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

“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.