Thomas Godfrey (Ed)

by Murder for Christmas

The blonde seemed to hesitate, ready to turn back. Her slim little companion was insistent and Maigret had the impression that she was pointing up toward his window. The appearance of the concierge in the doorway behind them seemed to tip the scales in favor of the little brunette. The blonde looked back apprehensively, then crossed the street.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing... two women....”

  “What are they doing?”

  “I think they’re coming here.”

  The two women had stopped in the middle of the street and were looking up in the direction of the Maigret apartment.

  “I hope they’re not coming here to bother you on Christmas Day. My housework’s not even done.” Nobody would have guessed it. There wasn’t a speck of dust on any of the polished furniture. “Are you sure they’re coming here?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  To be on the safe side, he went to comb his hair, brush his teeth, and splash a little water on his face. He was still in his room, relighting his pipe, when he heard the doorbell. Mme. Maigret was evidently putting up a strong hedgehog defense, for it was some time before she came for him.

  “They insist on speaking to you,” she whispered. “They claim it’s very important and they need advice. I know one of them.”

  “Which one?”

  “The skinny little one, Mlle. Doncoeur. She lives across the street on the same floor as ours. She’s a very nice person and she does embroidery for a firm in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. I sometimes wonder if she isn’t in love with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she works near the window, and when you leave the house in the morning she sometimes gets up to watch you go down the street.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Forty-five to fifty. Aren’t you getting dressed?”

  Doesn’t a man have the right to lounge in his dressing gown, even if people come to bother him at 8:30 on Christmas morning? Well, he’d compromise. He’d put his trousers on underneath the robe.

  The two women were standing when he walked into the dining room.

  “Excuse me, mesdames...”

  Perhaps Mme. Maigret was right. Mlle. Doncoeur did not blush; she paled, smiled, lost her smile, smiled again. She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing.

  The blonde, on the other hand, was perfectly composed. She said with a touch of humor: “Coming here wasn’t my idea.”

  “Would you sit down, please?”

  Maigret noticed that the blonde was wearing a house dress under her coat and that her legs were bare. Mlle. Doncoeur was dressed as though for church.

  “You perhaps wonder at our boldness in coming to you like this,” Mlle. Doncoeur said finally, choosing her words carefully. “Like everyone in the neighborhood, we are honored to have such a distinguished neighbor....” She paused, blushed, and stared at the tray. “We’re keeping you from your breakfast.”

  “I’ve finished. I’m at your service.”

  “Something happened in our building last night, or rather this morning, which was so unusual that I felt it was our duty to speak to you about it immediately. Madame Martin did not want to disturb you, but I told her—”

  “You also live across the street, Madame Martin?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.” Madame Martin was obviously unhappy at being forced to take this step. Mlle. Doncoeur, however, was now fully wound up.

  “We live on the same floor, just across from your windows.” She blushed again, as if she were making a confession. “Monsieur Martin is often out of town, which is natural enough since he is a traveling salesman. For the past two months their little girl has been in bed, as a result of a silly accident....”

  Maigret turned politely to the blonde. “You have a daughter?”

  “Well, not a daughter exactly. She’s our niece. Her mother died two years ago and she’s been living with us ever since. The girl broke her leg on the stairs. She should have been up and about after six weeks, but there were complications.”

  “Your husband is on the road at present?”

  “He should be in Bergerac.”

  “I’m listening, Mlle. Doncoeur.”

  Mme. Maigret had detoured through the bathroom to regain the kitchen. The clatter of pots and pans had resumed. Maigret stared through the window at the leaden sky.

  “I got up early this morning as usual,” said Mlle. Doncoeur, “to go to first mass.”

  “And you did go to church?”

  “Yes. I stayed for three masses. I got home about 7:30 and prepared my breakfast. You may have seen the light in my window.

  Maigret’s gesture indicated he had not been watching.

  “I was in a hurry to take a few goodies to Colette. It’s very sad for a child to spend Christmas in bed. Colette is Madame Martin’s niece.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seven. Isn’t that right, Madame Martin?”

  “She’ll be seven in January.”

  “So at 8 o’clock I knocked at the door of their apartment—”

  “I wasn’t up,” the blonde interrupted. “I sometimes sleep rather late.”

  “As I was saying, I knocked. Madame Martin kept me waiting for a moment while she slipped on her négligée. I had my arms full, and I asked if I could take my presents in to Colette.”

  Maigret noted that the blonde was making a mental inventory of the apartment, stopping occasionally to dart a sharp, suspicious glance in his direction.

  “We opened the door to her room together....”

  “The child has a room of her own?”

  “Yes. There are two bedrooms in the apartment, a dressing room, a kitchen, and a dining room. But I must tell you—No, I’m getting ahead of myself. We had just opened the door and since the room was dark, Madame Martin had switched on the light...”

  “Colette was awake?”

  “Yes. It was easy to see she’d been awake for some time, waiting. You know how children are on Christmas morning. If she could use her legs, she would certainly have got up long since to see what Father Christmas had brought her. Perhaps another child would have called out. But Colette is already a little lady. She’s much older than her age. She thinks a lot.”

  Now Madame Martin was looking out the window. Maigret tried to guess which apartment was hers. It must be the last one to the right, the one with the two lighted windows.

  “I wished her a Merry Christmas,” Mlle. Doncoeur continued. “I said to her, and these were my exact words, ‘Darling, look what Father Christmas left in my apartment for you.’”

  Madame Martin was clasping and unclasping her fingers.

  “And do you know what she answered me, without even looking to see what I’d brought? They were only trifles, anyhow. She said, ‘I saw him.’

  ‘Whom did you see?’

  ‘Father Christmas.’

  ‘When did you see him?’ I asked. ‘Where?’

  ‘Right here, last night. He came to my room.’”

  “That’s exactly what she said, isn’t it, Madame Martin? With any other child, we would have smiled. But as I told you, Colette is already a little lady. She doesn’t joke. I said, ‘How could you see him, since it was dark?’

  ‘He had a light.’

  ‘You mean he turned on the electricity?’

  ‘No. He had a flashlight. Look, Mama Loraine.’”

  “I must tell you that the little girl calls Madame Martin ‘Mama,’ which is natural enough, since her own mother is dead and Madame Martin has been taking her place.”

  The monologue had become a confused buzzing in Maigret’s ears. He had not drunk his second cup of coffee and his pipe had gone out. He asked without conviction: “Did she really see someone?”

  “Yes, Monsieur l’lnspecteur. And that’s why I insisted that Madame Martin come to speak to you. Colette did see someone and she proved it to us. With a sly little smile she threw back the bedsheet and showed us a magnificent doll... a beautiful big doll she was cuddling an
d which I swear was not in the house yesterday.”

  “You didn’t give your niece a doll, Madame Martin?”

  “I was going to give her one, but mine was not nearly as nice. I got it yesterday afternoon at the Galeries, and I was holding it behind me this morning when we came into her room.”

  “In other words, someone did come into your apartment last night.”

  “That’s not all,” said Mlle. Doncoeur quickly; she was not to be stopped. “Colette never tells lies. She’s not a child who imagines things. And when we questioned her, she said the man was certainly Father Christmas because he wore a white beard and a bright red coat.”

  “At what time did she wake up?”

  “She doesn’t know—sometime during the night. She opened her eyes because she thought she saw a light. And there was a light, shining on the floor near the fireplace.”

  “I can’t understand it,” sighed Madame Martin. “Unless my husband has some explanation...”

  But Mlle. Doncoeur was not to be diverted from her story. It was obvious that she was the one who had questioned the child, just as she was the one who had thought of Maigret. She resumed:

  “Colette said, ‘Father Christmas was squatting on the floor, and he was bending over, as though he were working at something.’”

  “She wasn’t frightened?”

  “No. She just watched him. This morning she told us he was busy making a hole in the floor. She thought he wanted to go through the floor to visit the people downstairs—that’s the Delormes who have a little boy of three—because the chimney was too narrow. The man must have sensed she was watching him, because he got up, came over to the bed, and gave Colette the big doll. Then he put his finger to his lips.”

  “Did she see him leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Through the floor?”

  “No, by the door.”

  “Into what room does this door open?”

  “Directly into the outside hall. There is another door that opens into the apartment, but the hall door is like a private entrance because the room used to be rented separately.”

  “Wasn’t the door locked?”

  “Of course,” Madame Martin intervened. “I wouldn’t let the child sleep in a room that wasn’t locked from the outside.”

  “Then the door was forced?”

  “Probably. I don’t know. Mlle. Doncoeur immediately suggested we come to see you.”

  “Did you find a hole in the floor?”

  Madame Martin shrugged wearily, but Mlle. Doncoeur answered for her.

  “Not a hole exactly, but you could see that the floor boards had been moved.”

  “Tell me, Madame Martin, have you any idea what might have been hidden under the flooring?”

  “No, Monsieur.”

  “How long have you lived in this apartment?”

  “Since my marriage, five years ago.”

  “And this room was part of the apartment then?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know who lived there before you?”

  “My husband. He’s 38. He was 33 when we were married, and he had his own furniture then. He liked to have his own home to come back to when he returned to Paris from the road.”

  “Do you think he might have wanted to surprise Colette?”

  “He is six or seven hundred kilometers from here.”

  “Where did you say?”

  “In Bergerac. His itinerary is planned in advance and he rarely deviates from his schedule.”

  “For what firm does he travel?”

  “He covers the central and southwest territory for Zenith watches. It’s an important line, as you probably know. He has a very good job.”

  “There isn’t a finer man on earth!” exclaimed Mlle. Doncoeur. She blushed, then added, “Except you, Monsieur l’lnspecteur.”

  “As I understand it then, someone got into your apartment last night disguised as Father Christmas.”

  “According to the little girl.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything? Is your room far from the little girl’s?”

  “There’s the dining room between us.”

  “Don’t you leave the connecting doors open at night?”

  “It isn’t necessary. Colette is not afraid, and as a rule she never wakes up. If she wants anything, she has a little bell on her night table.”

  “Did you go out last night?”

  “I did not, Monsieur l’lnspecteur.” Madame Martin was annoyed.

  “Did you receive visitors?”

  “I do not receive visitors while my husband is away.”

  Maigret glanced at Mlle. Doncoeur whose expression did not change. So Madame Martin was telling the truth.

  “Did you go to bed late?”

  “I read until midnight. As soon as the radio played Minuit, Chrétiens, I went to bed.”

  “And you heard nothing unusual?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you asked the concierge if she clicked the latch to let in any strangers last night?”

  “I asked her,” Mlle. Doncoeur volunteered. “She says she didn’t.”

  “And you found nothing missing from your apartment this morning, Madame Martin? Nothing disturbed in the dining room?”

  “No.”

  “Who is with the little girl now?”

  “No one. She’s used to staying alone. I can’t be at home all day. I have marketing to do, errands to run....”

  “I understand. You told me Colette is an orphan?”

  “Her mother is dead.”

  “So her father is living. Where is he?”

  “Her father’s name is Paul Martin. He’s my husband’s brother. As to telling you where he is—” Madame Martin sketched a vague gesture.

  “When did you see him last ?”

  “About a month ago. A little longer. It was around All Saint’s Day. He was finishing a novena.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I may as well tell you everything at once,” said Madame Martin with a faint smile, “since we seem to be washing our family linen.” She glanced reproachfully at Mlle. Doncoeur. “My brother-in-law, especially since he lost his wife, is not quite respectable.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “He drinks. He always drank a little, but he never used to get into trouble. He had a good job with a furniture store in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. But since the accident...”

  “The accident to his daughter?”

  “No, to his wife. He borrowed a car from a friend one Sunday about three years ago and took his wife and little girl to the country. They had lunch at a roadside inn near Mantes-la-Jolie and he drank too much white wine. He sang most of the way back to Paris—until he ran into something near the Bougival bridge. His wife was killed instantly. He cracked his own skull and it’s a miracle he’s still alive. Colette escaped without a scratch. Paul hasn’t been a man since then. We’ve practically adopted the little girl. He comes to see her occasionally when he’s sober. Then he starts over again....”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  Another vague gesture. “Everywhere. We’ve seen him loitering around the Bastille like a beggar. Sometimes he sells papers in the street. I can speak freely in front of Mlle. Doncoeur because unfortunately the whole house knows about him.”

  “Don’t you think he might have dressed up as Father Christmas to call on his daughter?”

  “That’s what I told Mlle. Doncoeur, but she insisted on coming to see you anyhow.”

  “Because I see no reason for him to take up the flooring,” said Mlle. Doncoeur acidly.

  “Or perhaps your husband returned to Paris unexpectedly....”

  “It’s certainly something of the sort. I’m not at all disturbed. But Mlle. Doncoeur—”

  Decidedly Madame Martin had not crossed the boulevard light-heartedly.

  “Do you know where your husband might be staying in Bergerac?”

  “Yes. At the Hotel de Bordeaux.”


  “You hadn’t thought of telephoning him?”

  “We have no phone. There’s only one in the house—the people on the second floor, and they hate to be disturbed.”

  “Would you object to my calling the Hotel de Bordeaux?”

  Madame Martin started to nod, then hesitated. “He’ll think something terrible has happened.”

  “You can speak to him yourself.”

  “He’s not used to my phoning him on the road.”

  “You’d rather he not know what’s happening?”

  “That’s not so. I’ll talk to him if you like.”

  Maigret picked up the phone and placed the call. Ten minutes later he was connected with the Hotel de Bordeaux in Bergerac. He passed the instrument to Madame Martin.

  “Hello.... Monsieur Martin, please.... Yes, Monsieur Jean Martin. ... No matter. Wake him up.”

  She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “He’s still asleep. They’ve gone to call him.”

  Then she retreated into silence, evidently rehearsing the words she was to speak to her husband.

  “Hello?... Hello darling.... What?... Yes, Merry Christmas!... Yes, everything’s all right.... Colette is fine.... No, that’s not why I phoned.... No, no, no! Nothing’s wrong. Please don’t worry!” She repeated each word separately. “Please... don’t... worry! I just want to tell you about a strange thing that happened last night. Somebody dressed up like Father Christmas and came into Colette’s room.... No, no! He didn’t hurt her. He gave her a big doll.... Yes, doll!... And he did queer things to the floor. He removed two boards which he put back in a hurry….

  Mille. Doncoeur thought I should report it to the police inspector who lives across the street. I’m there now.... You don’t understand? Neither do I. ... You want me to put him on?” She passed the instrument to Maigret. “He wants to speak to you.”

  A warm masculine voice came over the wire, the voice of an anxious, puzzled man.

  “Are you sure my wife and the little girl are all right?... It’s all so incredible! If it were just the doll, I might suspect my brother. Loraine will tell you about him. Loraine is my wife. Ask her.... But he wouldn’t have removed the flooring.... Do you think I’d better come home? I can get a train for Paris at three this afternoon.... What?... Thank you so much. It’s good to know you’ll look out for them.”

  Loraine Martin took back the phone.