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

“She’s in love. Surely His Majesty Louis XV hasn’t made love a crime. Yet.”

“She’s not in love,” Radnor said.

Vincent snapped the box shut and slipped it under his arm. “Why don’t you wear something more cheerful? A young man like yourself. How do you hope to find a wife?” He suspected it was an affectation on Radnor’s part, intended to be striking and attract attention. Feminine attention.

Radnor smiled humorlessly, but said nothing.

Vincent could imagine the effect the rare flash of white teeth from Radnor had on impressionable girls of easy virtue. He’d lectured Radnor on such matters before. “How do you know she’s lying?” he asked.

“I’ve seen her before. She’s a maid at the residence of a certain Monsieur du Sonton who reported the theft of his wife’s necklace and earrings last week.”

“You think this girl had something to do with it? She seems honest enough to me.”

Radnor rolled his eyes. “Not everyone in Paris is as honest and good-hearted as you are, old man.”

“Nor is everyone as corrupt and cynical as you,” Vincent quipped as he pocketed the coin. His box under his arm, he picked up the portable table and his stool and headed for the entrance of the house above and behind him. He opened the door, then climbed the stairs to his apartment on the top floor.

Without being invited, Radnor followed, still not offering to help. “That letter was no doubt sent to the maid’s mistress, Marie du Sonton. She filched it and intends to use it to blackmail her mistress. The oldest game in the world.”

Vincent stopped in the narrow, dim stairwell, and turned to face his friend. “You’re too young to be so certain of everyone’s guilt,” he reprimanded.

“Though I suspect that you led a sheltered life before you became known as Monsieur de l’Amour, you’re too old to be so gullible,” Radnor shot back.

“Have some faith in humanity.”

“You will find that your faith in the humanity of Paris is misplaced.”

“Not in this case. I’m sure of it.”

With a melodramatic snorting, Radnor asked, “Where would you like to dine?”

Watching Vincent turn toward home and the cemetery after the meal, not for the first time, Radnor thought his friend would make a good priest. Poor deluded Vincent and his misguided attempts to befriend those who were hopelessly lost. Radnor’s fondness for the older man, a fondness he did not quite understand himself, made him worry about Vincent’s blindness to the dangerous and sordid world of Parisian crime. The truth behind the maidservant and her letter would edify him.

Radnor’s instincts told him the maidservant was somehow connected to the theft, and he always listened to his instincts when a generous reward for the return of stolen goods was at stake. He sought out the informer he’d assigned to the Hotel du Sonton. The man’s name was Pierre Abiter, but in his mind, Radnor called the man “the Sniveler,” for he was constantly wiping his running nose and dabbing at his watery eyes.

The Sniveler was a felon paroled from the Bastille on the condition that he turn informer for the police. Though he had wanted to retire from housebreaking, he had been reluctant at first to turn informer. He’d settled into his new profession surprisingly well, however, and now was one of Radnor’s best and most reliable men.

Each day, the Sniveler made his reports to Radnor at the same time at the same tavern. Radnor found him at a table by himself in a corner, surrounded by used, wadded-up rags. Radnor ordered a jar of wine for the two of them.

“Anything to report?” Radnor asked, after they’d been served.

“An inside job for certain. My money’s on the housekeeper.”

“Any chance she had an accomplice?”

“No doubt.” The big fireplace suddenly belched smoke into the room, causing the Sniveler to cough and blink rapidly as he dabbed at his reddened eyes.

Radnor described the maid. “Know the woman?”

“Sounds like Marie Lasourde. One of the upstairs maids. A real slut, they say.”

So her name was Marie like her mistress. That didn’t prove anything. “Does she have a lover?” Radnor asked.

The man sneezed and gave his nose a resounding trumpeting blow. When he was finished, he said, “Several, according to the other servants.”

“Anyone new? A wealthy man?”

The Sniveler nodded with enthusiasm. “So they say.”

Radnor inhaled sharply with surprise. He’d been certain the woman was lying. “His name?”

“Don’t know, monsieur. But I can find out. One of the other maids is sure to know.”

“Do so then. And be quick about it,” Radnor said, annoyed at the prospect that he’d been mistaken about the maid and Vincent correct. He dropped a coin on the table between them and stood up, before remembering to ask, “How about Madame du Sonton? Has she a lover?”

“If she has, she’s kept it secret well. None of her household suspects a thing. But then she’d have to be especially good at lying to cheat her husband. He’s a jealous man. Very jealous. Hardly lets her out of his sight.”

Unwilling to give up his initial theory, Radnor instructed, “See what more you can discover about Madame.”