HE grunted. “You don't want much. Meet me at the Gallos Café, back of the Louvre store, at one-thirty. Best place to eat in the city and not a confounded tourist to be seen. I don't carry life histories in my head, but I'll have the dope for you then. Order a bottle of their Vouvray '06 but go light on it—strong stuff. What's back of this Colette murder?”
“Search me, so far. Know anything? Politics?”
He sniffed. “I know your friend Clancy—he doesn't fool away time on nothing. If it's politics, it may reach anywhere. Well, see you for lunch, then.”
His opinion of my new employer was extremely reassuring, but I wondered whether Clancy had not side-tracked me. It did not seem probable that a marquise would have committed the murder, though I did not have any high opinion of Continental nobility. Clancy's half-formed notions about the Hotel Drouot, however, struck me as more to the point. This huge building of lofty halls, center of all the auctions in Paris, was a remarkable institution. Here were sold estates, goods seized for taxes, government confiscations, collections of books, stamps, coins, everything! Few tourists ever reached it: the place was haunted every afternoon by all the antique dealers in Paris, by collectors of every walk in life, by society women and hotel-keepers. Something might show up in line with my quest at this afternoon's sale, and I determined to drop around.

A
T the time and place appointed, I met Brady again. He brought three different portraits of the Marquise d'Auteuil, two being studio views and the third a snap taken at Longchamps. This gave her as tall and willowy, wearing the last thing in summer frocks, with a feather boa about her swan-like neck—the odious phrase fitted her exactly. The portraits showed her classic features as cold and proud, somewhere in the early thirties, and I did not care for her looks a bit.
“And what about her?” I demanded.
“Convent educated,” said Brady. “Daughter of Armand de Chevrier, of the old noblesse. Married Auteuil at nineteen, when he was forty. They have a big place in Auteuil, another at Cannes, another in Normandy, but have let the chateaux—money is rather tight with them just at present. Neither she nor her husband are up to snuff. He has his actresses, she has her lovers, to put it baldly. Just now, Jean Galtier is the favorite of the fair dame. Thats about all the general information I can pick up, and blessed if I can see where it would lead to the Colette affair.”
I agreed with him. “Who's this Jean Galtier?”
“Average man about town,” replied Brady. “If you golf, I can get you in with him—if he's any use to you. He has money and time to spend, that's all; a languid devil, despite his passion for golf.”
“Does he collect stamps?”
“You can search me.” Brady shook his head and attacked his Chateaubriand. “However, I have something useful for you. There's a big political reception in the Avenue Kléber tonight, with some of the press invited—you can take my card and go if you like. Galtier will be there; he has stock in a newspaper, which means politics. The Marquise may be there. Georges Lebrun is the general master of ceremonies. Tell him I sent you, and he can manage an introduction to the lady—if you want it.”
I pocketed the pasteboards he handed me. “And the Marquis?”
“If he's not at the reception, you'll find her there, and vice versa,” said Brady with a touch of cynical amusement. “He patronizes Montmartre, however, rather than social affairs.”
“And this Georges Lebrun?”
“You can't miss him. Just five feet, rosette of the Legion, beautiful black hair with a white patch over the left brow. He's very proud of it. Mention my name and he'll do anything in reason for you. I've a few further details, if they're any use.”
He had—many of them, and I wondered how he had got hold of them. An expensive lady was the Marquise. He had a list of her debts, her habits, and her companions; and before our luncheon was finished I had a worse opinion of my fellow man than previously. It was a scandalously intimate story, once Brady was fairly launched.
“She doesn't look it,” I observed.
“Hm! Does any woman ever look it? Though at the back of my mind I think you're barking up the wrong tree, and Gersault will go to the guillotine for the murder. Why should a marquise murder a stamp-dealer?”
“I never said she did,” I returned.
“Well, get the yarn, old man, and then spill it to me.”
I promised and we separated.

S
INCE it was now past two, I made for the Hotel Drouot, having nothing better on hand. I knew the place slightly—knew it well enough not to seek my quarry on the first floor, where only cheap things were sold. The upper floor was devoted to collections and art sales, and for this I struck.
Passing down the central hall, glancing at the huge rooms to either hand, I came to a pause. To my right was the sale—chairs and benches three deep around a green baize table the length of the room, with a scanty crowd standing behind. Before the table was the desk of the auctioneer and accountants. Commissaires displayed the lots, passing them around. To one side of the desk sat the expert, who looked as though he might possibly, as a baby, have suffered the indignity of a bath. He was handing out the lots.
I wormed my way along to a good spot and waited. British colonials were being sold. A scraggy old woman and a fat collector were pushing a first issue Nauru ten-shilling to fabulous prices. Dealers around me whispered; the woman had ten million stamps in her collection, the fat man was an industrial millionaire. Both were fools, said the dealers angrily.
The next lot came up, and I started at hearing its description. Niger Coast, ten-shilling surcharge on English five-penny! The catalog value of the stamp was fifteen hundred francs. No dealer would pay more than five or six hundred for it at the outside. The expert started the lot at fifty francs.
The old woman and Fatty pushed it up to a hundred at once, then others chipped in and it went to two hundred. “Two-fifty,” said the expert, with a magnificent air. This staggered the others: your Frenchman counts the centimes, let alone the francs! However, Fatty came back, and the old woman snapped into the bidding again, and they shoved it up to four hundred.
Then, close beside me, spoke out a cool, lazy drawl. “Five hundred!” I looked at the bidder. He was faultlessly attired and looked much out of place here. He had been tailored and hatted at the best establishments; was young, fairly good-looking, and like four out of five French people, ran to nose.
The old woman glared; Fatty looked stupefied. The expert barked: “Cinquante!” in a savage tone, as though to frighten off the exquisite. The latter waited until the ivory hammer rose, then spoke again.
“Six hundred.”
The expert shoved a dirty hand in the air, as though to say that the fool could take the lot for all of him. Fatty examined the stamp, and nodded a bid. The old woman fought him up to seven hundred. Again the ivory hammer rose, and again the fashion-plate near me spoke.
“Seven-fifty.”
One could see the old woman committing murder in her mind. “Soixante!” she snapped, and Fatty stuck with her. Youth and beauty let them contest it up to nine hundred, then came in with a flat bid of a thousand. All eyes went to him. Fatty pulled at his collar apoplectically and shook his head. The old woman snapped a raise of ten francs, and the exquisite went to eleven hundred. That was killing. The hammer fell, and the commissaire handed him the stamp.
“Name and address, monsieur, if you please.”
“Levallois, twenty Avenue Wagram.”