Thomas Godfrey (Ed)

by Murder for Christmas

  A thick yellow fog, unusual for Paris, had settled over the city. Lights shone in all the windows, floating in the murk like ships at sea or distant beacons. Familiar details had been blotted out so completely that Maigret half-expected to hear the moan of fog horns.

  For some reason, perhaps because of some boyhood memory, Maigret was pleased to see the weather thicken. He was also pleased to see Lucas walk into his apartment, take off his overcoat, sit down, and stretch out his frozen hands toward the fire.

  In appearance, Lucas was a reduced-scale model of Maigret—a head shorter, half as broad in the shoulders, half as stern in expression although he tried hard. Without conscious imitation but with conscious admiration, Lucas had copied his chief’s slightest gestures, postures, and changes of expression—even to the ceremony of inhaling the fragrance of the plum brandy before touching his lips to the glass.

  The landlady of the rooming house in the Rue Pernelle had been killed in a subway accident two years earlier, Lucas reported. Luckily, the place had been taken over by the former night watchman, who had been in trouble with the police on morals charges.

  “So it was easy enough to make him talk,” said Lucas, lighting a pipe much too large for him. “I was surprised that he had the money to buy the house, but he explained that he was front man for a big investor who had money in all sorts of enterprises but didn’t like to have his name used.”

  “What kind of dump is it?”

  “Looks respectable. Clean enough. Office on the mezzanine. Rooms by the month, some by the week, and a few on the second floor by the hour.”

  “He remembers Loraine?”

  “Very well. She lived there more than three years. I got the impression he didn’t like her because she was tight-fisted.”

  “Did Lorilleux come to see her?”

  “On my way to the Rue Pernelle I picked up a photo of Lorilleux at the Palais-Royal station. The new landlord recognized him right away.”

  “Lorilleux went to her room often?”

  “Two or three times a month. He always had baggage with him, he always arrived around 1 o’clock in the morning, and always left before 6. I checked the timetables. There’s a train from Switzerland around midnight and another at 6 in the morning. He must have told his wife he was taking the 6 o’clock train.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing, except that Loraine was stingy with tips, and always cooked her dinner on an alcohol burner, even though the house rules said no cooking in the rooms.”

  “No other men?”

  “No. Very respectable except for Lorilleux. The landlady was witness at her wedding.”

  Maigret glanced at his wife. He had insisted she remain in the room when Lucas came. She stuck to her knitting, trying to make believe she was not there.

  Torrence was out in the fog, going from garage to garage, checking the trip-sheets of taxi fleets. The two men waited serenely, deep in their easy chairs, each holding a glass of plum brandy with the same pose. Maigret felt a pleasant numbness creeping over him.

  His Christmas luck held out with the taxis, too. Sometimes it took days to run down a particular taxi driver, particularly when the cab in question did not belong to a fleet. Cruising drivers were the hardest to locate; they sometimes never even read the newspapers. But shortly before 5 o’clock Torrence called from Saint-Ouen.

  “I found one of the taxis,” he reported.

  “One? Was there more than one?”

  “Looks that way. This man picked up the woman at the corner of Boulevard Richard-Lenoir and Boulevard Voltaire this morning. He drove her to Rue de Maubeuge, opposite the Gare du Nord, where she paid him off.”

  “Did she go into the railway station?”

  “No. The chauffeur says she went into a luggage shop that keeps open on Sundays and holidays. After that he doesn’t know.”

  “Where’s the driver now?”

  “Right here in the garage. He just checked in.”

  “Send him to me, will you? Right away. I don’t care how he gets here as long as it’s in a hurry. Now I want you to find me the cab that brought her home.”

  “Sure, Chief, as soon as I get myself coffee with a stick in it. It’s damned cold out here.”

  Maigret glanced through the window. There was a shadow against Mlle. Doncoeur’s curtains. He turned to Lucas.

  “Look in the phone book for a luggage shop across from the Gare du Nord.”

  Lucas took only a minute to come up with a number, which Maigret dialed.

  “Hello, this is the Police Judiciaire. Shortly before 10 this morning a young woman bought something in your shop, probably a valise. She was a blonde, wearing a gray suit and beige hat. She carried a brown shopping bag. Do you remember her?”

  Perhaps trade was slack on Christmas Day. Or perhaps it was easier to remember customers who shopped on Christmas. In any case, the voice on the phone replied:

  “Certainly, I waited on her myself. She said she had to leave suddenly for Cambrai because her sister was ill, and she didn’t have time to go home for her bags. She wanted a cheap valise, and I sold her a fiber model we have on sale. She paid me and went into the bar next door. I was standing in the doorway and a little later I saw her walking toward the station, carrying the valise.”

  “Are you alone in your shop?”

  “I have one clerk on duty.”

  “Can you leave him alone for half an hour? Fine! Then jump in a taxi and come to this address. I’ll pay the fare, of course.”

  “And the return fare? Shall I have the cab wait?”

  “Have him wait, yes.”

  According to Maigret’s notes on the back of the envelope, the first taxi driver arrived at 5: 50 P.M. He was somewhat surprised, since he had been summoned by the police, to find himself in a private apartment. He recognized Maigret, however, and made no effort to disguise his curious interest in how the famous inspector lived.

  “I want you to climb to the fourth floor of the house just across the street. If the concierge stops you, tell her you’re going to see Madame Martin.”

  “Madame Martin. I got it.”

  “Go to the door at the end of the hall and ring the bell. If a blonde opens the door and you recognize her, make some excuse— You’re on the wrong floor, anything you think of. If somebody else answers, ask to speak to Madame Martin personally.”

  “And then?”

  “Then you come back here and tell me whether or not she is the fare you drove to Rue de Maubeuge this morning.”

  “I’ll be right back, Inspector.”

  As the door closed, Maigret smiled in spite of himself.

  “The first call will make her worry a little. The second, if all goes well, will make her panicky. The third, if Torrence has any luck—”

  Torrence, too, was having his run of Christmas luck. The phone rang and he reported:

  “I think I’ve found him, Chief. I dug up a driver who picked up a woman answering your description at the Gare du Nord, only he didn’t take her to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. He dropped her at the corner of Boulevard Beaumarchais and the Rue du Chemin-Vert.”

  “Send him to me.”

  “He’s a little squiffed.”

  “No matter. Where are you?”

  “The Barbès garage.”

  “Then it won’t be much out of your way to stop by the Gare du Nord. Go to the check room. Unfortunately it won’t be the same man on duty, but try to find out if a small new valise was checked between 9: 30 and 10 this morning. It’s made of fiber and shouldn’t be too heavy. Get the number of the check. They won’t let you take the valise without a warrant, so try to get the name and address of the man on duty this morning.”

  “What next?”

  “Phone me. I’ll wait for your second taxi driver. If he’s been drinking, better write down my address for him, so he won’t get lost.”

  Mme. Maigret was back in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal. She hadn’t dared ask whether Lucas would eat with the
m.

  Maigret wondered if Paul Martin was still across the street with his daughter. Had Madame Martin tried to get rid of him?

  The bell rang again. Two men stood at the door.

  The first driver had come back from Madame Martin’s and had climbed Maigret’s stairs behind the luggage dealer.

  “Did you recognize her?”

  “Sure. She recognized me, too. She turned pale. She ran to close a door behind her, then she asked me what I wanted.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That I had the wrong floor. I think maybe she wanted to buy me off, but I didn’t give her a chance. But she was watching from the window when I crossed the street. She probably knows I came here.”

  The luggage dealer was baffled and showed it. He was a middle-aged man, completely bald and equally obsequious. When the driver had gone, Maigret explained what he wanted, and the man objected vociferously.

  “One just doesn’t do this sort of thing to one’s customers,” he repeated stubbornly. “One simply does not inform on one’s customers, you know.”

  After a long argument he agreed to call on Madame Martin. To make sure he didn’t change his mind, Maigret sent Lucas to follow him.

  They returned in less than ten minutes.

  “I call your attention to the fact that I have acted under your orders, that I have been compelled—”

  “Did you recognize her?

  “Will I be forced to testify under oath?”

  “More than likely.”

  “That would be very bad for my business. People who buy luggage at the last minute are very often people who dislike public mention of their comings and goings.”

  “You may not have to go to court. Your deposition before the examining magistrate may be sufficient.”

  “Very well. It was she. She’s dressed differently, but I recognized her all right.”

  “Did she recognize you?”

  “She asked immediately who had sent me.”

  “What did you say?

  “I... I don’t remember. I was quite upset. I think I said I had rung the wrong bell.”

  “Did she offer you anything?”

  “What do you mean? She didn’t even offer me a chair. Luckily. It would have been most unpleasant.”

  Maigret smiled, somewhat incredulously. He believed that the taxi driver had actually run away from a possible bribe. He wasn’t so sure about this prosperous-looking shopkeeper who obviously begrudged his loss of time.

  “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  The luggage dealer departed hastily.

  “And now for Number Three, my dear Lucas.”

  Mme. Maigret was beginning to grow nervous. From the kitchen door she made discreet signs to her husband, beckoning him to join her. She whispered: “Are you sure the father is still across the street?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t make out exactly what you’re up to, but I’ve been thinking about the child, and I’m a little afraid....”

  Night had long since fallen. The families were all home again. Few windows across the street remained dark. The silhouette of Mlle. Doncoeur was still very much in evidence.

  While waiting for the second taxi driver, Maigret decided to put on his collar and tie. He shouted to Lucas:

  “Pour yourself another drop. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “I’m full of sandwiches, Chief. Only one thing I’d like when we go out: a tall beer, right from the spigot.”

  The second driver arrived at 6: 20. At 6: 35 he had returned from across the street, a gleam in his eye.

  “She looks even better in her négligée than she does in her street clothes,” he said thickly. “She made me come in and asked who sent me. I didn’t know what to say, so I told her I was a talent scout for the Folies Bergère. Was she furious! She’s a fine hunk of woman, though, and I mean it. Did you get a look at her legs?”

  He was in no hurry to leave. Maigret saw him ogling the bottle of plum brandy with envious eyes, and poured him a glass—to speed him on his way.

  “What are you going to do next, Chief?” Lucas had rarely seen Maigret proceed with such caution, preparing each step with such care that he seemed to be mounting an attack on some desperate criminal. And yet the enemy was only a woman, a seemingly insignificant little housewife.

  “You think she’ll still fight back?”

  “Fiercely. And what’s more, in cold blood.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “The phone call from Torrence.”

  As if on cue, the telephone rang. Torrence, of course.

  “The valise is here all right. It feels practically empty. As you predicted, they won’t give it to me without a warrant. The check-room attendant who was on duty this morning lives in the suburbs near La Varenne Saint-Hilaire.” A snag at last? Or at least a delay? Maigret frowned. But Torrence continued. “We won’t have to go out there, though. When he finishes his day’s work here, he plays cornet in a bal musette in the Rue de Lappe.”

  “Go get him for me.”

  “Shall I bring him to your place?”

  Maigret hesitated, thinking of Lucas’s yearning for a glass of draft beer.

  “No, I’ll be across the street. Madame Martin’s apartment, fourth floor.”

  He took down his heavy overcoat. He filled his pipe.

  “Coming?” he said to Lucas.

  Mme. Maigret ran after him to ask what time he’d be home for dinner. After a moment of hesitation, he smiled.

  “The usual time,” was his not very reassuring answer.

  “Look out for the little girl, will you?”

  At 10 o’clock that evening the investigation was still blocked. It was unlikely that anyone in the whole building had gone to sleep, except Colette. She had finally dozed off, with her father sitting in the dark by her bedside.

  Torrence had arrived at 7:30 with his part-time musician and checkroom attendant, who declared:

  “She’s the one. I remember she didn’t put the check in her handbag. She slipped it into a big brown shopping bag.” And when they took him into the kitchen he added, “That’s the bag. Or one exactly like it.”

  The Martin apartment was very warm. Everyone spoke in low tones, as if they had agreed not to awaken the child. Nobody had eaten. Nobody, apparently, was even hungry. On their way over, Maigret and Lucas had each drunk two beers in a little café on the Boulevard Voltaire.

  After the cornetist had spoken his piece, Maigret took Torrence aside and murmured fresh instructions.

  Every corner of the apartment had been searched. Even the photos of Martin’s parents had been taken from their frames, to make sure the baggage check had not been secreted between picture and backing. The dishes had been taken from their shelves and piled on the kitchen table. The larder had been emptied and examined closely. No baggage check.

  Madame Martin was still wearing her pale blue négligée. She was chainsmoking cigarettes. What with the smoke from the two men’s pipes, a thick blue haze swirled about the lamps.

  “You are of course free to say nothing and answer no questions. Your husband will arrive at 11:17. Perhaps you will be more talkative in his presence.”

  “He doesn’t know any more than I do.”

  “Does he know as much?”

  “There’s nothing to know. I’ve told you everything.”

  She had sat back and denied everything, all along the line. She had conceded only one point. She admitted that Lorilleux had dropped in to see her two or three times at night when she lived in the Rue Pernelle. But she insisted there had been nothing between them, nothing personal.

  “In other words he came to talk business—at 1 o’clock in the morning?”

  “He used to come to town by a late train, and he didn’t like to walk the streets with large sums of money on him. I already told you he might have been smuggling gold, but I had nothing to do with it. You can’t arrest me for his activities.”

  “Di
d he have large sums of money on him when he disappeared?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t always take me into his confidence.”

  “But he did come to see you in your room at night?”

  Despite the evidence, she clung to her story of the morning’s marketing. She denied ever having seen the two taxi drivers, the luggage dealer, or the check-room attendant.

  “If I had really left a package at the Gare du Nord, you would have found the check, wouldn’t you?”

  She glanced nervously at the clock on the mantel, obviously thinking of her husband’s return.

  “Admit that the man who came last night found nothing under the floor because you changed the hiding place.”

  “I know of nothing that was hidden under the floor.”

  “When you learned of his visit, you decided to move the treasure to the check room for safekeeping.”

  “I haven’t been near the Gare du Nord. There must be thousands of blondes in Paris who answer my description.”

  “I think I know where we’ll find the check.”

  “You’re so very clever.”

  “Sit over here at this table.” Maigret produced a fountain pen and a sheet of paper. “Write your name and address.”

  She hesitated, then obeyed.

  “Tonight every letter mailed in this neighborhood will be examined, and I’ll wager we will find one addressed in your handwriting, probably to yourself.”

  He handed the paper to Lucas with an order to get in touch with the postal authorities. Much to his surprise, the woman reacted visibly.

  “You see, it’s a very old trick, Little One.” For the first time he called her “Little One,” the way he would have done if he were questioning her in his office, Quai des Orfèvres.

  They were alone now. Maigret slowly paced the floor, while she remained seated.

  “In case you’re interested,” Maigret said slowly, “the thing that shocks me most about you is not what you have done but the cold-blooded way you have done it. You’ve been dangling at the end of a slender thread since early this morning, and you still haven’t blinked an eye. When your husband comes home, you’ll try to play the martyr. And yet you know that sooner or later we’ll discover the truth.”