Eau de morgue

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.