Thomas Godfrey (Ed)

by Murder for Christmas

  “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why do you lie?”

  She did not reply. She was still far from the breaking point. Her nerves were calm, but her mind was obviously racing at top speed, seeking some avenue of escape.

  “I’m not saying anything more,” she declared. She sat down and pulled the hem of her négligée over her bare knees.

  “Suit yourself.” Maigret made himself comfortable in the chair opposite her.

  “Are you going to stay here all night?” she asked.

  “At least until your husband gets home.”

  “Are you going to tell him about Monsieur Lorilleux’s visits to my room?”

  “If necessary.”

  “You’re a cad! Jean knows nothing about all this. He had no part in it.”

  “Unfortunately he is your husband.”

  When Lucas came back, they were staring at each other in silence.

  “Janvier is taking care of the letter, Chief. I met Torrence downstairs. He says the man is in that little bar. two doors down from your house.”

  She sprang up. “What man?”

  Maigret didn’t move a muscle. “The man who came here last night. You might have expected him to come back, since he didn’t find what he was looking for. And he might be in a different frame of mind this time.”

  She cast a dismayed glance at the clock. The train from Bergerac was due in twenty minutes. Her husband could be home in forty. She asked: “You know who this man is?”

  “I can guess. I could go down and confirm my suspicion. I’d say it is Lorilleux and I’d say he is very eager to get back his property.”

  “It’s not his property!”

  “Let’s say that, rightly or wrongly, he considers it his property. He must be in desperate straits, this man. He came to see you twice without getting what he wanted. He came back a third time disguised as Father Christmas. And he’ll come back again. He’ll be surprised to find you have company. I’m convinced that he’ll be more talkative than you. Despite the general belief, men always speak more freely than women. Do you think he is armed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think he is. He is tired of waiting. I don’t know what story you’ve been telling him, but I’m sure he’s fed up with it. The gentleman has a vicious face. There’s nothing quite as cruel as a weakling with his back up.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Would you like us to go so that you can be alone with him?”

  The back of Maigret’s envelope contained the following note: “10:38 P.M. —she decides to talk.

  It was not a very connected story at first. It came out in bits and pieces, fragments of sentences interlarded with venomous asides, supplemented by Maigret’s own guesses which she either confirmed or amended.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Was it money that you left in the check room?”

  “ Bank notes. Almost a million.”

  “Did the money belong to Lorilleux?”

  “No more to him than to me.”

  “To one of his customers?”

  “Yes. A man named Julian Boissy.”

  “What became of him?”

  “He died.”

  “How?”

  “He was killed.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Monsieur Lorilleux.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I gave him to understand that if he could raise enough money —real money—I might run away with him.”

  “You were already married?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not in love with your husband?”

  “I despise mediocrity. All my life I’ve been poor. All my life I’ve been surrounded by people who have had to scrimp and save, people who have had to sacrifice and count centimes. I’ve had to scrimp and sacrifice and count centimes myself.” She turned savagely on Maigret, as if he had been responsible for all her troubles. “I just didn’t want to be poor any more.”

  “Would you have gone away with Lorilleux?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps for a while.”

  “Long enough to get your hands on his money?”

  “I hate you!”

  “How was Boissy murdered?”

  “Monsieur Boissy was a regular customer of long standing.”

  “Pornographic literature?”

  “He was a lascivious old goat, sure. So are all men. So is Lorilleux. So are you, probably. Boissy was a widower. He lived alone in a hotel room. He was very rich and very stingy. All rich people are stingy.”

  “That doesn’t work both ways, does it? You, for instance, are not rich.”

  “I would have been rich.”

  “If Lorilleux had not come back. How did Boissy die?”

  “The devaluation of the franc scared him out of his wits. Like everybody else at that time, he wanted gold. Monsieur Lorilleux used to shuttle gold in from Switzerland pretty regularly. And he always demanded payment in advance. One afternoon Monsieur Boissy came to the shop with a fortune in currency. I wasn’t there. I had gone out on an errand.”

  “You planned it that way?”

  “No.”

  “You had no idea what was going to happen?”

  “No. Don’t try to put words in my mouth. When I came back, Lorilleux was packing the body into a big box.”

  “And you blackmailed him?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did he disappear after having given you the money?”

  “I frightened him.”

  “You threatened to go to the police?”

  “No. I merely told him that our neighbors in the Palais-Royal had been looking at me suspiciously and that I thought he ought to put the money in a safe place for a while. I told him about the loose floor board in my apartment. He thought it would only be for a few days. Two days later he asked me to cross the Belgian frontier with him.”

  “And you refused?”

  “I told him I’d been stopped and questioned by a man who looked like a police inspector. He was terrified. I gave him some of the money and promised to join him in Brussels as soon as it was safe.”

  “What did he do with the corpse?”

  “He put the box in a taxi and drove to a little country house he owned on the banks of the Marne. I suppose he either buried it there or threw it into the river. Nobody ever missed Monsieur Boissy.”

  “So you sent Lorilleux to Belgium without you. How did you keep him away for five years?”

  “I used to write him, general delivery. I told him the police were after him, and that he would probably read nothing about it in the papers because they were setting a trap for him. I told him the police were always coming back to question me. I even sent him to South America.”

  “He came back two months ago?”

  “About. He was at the end of his rope.”

  “Didn’t you send him any money?”

  “Not much.”

  “Why not?”

  She did not reply. She looked at the clock.

  “Are you going to arrest me? What will be the charge? I didn’t kill Boissy. I wasn’t there when he was killed. I had nothing to do with disposing of his body.”

  “Stop worrying about yourself. You kept the money because all your life you wanted money—not to spend, but to keep, to feel secure, to feel rich and free from want.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “When Lorilleux came back to ask for money, or to ask you to keep your promise and run away with him, you used Colette as a pretext. You tried to scare him into leaving the country again, didn’t you?”

  “He stayed in Paris, hiding.” Her upper lip curled slightly. “What an idiot! He could have shouted his name from the housetops and nobody would have noticed.”

  “The business of Father Christmas wasn’t idiotic.”

  “No? The money wasn’t under the floorboard any longer. It was right here under his nose, in my sewing basket.”

  “Your husband will
be here in ten or fifteen minutes. Lorilleux across the street probably knows it. He’s been in touch with Bergerac by phone, and he can read a timetable. He’s surely armed. Do you want to wait here for your two men?”

  “Take me away! I’ll slip on a dress....”

  “The check-room stub?”

  “General delivery, Boulevard Beaumarchais.”

  She did not close the bedroom door after her. Brazenly she dropped the négligée from her shoulders and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on her stockings. She selected a woolen dress from the closet, tossed toilet articles and lingerie into an overnight bag.

  “Let’s hurry!”

  “Your husband?”

  “That fool? Leave him for the birds.”

  “Colette?”

  She shrugged.

  Mlle. Doncoeur’s door opened a crack as they passed.

  Downstairs on the sidewalk she clung fearfully to the two men, peering into the fog.

  “Take her to the Quai des Orfèvres, Lucas. I’m staying here.”

  She held back. There was no car in sight, and she was obviously frightened by the prospect of walking into the night with only Lucas to protect her. Lucas was not very big.

  “Don’t be afraid. Lorilleux is not in this vicinity.”

  “You lied to me! You—you—”

  Maigret went back into the house.

  The conference with Jean Martin lasted two hours.

  When Maigret left the house at one-thirty, the two brothers were in serious conversation. There was a crack of light under Mlle. Doncoeur’s door, but she did not open the door as he passed.

  When he got home, his wife was asleep in a chair in the dining room. His place at table was still set. Mme. Maigret awoke with a start.

  “You’re alone?” When he looked at her with amused surprise, she added, “Didn’t you bring the little girl home?”

  “Not tonight. She’s asleep. You can go for her tomorrow morning.”

  “Why, then we’re going to..”

  “No, not permanently. Jean Martin may console himself with some decent girl. Or perhaps his brother will get back on his feet and find a new wife....”

  “In other words, she won’t be ours?”

  “Not in fee simple, no. Only on loan. I thought that would be better than nothing. I thought it would make you happy.”

  “Why, yes, of course. It will make me very happy. But... but...”

  She sniffled once and fumbled for her handkerchief. When she couldn’t find it, she buried her face in her apron.

  ITEM

  The members of the "Silver Slipper" Club continued their revels into Christmas morning.... No regard to season is paid in police procedure. Christmas morning in the police is the same as any other morning. Therefore arrangements were made for inspecting the "Silver Slipper" on Christmas morning. The police were satisfied to take the names and addresses of those present together with bottled samples.

  A London Newspaper, Dec. 27, 1927

  To be Taken with a Grain of Salt - Charles Dickens

  If Poe is acknowledged to be the father of the mystery-detective story, Dickens’s contribution places him chief among the mid wives. His final book, the uncompleted Mystery of Edwin Drood, is itself one of the great mysteries of literature. Dickens set up a fascinating story, then became physically incapacitated, leaving no clue to the solution. Subsequent Dickensian have tried their hands at it, but no version has been accepted as definitive.

  Dickens actually wrote several works about murder and investigation, including Barnaby Rudge, Hunted Down and Bleak House, which features Inspector Bucket, the first important detective in English literature.

  Dickens also served as the editor of several periodicals in which his works were serialized. Dr. Marigold, the work at hand, first appeared in one such publication, All Year Round, and is the story of a cheap jack (panhandler) and his daughter, little Sophy. Some of the chapters were written by Wilkie Collins, the author of The Moonstone and The Woman in White. The sixth chapter “To Be Taken With A Grain of Salt,” is a self-contained story entirely by Dickens’ hand.

  By way of a prologue, bits from other chapters have been excerpted to give a picture of Dr. Marigold at Christmas. As he sits by the fire, a visitor appears with a story, a Christmas story, as Dickens himself called it, when he collected Dr. Marigold into book form. Some liberties have been taken with the text, but the words that follow are all those of Charles Dickens. Only the omissions are mine.

  I am a Cheap Jack, and my own father’s name was William Marigold. It was in his lifetime supposed by some that his name was William, but my own father always consistently said No, it was Willum. As to looking at the argument through the medium of the Register, William Marigold came into the world before Registers came up much—and went out of it too. They wouldn’t have been greatly in his line neither, if they had chanced to come up before him!

  I was born on the Queen’s highway, but it was the King’s at that time. A doctor was fetched to my mother by my own father, when it took place on a common; and in consequence of his being a very kind gentlemen, and accepting no fee but a tea-tray, I was named Doctor, out of gratitude and compliment to him. There you have me. Doctor Marigold.

  The doctor having accepted a tea-tray, you’ll guess that my father was a Cheap Jack before me. You are right, he was.

  My father had been a lovely one in his time at the Cheap Jack work... But I top him. I don’t say it because it’s myself but because it has been universally acknowledged by all that has had the means of comparison.

  I had had a first-rate autumn of it, and on the twenty-third of December, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-four, I found myself at Axbridge, Middlesex, clean sold out. So I jogged up to London with the old horse, light and easy, to have my Christmas Eve and Christmas Day alone by the fire..., and then to buy a regular new stock of goods all round, to sell’s again and get the money.

  I am a neat hand at cookery, and I’ll tell you what I knocked up for my Christmas Eve dinner... I knocked up a beefsteak pudding for one, with two kidneys, a dozen oysters, and a couple of mushrooms thrown in. It’s a pudding to put a man in a good humor with everything, except the two bottom buttons of his waistcoat. Having relished that pudding and cleared away, I turned the lamp low, and sat down by the light of the fire, watching it as it shone upon the backs of... books,..., before I dropped off dozing....

  I was on the road, off the road, in all sorts of places, north and south and west and east, winds liked best and winds liked least, here and there and gone astray, over the hills and far away... when I awoke with a start....

  I had started at a real sound... That tread... I believed I was a-going to see a... ghost.

  The touch... was laid upon the outer handle of the door, the handle turned, and the door opened a little....

  Looking full at me... was a languid young man, which I attribute the distance between his extremities. He had a little head... weak eyes and weak knees, and altogether you couldn’t look at him without feeling that there was greatly too much of him for his joints....

  “I am very glad to see you,” says the Gentleman. “Yet I have my doubts, Sir,” says I, “if you can be half as glad to see me as I am to see you.”

  The creature took off... a straw hat, and a quantity of dark curls fell about.

  I might have been too high to fall into conversation with him, had it not been for my lonely feelings.

  “Sir,... you are affected...”

  This made our footing... easier.

  “Come... Doctor Marigold must prescribe... the Best of Drinks.”

  He was amiable, though tired,... and such a languid young man, that I don’t know how long it didn’t take him to get this story out but it passed through his defective circulation to his top extremity in course of time.

  TO BE TAKEN WITH A GRAIN OF SALT

  I have always noticed a prevalent want of courage, even among persons of superior intelligence and culture, as to imparting t
heir own psychological experiences when those have been of a strange sort. Almost all men are afraid that what they could relate in such wise would find no parallel or response in a listener’s internal life, and might be suspected or laughed at. A truthful traveller, who should have seen some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning it; but the same traveller, having had some singular presentiment, impulse, vagary of thought, vision (so called), dream, or other remarkable mental impression, would hesitate considerably before he would own to it. To this reticence I attribute much of the obscurity in which such subjects are involved. We do not habitually communicate our experiences of these subjective things as we do our experiences of objective creation. The consequence is, that the general stock of experience in this regard appears exceptional, and really is so, in respect of being miserably imperfect.

  In what I am going to relate, I have no intention of setting up, opposing, or supporting, any theory whatever. I know the history of the Bookseller of Berlin, I have studied the case of the wife of a late Astronomer Royal as related by Sir David Brewster, and I have followed the minutest details of a much more remarkable case of Spectral Illusion occurring within my private circle of friends. It may be necessary to state as to this last, that the sufferer (a lady) was in no degree, however distant, related to me. A mistaken assumption on that head might suggest an explanation of a part of my own case, —but only a part, —which would be wholly without foundation. It cannot be referred to my inheritance of any developed peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all similar experience, nor have I ever had any at all similar experience since.

  It does not signify how many years ago, or how few, a certain murder was committed in England, which attracted great attention. We hear more than enough of murderers as they rise in succession to their atrocious eminence, and I would bury the memory of this particular brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in Newgate Jail. I purposely abstain from giving any direct clew to the criminal’s individuality.

  When the murder was first discovered, no suspicion fell—or I ought rather to say, for I cannot be too precise in my facts, it was nowhere publicly hinted that any suspicion fell—on the man who was afterwards brought to trial. As no reference was at that time made to him in the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that any description of him can at that time have been given in the newspapers. It is essential that this fact be remembered.