Murder Most Merry

by ed. Abigail Browining

  Admittedly, any street boy could have pinched a couple of oranges and taken to his heels. The same couldn’t be said for the broken glass of the telephone pillars, however. Andre Lecœur looked once again at the column with the seven crosses, as though some clue might suddenly emerge from them. He had never thought himself much cleverer than his brother. Where he scored was in patience and perseverance.

  “If the box of sandwiches is ever found, it’ll be at the bottom of the Seine near the Pont Mirabeau,” he said.

  Steps in the corridor. On an ordinary day they would not have been noticed, but in the stillness of a Christmas morning everyone listened.

  It was an agent cycliste, who produced a bloodstained blue-check handkerchief, the one that had been found among the glass splinters at the seventh telephone pillar.

  “That’s his, all right,” said the boy’s father.

  “He must have been followed,” said the Inspector. “If he’d had time, he wouldn’t merely have broken the glass. He’d have said something.”

  “Who by?” asked Olivier, who was the only one not to understand. “Who’d want to follow him?” he asked. “And why should he call the police?”

  They hesitated to put him wise. In the end it was his brother who explained:

  “When he went to the old woman’s he thought you were the murderer. When he came away, he knew you weren’t. He knew—”

  “Knew what?”

  “He knew who was. Do you understand now? He found out something, though we don’t know what. He wants to tell us about it, but someone’s stopping him.”

  “You mean?”

  “I mean that Francois is after the murderer or the murderer is after him. One is following, one is followed—we don’t know which. By the way, Inspector, is there a reward offered?”

  “A handsome reward was offered after the third murder and it was doubled last week. It’s been in all the papers.”

  “Then my guess,” said Andre Lecœur. “is that it’s the kid who’s doing the following. Only in that case—”

  It was twelve o’clock, four hours since they’d lost track of him. Unless, of course, it was he who had snaffled the oranges in the Rue Maubeuge.

  Might not this be his great moment? Andre Lecœur had read somewhere that even to the dullest and most uneventful lives such a moment comes sooner or later.

  He had never had a particularly high opinion of himself or of his abilities. When people asked him why he’d chosen so dreary and monotonous a job rather than one in, say, the Brigade des Homicides, he would answer: “I suppose I’m lazy.”

  Sometimes he would add:

  “I’m scared of being knocked about.”

  As a matter of fact, he was neither lazy nor a coward. If he lacked anything it was brains.

  He knew it. All he had learned at school had cost him a great effort. The police exams that others took so easily in their stride, he had only passed by dint of perseverance.

  Was it a consciousness of his own shortcomings that had kept him single? Possibly. It seemed to him that the sort of woman he would want to marry would be his superior, and he didn’t relish the idea of playing second fiddle in the home.

  But he wasn’t thinking of all this now. Indeed, if this was his moment of greatness, it was stealing upon him unawares.

  Another team arrived, those of the second day shift looking very fresh and well groomed in their Sunday clothes. They had been celebrating Christmas with their families, and they brought in with them, as it were, a whiff of good viands and liqueurs.

  Old Bedeau had taken his place at the switchboard, but Lecœur made no move to go.

  “I’ll stay on a bit.” he said simply.

  Inspector Saillard had gone for a quick lunch at the Brasserie Dauphine just around the corner, leaving strict injunctions that he was to be fetched at once if anything happened. Janvier was back at the Quai des Orfèvres, writing up his report.

  If Lecœur was tired, he didn’t notice it. He certainly wasn’t sleepy and couldn’t bear the thought of going home to bed. He had plenty of stamina. Once, when there were riots in the Place de la Concorde, he had done thirty-six hours nonstop, and on another occasion, during a general strike, they had all camped in the room for four days and nights.

  His brother showed the strain more. He was getting jumpy again.

  “I’m going,” he announced suddenly.

  “Where to?”

  “To find Bib.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I’ll start round the Gare du Nord.”

  “How do you know it was Bib who stole the oranges? He may be at the other end of Paris. We might get news at any minute. You’d better stay.”

  “I can’t stand this waiting.”

  He was nevertheless persuaded to. He was given a chair in a corner. He refused to lie down. His eyes were red with anxiety and fatigue. He sat fidgeting, looking rather as, when a boy, he had been put in the corner.

  With more self-control, Andre forced himself to take some rest. Next to the big room was a little one with a wash-basin, where they hung their coats and which was provided with a couple of camp beds on which the nuiteux could lie down during a quiet hour.

  He shut his eyes, but only for a moment. Then his hand felt for the little notebook with never left him, and lying on his back he began to turn over the pages.

  There were nothing but crosses, columns and columns of tiny little crosses which, month after month, year after year, he had accumulated, Heaven knows why. Just to satisfy something inside him. After all, other people keep a diary—or the most meticulous household accounts, even when they don’t need to economize at all.

  Those crosses told the story of the night life of Paris.

  “Some coffee, Lecœur?”

  “Thanks.”

  Feeling rather out of touch where he was. he dragged his camp bed into the big room, placing it in a position from which he could see the wall-plan. There he sipped his coffee, after which he stretched himself out again, sometimes studying his notebook, sometimes lying with his eyes shut. Now and again he stole a glance at his brother, who sat hunched in his chair with drooping shoulders, the twitching of his long white fingers being the only sign of the torture he was enduring.

  There were hundreds of men now, not only in Paris but in the suburbs, keeping their eyes skinned for the boy whose description had been circulated. Sometimes false hopes were raised, only to be dashed when the exact particulars were given.

  Lecœur shut his eyes again, but opened them suddenly next moment, as though he had actually dozed off. He glanced at the clock, then looked round for the Inspector.

  “Hasn’t Saillard got back yet?” he asked, getting to his feet.

  “I expect he’s looked in at the Quai des Orfèvres.”

  Olivier stared at his brother, surprised to see him pacing up and down the room. The latter was so absorbed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed that the sun had broken through the clouds, bathing Paris on that Christmas afternoon in a glow of light more like that of spring.

  While thinking, he listened, and it wasn’t long before he heard Inspector Saillard’s heavy tread outside.

  “You’d better go and get some sandwiches,” he said to his brother. “Get some for me, too.”

  “What kind?”

  “Ham. Anything. Whatever you find.”

  Olivier went out, after a parting glance at the map, relieved, in spite of his anxiety, to be doing something.

  The men of the afternoon shift knew little of what was afoot, except that the killer had done another job the previous night and that there was a general hunt for a small boy. For them, the case couldn’t have the flavor it had for those who were involved. At the switchboard. Bedeau was doing a crossword with his earphones on his head, breaking off from time to time for the classic: “Hallo! Austerlitz. Your car’s out.”

  A body fished out of the Seine. You couldn’t have a Christmas without

  that!


  “Could I have a word with you, Inspector?”

  The camp bed was back in the cloakroom. It was there that Lecœur led the chief of the homicide squad.

  “I hope you won’t mind my butting in. I know it isn’t for me to make suggestions. But, about the killer—”

  He had his little notebook in his hand. He must have known its contents almost by heart.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since this morning and—” A little while ago, while he was lying down, it had seemed so clear, but now that he had to explain things, it was difficult to put them in logical order.

  “It’s like this. First of all, I noticed that all the murders were committed after two in the morning, most of them after three.”

  He could see by the look on the Inspector’s face that he hadn’t exactly scored a hit, and he hurried on:

  “I’ve been looking up the time of other murders over the past three years. They were nearly always between ten in the evening and two in the morning.”

  Neither did that observation seem to make much impression. Why not take the bull by the horns and say straight out what was on his mind?

  ‘Just now. looking at my brother, it occurred to me that the man you’re looking for might be a man like him. As a matter of fact, I, too, for a moment wondered whether it wasn’t him. Wait a moment—”

  That was better. The look of polite boredom had gone from Saillard’s

  face.

  “If I’d had more experience in this sort of work I’d be able to explain myself better. But you’ll see in a moment. A man who’s killed eight people one after the other is, if not a madman, at any rate a man who’s been thrown off his balance. He might have had a sudden shock. Take my brother, for instance. When he lost his job it upset him so much that he preferred to live in a tissue of lies rather than let his son—”

  No. Put into words, it all sounded very clumsy. “When a man suddenly loses everything he has in life—” “He doesn’t necessarily go mad.”

  “I’m not saying he’s actually mad. But imagine a person so full of resentment that he considers himself justified in revenging himself on his fellow-men. I don’t need to point out to you, Inspector, that other murderers always kill in much the same way. This one has used a hammer, a knife, a spanner, and one woman he strangled. And he’s never been seen, never left a clue. Wherever he lives in Paris, he must have walked miles and miles at night when there was no transport available, sometimes, when the alarm had been given, with the police on the lookout, questioning everybody they found in the streets. How is it he avoided them?”

  He was certain he was on the right track. If only Saillard would hear him

  out.

  The Inspector sat on one of the camp beds. The cloakroom was small, and as Lecœur paced up and down in front of him he could do no more than three paces each way.

  “This morning, for instance, assuming he was with the boy, he went halfway across Paris, keeping out of sight of every police station and every traffic point where there’d be a man on duty.”

  “You mean he knows the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Arrondissements by heart?”

  “And not those only. At least two there, the Twelfth and the Twentieth, as he showed on previous occasions. He didn’t choose his victims haphazardly. He knew they lived alone and could be done in without any great risk.”

  What a nuisance! There was his brother, saying: “Here are the sandwiches, Andre.”

  “Thanks. Go ahead, will you? Don’t wait for me. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  He bundled Olivier back into his corner and returned to the cloakroom. He didn’t want him to hear.

  “If he’s used a different weapon each time, it’s because he knows it will puzzle us. He knows that murderers generally have their own way and stick to it.”

  The Inspector had risen to his feet and was staring at Andre with a faraway look, as though he was following a train of thought of his own.

  “You mean that he’s—”

  “That he’s one of us—or has been. I can’t get the idea out of my head.”

  He lowered his voice.

  “Someone who’s been up against it in the same sort of way as my brother. A discharged fireman might take to arson. It’s happened two or three times. A policeman—”

  “But why should he steal?”

  “Wasn’t my brother in need of money? This other chap may be like him in more ways than one. Supposing he. too. was a night worker and goes on pretending he’s still in a job. That would explain why the crimes are committed so late. He has to be out all night. The first part of it is easy enough—the cafes and bars are open. Afterward, he’s all alone with himself.”

  As though to himself, Saillard muttered: “There wouldn’t be anybody in the personnel department on a day like this.”

  “Perhaps you could ring up the director at his home. He might remember...”

  “Hallo! Can I speak to Monsieur Guillaume, please? He’s not in? Where could I reach him? At his daughter’s in Ateuil? Have you got the number?”

  “Hallo! Monsieur Guillaume? Saillard speaking. I hope I’m not disturbing you too much. Oh, you’d finished, had you? Good. It’s about the killer. Yes. there’s been another one. No. Nothing definite. Only we have an idea that needs checking, and it’s urgent. Don’t be too surprised at my question.

  “Has any member of the Paris police been sacked recently—say two or three months ago? I beg your pardon? Not a single one this year? I see.”

  Lecœur felt a sudden constriction around his heart, as though overwhelmed by a catastrophe, and threw a pathetic, despairing look at the wall-map. He had already given up and was surprised to hear his chief go on:

  “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t need to be as recent as all that. It would be someone who had worked in various parts of Paris, including the Fifteenth and Sixteenth. Probably also the Twelfth and Twentieth. Seems to have done a good deal of night work. Also to have been embittered by his dismissal. What?”

  The way Saillard pronounced that last word gave Lecœur renewed hope.

  “Sergeant Loubet? Yes, I remember the name, though I never actually came across him. Three years ago! You wouldn’t know where he lived, I suppose? Somewhere near Les Halles?”

  Three years ago. No, it wouldn’t do. and Lecœur’s heart sank again. You could hardly expect a man to bottle up his resentments for three years and then suddenly start hitting back.

  “Have you any idea what became of him? No, of course not. And it’s not a good day for finding out.”

  He hung up and looked thoughtfully at Lecœur. When he spoke, it was as though he was addressing an equal.

  “Did you hear? Sergeant Loubet. He was constantly getting into trouble and was shifted three or four times before being finally dismissed. Drink. That was his trouble. He took his dismissal very hard. Guillaume can’t say for certain what has become of him, but he thinks he joined a private detective agency. If you’d like to have a try—”

  Lecœur set to work. He had little hope of succeeding, but it was better to do something than sit watching for the little lamps in the street-plan. He began with the agencies of the most doubtful reputation, refusing to believe that a person such as Loubet would readily find a job with a reputable firm. Most of the offices were shut, and he had to ring up their proprietors at home.

  “Don’t know him. You’d better try Tisserand in the Boulevard Saint-Martin. He’s the one who takes all the riffraff.”

  But Tisserand, a firm that specialized in shadowings, was no good, either.

  “Don’t speak to me of that good-for-nothing. It’s a good two months or more since I chucked him out, in spite of his threatening to blackmail me. If he ever shows up at my office again, I’ll throw him down the stairs.”

  “What sort of job did he have?”

  “Night work. Watching blocks of flats.”

  “Did he drink much?”

  “He wasn’t often sober. I don’t know how he managed it, but he
always knew where to get free drinks. Blackmail again, I suppose.”

  “Can you give me his address?”

  “Twenty-seven bis. Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule.”

  “Does he have a telephone?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never had the slightest desire to ring him up. Is that all? Can I go back to my game of bridge?”

  The Inspector had already snatched up the telephone directory and was looking for Loubet’s number. He rang up himself. There was now a tacit understanding between him and Lecœur. They shared the same hope, the same trembling eagerness, while Olivier, realizing that something important was going on, came and stood near them.

  Without being invited, Andre did something he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that morning. He picked up the second earphone to listen in. The bell rang in the flat in the Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. It rang for a long time, as though the place was deserted, and his anxiety was becoming acute when at last it stopped and a voice answered.

  Thank Heaven! It was a woman’s voice, an elderly one. “Is that you at last? Where are you?”

  “Hallo! This isn’t your husband here. Madame.”

  “Has he met with an accident?”

  From the hopefulness of her tone, it sounded as though she had long been expecting one and wouldn’t be sorry when it happened.

  “It is Madame Loubet I’m speaking to, isn’t it?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “Your husband’s not at home?”

  “First of all, who are you?”

  “Inspector Saillard.”

  “ What do you want him for?”

  The Inspector put his hand over the mouthpiece to say to Lecœur: “Get through to Janvier. Tell him to dash round there as quick as he can.”

  “Didn’t your husband come home this morning?”

  “You ought to know! I thought the police knew everything!”

  “Does it often happen?”

  “That’s his business, isn’t it?”

  No doubt she hated her drunkard of a husband, but now that he was threatened she was ready to stand up for him.

  “I suppose you know he no longer belongs to the police force.”

  “Perhaps he found a cleaner job.”

  “When did he stop working for the Agence Argus?”