Thomas Godfrey (Ed)

by Murder for Christmas

  “And then?”

  “Then a strange thing happened. One morning I came to work at 9 o’clock as usual, and I found the door locked. I thought Monsieur Lorilleux had overslept, so I waited....”

  “Where did he live?”

  “Rue Mazarine with his family. At half-past 9 I began to worry.”

  “Was he dead?”

  “No. I phoned his wife, who said he had left the house at 8 o’clock as usual.”

  “Where did you telephone from?”

  “From the glove shop next door. I waited all morning. His wife came down and we went to the commissariat together to report him missing, but the police didn’t take it very seriously. They just asked his wife if he’d ever had heart trouble, if he had a mistress—things like that. But he was never seen again, and nobody ever heard from him. Then some Polish people bought out the store and my husband made me stop working.”

  “How long was this after your marriage?”

  “Four months.”

  “Your husband was already traveling in the southwest?”

  “He had the same territory he has now.”

  “Was he in Paris when your employer disappeared?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Didn’t the police examine the premises?”

  “Nothing had been touched since the night before. Nothing was missing.”

  “Do you know what became of Madame Lorilleux?”

  “She lived for a while on the money from the sale of the store. Then she bought a little dry-goods shop not far from here, in the Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. Her children must be grown up now, probably married.”

  “Do you still see her?”

  “I go into her shop once in a while. That’s how I know she’s in business in the neighborhood. The first time I saw her there I didn’t recognize her.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “I don’t know. Six months or so.”

  “Does she have a telephone?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “What kind of man was Lorilleux?”

  “You mean physically?”

  “Let’s start with the physical.”

  “He was a big man, taller than you, and broader. He was fat, but flabby, if you know what I mean. And rather sloppy-looking.”

  “How old?”

  “Around fifty. I can’t say exactly. He had a little salt-and-pepper mustache, and his clothes were always too big for him.”

  “You were familiar with his habits?”

  “He walked to work every morning. He got down fifteen minutes ahead of me and cleared up the mail before I arrived. He didn’t talk much. He was a rather gloomy person. He spent most of the day in the little office behind the shop.”

  “No romantic adventures?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Didn’t he try to make love to you?”

  “No!” The monosyllable was tartly emphatic.

  “But he thought highly of you?”

  “I think I was a great help to him.”

  “Did your husband ever meet him?”

  “They never spoke. Jean sometimes came to wait for me outside the shop, but he never came in.” A note of impatience, tinged with anger, crept into her voice. “Is that all you want to know?”

  “May I point out, Madame Martin, that you are the one who came to get me?”

  “Only because a crazy old maid practically dragged me there so she could get a close-up look at you.”

  “You don’t like Mlle. Doncoeur?”

  “I don’t like people who can’t mind their own business.”

  “People like Mlle. Doncoeur?”

  “You know that we’ve taken in my brother-in-law’s child. Believe me or not, I’ve done everything I can for her. I treat her the way I’d treat my own child....” She paused to light a fresh cigarette, and Maigret tried unsuccessfully to picture her as a doting mother. “... And now that old maid is always over here, offering to help me with the child. Every time I start to go out, I find her in the hallway, smiling sweetly, and saying, ‘You mustn’t leave Colette all alone, Madame Martin. Let me go in and keep her company.’ I sometimes wonder if she doesn’t go through my drawers when I’m out.”

  “You put up with her, nevertheless.”

  “How can I help it? Colette asks for her, especially since she’s been in bed. And my husband is fond of her because when he was a bachelor, she took care of him when he was sick with pleurisy.”

  “Have you already returned the doll you bought for Colette’s Christmas?”

  She frowned and glanced at the door to the child’s bedroom. “I see you’ve been questioning the little girl. No, I haven’t taken it back for the very good reason that all the big department stores are closed today. Would you like to see it?”

  She spoke defiantly, expecting him to refuse, but he said nothing. He examined the cardboard box, noting the price tag. It was a very cheap doll.

  “May I ask where you went this morning?”

  “I did my marketing.”

  “Rue Amelot or Rue du Chemin-Vert?”

  “Both.”

  “If I may be indiscreet, what did you buy?”

  Furious, she stormed into the kitchen, snatched up her shopping bag, and dumped it on the dining room table. “Look for yourself!”

  There were three tins of sardines, butter, potatoes, some ham, and a head of lettuce.

  She fixed him with a hard, unwavering stare. She was not in the least nervous. Spiteful, rather.

  “Any more questions?”

  “Yes. The name of your insurance agent.”

  “My insurance....” She was obviously puzzled.

  “Insurance agent. The one who came to see you.”

  “I’m sorry. I was at a loss for a moment because you spoke of my agent as though he were really handling a policy for me. So Colette told you that, too? Actually, a man did come to see me twice, trying to sell me a policy. He was one of those door-to-door salesmen, and I thought at first he was selling vacuum cleaners, not life insurance. I had a terrible time getting rid of him.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  “Long enough for me to convince him that I had no desire to take out a policy.”

  “What company did he represent?”

  “He told me but I’ve forgotten. Something with ‘Mutual’ in it.”

  “And he came back later?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time does Colette usually go to sleep?”

  “I put out her light at 7: 30, but sometimes she talks to herself in the dark until much later.”

  “So the second time the insurance man called, it was later than 7: 30?”

  “Possibly.” She saw the trap. “I remember now I was washing the dishes.”

  “And you let him in?”

  “He had his foot in the door.”

  “Did he call on other tenants in the building?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea, but I’m sure you will inquire. Must you cross-examine me like a criminal, just because a little girl imagines she saw Santa Claus? If my husband were here—”

  “By the way, does your husband carry life insurance?”

  “I think so. In fact, I’m sure he does.”

  Maigret picked up his hat from a chair and started for the door. Madame Martin seemed surprised.

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. It seems your brother-in-law promised to come and see his daughter today. If he should come, I would be grateful if you let me know. And now I’d like a few words with Mlle. Doncoeur.”

  There was a convent smell about Mlle. Doncoeur’s apartment, but there was no dog or cat in sight, no antimacassars on the chairs, no bricbrac on the mantelpiece.

  “Have you lived in this house long, Mlle. Concoeur?”

  “Twenty-five years, Monsieur l’lnspecteur. I’m one of the oldest tenants. I remember when I first moved in you were already living across the street, and you wore long mustaches.”
>
  “Who lived in the next apartment before Martin moved in?”

  “A public works engineer. I don’t remember his name, but I could look it up for you. He had a wife and daughter. The girl was a deaf-mute. It was very sad. They went to live somewhere in the country.”

  “Have you been bothered by a door-to-door insurance agent recently?”

  “No recently. There was one who came around two or three years ago.”

  “You don’t like Madame Martin, do you?”

  “Why?”

  “I asked if you liked Madame Martin?”

  “Well, if I had a son...”

  “Go on.”

  “If I had a son I don’t think I would like Madame Martin for a daughter-in-law. Especially as Monsieur Martin is such a nice man, so kind.”

  “You think he is unhappy with his wife?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I have nothing against her, really. She can’t help being the kind of woman she is.”

  “What kind of woman is she?”

  “I couldn’t say, exactly. You’ve seen her. You’re a better judge of those things than I am. In a way, she’s not like a woman at all. I’ll wager she never shed a tear in her life. True, she is bringing up the child properly, decently, but she never says a kind word to her. She acts exasperated when I tell Colette a fairy tale. I’m sure she’s told the girl there is no Santa Claus. Luckily Colette doesn’t believe her.”

  “The child doesn’t like her either, does she?”

  “Colette is always obedient. She tries to do what’s expected of her. I think she’s just as happy to be left alone.”

  “Is she alone much?”

  “Not much. I’m not reproaching Madame Martin. It’s hard to explain. She wants to live her own life. She’s not interested in others. She doesn’t even talk much about herself.”

  “Have you ever met her brother-in-law—Colette’s father?”

  “I’ve seen him on the landing, but I’ve never spoken to him. He walks with his head down, as if he were ashamed of something. He always looks as if he slept in his clothes. No, I don’t think it was he last night, Monsieur Maigret. He’s not the type. Unless he was terribly drunk.”

  On his way out Maigret looked in at the concierge’s lodge, a dark cubicle where the light burned all day.

  It was noon when he started back across the boulevard. Curtains stirred at the windows of the house behind him. Curtains stirred at his own window, too. Mme. Maigret was watching for him so she would know when to put the chicken in the oven. He waved to her. He wanted very much to stick out his tongue and lick up a few of the tiny snow flakes that were drifting down. He could still remember their taste.

  “I wonder if that little tike is happy over there,” sighed Mme. Maigret as she got up from the table to bring the coffee from the kitchen.

  She could see he wasn’t listening. He had pushed back his chair and was stuffing his pipe while staring at the purring stove. For her own satisfaction she added: “I don’t see how she could be happy with that woman.”

  He smiled vaguely, as he always did when he hadn’t heard what she said, and continued to stare at the tiny flames licking evenly at the mica windows of the salamander. There were at least ten similar stoves in the house, all purring alike in ten similar dining rooms with wine and cakes on the table, a carafe of cordial waiting on the sideboard, and all the windows pale with the same hard, gray light of a sunless day.

  It was perhaps this very familiarity which had been confusing his subconscious since morning. Nine times out of ten his investigations plunged him abruptly into new surroundings, set him at grips with people of a world he barely knew, people of a social level whose habits and manners he had to study from scratch. But in this case, which was not really a case since he had no official assignment, the whole approach was unfamiliar because the background was too familiar. For the first time in his career something professional was happening in his own world, in a building which might just as well be his building.

  The Martins could easily have been living on his floor, instead of across the street, and it would probably have been Mme. Maigret who would look after Colette when her aunt was away. There was an elderly maiden lady living just under him who was a plumper, paler replica of Mlle. Doncoeur. The frames of the photographs of Martin’s father and mother were exactly the same as those which framed Maigret’s father and mother, and the enlargements had probably been made by the same studio.

  Was that what was bothering him? He seemed to lack perspective. He was unable to look at people and things from a fresh, new viewpoint.

  He had detailed his morning activities during dinner—a pleasant little Christmas dinner which had left him with an overstuffed feeling—and his wife had listened while looking at the windows across the street with an air of embarrassment.

  “Is the concierge sure that nobody could have come in from outside?”

  “She’s not so sure any more. She was entertaining friends until after midnight. And after she had gone to bed, there were considerable comings and goings, which is natural for Christmas Eve.”

  “Do you think something more is going to happen?”

  That was a question that had been plaguing Maigret all morning. First of all, he had to consider that Madame Martin had not come to see him spontaneously, but only on the insistence of Mlle. Doncoeur. If she had got up earlier, if she had been the first to see the doll and hear the story of Father Christmas, wouldn’t she have kept the secret and ordered the little girl to say nothing?

  And later she had taken the first opportunity to go out, even though there was plenty to eat in the house for the day. And she had been so absent-minded that she had bought butter, although there was still a pound in the cooler.

  Maigret got up from the table and resettled himself in his chair by the window. He picked up the phone and called Quai des Orfèvres.

  “Lucas?”

  “I got what you wanted, Chief. I have a list of all prisoners released for the last four months. There aren’t as many as I thought. And none of them has lived in the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir at any time.”

  That didn’t matter any more now. At first Maigret had thought that a tenant across the street might have hidden money or stolen goods under the floor before he was arrested. His first thought on getting out of jail would be to recover his booty. With the little girl bedridden, however, the room was occupied day and night. Impersonating Father Christmas would not have been a bad idea to get into the room. Had this been the case, however, Madame Martin would not have been so reluctant to call in Maigret. Nor would she have been in so great a hurry to get out of the house afterwards on such a flimsy pretext. So Maigret had abandoned that theory.

  “You want me to check each prisoner further?”

  “Never mind. Any news about Paul Martin?”

  “That was easy. He’s known in every station house between the Bastille and the Hotel de Ville, and even on the Boulevard Saint-Michel.”

  “What did he do last night?”

  “First he went aboard the Salvation Army barge to eat. He’s a regular there one day a week and yesterday was his day. They had a special feast for Christmas Eve and he had to stand in line quite a while.”

  “After that?”

  “About 11 o’clock he went to the Latin Quarter and opened doors for motorists in front of a night club. He must have collected enough money in tips to get himself a sinkful, because he was picked up dead drunk near the Place Maubert at 4 in the morning. He was taken to the station house to sleep it off, and was there until 11 this morning. They’d just turned him loose when I phoned, and they promised to bring him to me when they find him again. He still had a few francs in his pocket.”

  “What about Bergerac?”

  “Jean Martin is taking the afternoon train for Paris. He was quite upset by a phone call he got this morning.”

  “He got only one call?”

  “Only one this morning. He got a call last night while he was eating dinn
er.”

  “You know who called him?”

  “The desk clerk says it was a man’s voice, asking for Monsieur Jean Martin. He sent somebody into the dining room for Martin but when Martin got to the phone, the caller had hung up. Seems it spoiled his whole evening. He went out with a bunch of traveling salesmen to some local hot-spot where there were pretty girls and whatnot, but after drinking a few glasses of champagne, he couldn’t talk about anything except his wife and daughter. The niece he calls his daughter, it seems. He had such a dismal evening that he went home early. Three A.M. That’s all you wanted to know, Chief?”

  When Maigret didn’t reply, Lucas had to satisfy his curiosity. “You still phoning from home, Chief? What’s happening up your way? Somebody get killed?”

  “I still can’t say. Right now all I know is that the principals are a seven-year-old girl, a doll, and Father Christmas.”

  “Ah?”

  “One more thing. Try to get me the home address of the manager of Zenith Watches, Avenue de l’Opera. You ought to be able to raise somebody there, even on Christmas Day. Call me back.”

  “Soon as I have something.”

  Mme. Maigret had just served him a glass of Alsatian plum brandy which her sister had sent them. He smacked his lips. For a moment he was tempted to forget all about the business of the doll and Father Christmas. It would be much simpler just to take his wife to the movies....

  “What color eyes has she?”

  It took him a moment to realize that the only person in the case who interested Mme. Maigret was the little girl.

  “Why, I’m not quite sure. They can’t be dark. She has blonde hair.”

  “So they’re blue.”

  “Maybe they’re blue. Very light, in any case. And they are very serious.”

  “Because she doesn’t look at things like a child. Does she laugh?”

  “She hasn’t much to laugh about.”

  “A child can always laugh if she feels herself surrounded by people she can trust, people who let her act her age. I don’t like that woman.”

  “You prefer Mlle. Doncoeur?”

  “She may be an old maid but I’m sure she knows more about children than that Madame Martin. I’ve seen her in the shops. Madame Martin is one of those women who watch the scales, and take their money out of their pocketbooks, coin by coin. She always looks around suspiciously, as though everybody was out to cheat her.”