Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER V. A SPY BY DAY

ANDREW BLOUCHET was a late sleeper. It was nearly noon when he awoke. Yawning, the young man strolled out into the living room of his antiquated apartment. Donning dressing gown, he listened to scuffling sounds beyond the outer hall.

Opening the door, Andrew peered across to see two moving men engaged in lugging furniture from the apartment opposite. They were directed by a lanky, stoop-shouldered individual whose tone was quibbly. The man was arguing about the amount of furniture to be removed.

“Confound it!” exclaimed the newcomer. “This stuff was here for months! Why can’t you leave it for a few days, till my own furniture comes?”

“Orders to take it out, Mr. Duvale,” returned one of the moving men. “Guess the guy that owns the junk don’t want it left here, now that the apartment is taken.”

“But I have spoken to the owner!” Duvale was acting excitedly. “He has said that I can use whatever may be here!”

“You can have whatever belongs here,” retorted the moving man. “A couple of them chairs — the cot in the bedroom — they ain’t to be taken out. They don’t belong to Mr. Badley, who sent us here for the stuff.”

Duvale shrugged his shoulders in resignation. He looked toward an easel and a suitcase that were standing at one side of the hall; these were obviously the only property that Duvale himself had brought.

Apparently Duvale was an artist; so long as he had his equipment, he was satisfied, now that he had been assured of a cot on which to sleep.

Andrew closed the door of his own apartment. He began to fix up some breakfast.

Half an hour passed. Sounds of moving had ended. Finished with breakfast. Andrew was fishing money from the pockets of his clothes. He had spent more than he had expected last night. Besides paying up his dues at the Delta Club, he had dropped two hundred dollars in the gaming room. He had been forced to change another fifty at Gallion’s. He had started out with five hundred dollars; the amount that remained would serve him for a few days.

A knock at the door caused Andrew to shove the currency back into a pocket. Answering the rap, Andrew found himself facing Duvale. The new occupant of the apartment opposite had donned a grimy smock. He was also wearing a beret, tilted to one side. Andrew was right; the chap was an artist.

“Pardon, m’sieu’.” With lips that formed a downward smile, Duvale was speaking in a French accent.

“My name, m’sieu’, is Duvale. Is it that you are Monsieur Blouchet?”

“That is my name,” replied Andrew.

“Vous etes Francais?” questioned Duvale, quickly.

“A Frenchman?” laughed Andrew. “No. My great-great-grandfather was French, but the family became well Americanized.”

“Ah, oui,” nodded Duvale. “Well, m’sieu’, it is to you that I owe many pardons. Un mille pardons! I have made one mistake.”

He drew an envelope from the pocket of his smock. Receiving it, Andrew saw that it was addressed to himself. The envelope, however, had not been opened.

“I find ze letter down the stairs,” explained Duvale. “I think that it is for me, m’sieu’. I find that I am mistake—”

“Quite all right,” interposed Andrew. “The letter has not been opened.” Duvale smiled apologetically; then pointed to the upper corner of the envelope.

“The name, m’sieu’. Of ze one who has sent ze letter. I have seen it, m’sieu’.

Andrew noted the address in the corner. He caught the reason for Duvale’s apology. The letter was from the Wide World Loan Co.

“Sometimes, m’sieu’,” added Duvale, seriously, “persons do not like that other people should know of private business that—”

“That’s all right, Mr. Duvale,” broke in Andrew. He was tearing open the envelope. “Wait until I read this.” His stare became steady as he read the letter within. “Well, this is a dandy. Yes, sir, a dandy!”

“You have trouble, m’sieu’?”

“Not a bit,” laughed Andrew. “This loan company just promised me an extension. Now they have suddenly changed their minds. They want their money.”

Duvale’s face became sorrowful. Andrew chuckled.

“They can have it,” he snorted. “Carl was right about old Hayd being a tightwad and a grasper. I’ve got money to pay them. It will give me plenty of satisfaction to finish it up.” In his enthusiasm, Andrew had almost forgotten Duvale’s presence. He realized suddenly that he was making his remarks in front of a total stranger. Andrew decided to end the mistake.

“Thank you, Mr. Duvale,” he said, cordially. “Well — we are neighbors; and I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”

ABRUPTLY, Andrew went back into his apartment and closed the door. He began to dress; and all the while, he wondered about Duvale. The fellow was nothing but an obscure artist, perhaps; nevertheless, it might be wise to watch him. Duvale had not used his French accent while talking to the moving men.

Why had he faked it after meeting Andrew?

The answer, when it came, was one that made Andrew drop his suspicions. Duvale, like many artists, might feel it necessary to impress persons whom he regarded as consequential. It was easier to argue with moving men without resorting to a French accent; but in friendly converse with a new neighbor, a Parisian manner of speech could be effective. So Andrew summed Duvale to be a man who merely tried to cover his unimportance.

Nevertheless, Andrew took a precaution before he left the apartment. He stole to the door and softly opened it, to peer across the hall. Duvale’s door was open. Andrew could hear the fellow humming.

Andrew closed his own door; the latch clicked more loudly than he had expected. For that reason, Andrew did not turn the key. He felt it better to leave the door unlocked than to attract any further attention.

Listening by the door, Andrew was sure that Duvale had not heard the click of the latch. He went across the room and crouched in front of the safe. Carefully, he turned the dial. Thus engaged, Andrew did not notice what took place behind him.

The door of the apartment opened inward. Peering eyes peeked through the space. A pale face showed by the light of the room. It was the countenance of Duvale, the artist. He had heard the click from across the hall. It was his turn to spy upon Andrew.

Blocking the front of the safe, Andrew made it impossible for anyone to watch him manipulate the combination. But his hand showed as it moved toward the pocket; and the eyes that peered from the hall could see the small bundle of crisp bank notes that the young man thrust into his pocket. Andrew was removing one thousand dollars from his hidden store. Ten bills of one hundred dollars each.

Duvale’s face disappeared; the door had closed in front of it. The reason was that Andrew had risen. He had closed the safe and turned the dial. He was ready to leave his apartment. But there was no telltale click to warn Andrew. Duvale had been more careful in his handling of the latch.

Whistling softly, Andrew Blouchet left the apartment and locked the door behind him. He glanced at the lock and shook his head. A poor, useless lock; one that any skeleton key could open. But, after all, what did it matter? The money was in the safe; and Andrew trusted that strong box. The safe, though old-fashioned, was an unusually good one. Andrew’s father had imported it from France; it was a type seldom seen in America.

That safe would stump a capable safe cracker. Andrew knew this; for several friends had commented upon its invulnerability. Andrew’s worriment ended with these thoughts. He descended the stairs into the courtyard and walked through the archway to the street in front.

ANDREW did not look upward. Even if he had, he might have failed to discern the pallid face that was watching from a front window of the building. It was the countenance of Duvale; the artist was peering from his studio, watching to make sure that Andrew had gone on his way. After the young man had turned a corner, Duvale ceased his vigil.

Going from his own apartment, the artist approached Andrew’s. He brought a ring of keys from a pocket of his smock and tried them in the lock. One fitted; Duvale opened the door of Andrew’s apartment and entered. The downturned smile was showing on his lips as he closed the door.

The hall became gloomy when the barrier shut. The sound of a key rattled from the lock. Duvale had locked the door from the inside. He wanted no disturbance while he investigated Andrew’s apartment.

This intruder had gained a knowledge of where Andrew kept a store of hidden wealth.

In fact, Duvale had taken quarters in this building with the definite purpose of watching Andrew Blouchet.

Somehow, the newcomer had gained information concerning the young man who had profited by unexpected wealth on the last night of Mardi Gras. Whoever he might be, Duvale was not what he pretended.

The artist had come to spy. He had gained one point by bringing the letter up to Andrew. He had scored another by watching Andrew take money from the safe, even though he had failed to catch the combination.

Whatever the final outcome, it was a certainty that the prying ways of the self-styled Monsieur Duvale would soon have an important bearing upon the affairs of Andrew Blouchet.