux had learned never to be surprised at anything Aichele said or did. “I was in the Eighteenth on other business,” he answered, curtly.

“And that’s a lucky thing. Not many detectives would have come so quickly to the conclusion you have obviously reached concerning M. St. Cloud.”

“So it was the two of you who found the body. The concierge told me a man and woman had been there. You were obliged to remain at the scene, Aichele. You know that.”

“But, inspector, there was nothing we could do for M. Sieurac. And there was nothing I saw that would not be obvious to any competent detective. The chair was impossibly low for a suicide, the victim had suffered a blow to the head, and there was a violent argument between Sieurac and M. St. Cloud at about the time of the artist’s death. So you concluded M. St. Cloud murdered Sieurac. He knocked him unconscious and then hung the body by the neck in an inept attempt to disguise the whole thing as a suicide.”

Leroux had nothing to say. His men were waiting for him. “I will expect the two of you in my office to make a statement.” Then he added, suggesting he did not care if Aichele or Mrs. Poll ever came to his office, “At your leisure, of course.”

Outside, on Boulevard de Rochechouart, Aichele and Mrs. Poll watched as the last gendarme locked the gallery doors.

“Well,” Aichele said, “it seems like Mme. Sieurac’s suspicions were correct, and if it were not for Leroux’s impeccably bad timing, M. St. Cloud would have given us at least the beginning of an explanation. We do have the list of buyers, though, or at least whatever names on it we can think of. I remember the three who were underlined. Do you recall any of the others?”

“You intend to question them?”

“Absolutely. Greedy people are easily tricked, and I am sure that between the two of us we can devise a scenario in which they will speak freely.”

“I doubt that.”

“Oh?” Aichele was questioning the inexplicable smile on Mrs. Poll’s face, along with what she said.

“What we really ought to do is discuss the whole thing with M. St. Cloud’s accomplice,” she said.

“His accomplice? What makes you think he has an accomplice?”

“M. Aichele, when I stood there gawking at poor M. Sieurac, you felt no need to explain to me how you knew the police would go straight to M. St. Cloud and arrest him for murder. I, likewise, do not feel obliged to explain what I know to you.”

“Yes, but...”

“What is good enough for the goose is good enough for the gander.”

“All right. But goose or gander, the idea is to not be roasted and eaten.”

“No promises, monsieur.”

An hour later, and after Mrs. Poll stopped to inquire at a neighborhood bakery, she and Aichele stood at the door of an apartment on Rue Poultier, on the Ile St. Louis. It was an ordinary looking building on the outside, but the interior was ornate and luxurious.

Their knock was answered by M. Boucherot, who needed no introduction since Aichele recognized him from the opening.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a charming voice. He wore a black silk smoking jacket and was clearly flattered rather than annoyed at having strangers at his door. But he made no move to invite them in.

“Good afternoon, monsieur,” Mrs. Poll answered.

“And what may I do for you?”

“Marcel Sieurac is dead,” Mrs. Poll said.

“I know.” M. Boucherot was nothing if not an astute observer, and he recognized Mrs. Poll’s opening gambit as exactly that.

“They arrested M. St. Cloud and charged him with Sieurac’s murder,” she continued.

“I know that, too. The poor fellow sent me a rather desperate message from the Concergerie. Killing Sieurac was hardly necessary, but what’s done is done, n’est-ce pas? Are the two of you newspaper reporters?”

“No, monsieur,” Mrs. Poll said. Aichele stood silently as they had agreed he would do.

“Then who are you, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“I am Mrs. Poll. This is Paul Aichele. We know that you and M. St. Cloud were swindling Sieurac.”

Boucherot smiled. “St. Cloud was swindling Sieurac, not I.”

“There is irrefutable evidence that you were involved.”

“Oh, of course. Only the police don’t have it, you and your companion here do. But you would be willing to turn it all over to me for a price, correct? Well, madame, I compliment you on your resourcefulness and your quickness. I doubt that Sieurac’s body has even cooled yet. But I am not interested in being blackmailed today, perhaps some other time. Now, if you will please excuse me, I have better things to do than stand here and chat.”

“We do have the evidence, monsieur.” Mrs. Poll’s icy seriousness kept M. Boucherot from closing the door. He waited to hear more.

“And it might, indeed, remain confidential.”

M. Boucherot chuckled with satisfaction. “All right, madame, tell me what your evidence is, and I will tell you what an avaricious fool you are, and we will be done with it.”

“You and M. St. Cloud have surreptitiously acquired a sizable collection of Marcel Sieurac’s work, at extraordinarily low prices. Your object is to sell them at extraordinarily high prices. Of course, there is presently no demand for these paintings, but luckily you are one of the most influential art critics in Paris, and in that capacity you can ‘discover’ Marcel Sieurac. With the proper timing, and perhaps with some assistance from others in the art world who might owe you a favor or two, a flurry of interest in Sieurac’s work can be stirred up. It will not last long, since the most effusive public praise cannot sustain mediocre work by itself. But before the bubble bursts, you will have sold your hoard of paintings at a tidy profit.”

“Very good, madame. I will keep your fantasy in mind for my next fiction. You left out the most important thing, though. You see, M. Sieurac’s unhappy death will increase the value of his work tremendously. M. St. Cloud knew this, and it would be a motive for murder, if you ask me. Too bad he was so stupid as to get caught. Oh yes, another thing you neglected. You said you had proof that I was involved.”

“There is a list of buyers in Sieurac’s studio, given to him by M. St. Cloud. It is a list Sieurac demanded because he suspected the very swindle you and M. St. Cloud were perpetrating. The list consists of fictitious names, and you helped compose it.”

The mention of the list did produce a trace of concern on M. Boucherot’s otherwise placid expression. But it evaporated instantly.

“Three of the names, ‘Baron de St. Eugène,’ ‘Mme. Charles Beauchamp,’ and ‘Mme. Pinet,’ are characters from a weekly serial in La Gazette de France, authored by yourself under a nom de plume.”

“ ‘Antonin,’ my dear,” M. Boucherot contributed.

Aichele was silently mortified, and at the same time understood both M. St. Cloud’s reaction to his story of the dinner party and Mrs. Poll’s later smile.

“Mrs. Poll,” Boucherot said, “you are indeed wasting our time. I am pleased M. St. Cloud chose three of my characters to include on his list. The publicity will do wonders. But it has nothing to do with me. It shows the popularity of my writing, not my complicity.”

“Except for one crucial point. Is it not true that ‘Mme. Charles Beauchamp’ is the suddenly widowed cousin of ‘Baron de St. Eugene?’ ”

“Excellent. You too are a reader.”

“She first appeared in yesterday’s episode. Before then, in fact, we readers did not even know the baron had a cousin.”

“Right you are.”

“But the list was mailed on Friday of last week, when ‘Mme. Charles Beauchamp’ existed only in your imagination and in your manuscript, which was by then at the offices of La Gazette and under guard, we curious readers are constantly assured. You helped St. Cloud compose a list of fictitious buyers, and you could not resist this touch of conceit, and because of it we have found you out.”

Boucherot’s aplomb did not desert him completely, but it was obvious he was thinking hard, and without success.

“Monsieur,” Aichele said, finally breaking his silence. “Your accomplice stands accused of a murder. There is strong circumstantial evidence against him, and you yourself have suggested a motive. However, I have evidence that will clear him. I will share it with the police if you agree to a certain course of action, which I will explain in due time. If not, I will let justice run its course, but I warn you, if I were in M. St. Cloud’s position, I would not go to the guillotine alone.”

“Would you like a drink?” M. Boucherot suddenly said, opening the door wide.

Aichele and Mrs. Poll had been waiting only a few minutes at Sieurac’s studio when Inspector Leroux arrived in response to their invitation. The day was almost done, but there was still enough light for their purposes.

The room was under guard, and nothing had changed since that morning, except the rope now dangled empty from the beam.

“I am glad you found time to come, Leroux,” Aichele said. “And as I told you in Galerie Lefevre, it is fortunate that a detective of your caliber was first upon the scene. None of the things I will point out escaped your notice, I’m sure, but I have cogitated upon them all day, and they do now finally suggest a different picture.”

Aichele untied the rope from the steampipe and let it fall. Then he gathered it up in his hands.

“Your conclusion that Sieurac’s death was a murder clumsily disguised as a suicide is wrong, Leroux. It is in fact just the opposite. Marcel Sieurac did commit suicide. By sheer coincidence — or so you must assume, since you have no evidence to the contrary — his death looked like a murder. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Aichele pulled the rope through his hands, examining it as he did so until he came to two distinct creases a few inches apart.

“These creases were made by the sharp corners of the beam where the rope passed over it while it suspended a heavy but stationary weight.”

He then threw the rope back over the beam, but with the fatal loop toward the steampipe, and the creases just beyond the beam.

“Now, Leroux, take hold of that end of the rope, and I will grasp this end. Then pull me up, as you theorize M. St. Cloud must have done to raise Sieurac’s unconscious body.”

Leroux hesitated for a moment, squeamish about holding the loop. But then he hauled away. Aichele hung by his hands from the other end of the rope. It was by no means easy to lift him off the floor, but Leroux finally accomplished the task. When Aichele was more or less at the height Sieurac’s body had been, he released his grip and dropped to the floor.

“Let’s look at the rope,” he said.

The difference was immediately obvious. The section of rope which had been pulled over the sharp corners of the beam was scraped almost completely bare of grime.

“Sieurac did hang with this rope,” Aichele said. “But he did it himself. No one pulled him up.”

“But the chair,” Leroux said, in something of a weak counterattack.

“The chair was too low for him to stand on, and place the loop around his neck. But he could reach the loop, then pull himself up high enough to thrust his head through it. That is why his hands were so grimy, just as ours are now.”

Leroux did not have to look at his hands to appreciate this point. “What about the lump on his head? The cut? And the argument with M. St. Cloud?”

Aichele pointed to a shattered absinthe bottle lying at the base of the radiator. “The wounds could have been self-inflicted for all we know. Whatever pain Sieurac felt this morning was not physical pain. As for the argument, well, men do argue occasionally. I am sure M. St. Cloud offered an explanation, and there is no reason it cannot be accepted at face value.”

Leroux’s teeth were tightly clenched. He looked about for a rag, found one, and wiped his hands on it.

“This is only my interpretation, Leroux. Perhaps there is other, more compelling evidence against M. St. Cloud that I am not aware of.”

“There is no other evidence,” Leroux muttered, his eyes on the coil of rope on the floor. “Nor was there even a crime.”

View of Pont Neuf was delivered to Aichele’s flat two months later. He accepted the painting from Mme. Sieurac in lieu of cash payment for his services. Boucherot and M. St. Cloud had graciously sold back to her, on credit, their collection of her husband’s work, for exactly the prices on their list. The paintings were then assembled into a posthumous exhibit, which became an extraordinary critical and financial success. This was due in no small part to an unprecedented barrage of glowing pre-exhibit publicity, spearheaded by M. Boucherot and Le Figaro. He wrote, among other things, how it sometimes takes the tragedy of a man’s death for the world to appreciate his life’s work.

Aichele had compiled a small scrapbook of these articles. Also included, in the author’s inimitable, flowery prose, was a complete and signed account of the proposed swindle of Marcel Sieurac.

Since it was Monday, Aichele waited until Mrs. Poll arrived to hang the painting. It was in the study, along with two glasses of red wine.

“You are to be congratulated, Aichele,” she said. “You have made Marcel Sieurac famous. Boucherot more than fulfilled my expectations.”

“Mine, too. Remind me to return his confession some day. After all, I did promise. But I am afraid his anxiety cannot compare with what Marcel Sieurac must have felt when he realized the significance of those three names.”

“That Sunday, when he read the Gazette?” Mrs. Poll said.

“Quite possibly. But whenever it was, he knew he had been swindled, just as you surmised. And there was nothing he could do about it. He had already accepted payment for the paintings. If he complained, M. St. Cloud and Boucherot could have simply locked them away forever — their investment was that small. And the only other choice was to watch others enrich themselves speculating on what he had given away so cheaply.”

“He could have painted more paintings.”

“No, and that must have been what drove him to such desperate ends. As you said, the bubble would burst, most likely sooner than later. The art buyers would not just ignore Marcel Sieurac, they would revile him.”

“So he created his own murder, knowing M. St. Cloud, and maybe even Boucherot, would be accused. But what a terrible price to pay for revenge.”

“But what exquisite revenge.”

Aichele held View of Pont Neuf up against a bare spot on the wall. “What do you think? How does our painting look here?” he asked.

“Our painting?”

“Of course. It is half yours.”

Aichele moved it to another spot.

“When I want to look at the Pont Neuf, I will walk down the street and look at it.”

“But you would not see this,” Aichele cautioned.

“Goodness, no,” Mrs. Poll agreed.

“You would be on the wrong side of the river. The View is from the Louvre.” Aichele held the painting, waiting for Mrs. Poll’s comment. Finally he looked back over his shoulder. The room was empty, but there was the swish of a feather duster coming from the hallway.