Thomas Godfrey (Ed)

by Murder for Christmas

  “See, darling? The inspector says there’s no danger. It would be foolish to break your trip now. It might spoil your chances of being transferred permanently to Paris….”

  Mlle. Doncoeur was watching her closely and there was little tenderness in the spinster’s eyes.

  “... I promise to wire you or phone you if there’s anything new.... She’s playing quietly with her new doll.... No, I haven’t had time yet to give her your present. I’ll go right home and do it now.”

  Madame Martin hung up and declared: “You see.” Then, after a pause, “Forgive me for bothering you. It’s really not my fault. I’m sure this is all the work of some practical joker... unless it’s my brother-in-law. When he’s been drinking there’s no telling what he might do.”

  “Do you expect to see him today? Don’t you think he might want to see his daughter?”

  “That depends. If he’s been drinking, no. He’s very careful never to come around in that condition.”

  “May I have your permission to come over and talk with Colette a little later?”

  “I see no reason why you shouldn’t—if you think it worthwhile....”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Maigret!” exclaimed Mlle. Doncoeur. Her expression was half grateful, half conspiratorial. “She’s such an interesting child! You’ll see!”

  She backed toward the door.

  A few minutes later Maigret watched the two women cross the boulevard. Mlle. Doncoeur, close on the heels of Madame Martin, turned to look up at the windows of the Maigret apartment.

  Mme. Maigret opened the kitchen door, flooding the dining room with the aroma of browning onions. She asked gently:

  “Are you happy?”

  He pretended not to understand. Luckily he had been too busy to think much about the middle-aged couple who had nobody to make a fuss over this Christmas morning.

  It was time for him to shave and call on Colette.

  He was just about to lather his face when he decided to make a phone call. He didn’t bother with his dressing gown. Clad only in pajamas, he dropped into the easy chair by the window—his chair—and watched the smoke curling up from all the chimney pots while his call went through.

  The ringing at the other end—in headquarters at the Quai des Orfèvres —had a different sound from all other rings. It evoked for him the long empty corridors, the vacant offices, the operator stuck with holiday duty at the switchboard.... Then he heard the operator call Lucas with the words: “The boss wants you.”

  He felt a little like one of his wife’s friends who could imagine no greater joy—which she experienced daily—than lying in bed all morning, with her windows closed and curtains drawn, and telephoning all her friends, one after the other. By the soft glow of her night-light she managed to maintain a constant state of just having awakened. “What? Ten o’clock already? How’s the weather? Is it raining? Have you been out yet? Have you done all your marketing?” And as she established telephonic connection with the hurly-burly of the workaday world, she would sink more and more voluptuously into the warm softness of her bed.

  “That you, Chief?”

  Maigret, too, felt a need for contact with the working world. He wanted to ask Lucas who was on duty with him, what they were doing, how the shop looked on this Christmas morning.

  “Nothing new? Not too busy?”

  “Nothing to speak of. Routine....”

  “I’d like you to get me some information. You can probably do this by phone. First of all, I want a list of all convicts released from prison the last two or three months.”

  “Which prison?”

  “All prisons. But don’t bother with any who haven’t served at least five years. Then check and see if any of them has ever lived on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. Got that?”

  “I’m making notes.”

  Lucas was probably somewhat bewildered but he would never admit it.

  “Another thing. I want you to locate a man named Paul Martin, a drunk, no fixed address, who frequently hangs out around the Place de la Bastille. I don’t want him arrested. I don’t want him molested. I just want to know where he spent Christmas Eve. The commissariats should help you on this one.”

  No use trying. Maigret simply could not reproduce the idle mood of his wife’s friend. On the contrary, it embarrassed him to be lolling at home in his pajamas, unshaven, phoning from his favorite easy chair, looking out at a scene of complete peace and quiet in which there was no movement except the smoke curling from the chimney pots, while at the other end of the wire good old Lucas had been on duty since six in the morning and was probably already unwrapping his sandwiches.

  “That’s not quite all, old man. I want you to call Bergerac long distance. There’s a traveling salesman by the name of Jean Martin staying at the Hotel de Bordeaux there. No, Jean. It’s his brother. I want to know if Jean Martin got a telegram or a phone call from Paris last night or any time yesterday. And while you’re about it, find out where he spent Christmas Eve. I think that’s all.”

  “Shall I call you back?”

  “Not right away. I’ve got to go out for a while. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  “Something happen in your neighborhood?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe.”

  Mme. Maigret came into the bathroom to talk to him while he finished dressing. He did not put on his overcoat. The smoke curled slowly upward from so many chimney pots blended with the gray of the sky and conjured up the image of just as many overheated apartments, cramped rooms in which he would not be invited to make himself at home. He refused to be uncomfortable. He would put on his hat to cross the boulevard, and that was all.

  The building across the way was very much like the one he lived in—old but clean, a little dreary, particularly on a drab December morning. He avoided stopping at the concierge’s lodge, but noted she watched him with some annoyance. Doors opened silently as he climbed the stairs. He heard whispering, the padding of slippered feet.

  Mlle. Doncoeur, who had doubtless been watching for him, was waiting on the fourth floor landing. She was both shy and excited, as if keeping a secret tryst with a lover.

  “This way, Monsieur Maigret. She went out a little while ago.”

  He frowned, and she noted the fact.

  “I told her that you were coming and that she had better wait for you but she said she had not done her marketing yesterday and that there was nothing in the house. She said all the stores would be closed if she waited too long. Come in.”

  She had opened the door into Madame Martin’s dining room, a small, rather dark room which was clean and tidy.

  “I’m looking after the little girl until she comes back. I told Colette that you were coming to see her, and she is delighted. I’ve spoken to her about you. She’s only afraid you might take back her doll.”

  “When did Madame Martin decide to go out?”

  “As soon as we came back across the street, she started dressing.”

  “Did she dress completely?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, I suppose she dresses differently when she goes downtown than when she merely goes shopping in the neighborhood.”

  “She was quite dressed up. She put on her hat and gloves. And she carried her shopping bag.”

  Before going to see Colette, Maigret stepped into the kitchen and glanced at the breakfast dishes.

  “Did she eat before you came to see me?”

  “No. I didn’t give her a chance.”

  “And when she came back?”

  “She just made herself a cup of black coffee. I fixed breakfast for Colette while Madame Martin got dressed.”

  There was a larder on the ledge of the window looking out on the courtyard. Maigret carefully examined its contents: butter, eggs, vegetables, some cold meat. He found two uncut loaves of fresh bread in the kitchen cupboard. Colette had eaten croissants with her hot chocolate.

  “How well do you know Madame Martin?”

  “We�
��re neighbors, aren’t we? And I’ve seen more of her since Colette has been in bed. She often asks me to keep an eye on the little girl when she goes out.”

  “Does she go out much?”

  “Not very often. Just for her marketing.”

  Maigret tried to analyze the curious impression he had had on entering the apartment. There was something in the atmosphere that disturbed him, something about the arrangement of the furniture, the special kind of neatness that prevailed, even the smell of the place. As he followed Mlle. Doncoeur into the dining room, he thought he knew what it was.

  Madame Martin had told him that her husband had lived in this apartment before their marriage. And even though Madame Martin had lived there for five years, it had remained a bachelor’s apartment. He pointed to the two enlarged photographs standing on opposite ends of the mantelpiece.

  “Who are they?”

  “Monsieur Martin’s father and mother.”

  “Doesn’t Madame Martin have photos of her own parents about?”

  “I’ve never heard her speak of them. I suppose she’s an orphan.”

  Even the bedroom was without the feminine touch. He opened a closet. Next to the neat rows of masculine clothing, the woman’s clothes were hanging, mostly severely tailored suits and conservative dresses. He did not open the bureau drawers but he was sure they did not contain the usual trinkets and knickknacks that women collect.

  “Mademoiselle Doncoeur!” called a calm little voice.

  “Let’s talk to Colette,” said Maigret.

  The child’s room was as austere and cold as the others. The little girl lay in a bed too large for her, her face solemn, her eyes questioning but trusting.

  “Are you the inspector, Monsieur?”

  “I’m the inspector, my girl. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid. Hasn’t Mama Loraine come home yet?”

  Maigret pursed his lips. The Martins had practically adopted their niece, yet the child said “Mama Loraine,” not just “Mama.”

  “Do you believe it was Father Christmas who came to see me last night?” Colette asked Maigret.

  “I’m sure it was.”

  “Mama Loraine doesn’t believe it. She never believes me.”

  The girl had a dainty, attractive little face, with very bright eyes that stared at Maigret with level persistence. The plaster cast which sheathed one leg all the way to the hip made a thick bulge under the blankets.

  Mlle. Doncoeur hovered in the doorway, evidently anxious to leave the inspector alone with the girl. She said: “I must run home for a moment to make sure my lunch isn’t burning.”

  Maigret sat down beside the bed, wondering how to go about questioning the girl.

  “Do you love Mama Loraine very much?” he began.

  “Yes, Monsieur.” She replied without hesitation and without enthusiasm.

  “And your papa?”

  “Which one? Because I have two papas, you know—Papa Paul and Papa Jean.”

  “Has it been a long time since you saw Papa Paul?”

  “I don’t remember. Perhaps several weeks. He promised to bring me a toy for Christmas, but he hasn’t come yet. He must be sick.”

  “Is he often sick?”

  “Yes, often. When he’s sick he doesn’t come to see me.”

  “And your Papa Jean?”

  “He’s away on a trip, but he’ll be back for New Year’s. Maybe then he’ll be appointed to the Paris office and won’t have to go away any more. That would make him very happy and me, too.”

  “Do many of your friends come to see you since you’ve been in bed?”

  “What friends? The girls in school don’t know where I live. Or maybe they know but their parents don’t let them come alone.”

  “What about Mama Loraine’s friends? Or your papa’s?”

  “Nobody comes, ever.”

  “Ever? Are you sure?”

  “Only the man to read the gas meter, or for the electricity. I can hear them, because the door is almost always open. I recognize their voices. Once a man came and I didn’t recognize his voice. Or twice.”

  “How long ago was that ?”

  “The first time was the day after my accident. I remember because the doctor just left.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I didn’t see him. He knocked at the other door. I heard him talking and then Mama Loraine came and closed my door. They talked for quite a while but I couldn’t hear very well. Afterward Mama Loraine said it was a man who wanted to sell her some insurance. I don’t know what that is.”

  “And he came back ?”

  “Five or six days ago. It was night and I’d already turned off my light. I wasn’t asleep, though. I heard someone knock, and then they talked in low voices like the first time. Mademoiselle Doncoeur sometimes comes over in the evening, but I could tell it wasn’t she. I thought they were quarreling and I was frightened. I called out, and Mama Loraine came in and said it was the man about the insurance again and I should go to sleep.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  “I don’t know. I think I fell asleep.”

  “And you didn’t see him either time?”

  “No, but I’d recognize his voice.”

  “Even though he speaks in low tones?”

  “Yes, that’s why. When he speaks low it sounds just like a big bumblebee. I can keep the doll can’t I? Mama Loraine bought me two boxes of candy and a little sewing kit. She bought me a doll, too, but it wasn’t nearly as big as the doll Father Christmas gave me, because she’s not rich. She showed it to me this morning before she left, and then she put it back in the box. I have the big one now, so I won’t need the little one and Mama Loraine can take it back to the store.”

  The apartment was overheated, yet Maigret felt suddenly cold. The building was very much like the one across the street, yet not only did the rooms seem smaller and stuffier, but the whole world seemed smaller and meaner over here.

  He bent over the floor near the fireplace. He lifted the loose floor boards, but saw nothing but an empty, dusty cavity smelling of dampness. There were scratches on the planks which indicated they had been forced up with a chisel or some similar instrument.

  He examined the outside door and found indications that it had been forced. It was obviously an amateur’s work, and luckily for him, the job had been an easy one.

  “Father Christmas wasn’t angry when he saw you watching him?”

  “No, Monsieur. He was busy making a hole in the floor so he could go and see the little boy downstairs.”

  “Did he speak to you ?”

  “I think he smiled at me. I’m not sure, though, because of his whiskers. It wasn’t very light. But I’m sure he put his finger to his lips so I wouldn’t call anybody, because grown-ups aren’t supposed to see Father Christmas. Did you ever see him?”

  “A very long time ago.”

  “When you were little?”

  Maigret heard footsteps in the hallway. The door opened and Madame Martin came in. She was wearing a gray tailored suit and a small beige hat and carried a brown shopping bag. She was visibly cold, for her skin was taut and very white, yet she must have hurried up the stairs, since there were two pink spots on her cheeks and she was out of breath. Unsmiling, she asked Maigret:

  “Has she been a good girl?” Then, as she took off her jacket, “I apologize for making you wait. I had so many things to buy, and I was afraid the stores would all be closed later on.”

  “Did you meet anyone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I was wondering if anyone tried to speak to you.”

  She had had plenty of time to go much further than the Rue Amelot or the Rue du Chemin-Vert where most of the neighborhood shops were located. She had even had time to go across Paris and back by taxi or the Metro.

  Mlle. Doncoeur returned to ask if there was anything she could do. Madame Martin was about to say no when Maigret intervened: “I’d like you to stay with Colette w
hile I step into the next room.”

  Mlle. Doncoeur understood that he wanted her to keep the child busy while he questioned the foster-mother. Madame Martin must have understood, too, but she gave no indication.

  “Please come in. Do you mind if I take off my things?”

  Madame Martin put her packages in the kitchen. She took off her hat and fluffed out her pale blonde hair. When she had closed the bedroom door, she said: “Mlle. Doncoeur is all excited. This is quite an event, isn’t it, for an old maid—particularly an old maid who cuts out every newspaper article about a certain police inspector, and who finally has the inspector in her own house.... Do you mind?”

  She had taken a cigarette from a silver case, tapped the end, and snapped a lighter. The gesture somehow prompted Maigret’s next question:

  “You’re not working, Madame Martin?”

  “It would be difficult to hold a job and take care of the house and the little girl, too, even when the child is in school. Besides, my husband won’t allow me to work.”

  “But you did work before you met him?”

  “Naturally. I had to earn a living. Won’t you sit down?”

  He lowered himself into a rude raffia-bottomed chair. She rested one thigh against the edge of a table.

  “You were a typist?”

  “I have been a typist.”

  “For long?”

  “Quite a while.”

  “You were still a typist when you met Martin? You must forgive me for asking these personal questions.”

  “It’s your job.”

  “You were married five years ago. Were you working then? Just a moment. May I ask your age?”

  “I’m thirty-three. I was twenty-eight then, and I was working for a Monsieur Lorilleux in the Palais-Royal arcades.”

  “As his secretary?”

  “Monsieur Lorilleux had a jewelry shop. Or more exactly, he sold souvenirs and old coins. You know those old shops in the Palais-Royal. I was salesgirl, bookkeeper, and secretary. I took care of the shop when he was away.”

  “He was married?”

  “And father of three children.”

  “You left him to marry Martin?”

  “Not exactly. Jean didn’t want me to go on working, but he wasn’t making very much money then and I had quite a good job. So I kept it for the first few months.”