The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet: A Detective Story, Burton Egbert Stevenson [general ebook reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Burton Egbert Stevenson
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THE MYSTERY OF THE BOULE CABINETA Detective Story
BY BURTON E. STEVENSONWith Illustrations by THOMAS FOGARTY
1911
To
A.B.M.
Fellow-Sherlockian
"Hello!" I said, as I took down the receiver of my desk 'phone, in answer to the call.
"Mr. Vantine wishes to speak to you, sir," said the office-boy.
"All right," and I heard the snap of the connection.
"Is that you, Lester?" asked Philip Vantine's voice.
"Yes. So you're back again?"
"Got in yesterday. Can you come up to the house and lunch with me to-day?"
"I'll be glad to," I said, and meant it, for I liked Philip Vantine.
"I'll look for you, then, about one-thirty."
And that is how it happened that, an hour later, I was walking over toward Washington Square, just above which, on the Avenue, the old Vantine mansion stood. It was almost the last survival of the old régime; for the tide of business had long since overflowed from the neighbouring streets into the Avenue and swept its fashionable folk far uptown. Tall office and loft buildings had replaced the brownstone houses; only here and there did some old family hold on, like a sullen and desperate rear-guard defying the advancing enemy.
Philip Vantine was one of these. He had been born in the house where he still lived, and declared that he would die there. He had no one but himself to please in the matter, since he was unmarried and lived alone, and he mitigated the increasing roar and dust of the neighbourhood by long absences abroad. It was from one of these that he had just returned.
I may as well complete this pencil-sketch. Vantine was about fifty years of age, the possessor of a comfortable fortune, something of a connoisseur in art matters, a collector of old furniture, a little eccentric—though now that I have written the word, I find that I must qualify it, for his only eccentricity was that he persisted, in spite of many temptations, in remaining a bachelor. Marriageable women had long since ceased to consider him; mothers with maturing daughters dismissed him with a significant shake of the head. It was from them that he got the reputation of being an eccentric. But his reasons for remaining single in no way concerned his lawyers—a position which our firm had held for many years, and the active work of which had come gradually into my hands.
It was not very arduous work, consisting for the most part of the drawing of leases, the collecting of rents, the reinvestment of funds, and the adjustment of minor differences with tenants—all of which were left to our discretion. But occasionally it was necessary to consult our client on some matter of unusual importance, or to get his signature to some paper, and, at such times, I always enjoyed the talk which followed the completion of the business; for Vantine was a good talker, with a knowledge of men and of the world gained by much travel and by a detached, humourous and penetrating habit of mind.
He came forward to meet me, as I gave his man my hat and stick, and we shook hands heartily. I was glad to see him, and I think he was glad to see me. He was looking in excellent health, and brown from the voyage over.
"It's plain to see that the trip did you good," I said.
"Yes," he agreed; "I never felt more fit. But come along; we can talk at table. There's a little difficulty I want you to untangle for me." I followed him upstairs to his study, where a table laid for two had been placed near a low window.
"I had lunch served up here," Vantine explained, as we sat down, "because this is the only really pleasant room left in the house. If I didn't own that plot of ground next door, this place would be impossible. As it is, I can keep the sky-scrapers far enough away to get a little sunshine now and then. I've had to put in an air filter, too; and double windows in the bedrooms to keep out the noise; but I dare say I can manage to hang on."
"I can understand how you'd hate to move into a new house," I said.
Vantine made a grimace.
"I couldn't endure a new house. I'm used to this one—I can find my way about in it; I know where things are. I've grown up here, you know; and, as a man gets older, he values such associations more and more. Besides, a new house would mean new fittings, new furniture—"
He paused and glanced about the room. Every piece of furniture in it was the work of a master.
"I suppose you found some new things while you were away?" I said.
"You always do. Your luck's proverbial."
"Yes—and it's that I wanted to talk to you about, I brought back six or eight pieces; I'll show them to you presently. They are all pretty good, and one is a thing of beauty. It's more than that—it's an absolutely unique work of art. Only, unfortunately, it isn't mine."
"It isn't yours?"
"No; and I don't know whose it is. If I did, I'd go buy it. That's what I want you to do for me. It's a Boule cabinet—the most exquisite I ever saw."
"Where did it come from?" I questioned, more and more surprised.
"It came from Paris, and it was addressed to me. The only explanation I can think of is that my shippers at Paris made a mistake, sent me a cabinet belonging to some one else, and sent mine to the other person."
"You had bought one, then?"
"Yes; and it hasn't turned up. But beside this one, it's a mere daub.
My man Parks got it through the customs yesterday. As there was a
Boule cabinet on my manifest, the mistake wasn't discovered until the
whole lot was brought up here and uncrated this morning."
"Weren't they uncrated in the customs?"
"No; I've been bringing things in for a good many years, and the customs people know I'm not a thief."
"That's quite a compliment," I pointed out. "They've been tearing things wide open lately."
"They've had a tip of some sort, I suppose. Come in," he added, answering a tap at the door.
The door opened and Vantine's man came in.
"A gentleman to see you, sir," he said, and handed Vantine a card.
Vantine looked at it a little blankly.
"I don't know him," he said. "What does he want?"
"He wants to see you, sir; very bad, I should say."
"What about?"
"Well, I couldn't just make out, sir; but it seems to be important."
"Couldn't make out? What do you mean, Parks?"
"I think he's a Frenchman, sir; anyway, he don't know much English. He ain't much of a looker, sir—I've seen hundreds like him sitting out in front of the cafés along the boulevards, taking all afternoon to drink a bock."
Vantine seemed struck by a sudden idea, and he looked at the card again. Then he tapped it meditatively on the table.
"Shall I show him out, sir?" asked Parks, at last.
"No," said Vantine, after an instant's hesitation. "Tell him to wait," and he dropped the card on the table beside his plate.
"I tell you, Lester," he went on, as Parks withdrew, "when I went downstairs this morning and saw that cabinet, I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I knew furniture, but I hadn't any idea such a cabinet existed. The most beautiful I had ever seen is at the Louvre. It stands in the Salle Louis Fourteenth, to the left as you enter. It belonged to Louis himself. Of course I can't be certain without a careful examination, but I believe that cabinet, beautiful as it is, is merely the counterpart of this one."
He paused and looked at me, his eyes bright with the enthusiasm of the connoisseur.
"I'm not sure I understand your jargon," I said. "What do you mean by 'counterpart?'"
"Boule furniture," he explained, "is usually of ebony inlaid with tortoise-shell, and incrusted with arabesques in metals of various kinds. The incrustation had to be very exact, and to get it so, the artist clamped together two plates of equal size and thickness, one of metal, the other of tortoise-shell, traced his design on the top one, and then cut them both out together. The result was two combinations, the original, with a tortoise-shell ground and metal applications; and the counterpart, appliqué metal with tortoise-shell arabesques. The original was really the one which the artist designed and whose effects he studied; the counterpart was merely a resultant accident with which he was not especially concerned. Understand?"
"Yes, I think so," I said. "It's a good deal as though Michael Angelo, when he made one of his sketches, white on black, put a sheet of carbon under his paper and made a copy at the same time, black on white."
"Precisely. And it's the original which has the real artistic value. Of course, the counterpart is often beautiful, too, but in a much lower degree."
"I can understand that," I said.
"And now, Lester," Vantine went on, his eyes shining more and more, "if my supposition is correct—if the Grand Louis was content with the counterpart of this cabinet for the long gallery at Versailles, who do you suppose owned the original?"
I saw what he was driving at.
"You mean one of his mistresses?"
"Yes, and I think I know which one—it belonged to Madame de
Montespan."
I stared at him in astonishment, as he sat back in his chair, smiling across at me.
"But," I objected, "you can't be sure—"
"Of course I'm not sure," he agreed quickly. "That is to say, I couldn't prove it. But there is some—ah—contributory evidence, I think you lawyers call it Boule and the Montespan were in their glory at the same time, and I can imagine that flamboyant creature commissioning the flamboyant artist to build her just such a cabinet."
"Really, Vantine," I exclaimed, "I didn't know you were so romantic.
You quite take my breath away."
He flushed a little at the words, and I saw how deeply in earnest he was.
"The craze of the collector takes him a long way sometimes," he said. "But I believe I know what I'm talking about. I am going to make a careful examination of the cabinet as soon as I can. Perhaps I'll find something—there ought to be a monogram on it somewhere. What I want you to do is to cable my shippers, Armand et Fils, Rue du Temple, find out who owns this cabinet, and buy it
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