Murder Most Merry

by ed. Abigail Browining

  “How many murders committed by foreigners?”

  “Forty-two.”

  You could go on like that for hours without being able to trip him up. And yet he trotted out his figures without a trace of swank. It was his hobby, that was all.

  For he wasn’t obliged to make those crosses. It was his own idea. Like the chats over the telephone lines, they helped to pass the time away, and the result gave him much the same satisfaction that others derive from a collection of stamps.

  He was unmarried. Few knew where he lived or what sort of a life he led outside that room. It was difficult to picture him anywhere else, even to think of him walking along the street like an ordinary person. He turned to Janvier to say: “For your cases, we generally have to wait till people are up and about. It’s when a concierge goes up with the post or when a maid takes her mistress’s breakfast into the bedroom that things like that come to light.”

  He claimed no special merit in knowing a thing like that. It was just a fact. A bit earlier in summer, of course, and later in winter. On Christmas Day probably later still, as a considerable part of the population hadn’t gotten to bed until two or even later, to say nothing of their having to sleep off a good many glasses of champagne.

  Before then, still more water would have gone under the bridge—a few more stolen cars, a few belated drunks.

  “Hallo! Saint-Gervais?”

  His Paris was not the one known to the rest of us—the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Opéra—but one of somber, massive buildings with a police car waiting under the blue lamp and the bicycles of the agents cyclistes leaning against the wall.

  “The chief is convinced the chap’ll have another go tonight,” said Janvier. “It’s just the night for people of that sort. Seems to excite them.”

  No name was mentioned, for none was known. Nor could he be described as the man in the fawn raincoat or the man in the grey hat, since no one had ever seen him. For a while the papers had referred to him as Monsieur Dimanche, as his first three murders had been on Sunday, but since then five others had been on weekdays, at the rate of about one a week, though not quite regularly.

  “It’s because of him you’ve been on all night, is it?” asked Mambret.

  Janvier wasn’t the only one. All over Paris extra men were on duty, watching or waiting.

  “You’ll see,” put in Sommer. “when you do get him you’ll find he’s only a loony.”

  “Loony or not, he’s killed eight people,” sighed Janvier, sipping his coffee. “Look. Lecœur—there’s one of your lamps burning.”

  “Hallo! Your car’s out? What’s that? Just a moment.”

  They could see Lecœur hesitate, not knowing in which column to put a cross. There was one for hangings, one for those who jumped out of the window, another for—

  “Here, listen to this. On the Pont d’Austerlitz, a chap climbed up onto the parapet. He had his legs tied together and a cord round his neck with the end made fast to a lamppost, and as he threw himself over he fired a shot into his head!”

  “Taking no risks, what? And which column does that one go into?”

  “There’s one for neurasthenics. We may as well call it that.”

  Those who hadn’t been to Midnight Mass were now on their way to early service. With hands thrust deep in their pockets and drops on the ends of their noses, they walked bent forward into the cutting wind, which seemed to blow up a fine, icy dust from the pavements. It would soon be time for the children to be waking up, jumping out of bed, and gathering barefoot around lighted Christmas trees.

  “But it’s not at all sure the fellow’s mad. In fact, the experts say that if he was he’d always do it the same way. If it was a knife, then it would always be a knife.”

  “What did he use this time?”

  “A hammer.”

  “And the time before?”

  “A dagger.”

  “What makes you think it’s the same chap?”

  “First of all, the fact that there’ve been eight murders in quick succession. You don’t get eight new murderers cropping up in Paris all at once.” Belonging to the Police Judiciaire, Janvier had, of course, heard the subject discussed at length. “Besides, there’s a sort of family likeness between them all. The victims are invariably solitary people, people who live alone, without any family or friends.”

  Sommer looked at Lecœur, whom he could never forgive for not being a family man. Not only had he five children himself, but a sixth was already on the way. “You’d better look out, Lecœur—you see the kind of thing it leads to!”

  “Then, not one of the crimes has been committed in one of the wealthier districts.”

  “Yet he steals, doesn’t he?”

  “He does, but not much. The little hoards hidden under the mattress— that’s his mark. He doesn’t break in. In fact, apart from the murder and the money missing, he leaves no trace at all.”

  Another lamp burning. A stolen car found abandoned in a little side street near the Place des Ternes.

  “All the same, I can’t help laughing over the people who had to walk home.”

  Another hour or more and they would be relieved, except Lecœur, who had promised to do the first day shift as well so that his opposite number could join in a family Christmas party somewhere near Rouen.

  It was a thing he often did. so much so that he had come to be regarded as an ever-ready substitute for anybody who wanted a day off.

  “I say. Lecœur, do you think you could look out for me on Friday?”

  At first the request was proffered with a suitable excuse—a sick mother, a funeral, or a First Communion, and he was generally rewarded with a bottle of wine. But now it was taken for granted and treated quite casually.

  To tell the truth, had it been possible, Lecœur would have been only too glad to spend his whole life in that room, snatching a few hours’ sleep on a camp bed and picnicking as best he could with the aid of the little electric stove. It was a funny thing—although he was as careful as any of the others about his personal appearance, and much more so than Sommer, who always looked a bit tousled, there was something a bit drab about him which betrayed the bachelor.

  He wore strong glasses, which gave him big, globular eyes, and it came as a surprise to everyone when he took them off to wipe them with the bit of chamois leather he always carried about to see the transformation. Without them, his eyes were gentle, rather shy, and inclined to look away quickly when anyone looked his way.

  “Hallo! Javel?”

  Another lamp. One near the Quai de Javel in the 15th Arrondissement, a district full of factories.

  “Votre car est sorti?”

  “We don’t know yet what it is. Someone’s broken the glass of the alarm in the Rue Leblanc.”

  “Wasn’t there a message?”

  “No. We’ve sent our car to investigate. I’ll ring you again later.”

  Scattered here and there all over Paris are red-painted telephone pillars standing by the curb, and you have only to break the glass to be in direct telephone communication with the nearest police station. Had a passerby broken the glass accidentally? It looked like it, for a couple of minutes later Javel rang up again.

  “Hallo! Central? Our car’s just got back. Nobody about. The whole district seems quiet as the grave. All the same, we’ve sent out a patrol.”

  How was Lecœur to classify that one? Unwilling to admit defeat, he put a little cross in the column on the extreme right headed “Miscellaneous.”

  “Is there any coffee left?” he asked.

  “I’ll make some more.”

  The same lamp lit up again, barely ten minutes after the first call.

  “Javel? What’s it this time?”

  “Same again. Another glass broken.”

  “Nothing said?”

  “Not a word. Must be some practical joker. Thinks it funny to keep us on the hop. When we catch him he’ll find out whether it’s funny or not!”

  “Which one was it?”<
br />
  “The one on the Pont Mirabeau.”

  “Seems to walk pretty quickly, your practical joker!”

  There was indeed quite a good stretch between the two pillars.

  So far, nobody was taking it very seriously. False alarms were not uncommon. Some people took advantage of these handy instruments to express their feelings about the police. “Mort aux flics!” was the favorite phrase.

  With his feet on a radiator, Janvier was just dozing off when he heard Lecœur telephoning again. He half opened his eyes, saw which lamp was on, and muttered sleepily. “There he is again.”

  He was right. A glass broken at the top of the Avenue de Versailles.

  “Silly ass,” he grunted, settling down again.

  It wouldn’t be really light until half past seven or even eight. Sometimes they could hear a vague sound of church bells, but that was in another world. The wretched men of the flying squad waiting in the cars below must be half frozen.

  “Talking of boudin—”

  “What boudin?” murmured Janvier, whose cheeks were flushed with

  sleep.

  “The one my mother used to—”

  “Hallo! What? You’re not going to tell me someone’s smashed the glass of one of your telephone pillars? Really? It must be the same chap. We’ve already had two reported from the Fifteenth. Yes, they tried to nab him but couldn’t find a soul about. Gets about pretty fast, doesn’t he? He crossed the river by the Pont Mirabeau. Seems to be heading in this direction. Yes, you may as well have a try.”

  Another little cross. By half past seven, with only half an hour of the night watch to go, there were five crosses in the Miscellaneous column.

  Mad or sane, the person was a good walker. Perhaps the cold wind had something to do with it. It wasn’t the weather for sauntering along.

  For a time it had looked as though he was keeping to the right bank of the Seine, then he had sheered off into the wealthy Auteuil district, breaking a glass in the Rue la Fontaine.

  “He’s only five minutes’ walk from the Bois de Boulogne,” Lecœur had said. “If he once gets there, they’ll never pick him up.”

  But the fellow had turned round and made for the quays again, breaking a glass in the Rue Berton, just around the corner from the Quai de Passy.

  The first calls had come from the poorer quarters of Grenelle, but the man had only to cross the river to find himself in entirely different surroundings—quiet, spacious, and deserted streets, where his footfalls must have rung out clearly on the frosty pavements.

  Sixth call. Skirting the Place du Trocadéro, he was in the Rue de Long-champ.

  “The chap seems to think he’s on a paper chase,” remarked Mambret. “Only he uses broken glass instead of paper.”

  Other calls came in in quick succession. Another stolen car, a revolver-shot in the Rue de Flandres, whose victim swore he didn’t know who fired it, though he’d been seen all through the night drinking in company with another man.

  “Hallo! Here’s Javel again. Hallo! Javel? It can’t be your practical joker this time: he must be somewhere near the Champs Elysées by now. Oh. yes. He’s still at it. Well, what’s your trouble? What? Spell it, will you? Rue Michat. Yes, I’ve got it. Between the Rue Lecourbe and the Boulevard Felix Faure. By the viaduct—yes. I know. Number 17. Who reported it? The concierge? She’s just been up, I suppose. Oh, shut up, will you! No, I wasn’t speaking to you. It’s Sommer here, who can’t stop talking about a boudin he ate thirty years ago!”

  Sommer broke off and listened to the man on the switchboard.

  “What were you saying? A shabby seven-story block of flats. Yes—”

  There were plenty of buildings like that in the district, buildings that weren’t really old, but of such poor construction that they were already dilapidated. Buildings that as often as not thrust themselves up bleakly in the middle of a bit of wasteland, towering over the little shacks and hovels around them, their blind walls plastered with advertisements.

  “You say she heard someone running downstairs and then a door slam. The door of the house, I suppose. On which floor is the flat? The entresol. Which way does it face? Onto an inner courtyard— Just a moment, there’s a call coming in from the Eighth. That must be our friend of the telephone pillars.”

  Lecœur asked the new caller to wait, then came back to Javel.

  “An old woman, you say. Madame Fayet. Worked as charwoman. Dead? A blunt instrument. Is the doctor there? You’re sure she’s dead? What about her money? I suppose she had some tucked away somewhere. Right. Call me back. Or I’ll ring you.”

  He turned to the detective, who was now sleeping soundly.

  “Janvier! Hey, Janvier! This is for you.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “The killer.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the Rue Lecourbe. Here’s the address. This time he’s done in an old charwoman, a Madame Fayet.”

  Janvier put on his overcoat, looked round for his hat, and gulped down the remains of the coffee in his cup.

  “Who’s dealing with it?”

  “Gonesse, of the Fifteenth.”

  “Ring up the P. J., will you, and tell them I’ve gone there.”

  A minute or two later, Lecœur was able to add another little cross to the six that were already in the column. Someone had smashed the glass of the pillar in the Avenue d’Iéna only one hundred and fifty yards from the Arc de Triomphe.

  “Among the broken glass they found a handkerchief flecked with blood. It was a child’s handkerchief.”

  “Has it got initials?”

  “No. It’s a blue-check handkerchief, rather dirty. The chap must have wrapped it round his knuckles for breaking the glass.”

  There were steps in the corridor. The day shift coming to take over. They looked very clean and close-shaven and the cold wind had whipped the blood into their cheeks.

  “Happy Christmas!”

  Sommer closed the tin in which he brought his sandwiches. Mambret knocked out his pipe. Only Lecœur remained in his seat, since there was no relief for him.

  The fat Godin had been the first to arrive, promptly changing his jacket for the grey-linen coat in which he always worked, then putting some water on to boil for his grog. All through the winter he suffered from one never-ending cold which he combated, or perhaps nourished, by one hot grog after another.

  “Hallo! Yes, I’m still here. I’m doing a shift for Potier, who’s gone down to his family in Normandy. Yes. I want to hear all about it. Most particularly. Janvier’s gone, but I’ll pass it on to the P. J. An invalid, you say? What invalid?”

  One had to be patient on that job, as people always talked about their cases as though everyone else was in the picture.

  “A low building behind, right. Not in the Rue Michat, then? Rue Vasco de Gamma. Yes, yes. I know. The little house with a garden behind some railings. Only I didn’t know he was an invalid. Right. He doesn’t sleep much. Saw a young boy climbing up a drainpipe? How old? He couldn’t say? Of course not, in the dark. How did he know it was a boy, then? Listen, ring me up again, will you? Oh, you’re going off. Who’s relieving you? Jules? Right. Well, ask him to keep me informed.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Godin.

  “An old woman who’s been done in. Down by the Rue Lecourbe.”

  “Who did it?”

  “There’s an invalid opposite who says he saw a small boy climbing up a drainpipe and along the top of a wall.”

  “You mean to say it was a boy who killed the old woman?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  No one was very interested. After all. murders were an everyday matter to these people. The lights were still on in the room, as it was still only a bleak, dull daylight that found its way through the frosty window panes. One of the new watch went and scratched a bit of the frost away. It was instinctive. A childish memory perhaps, like Sommer’s boudin.

  The latter had gone home. So had Mambret. The newco
mers settled down to their work, turning over the papers on their desks.

  A car stolen from the Square la Bruyère.

  Lecœur looked pensively at his seven crosses. Then, with a sigh, he got up and stood gazing at the immense street plan on the wall.

  “Brushing up on your Paris?”

  “I think I know it pretty well already. Something’s just struck me. There’s a chap wandering about smashing the glass of telephone pillars. Seven in the last hour and a half. He hasn’t been going in a straight line but zigzagging— first this way, then that.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t know Paris.”

  “Or knows it only too well! Not once has he ventured within sight of a police station. If he’d gone straight, he’d have passed two or three. What’s more, he’s skirted all the main crossroads where there’d be likely to be a man on duty.” Lecœur pointed them out. “The only risk he took was in crossing the Pont Mirabeau, but if he wanted to cross the river he’d have run that risk at any of the bridges.”

  “I expect he’s drunk,” said Godin, sipping his rum.

  “What I want to know is why he’s stopped.”

  “Perhaps he’s got home.”

  “A man who’s down by the Quai de Javel at half past six in the morning isn’t likely to live near the Etoile.”

  “Seems to interest you a lot.”

  “It’s got me scared!”

  “Go on.”

  It was strange to see the worried expression on Lecœur’s face. He was notorious for his calmness and his most dramatic nights were coolly summarized by the little crosses in his notebook.

  “Hallo! Javel? Is that Jules? Lecœur speaking. Look here, Jules, behind the flats in the Rue Michat is the little house where the invalid lives. Well, now, on one side of it is an apartment house, a red-brick building with a grocer’s shop on the ground floor. You know it?

  “Good. Has anything happened there? Nothing reported. No, we’ve heard nothing here. All the same, I can’t explain why, but I think you ought to inquire.”

  He was hot all at once. He stubbed out a half finished cigarette.

  “Hallo! Ternes? Any alarms gone off in your neighborhood? Nothing? Only drunks? Is the patrouille cycliste out? Just leaving? Ask them to keep their eyes open for a young boy looking tired and very likely bleeding from the right hand. Lost? Not exactly that. I can’t explain now.”