The Baron Armand De Valfort: Short Story

As I was savoring the idle peace that my activities as a private detective in Paris, the City of Lights,- where nothing is private, would often provide, I received the visit of the Baron Armand de Valfort. At least, it was the name I read on the card he presented to me with a large and powerful gesture, unintended to be aggressive nor demeaning. This gentleman appeared to be forthright, and his deportment reflected authority and confidence. “You are Captain Walter Morsirisse, n’est-ce pas?” he said, in a voice which dark resonance added to the black color of his eyes. “Premier Bataillon Étranger de Parachutistes.” I replied, and inclined my head to honor my distinguished visitor in a salute that permitted me at the same time, to have a better

He had a thin pair of gold-rimmed spectacles suspended on the bridge of his strong hooked nose, below which shined fleshy lips. He wore a grey suit cut by the hand of a rich Parisian tailor, and the rest of his clothes fitted the overall refinement of his costly taste, the dominant trait of his persona. “Aha! Foreign Legion! Green Berets!” He exclaimed. “Très bien. You’re a Foreigner?” “No. I’m French.” I hurried to say. “And, at present, Captain… You

Do you? Really?” I muttered. I waved him to an armchair in the sitting room, then I pointed to a solitary bottle of wine that languished in a corner, and asked him if he’d care for a drink. He refused, throwing his hands open as if he tried to protect himself against some danger. “Alors, Monsieur le Baron, je vous écoute!”I said. The Baron pulled a letter from his pocket and handed it to me. The color of the envelope struck me, for I happened to have observed before such a hue on a young orchid, and I still remembered the strange sensation I felt when I saw this delicate and fragile flower. It had a color purple, a sad color purple, redder and paler than heliotrope, bluer and lighter than average amethyst, and whiter and slightly bluer than manganese violet. And now, on this stormy July afternoon, I held between my fingers a letter which fascinated me like a blue snake that hissed out of the past, its paper tongue sending a message which could be poisonous. “‘S’il vous plait!’” said the Baron. “Please, read it.” After the hesitation of a sweaty archeologist on the verge of breaking the Seal of an old Egyptian Tomb, I opened the envelope and acquainted myself with its