Murder Most Merry

by ed. Abigail Browining

  His eyes went back to the street plan on the wall, in which no light went on for a good ten minutes, and then only for an accidental death in the Eighteenth Arrondissement, right up at the top of Montmartre, caused by an escape of gas.

  Outside, in the cold streets of Paris, dark figures were hurrying home from the churches...

  One of the sharpest impressions Andre Lecœur retained of his infancy was one of immobility. His world at that period was a large kitchen in Orleans, on the outskirts of the town. He must have spent his winters there, too, but he remembered it best flooded with sunlight, with the door wide open onto a little garden where hens clucked incessantly and rabbits nibbled lettuce leaves behind the wire netting of their hutches. But, if the door was open, its passage was barred to him by a little gate which his father had made one Sunday for that express purpose.

  On weekdays, at half past eight, his father went off on his bicycle to the gas works at the other end of the town. His mother did the housework, doing the same things in the same order every day. Before making the beds, she put the bedclothes over the windowsill for an hour to air.

  At ten o’clock, a little bell would ring in the street. That was the greengrocer, with his barrow, passing on his daily round. Twice a week at eleven, a bearded doctor came to see his little brother, who was constantly ill. Andre hardly ever saw the latter, as he wasn’t allowed into his room.

  That was all, or so it seemed in retrospect. He had just time to play a bit and drink his milk, and there was his father home again for the midday meal.

  If nothing had happened at home, lots had happened to him. He had been to read the meters in any number of houses and chatted with all sorts of people, about whom he would talk during dinner.

  As for the afternoon, it slipped away quicker still, perhaps because he was made to sleep during the first part of it.

  For his mother, apparently, the time passed just as quickly. Often had he heard her say with a sigh: “There, I’ve no sooner washed up after one meal than it’s time to start making another!”

  Perhaps it wasn’t so very different now. Here in the Préfecture de Police the nights seemed long enough at the time, but at the end they seemed to have slipped by in no time, with nothing to show for them except for these columns of the little crosses in his notebook.

  A few more lamps lit up. A few more incidents reported, including a collision between a car and a bus in the Rue de Clignancourt, and then once again it was Javel on the line.

  It wasn’t Jules, however, but Gonesse, the detective who’d been to the scene of the crime. While there he had received Lecœur’s message suggesting something might have happened in the other house in the Rue Vasco de Gama. He had been to see.

  “Is that you, Lecœur?” There was a queer note in his voice. Either irritation or suspicion.

  Look here, what made you think of that house? Do you know the old woman. Madame Fayet?”

  “I’ve never seen her, but I know all about her.”

  What had finally come to pass that Christmas morning was something that Andre Lecœur had foreseen and perhaps dreaded for more than ten years. Again and again, as he stared at the huge plan of Paris, with its little lamps, he had said to himself, “It’s only a question of time. Sooner or later, it’ll be something that’s happened to someone I know.”

  There’d been many a near miss, an accident in his own street or a crime in a house nearby. But, like thunder, it had approached only to recede once again into the distance.

  This time it was a direct hit.

  “Have you seen the concierge?” he asked. He could imagine the puzzled look on the detective’s face as he went on: Is the boy at home?”

  And Gonesse muttered, “Oh? So you know him, too?”

  “He’s my nephew. Weren’t you told his name was Lecœur?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Never mind about that. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “The boy’s not there.”

  “What about his father?”

  “He got home just after seven.”

  “As usual. He does night work, too.”

  “The concierge heard him go up to his flat—on the third floor at the back of the house.”

  “I know it.”

  “He came running down a minute or two later in a great state. To use her expression, he seemed out of his wits.”

  “The boy had disappeared?”

  “Yes. His father wanted to know if she’d seen him leave the house. She hadn’t. Then he asked if a telegram had been delivered.”

  “Was there a telegram?”

  “No. Can you make head or tail of it? Since you’re one of the family, you might be able to help us. Could you get someone to relieve you and come round here?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. Where’s Janvier?”

  “In the old woman’s room. The men of the Identité Judiciaire have already got to work. The first thing they found were some child’s fingerprints on the handle of the door. Come on—jump into a taxi and come round.”

  “No. In any case, there’s no one to take my place.”

  That was true enough up to a point. All the same, if he’d really got to work on the telephone he’d have found someone all right. The truth was he didn’t want to go and didn’t think it would do any good if he did.

  “Listen, Gonesse, I’ve got to find that boy, and I can do it better from here than anywhere. You understand, don’t you? Tell Janvier I’m staying here. And tell him old Madame Fayet had plenty of money, probably hidden away somewhere in the room.”

  A little feverish, Lecœur stuck his plug into one socket after another, calling up the various police stations of the Eighth Arrondissement.

  “Keep a lookout for a boy of ten, rather poorly dressed. Keep all telephone pillars under observation.”

  His two fellow-watchkeepers looked at him with curiosity.

  “Do you think it was the boy who did the job?”

  Lecœur didn’t bother to answer. The next moment he was through to the teleprinter room, where they also dealt with radio messages.

  “Justin? Oh, you’re on, are you? Here’s something special. Will you send out a call to all cars on patrol anywhere near the Etoile to keep a lookout for—”

  Once again the description of the boy, Francois Lecœur.

  “No. I’ve no idea in which direction he’ll be making. All I can tell you is that he seems to keep well clear of police stations, and as far as possible from any place where there’s likely to be anyone on traffic duty.”

  He knew his brother’s flat in the Rue Vasco de Gama. Two rather dark rooms and a tiny kitchen. The boy slept there alone while his father was at work. From the windows you could see the back of the house in the Rue Michat, across a courtyard generally hung with washing. On some of the windowsills were pots of geraniums, and through the windows, many of which were uncurtained, you could catch glimpses of a miscellaneous assortment of humanity.

  As a matter of fact, there, too, the windowpanes ought to be covered with frost. He stored that idea up in a corner of his mind. It might be important.

  “You think it’s a boy who’s been smashing the alarm glasses?”

  “It was a child’s handkerchief they found,” said Lecœur curtly. He didn’t want to be drawn into a discussion. He sat mutely at the switchboard, wondering what to do next.

  In the Rue Michat, things seemed to be moving fast. The next time he got through it was to learn that a doctor was there as well as an examining magistrate who had most likely been dragged from his bed.

  What help could Lecœur have given them? But if he wasn’t there, he could see the place almost as clearly as those that were, the dismal houses and the grimy viaduct of the Metro which cut right across the landscape.

  Nothing but poor people in that neighborhood. The younger generation’s one hope was to escape from it. The middle-aged already doubted whether they ever would, while the old ones had already accepted their fate and tried to make the best of i
t.

  He rang Javel once again.

  “Is Gonesse still there?”

  “He’s writing up his report. Shall I call him?”

  “Yes, please. Hallo, Gonesse, Lecœur speaking. Sorry to bother you, but did you go up to my brother’s flat? Had the boy’s bed been slept in? It had? Good. That makes it look a bit better. Another thing: were there any parcels there? Yes, parcels, Christmas presents. What? A small square radio. Hadn’t been unpacked. Naturally. Anything else? A chicken, a boudin, a Saint-Honoré. I suppose Janvier’s not with you? Still on the spot. Right. Has he rung-up the P. J. ? Good.”

  He was surprised to see it was already half past nine. It was no use now expecting anything from the neighborhood of the Etoile. If the boy had gone on walking as he had been earlier, he could be pretty well anywhere by this time.

  “Hallo! Police Judiciaire? Is Inspector Saillard there?”

  He was another whom the murder had dragged from his fireside. How many people were there whose Christmas was going to be spoiled by it?

  “Excuse my troubling you, Monsieur le Commissaire. It’s about that young boy, Francois Lecœur.”

  “Do you know anything? Is he a relation of yours?”

  “He’s my brother’s son. And it looks as if he may well be the person who’s been smashing the glasses of the telephone pillars. Seven of them. I don’t know whether they’ve had time to tell you about that. What I wanted to ask was whether I might put out a general call?”

  “Could you nip over to see me?”

  “There’s no one here to take my place.”

  “Right. I’ll come over myself. Meanwhile you can send out the call.”

  Lecœur kept calm, though his hand shook slightly as he plugged in once again to the room above.

  “Justin? Lecœur again. Appel General. Yes. It’s the same boy. Francois Lecœur. Ten and a half, rather tall for his age, thin. I don’t know what he’s wearing, probably a khaki jumper made from American battle-dress. No, no cap. He’s always bare-headed, with plenty of hair flopping over his forehead. Perhaps it would be as well to send out a description of his father, too. That’s not so easy. You know me, don’t you? Well, Olivier Lecœur is rather like a paler version of me. He has a timid look about him and physically he’s not robust. The sort that’s never in the middle of the pavement but always dodging out of other people’s way. He walks a bit queerly, owing to a wound he got in the first war. No, I haven’t the least idea where they might be going, only I don’t think they’re together. To my mind, the boy is probably in danger. I can’t explain why—it would take too long. Get the descriptions out as quickly as possible, will you? And let me know if there’s any response.”

  By the time Lecœur had finished telephoning, Inspector Saillard was there, having only had to come round the corner from the Quai des Orfèvres. He was an imposing figure of a man, particularly in his bulky overcoat. With a comprehensive wave of the hand, he greeted the three men on watch, then, seizing a chair as though it were a wisp of straw, he swung it round towards him and sat down heavily. “The boy?” he inquired, looking keenly at Lecœur.

  “I can’t understand why he’s stopped calling us up.”

  “Calling us up?”

  “Attracting our attention, anyway.”

  “But why should he attract our attention and then not say anything?”

  “Supposing he was followed. Or was following someone.”

  “I see what you mean. Look here, Lecœur, is your brother in financial straits?”

  “He’s a poor man, yes.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He lost his job three months ago.”

  “What job?”

  “He was linotype operator at La Presse in the Rue du Croissant. He was on the night shift. He always did night work. Runs in the family.”

  “How did he come to lose his job?”

  “I suppose he fell out with somebody.”

  “Is that a failing of his?”

  They were interrupted by an incoming call from the Eighteenth to say that a boy selling branches of holly had been picked up in the Rue Lepic. It turned out, however, to be a little Pole who couldn’t speak any French.

  “You were asking if my brother was in the habit of quarreling with people. I hardly know what to answer. He was never strong. Pretty well all his childhood he was ill on and off. He hardly ever went to school. But he read a great deal alone in his room.”

  “Is he married?”

  “His wife died two years after they were married, leaving him with a baby ten months old.”

  “Did he bring it up himself?”

  “Entirely. I can see him now bathing the little chap, changing his diapers, and warming the milk for his bottle.”

  “That doesn’t explain why he quarrels with people.”

  Admittedly. But it was difficult to put it into words.

  “Soured?”

  “Not exactly. The thing is—”

  “What?”

  “That he’s never lived like other people. Perhaps Olivier isn’t really very intelligent. Perhaps, from reading so much, he knows too much about some things and too little about others.”

  “Do you think him capable of killing the old woman?”

  The Inspector puffed at his pipe. They could hear the people in the room above walking about. The two other men fiddled with their papers, pretending not to listen.

  “She was his mother-in-law,” sighed Lecœur. “You’d have found it out anyhow, sooner or later.”

  “They didn’t hit it off?”

  “She hated him.”

  “Why?”

  “She considered him responsible for her daughter’s death. It seems she could have been saved if the operation had been done in time. It wasn’t my brother’s fault. The people at the hospital refused to take her in. Some silly question of her papers not being in order. All the same, Madame Fayet held to it that Olivier was to blame.”

  “Did they see each other?”

  “Not unless they passed each other in the street, and then they never spoke.”

  “Did the boy know?”

  “That she was his grandmother? I don’t think so.”

  “You think his father never told him?”

  * * *

  Never for more than a second or two did Lecœur’s eyes leave the plan of Paris, but, besides being Christmas, it was the quiet time of the day, and the little lamps lit up rarely. Two or three street accidents, a lady’s handbag snatched in the Métro, a suitcase pinched at the Gare de l’Est.

  No sign of the boy. It was surprising considering how few people were about. In the poor quarters a few little children played on the pavements with their new toys, but on the whole the day was lived indoors. Nearly all the shops were shuttered and the cafes and the little bars were almost empty.

  For a moment, the town came to life a bit when the church bells started pealing and families in their Sunday best hurried to High Mass. But soon the streets were quiet again, though haunted here and there by the vague rumble of an organ or a sudden gust of singing.

  The thought of churches gave Lecœur an idea. Might not the boy have tucked himself away in one of them? Would the police think of looking there? He spoke to Inspector Saillard about it and then got through to Justin for the third time.

  “The churches. Ask them to have a look at the congregations. They’ll be doing the stations, of course—that’s most important.”

  He took off his glasses for a moment, showing eyelids that were red, probably from lack of sleep.

  “Hallo! Yes. The Inspector’s here. Hold on.”

  He held the receiver to Saillard. “It’s Janvier.”

  The bitter wind was still driving through the streets. The light was harsh and bleak, though here and there among the closely packed clouds was a yellowy streak which could be taken as a faint promise of sunshine to come.

  When the Inspector put down the receiver, he muttered, “Dr. Paul says the crime was committed between fiv
e and half past six this morning. The old woman wasn’t killed by the first blow. Apparently she was in bed when she heard a noise and got up and faced the intruder. Indeed, it looks as though she tried to defend herself with the only weapon that came to hand—a shoe.”

  “Have they found the weapon she was killed with?”

  “No. It might have been a hammer. More likely a bit of lead piping or something of that sort.”

  “Have they found her money?”

  “Only her purse, with some small change in it and her identity card. Tell me, Lecœur, did you know she was a money-lender?”

  “Yes. I knew.”

  “And didn’t you tell me your brother’s been out of work for three months?”

  “He has.”

  “The concierge didn’t know.”

  “Neither did the boy. It was for his sake he kept it dark.”

  The Inspector crossed and uncrossed his legs. He was uncomfortable. He glanced at the other two men who couldn’t help hearing everything, then turned with a puzzled look to stare at Lecœur.

  “Do you realize what all this is pointing to?”

  “I do.”

  “You’ve thought of it yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Because he’s your brother?”

  “No.”

  “How long is it that this killer’s been at work? Nine weeks, isn’t it?”

  Without haste, Lecœur studied the columns of his notebook.

  “Yes. Just over nine weeks. The first was on the twentieth of October, in the Epinettes district.”

  “You say your brother didn’t tell his son he was out of a job. Do you mean to say he went on leaving home in the evening just as though he was going to work?”

  “Yes. He couldn’t face the idea of telling him. You see—it’s difficult to explain. He was completely wrapped up in the boy. He was all he had to live for. He cooked and scrubbed for him, tucked him up in bed before going off, and woke him up in the morning.”

  “That doesn’t explain why he couldn’t tell him.”