Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“She said you were the very best at reading and writing love letters. That’s why you’re known as Vincent de l’Amour. If she hadn’t said you were the best, I would never have come here.” She put a cheap bunch of wilted violets to her nose. “I don’t care for cemeteries myself.”

“No doubt that is because you haven’t known tragedy yet,” he said kindly.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, with a mixture of suspicion and pity, as if she thought he might be senile. Though Vincent’s hair and mustache may have been streaked with gray and his face etched with lines, his heart and soul were still young, younger than this girl whose scorn thinly disguised her fears.

A nearby funeral party fought the eddies of swirling dust kicked up by the gusts of wind, the priest bellowing his prayer at the grave’s edge, the men holding onto their black tricornes, and the women clutching their long black veils as they wept loudly.

Turning back to the girl, Vincent gave her a reassuring smile. “Let me see what you have here.”

The seal of the letter had already been broken. With a glance at the seal’s red wax imprinted with the image of a bird, he unfolded the letter. The blue paper was heavy and expensive, with a lustrous sheen to it. The young man must be wealthy and educated. Vincent hoped for the girl’s sake he was also of a good character, but he frowned when he saw that the note was addressed and signed with mere initials. Certain signs of a clandestine romance. He sighed with disapproval. But then, what did it really matter? The only thing that really mattered was life. And love.

He began to read aloud.

March 6, 1741

Dearest M.,

“M.? That’s you?” he asked, peering at the girl.

“Yes,” she said with a shrug and a frown as if she couldn’t understand why he was asking such an obvious question.

He continued reading:

Every day that I am away from you seems an eternity, every hour a century. I long to see you. I have been able to think of nothing else since our conversation the other day. Your wish is my command.

N.

Vincent looked up from the letter, and smiled at the girl’s happiness. Her features had softened with a faraway smile, and her brown eyes were alight with hope and dreams.

“Would you like me to read it again?” he asked gently.

“Will it cost more?” she asked.

“Of course not.”

“Yes, then, if you please.” She closed her eyes to listen better.

He began again at the beginning, and read slowly with feeling. Afterwards, he asked, “Would you like me to write a response?”

She opened her eyes, and for a moment he read joy there before her eyes widened with sudden fear at the sight of something behind him. A shadow fell across his desk, and he turned to see his friend, Monsieur Radnor, under-inspector of the Paris police. Tall and muscular with the upright posture of an ex-soldier, Radnor regarded them with arms crossed, unsmiling, black tricorne pulled low over his black eyes.

“Never mind. I have to go,” she said, her glance darting nervously to Radnor, as she snatched the letter from Vincent’s hand. “How much do I owe you, monsieur?”

“Two sous.”

She hurriedly dug the coins out of a pocket in her skirt, and dropped them on the table. “Mouche!” she said under her breath to Vincent in warning as she fled.

Fly, she’d called Radnor. Slang for the police who some considered to be no more than spies listening for words of treason against the king.

Impervious to the insult, Radnor watched the girl hurry away. “She’s lying,” he said in his low, slightly raspy drawl.

“You think everyone’s lying,” Vincent snapped. “She was simply frightened by you. And no wonder. You look like an undertaker or a Huguenot minister in all that black.” As usual, Radnor was in severe black from head to toe — a black tricorne over black hair pulled into a neat queue, a spotless black coat, waistcoat, britches and stockings, black gloves to disguise the absence of the tip of the middle finger on the left hand, and polished black shoes with paste buckles. Only the snowy white of his cravat and shirt at the neck and wrists relieved the black. “You’ve frightened all my other customers away too,” Vincent complained, standing up.

Radnor tossed a bright silver coin on the table. “I’ll buy you a good meal to make up for it.”

Vincent eyed the coin, undecided. An ecu would buy a very fine meal indeed, but then Radnor would expect information in return. He considered the coin as he began to close up, the work of only a few moments, requiring him to wipe the ink from his quills, cork the bottle of ink, put pens, sand, ink, and paper into the cheap wooden box he used to store his writing implements.

Observing him without offering to help, Radnor continued in his drawl, “I’m an under-inspector for the Paris police. People should fear me. Especially criminals like that young woman.”