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

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.”