Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  He had been gazing rather blankly at the Inspector. Suddenly he swung around on his brother, his cheeks red, his eyes flashing. “Andre, you dare to suggest that I—”

  Without the slightest transition, his indignation faded away. He leaned forward in his chair, took his head in his two hands, and burst into a fit of raucous weeping.

  Ill at ease, Inspector Saillard looked at Andre Lecœur, surprised at the latter’s calmness, and a little shocked, perhaps, by what he may well have taken for heartlessness. Perhaps Saillard had never had a brother of his own. Andre had known his since childhood. It wasn’t the first time he had seen Olivier break down. Not by any means. And this time he was almost pleased, as it might have been a great deal worse. What he had dreaded was the moment of indignation, and he was relieved that it had passed so quickly. Had he continued on that tack, he’d have ended by putting everyone’s back up, which would have done him no good at all.

  Wasn’t that how he’d lost one job after another? For weeks, for months, he would go meekly about his work, toeing the line and swallowing what he felt to be humiliations, till all at once he could hold no more, and for some trifle—a chance word, a smile, a harmless contradiction—he would flare up unexpectedly and make a nuisance of himself to everybody.

  What do we do now? The Inspector’s eyes were asking.

  Andre Lecœur’s eyes answered, Wait.

  It didn’t last very long. The emotional crisis waned, started again, then petered out altogether. Olivier shot a sulky look at the Inspector, then hid his face again.

  Finally, with an air of bitter resignation, he sat up, and with even a touch of pride said: “Fire away. I’ll answer.”

  “At what time last night did you go to Madame Fayet’s? Wait a moment. First of all, when did you leave your flat?”

  “At eight o’clock, as usual, after Francois was in bed.”

  “Nothing exceptional happened?”

  “No. We’d had supper together. Then he’d helped me to wash up.”

  “Did you talk about Christmas?”

  “Yes. I told him he’d be getting a surprise.”

  “The table radio. Was he expecting one?”

  He’d been longing for one for some time. You see, he doesn’t play with the other boys in the street. Practically all his free time he spends at home.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that the boy might know you’d lost your job at the Presse? Did he ever ring you up there?”

  “Never. When I’m at work, he’s asleep.”

  “Could anyone have told him?”

  “No one knew. Not in the neighborhood, that is.”

  “Is he observant?”

  “Very. He notices everything.”

  “You saw him safely in bed and then you went off. Do you take anything with you—anything to eat, I mean?”

  The Inspector suddenly thought of that, seeing Godin produce a ham sandwich. Olivier looked blankly at his empty hands.

  “My tin.”

  “The tin in which you took your sandwiches?”

  Yes. I had it with me when I left. I’m sure of that. I can’t think where I could have left it, unless it was at—”

  “At Madame Fayet’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just a moment. Lecœur, get me Javel on the phone, will you? Hallo! Who’s speaking? Is Janvier there? Good, ask him to speak to me. Hallo! Is that you, Janvier? Have you come across a tin box containing some sandwiches? Nothing of the sort. Really? All the same. I’d like you to make sure. Ring me back. It’s important.”

  And, turning again to Olivier: “Was Francois actually sleeping when you

  left?”

  “No. But he’d snuggled down in bed and soon would be. Outside, I wandered about for a bit. I walked down to the Seine and waited on the embankment.”

  “Waited? What for?”

  “For Francois to be fast asleep. From his room you can see Madame Fayet’s windows.”

  “So you’d made up your mind to go and see her.”

  “It was the only way. I hadn’t a bean left.”

  “What about your brother?”

  Olivier and Andre looked at each other.

  “He’d already given me so much. I felt I couldn’t ask him again.”

  “You rang at the house door, I suppose. At what time?”

  “A little after nine. The concierge saw me. I made no attempt to hide— except from Francois.”

  “Had your mother-in-law gone to bed?”

  “No. She was fully dressed when she opened her door. She said, ‘Oh, it’s you, you wretch!’ ”

  “After that beginning, did you still think she’d lend you money?”

  “I was sure of it.”

  “Why?”

  “It was her business. Perhaps also for the pleasure of squeezing me if I didn’t pay her back. She lent me ten thousand francs, but made me sign an I. O. U. for twenty thousand.”

  “How soon had you to pay her back?”

  “In a fortnight’s time.”

  “How could you hope to?”

  “I don’t know. Somehow. The thing that mattered was for the boy to have a good Christmas.”

  Andre Lecœur was tempted to butt in to explain to the puzzled Inspector, “You see! He’s always been like that!”

  “Did you get the money easily?”

  “Oh, no. We were at it for a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Half an hour, I daresay, and during most of that time she was calling me names, telling me I was no good to anyone and had ruined her daughter’s life before I finally killed her. I didn’t answer her back. I wanted the money too badly.”

  “You didn’t threaten her?”

  Olivier reddened. “Not exactly. I said if she didn’t let me have it I’d kill myself.”

  “Would you have done it?”

  “I don’t think so. At least, I don’t know. I was fed up, worn out.”

  “And when you got the money?”

  “I walked to the nearest Métro station, Lourmel, and took the underground to Palais Royal. There I went into the Grands Magasins du Louvre. The place was crowded, with queues at many of the counters.”

  “What time was it?”

  “It was after eleven before I left the place. I was in no hurry. I had a good look around. I stood a long time watching a toy electric train.”

  Andre couldn’t help smiling at the Inspector. “You didn’t miss your sandwich tin?”

  “No. I was thinking about Francois and his present.”

  “And with money in your pocket you banished all your cares!”

  The Inspector hadn’t known Olivier Lecœur since childhood, but he had sized him up all right. He had hit the nail on the head. When things were black, Olivier would go about with drooping shoulders and a hangdog air, but no sooner had he a thousand-franc note in his pocket than he’d feel on top of the world.

  “To come back to Madame Fayet, you say you gave her a receipt. What did she do with it?”

  “She slipped it into an old wallet she always carried about with her in a pocket somewhere under her skirt.”

  “So you knew about the wallet?”

  “Yes. Everybody did.”

  The Inspector turned towards Andre.

  “It hasn’t been found!”

  Then to Olivier: “You bought some things. In the Louvre?”

  “No. I bought the little radio in the Rue Montmartre.”

  “In which shop?”

  “I don’t know the name. It’s next door to a shoe shop.”

  “And the other things?”

  “A little farther on.”

  “What time was it when you’d finished shopping?”

  “Close on midnight. People were coming out of the theaters and movies and crowding into the restaurants. Some of them were rather noisy.”

  His brother at that time was already here at his switchboard.

  “What did you do during the rest of the night?”

  “At the
corner of the Boulevard des Italiens, there’s a movie that stays open all night.”

  “You’d been there before?”

  Avoiding his brother’s eye, Olivier answered rather sheepishly: “Two or three times. After all, it costs no more than going into a cafe and you can stay there as long as you like. It’s nice and warm. Some people go there regularly to sleep.”

  “When was it you decided to go to the movies?”

  “As soon as I left Madame Fayet’s.”

  Andre Lecœur was tempted to intervene once again to say to the Inspector: “You see, these people who are down and out are not so utterly miserable after all. If they were, they’d never stick it out. They’ve got a world of their own, in odd corners of which they can take refuge and even amuse themselves.”

  It was all so like Olivier! With a few notes in his pocket—and Heaven only knew how he was ever going to pay them back—with a few notes in his pocket, his trials were forgotten. He had only one thought: to give his boy a good Christmas. With that secured, he was ready to stand himself a little treat.

  So while other families were gathered at table or knelt at Midnight Mass, Olivier went to the movies all by himself. It was the best he could do.

  “When did you leave the movie?”

  “A little before six.”

  “What was the film?”

  “Cœurs Ardents. With a documentary on Eskimos.”

  “How many times did you see the program?”

  “Twice right through, except for the news, which was just coming on again when I left.”

  Andre Lecœur knew that all this was going to be verified, if only as a matter of routine. It wasn’t necessary, however. Diving into his pockets, Olivier produced the torn-off half of a movie ticket, then another ticket—a pink one. “Look at that. It’s the Métro ticket I had coming home.”

  It bore the name of the station—Opéra—together with the date and the time.

  Olivier had been telling the truth. He couldn’t have been in Madame Fayet’s flat any time between five and six-thirty.

  There was a little spark of triumph in his eye, mixed with a touch of disdain. He seemed to be saying to them all, including his brother Andre: “Because I’m poor and unlucky I come under suspicion. I know—that’s the way things are. I don’t blame you.”

  And, funnily enough, it seemed as though all at once the room had grown colder. That was probably because, with Olivier Lecœur cleared of suspicion, everyone’s thoughts reverted to the child. As though moved by one impulse, all eyes turned instinctively toward the huge plan on the wall.

  Some time had elapsed since any of the lamps had lit up. Certainly it was a quiet morning. On any ordinary day there would be a street accident coming in every few minutes, particularly old women knocked down in the crowded thoroughfares of Montmartre and other overpopulated quarters.

  Today the streets were almost empty—emptier than in August, when half Paris is away on holiday.

  Half past eleven. For three and a half hours there’d been no sign of Francois Lecœur.

  “Hallo! Yes, Saillard speaking. Is that Janvier? You say you couldn’t find a tin anywhere? Except in her kitchen, of course. Now, look here, was it you who went through the old girl’s clothes? Oh, Gonesse had already done it. There should have been an old wallet in a pocket under her skirt. You’re sure there wasn’t anything of that sort? That’s what Gonesse told you, is it? What’s that about the concierge? She saw someone go up a little after nine last night. I know. I know who it was. There were people coming in and out the best part of the night? Of course. I’d like you to go back to the house in the Rue Vasco de Gama. See what you can find out about the comings and goings there, particularly on the third floor. Yes. I’ll still be here.”

  He turned back to the boy’s father, who was now sitting humbly in his chair, looking as intimidated as a patient in a doctor’s waiting room.

  “You understand why I asked that, don’t you? Does Francois often wake up in the course of the night?”

  “He’s been known to get up in his sleep.”

  “Does he walk about?”

  “No. Generally he doesn’t even get right out of bed—just sits up and calls out. It’s always the same thing. He thinks the house is on fire. His eyes are open, but I don’t think he sees anything. Then, little by little, he calms down and with a deep sigh lies down again. The next day he doesn’t remember a thing.”

  “Is he always asleep when you get back in the morning?”

  “Not always. But if he isn’t, he always pretends to be so that I can wake him up as usual with a hug.”

  “The people in the house were probably making more noise than usual last night. Who have you got in the next flat?”

  “A Czech who works at Renault’s.

  “Is he married?”

  “I really don’t know. There are so many people in the house and they change so often we don’t know much about them. All I can tell you is that on Sundays other Czechs come there and they sing a lot of their own songs.”

  “Janvier will tell us whether there was a party there last night. If there was, they may well have awakened the boy. Besides, children are apt to sleep more lightly when they’re excited about a present they’re expecting. If he got out of bed, he might easily have looked out of the window, in which case he might have seen you at Madame Fayet’s. He didn’t know she was his grandmother, did he?”

  “No. He didn’t like her. He sometimes passed her in the street and he used to say she smelled like a squashed bug.”

  The boy would probably know what he was talking about. A house like his was no doubt infested with vermin.

  “He’d have been surprised to see you with her?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did he know she lent money?”

  “Everyone knew.”

  “Would there be anybody working at the Presse on a day like this?”

  “There’s always somebody there.”

  The Inspector asked Andre to ring them up.

  “See if anyone’s ever been round to ask for your brother.”

  Olivier looked uncomfortable, but when his brother reached for the telephone directory, he gave him the number. Both he and the Inspector stared at Andre while he got through.

  “It’s very important, Mademoiselle. It may even be a matter of life and death. Yes, please. See if you can find out. Ask everybody who’s in the building now. What? Yes, I know it’s Christmas Day. It’s Christmas Day here, too, but we have to carry on just the same.”

  Between his teeth he muttered, “Silly little bitch!”

  He could hear the linotypes clicking as he held the line, waiting for her answer.

  “Yes. What? Three weeks ago. A young boy—”

  Olivier went pale in the face. His eyes dropped, and during the rest of the conversation he stared obstinately at his hands.

  “He didn’t telephone? Came round himself. At what time? On a Thursday, you say. What did he want? Asked if Olivier Lecœur worked there? What? What was he told?”

  Looking up, Olivier saw a flush spread over his brother’s face before he banged down the receiver.

  “Francois went there one Thursday afternoon. He must have suspected something. They told him you hadn’t been working there for some time.”

  There was no point in repeating what he had heard. What they’d said to the boy was: “We chucked the old fool out weeks ago.”

  Perhaps not out of cruelty. They may not have thought it was the man’s son they were speaking to.

  “Do you begin to understand, Olivier?”

  Did he realize that the situation was the reverse of what he had imagined? He had been going off at night, armed with his little box of sandwiches, keeping up an elaborate pretense. And in the end he had been the one to be taken in!

  The boy had found him out. And wasn’t it only fair to suppose that he had seen through the Uncle Gedeon story, too?

  He hadn’t said a word. He had simply fallen in with t
he game.

  No one dared say anything for fear of saying too much, for fear of evoking images that would be heartrending.

  A father and a son each lying to avoid hurting the other.

  They had to look at it through the eyes of the child, with all childhood’s tragic earnestness. His father kisses him good night and goes off to the job that doesn’t really exist, saying: “Sleep well. There’ll be a surprise for you in the morning.”

  A radio. It could only be that. And didn’t he know that his father’s pockets were empty? Did he try to go to sleep? Or did he get up as soon as his father had gone, to sit miserably staring out of the window obsessed by one thought? His father had no money—yet he was going to buy him a radio!

  To the accompaniment, in all probability, of a full-throated Czech choir singing their national songs on the other side of the thin wall!

  The Inspector sighed and knocked out his pipe on his heel.

  “It looks as though he saw you at Madame Fayet’s.”

  Olivier nodded.

  “We’ll check up on this, but it seems likely that, looking down from his window, he wouldn’t see very far into the room.”

  “That’s quite right.”

  “Could he have seen you leave the room?”

  “No. The door’s on the opposite side from the window.”

  “Do you remember going near the window?”

  “At one time I was sitting on the windowsill.”

  “Was the window open then? We know it was later.”

  “It was open a few inches. I’m sure of that, because I moved away from it, as I felt an icy draught on my back. She lived with us for a while, just after our marriage, and I know she couldn’t bear not to have her window open all the year round. You see, she’d been brought up in the country.”

  “So there’d be no frost on the panes. He’d certainly have seen you if he was looking.”

  A call. Lecœur thrust his contact plug into one of the sockets.

  “Yes. What’s that? A boy?”

  The other two held their breath.

  “Yes. Yes. What? Yes. Send out the agents cyclistes. Comb the whole neighborhood. I’ll see about the station. How long ago was it? Half an hour? Couldn’t he have let us know sooner?”