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diff --git a/77869-0.txt b/77869-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f41918c --- /dev/null +++ b/77869-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,296 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77869 *** + + + + + Eau de Morgue + + by Arthur T. Harris + + + _Edgar Allan Poe was both a master of the detective story in its + pioneering aspects and a superb science fiction writer. Witness_ THE + NARRATIVE OF A. GORDON PYM. _Arthur T. Harris seems to have taken a + leaf from the late genius of the high, pale brow and raven locks and + presented us here with a science fantasy so chillingly unique that + he has even dared to call it_ EAU DE MORGUE, _in obvious tribute to + Poe’s_ THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. _Need we say more?_ + + =Vengeance can be very complete when it ends with a refrain to the + tender lyric: “All of me!”= + + + + +Now then, where were we? Oh--we weren’t; you didn’t introduce yourself. +To clear that up--I’m Jan Mystel. You are Detective Sergeant Kurt +Milbach. And you’re right. I _was_ in a brawl last night! + +Huh? You don’t know anything about it? That isn’t what you’re here for? +Just possibly I won’t have to call a lawyer, Sarge. My conscience is +reasonably clear, but heaven only knows what my subconscious has been +up to! + +You’re asking me, did I know the Duchess of Dunscombe? I sure did, +Pops, and the pleasure was all hers, if any. She was the rich, decrepit +old biddy who dug up the loot for Madame Outre’s store. I _had_ to be +polite. + +You say _she’s_ disappeared too? I hope it was prolonged and painful! +No, I don’t read the tabloids. It happened last night, eh? She just +vanished--_pouf_! You checked her medicine chest at the Hotel Coq +D’Or--nembutal, seconal, veronal, even a vial of methedrine. The ol’ +gal liked her kicks up and down, eh? + +And also a four-ounce bottle of Madame Outre’s Shangri-la Bath Salts. +Cap off, empty, on the side of the bath tub. You made a chemical +analysis of the residue--no dice. Still, it was the only link between +Madame and the Duchess, if indeed it’s any clue at all. + +Sure, Sarge--I understand. You have got to milk every shred of evidence +till the cow dries up. Okay. Pardon me while I shave and shower. I’ve +got to catch an afternoon class today. Meanwhile I’ll tell you what +little I know.... + +About eight months ago, I finished a four-year hitch in the Air Force. +I took my discharge pay, found this cold-water cubicle in the Village +and moved in. Relaxed--and got to know half a dozen barkeeps. To give +myself an objective I drifted into a little theater outfit, and signed +up for a college course in radio-TV writing. + +And ran out of dough. + +One warm night I was coddling a beer at the Cote d’Azur. That’s just +off Sheridan Square, you know. The fellow who runs it, Mack Carr, used +to fly with me in Korea. Well, I’m sour and disgusted with myself, see +... and this group of five old biddies comes trooping in. + +They’re dressed and they talk and they act like Ladies’ Day at the +Vienna Opera, year eighteen ninety-three. All but one. She just smiles +quietly, as though nursing happier memories. But it turns out she’s the +object of the gabfest. + +After the initial cackling died down, I made out, from snatches of +personal history, that the girls were interested in the damnedest +things: the Russian philosopher Ouspenski, Yoga and yogurt, occult +seances, strange gypsy herbs and potions. + +I bought another beer and moved over to the next table. + + * * * * * + +It seems that the Duchess and Madame Outre had been friends in +Budapest, before the war. Then Hitler upset the apple cart and the +Duchess hurriedly married a British Embassy chap, name of Dunscombe. +That gave her diplomatic immunity and when war came, she got out on a +sealed train and wound up in London. + +Not so the Madame. In Budapest she’d apparently presided over her own +private seance, which was subsidized by the Hungarian elite. It was she +who’d advised the future Duchess to wed the English diplomat. Anyway, +Madame Outre eventually went to a concentration camp, and was down to +eighty-five pounds at war’s end. + +Somehow she outwitted the Russians and got to Paris. There she fell +in again with the Duchess, whose husband had taken a postwar Foreign +Office job. The Duchess became her “sponsor,” helped round up a new set +of clients, and the old Budapest seance was revived. + +Well, there’s probably more to it than that. But about a year ago the +Duke was shifted to a U.N. post here in New York, and the Duchess’s +entourage came along for the ride. + +And that brings us up to date, to the Cote d’Azur, me with my warm beer +and the old biddies gabbling away like mad and collecting a larger +audience by the minute. + +It seems that back in Budapest, Madame Outre had dabbled in perfumes, +scented bath salts, and stuff like that for special friends. Now the +girls, the Duchess in particular, were urging her to open a little shop +in the Village. The Duchess up and proclaimed she’d be the bankroll. + +You get the drift, Sarge. Here am I, half in the bag, in a boite full +of characters, with impressionistic paintings on the walls, a “bulletin +board” tacked up with personal notes, apartment-swap deals, little +theater announcements, abused-car ads, old stove and refrigerator +deals. Add to that Madison Avenue publicity boys in crewcuts and +charcoal suits; blonde nymphs in pony hair-dos and tight, oh very +tight, suntan slacks; stevedores just off the docks; long-haired +ex-G.I. art students--the whole gang, and the Budapest biddies to boot! + +My ears must have been wagging like red flags at a rifle range when +Madame Outre spoke up. + +“_C’est fini_,” she said. “We shall have a shop, _oui. Parfums_ from +my own formulas, _oui_. And even, mayhap, a young man to assist during +busy hours.” + +She lifted her martini toward me in an amiable toast. I must have +blushed like a kid. + +“Me and my big ears,” I mumbled. + +“We are a bunch of magpies,” Madame Outre replied. “You could not help +overhearing. Be so good as to join us, _s’il vous plait_!” + +So-o-o ... that’s about it, Sarge. Just as casual as that. She offered +me a part-time job, I accepted, and a week or so later we finished +hammering up shelves, cleaning the fixtures, and setting out the stock. + +We were in business. + +At first, and of necessity, Madame had to buy from wholesale cosmetic +and perfume houses. But after a month or so European chemicals, +Bulgarian perfume oils et cetera began to come in. Madame had outfitted +a little laboratory for herself, in the back, which was strictly “off +limits.” I typed out business correspondence, I banked checks and cash, +and I waited on customers. + +But only Madame had the key to the little back room. + +Suspicious, Sarge? Hell’s bells, man, I’ve _told_ you the Madame +trusted me. If she wished to dispense secret scents, and withhold +certain trade formulas that was _her_ business! + +Okay, you’re just trying to do your duty. We’ll leave it at that. Pour +me another coffee, huh? I’ll be right out of the shower. + +Thanks. So it goes along that way for about six months, Sarge. Until +the Duchess of Dunscombe starts getting big ideas. It seems the Duchess +started to drag some of her hoitiest-toitiest Continental friends down +to the Village. + +They didn’t _shop_ at Madame Outre’s. They _patronized_ her, and her +customers. You know, the Village kids who work for ad agencies, weekly +magazines, research organizations. In the office, they’re cute. In the +Village, they slip on dungarees and become part of the crowd. + + * * * * * + +Well, things began to get pretty sticky between the Duchess and Madame +Outre. They came to a head--oh, about two weeks ago. I was in the +storeroom, a little alcove in the rear adjoining Madame’s laboratory. + +Around five o’clock the Duchess came flouncing in. “My dear,” she +boomed, like a brass cannon, “my friends and I have decided you +must--but you simply must--move uptown. To waste your time down here +among silly little secretaries--ridiculous! Fantastic! I won’t hear of +it another moment!” + +Madame kept calm. “You forget,” she said, “that it was you who urged me +to open up shop here. Since then I have found many new friends. I have +become established. The Village is now part of my life.” + +“Nonsense!” the Duchess flared. “This is no ‘life.’ It is a humiliation +to me and my friends! What began as a lark has turned into a travesty! +You will move uptown, to the East Sixties, and next week. I have +already chosen the store!” + +Well, Sarge, the old gasbag was making so much noise that people +outside began to hang around for the fun. I dropped my work, picked +up some bottles and went up front, ostensibly to fill in stock on the +shelves. + +The Duchess glared at me, knowing perfectly well what I was up to. But +she did lower her voice. + +“Very well, then, my dear,” she said--and so help me, Sarge, she +didn’t speak. She hissed! “You choose to abandon me, my aid, my +patronage, my friends. _But if certain people were to learn about your +background--!_” And like a witch’s broom, she swept toward the door. + +“A moment, please,” Madame Outre said, so coolly the temperature seemed +to drop. + +The Duchess halted, and half turned. Quietly, her shoulders held stiff +and proud, Madame Outre came out from behind the counter. + +“We have known each other for years,” she said. “Our long association +makes it fitting that we part, if not as friends, then assuredly not as +enemies. As the final act in our relationship I must beg you to accept +from me a small but adequate gift. It will be mailed to you tonight.” + +Challenged to keep her temper, the Duchess smiled back. But her wide +gray eyes were cold with hate. + +“As you wish, my dear,” she said. “As you wish.” + +Satisfied, Sarge? Now look, I’m telling you. As soon as the Duchess +took a powder, Madame Outre went to her laboratory, and was busy for +about half an hour. Then she handed me a four-ounce jar of greenish +bath salts--probably the same bottle you found by the Duchess’s bath +tub. So I wrapped it carefully, weighed it, stamped it and on my way +home deposited it in the package mailbox on the corner. + +Next morning--that was Saturday, about ten days ago--I found Madame’s +check for two weeks’ pay in the mail. It didn’t sound kosher, so I +rushed over to the store--which she’s failed to open, then or since. +Monday I cashed the check. You traced me through her bank, eh? + +No, of course I didn’t go to the police! Madame wanted to do a quiet +fadeout, and that’s her business. The trouble with this country is--too +many amateur snoops are on the warpath. + +So that’s all there is, Sarge. And until you mentioned it, I never made +any mental connection between Madame’s disappearance and the Duchess’s +vanishing act. How could I, when you only told me a half hour ago? Come +again. You say there’s dirty work at the crossroads? + +Sure, I’ll buy. I’m morally certain nobody did Madame Outre in. She +simply up and took off. As for the Duchess, anything that old battleax +got she deserved--provided there’s a _corpus delicti_, a body. But +there isn’t. You said so yourself. + +So how in hell-- + +_What?_ You _did_ find something? A three-carat diamond wedding ring, +which the Duke insists she never removed from her finger--not even when +she bathed? You found it in the bathroom, eh? Okay. So maybe, just this +once, she took it off before she toweled herself, or whatever rich +dames do when they want to rub clean. + +So she left it on the washstand. Oh--she didn’t? You mean, there was +evidence she’d taken a bath, had finished, pulled the plug, let out the +water, and then stood up to dry herself? + +Let’s get this straight. The Duchess disappeared last night. The story +is in today’s papers. Okay. She was probably taking a bath--check. She +used the soap in the soap dish, and there was a damp towel lying by the +side of the tub. Plug drawn. The cops are called in, and go snooping +for clues. They find her big diamond ring--huh? Not on the washstand, +but wedged sideways against the metal stopper inside the open drain? + +Okay! So she got too much soap on her hands. The ring worked loose +and got lost, and she failed to notice it was missing. Then she dried +herself, got dressed and slipped out to visit some of her rich oddball +pals.... + +_Huh?_ You say the Duke had to call hotel help to break down the +bathroom door? You say that he was in their living-room when he heard a +half scream, and came running? Then a funny gurgle, as of water leaving +the tub. And then ... _nothing?_ + +And when the bellhops broke in, no Duchess? Only the ring, which you +people found later? And the open, empty bottle of Madame Outre’s bath +salts, which your chemists couldn’t analyze? + +You mean--Sarge, you mean you think there’s a possibility she soaked +herself in those bath salts, pulled the plug, stood up to towel herself +and then began to dissolve --and went down the drain? + +_Oh, my God!_ + + + + +Transcriber’s note: + + + This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, June 1956 (Vol. 5, +No. 5.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed. + + Obvious errors in punctuation have been silently corrected in this +version. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77869 *** |