Delphi complete works of.., p.178
Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 178
“The horrid old bitch,” he muttered under his breath. “God deliver all the bad women from the tender mercies of the alleged good ones. And that includes you,” he added, taking Marion’s small, firm hand in his.
“Listen,” said Marion. “Of course, it’s none of my business, but doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd that your villa should be so well lighted during the absence of its lord and master?”
Topper looked at his villa and noticed with a start of alarm that both upstairs and down the lights were gayly gleaming. It had seemed so natural at first that its true significance had not penetrated his brooding mind.
“Good God, don’t tell me my wife has returned?” he burst out.
“Not from the nature of the sounds I hear,” said Marion. “That is, not unless she has changed very much for the better.”
It was true indeed. The sounds of disorganized revelry were issuing from the villa. Snatches of indecent song, small shrieks and deep vulgar laughter mingled to make a symphony of life in full foam.
Topper turned a pair of puzzled eyes on his companion. She was smiling up at him maliciously.
“Dear, dear,” he observed. “I was expecting to find a pregnant cat, but it seems that the house itself is pregnant.”
Suddenly the French windows on the ground floor burst open, and a flock of men and women poured out into the night led by the Colonel, clad only in his drawers.
“He seems to affect that costume,” Marion observed quietly.
“What goes on here?” Mr. Topper asked in a daze.
From the merry rout Mrs. Hart emerged, dragging a semi-clad Félice with her. In the moonlight she confronted the Colonel.
“An unfortunate misunderstanding, my dear,” the watchers in the car heard him say in his suavest accents.
“That’s one of the few actions in life,” replied Mrs. Hart, “that denies a double interpretation. Colonel, I hate to say it, but you’re nothing better than an exceedingly lousy liar.”
“My dear,” began the Colonel, then spying the tense figure of the woman at the window he seized upon her as a God-sent diversion. “Look!” he cried, waving one bare arm dramatically towards the window. “Behold, old evil eye! A filthy hypocrite hiding behind her inability either to give pleasure or to attract it. See! I do this!”
And the Colonel did just that. He tossed a champagne bottle through the window with the accuracy of a man trained in warfare. The crash of glass was followed by another one. Soon the whole disorderly party was hurling bottles, stones, gravel, and even the personal attire of its members through the windows of the villa. Marion was greatly pleased. She looked questioningly at Topper. There was a strange expression on his face, a sort of pleasurable excitement inevitably produced by the sound of crashing glass.
“Shall we join the party?” she asked in a low voice.
“It looks like an open break with law and order,” he replied thoughtfully, “and as much as I deplore this sort of thing, I would like for once in my life to register my violent objection to worm-eaten but organized and well entrenched joy killing.”
He paid the frightened chauffeur far more than enough for his mental anguish and professional services; then, with Marion’s hand in his, he left the car.
“My old and rare,” she whispered with unaffected admiration “In moments of crisis you rise to true greatness.”
They mingled with the seemingly maddened throng and began throwing whatever object came nearest to hand in the general direction of the besieged villa. Soon Mr. Topper and Marion were as disheveled, dirty, and demented as the rest of the strange people milling about them. It was a scene of epic action, of large ruthlessness and vast enjoyment. It was one of those things that in idle moments one dreams of doing, but which one never does except at seats of learning where such things come under the head of education. Topper was suddenly entangled and tripped. He found himself on his own back on his own ground. There was no comfort in this. A large, naked gentleman was tugging at his shoe.
“Pardon me,” came the courtly voice of the Colonel, “but I have no shoes of my own, and there is nothing left to throw.”
“Hi, there, Colonel!” cried Mr. Topper. “Lay off my foot.”
“My friend!” exclaimed the Colonel joyfully. “My crime mate. Here, take your shoe. I wish I had more to offer you. Congratulate us, Topper. We have been keeping your home intact for you during your protracted dalliance. But first let me help you to rise.”
The Colonel pulled Topper to his feet just in time to meet the assault of the united gendarmes of the district. Oaths, blows, and imprecations now became general, yet above them all, loud and clear boomed the voice of the Colonel.
“Cinquante-cinq!” he shouted. “Quatre-vingt-dix!”
“You’re not cursing, Colonel,” cried Topper. “You’re counting.”
“What the hell do I care?” bellowed the Colonel. “It sounds good and fulsome. Cinquante-cinq! Tear the beggars up!”
Topper was now assaulted from all sides. He wondered where Marion was. Then he caught a momentary glimpse of her. What he saw did not augur well for the future happiness of a certain gendarme.
“Marion!” shouted Topper.
“With you, boy!” called Marion. “As soon as I ruin this lad.”
“We have no fight with the gendarmes, Colonel,” said Topper, seizing the man’s arm just as it was about to polish off a member of the force.
“Looks mighty damn like a fight to me,” replied that man of brawn. “Not that I haven’t been in worse.”
“Then call off your crowd,” said Topper, pushing a gendarme in the stomach.
“Shall we take you with us?” asked the Colonel.
“God, no!” cried Topper. “All the trees in France wouldn’t hold me after insurrection.”
The Colonel issued a command, and a great silence fell upon the scene. Topper stood alone — alone, that is, save for the presence of a great multitude of gendarmes. The gendarmes looked at Topper, and Topper looked back at the gendarmes. Then all of them looked around.
“M’sieu,” said an officer, stepping forward and clipping a pair of handcuffs on Mr. Topper’s wrists, “your friends, where are they?”
A voice from the air answered for Topper, and even as the voice boomed out Topper felt a small hand slipped into his imprisoned ones.
“We are gone,” intoned the deep voice. “We are those good Americans who come to Paris when they die. See you later, Topper.”
Evidently the Colonel and Mrs. Hart had collected a flock of low-plane spirits during Mr. Topper’s absence and had been entertaining them at his expense. The magnitude of the Colonel’s cool effrontery appealed to Mr. Topper.
“Better one bird,” said the officer philosophically, “than no bird at all. This affair is strange passing all belief. Perhaps you, m’sieu, will elucidate it for us before Monsieur le commissaire himself, is it not so?”
“But yes,” replied Mr. Topper. “It is not so.”
And all the way to the place whereat Monsieur le commissaire held court, Mr. Topper felt an unseen presence marching by his side. The heart of the man was gay and devoid of alarm, although filled with a multitude of rapidly crystallizing lies for the special edification of Monsieur le commissaire himself.
“A break like this just had to happen,” said Mr. Topper to himself. “A person can’t live peacefully on one plane and associate with the denizens of another.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Law Takes Its Casual Course
MONSIEUR LE COMMISSAIRE Devaux sat with weary elegance behind his desk in the small room at the police station. With an expression of polite disgust he regarded those within his sight, including his own officers of the law.
“Who are all these annoying-looking persons?” he asked of an officer standing near by. “These offensive smelling citizens, even if bent on crime, should first wash. Are they all criminals, Henri?”
“That, Monsieur le commissaire, is for you to judge.”
“Why cannot the law take its course?” continued the commissaire. “I grow weary of inferior sinning. Where is our American monsieur? He interests me.”
“He will arrive in but a moment,” assured Henri. “Meantime these two women have a grievance against each other. Also, they have disturbed the peace by fighting and the excessive use of vile language.”
“I know those two women,” said Monsieur Devaux sadly, “and it pains me to hear that they use vile language, that is, to excess. A little vile language is good for all — it clears one’s spiritual alimentary tract.” Monsieur Devaux paused to appreciate this. He was alone in his appreciation. “I am afraid they are very bad women,” he resumed, “but why are they here at this hour of the night?”
“You were present, Monsieur le commissaire,” said Henri simply, “so we brought them.”
“I see,” observed Devaux. “Every time I am here you feel that you must bring me something. That is thoughtful but unnecessary. I prefer to be alone. Bring them to me.”
A small thin Frenchwoman and a large fat Frenchwoman were pushed before Monsieur le commissaire. Both began to talk volubly at once. Both attempted to resume hostilities. Both were forcibly separated and quieted.
“Marie,” asked Devaux, utterly untouched by the display of feminine ferocity he had witnessed, “why do you call your smaller neighbor bad names and attack her?”
“M’sieu,” replied the larger woman, “that one steals my husband.”
“Do you mean she steals him repeatedly?” inquired the commissaire. “From day to day?”
“No, m’sieu,” replied Marie. “From night to night. From day to day he remains at home — supine.”
“Naturally, from night to night,” murmured Devaux. “My mistake. One should have known better. And you, Jeanne, what is your complaint? It seems you should be grateful instead of offensive.”
“That sow of ill repute will not allow her husband to remain stolen,” announced the small woman in an injured voice. “I am small, and I need a man.”
“I don’t quite see that,” said Devaux. “Marie is large. Does she need two men?”
“She has the fishing front complete to a man,” retorted the small one. “She is notorious, that one.”
“She deserves to be,” observed Commissaire Devaux. “This all seems to be more of a problem for God to decide than man.”
Marie could no longer restrain herself.
“And, Monsieur le commissaire,” she exploded, “when I confront her with her theft she does this to me for all the world to behold.”
By an inelegant gesture Marie showed the commissaire exactly what Jeanne did to her. The commissaire was visibly moved. He attempted to avert his eyes but was unable to do so. They were held fascinated by the titanic proportions of the primitive spectacle. Yet, even as he observed, he thought, in a detached manner, of the numerous objectionably human acts a public official was forced to look upon in the dispatch of his professional duties.
“And, m’sieu, if you do not know what that means — —” began Marie.
“I’m very much afraid I do,” Devaux interrupted hastily, “and it seems to be painting the lily a little.”
“It means — —” continued Marie, desirous of making sure the full significance of her demonstration was understood.
“Marie,” broke in the commissaire, “do not hold that unnerving posture any longer. I think I can read the writing on the wall, especially when so trenchantly expressed.”
“It means — —” began Marie.
“Please take them away,” said the commissaire. “She refuses to believe I know what it means, and I refuse to be told. You see, we are at an impasse.”
As the ladies were being led out, Mr. Topper was briskly led in by a considerable number of gendarmes. He was brought into the presence of the commissaire himself.
“Ah!” exclaimed that one with obvious relief. “So you have at last arrived.”
“You are confusing arrived with arrested, I fear, m’sieu,” Mr. Topper amended.
Now Commissaire Devaux spoke perfect English, made so by dealing for years with far less perfect Americans and Englishmen. He was slightly offended by Mr. Topper’s correction.
“M’sieu, you see fit to jest at a serious moment in your life,” he observed easily. “More serious than you realize. You are lionlike at present. Later you may more resemble his prey — one of his minor meals.” Monsieur le commissaire paused and regarded in sudden horror the vast quantities of gendarmes cluttering up his quarters. “Am I to be favored with a review?” he inquired of one of the officers; then, noticing the battered condition of many of the men, he added in French, “Lionlike is not the word. The man must be a menagerie in himself to have inflicted such punishment.”
“But there were at least forty others,” replied the officer. “Forty wild ones, Monsieur le commissaire.”
“Splendid!” cried Devaux. “Remove several hundred of these crippled-looking creatures that once were men and bring in the remaining forty prisoners.”
“M’sieu,” replied the officer haltingly, “we were successful in apprehending but one — that one before you — the others vanished into thin air.”
The commissaire received this piece of information with admirable sangfroid.
“The air could not have been so remarkably thin,” he observed, “to have consumed forty wild bodies.” He looked thoughtfully at the officer. “Have you, perhaps, been drinking,” he asked, “or were you struck heavily upon the head?”
“The latter, m’sieu,” replied the officer. “Repeatedly. And not on the head alone.”
He pulled back his tunic.
“Stop!” cried the commissaire. “Is it your intention to strip yourself before us to show us the extent of your injuries?”
“One thought you might like to see, m’sieu.”
“Were they of an assuredly fatal nature, perhaps I would,” replied Devaux. “With less than that I would not be satisfied.” He turned his eyes upon Mr. Topper. “Ah, well,” he continued at last, “we will have to do as thoroughly as possible with the one prisoner we have at our immediate disposal. Monsieur Topper, I can see a long stretch of the most boring years spanning your slow progress to the grave.”
“But why?” demanded Topper. “Must I be sentenced for forty prisoners whose very existence remains yet to be established?”
“For at least forty,” replied the commissaire. “The juge d’instruction whom you will later have the misfortune to meet may suggest more in his report. He is a strong believer in vicarious atonement. I shall content myself with a conservative forty. Is all clear, m’sieu?”
“Crystalline,” retorted Topper. “M’sieu, is there no justice in France?”
“Obviously not,” the commissaire informed him in the most astonished of tones. “Your question confounds me, but why confine it to France? Is there justice in any country in the world, Monsieur Topper? There are laws — there are laws everywhere. We do the best that we can with them. Do you not realize that man is not ready to receive justice, much less to administer it? If justice were done to humanity, there wouldn’t be any humanity left. It would be poisoned, and the last prisoner would in the end have to poison himself, a piece of Quixotic integrity which passes belief. So you see, m’sieu, justice is a mere word. There can be no such thing as justice so long as justice is needed. But pardon me. You touched on my favorite topic. One moment, if you please. Who is that woman there?” he called out sharply. “She is making most disturbing sounds.”
A middle-aged American woman was brought forward. She was crimson with wrathful indignation. In atrocious French she attacked the commissaire and the nation he represented. He listened politely to her for a moment, then waved her to silence.
“Madame,” he said in a mildly rebuking voice, “if you must say such horrid things, please say them in English. I don’t want my subordinates contaminated with seditious utterances. I can understand English, and, quite unofficially, I agree with much you say. Has this lady done anything, or has anyone done anything to her? The latter contingency seems hardly possible from where I am sitting.”
