Cynthia Manson (ed) (9 page)

“First of all, the
fact that there’ve been eight murders in quick succession. You don’t get eight
new murderers cropping up in Paris all at once.” Belonging to the Police
Judiciaire, Janvier had, of course, heard the subject discussed at length.
“Besides, there’s a sort of family likeness between them all. The victims are
invariably solitary people, people who live alone, without any family or
friends.”

Sommer looked at Lecœur,
whom he could never forgive for not being a family man. Not only had he five
children himself, but a sixth was already on the way. “You’d better look out, Lecœur—you
see the kind of thing it leads to!”

“Then, not one of
the crimes has been committed in one of the wealthier districts.”

“Yet he steals,
doesn’t he?”

“He does, but not
much. The little hoards hidden under the mattress— that’s his mark. He doesn’t
break in. In fact, apart from the murder and the money missing, he leaves no
trace at all.”

Another lamp
burning. A stolen car found abandoned in a little side street near the Place
des Ternes.

“All the same, I
can’t help laughing over the people who had to walk home.”

Another hour or
more and they would be relieved, except Lecœur, who had promised to do the
first day shift as well so that his opposite number could join in a family
Christmas party somewhere near Rouen.

It was a thing he
often did. so much so that he had come to be regarded as an ever-ready
substitute for anybody who wanted a day off.

“I say. Lecœur, do
you think you could look out for me on Friday?”

At first the
request was proffered with a suitable excuse—a sick mother, a funeral, or a
First Communion, and he was generally rewarded with a bottle of wine. But now
it was taken for granted and treated quite casually.

To tell the truth,
had it been possible, Lecœur would have been only too glad to spend his whole
life in that room, snatching a few hours’ sleep on a camp bed and picnicking as
best he could with the aid of the little electric stove. It was a funny
thing—although he was as careful as any of the others about his personal
appearance, and much more so than Sommer, who always looked a bit tousled,
there was something a bit drab about him which betrayed the bachelor.

He wore strong
glasses, which gave him big, globular eyes, and it came as a surprise to
everyone when he took them off to wipe them with the bit of chamois leather he
always carried about to see the transformation. Without them, his eyes were
gentle, rather shy, and inclined to look away quickly when anyone looked his
way.

“Hallo! Javel?”

Another lamp. One
near the Quai de Javel in the 15th Arrondissement, a district full of
factories.

“
Votre car est
sorti?”

“We don’t know yet
what it is. Someone’s broken the glass of the alarm in the Rue Leblanc.”

“Wasn’t there a
message?”

“No. We’ve sent our
car to investigate. I’ll ring you again later.”

Scattered here and
there all over Paris are red-painted telephone pillars standing by the curb,
and you have only to break the glass to be in direct telephone communication
with the nearest police station. Had a passerby broken the glass accidentally?
It looked like it, for a couple of minutes later Javel rang up again.

“Hallo! Central?
Our car’s just got back. Nobody about. The whole district seems quiet as the
grave. All the same, we’ve sent out a patrol.”

How was Lecœur to
classify that one? Unwilling to admit defeat, he put a little cross in the
column on the extreme right headed “Miscellaneous.”

“Is there any
coffee left?” he asked.

“I’ll make some
more.”

The same lamp lit
up again, barely ten minutes after the first call.

“Javel? What’s it
this time?”

“Same again.
Another glass broken.”

“Nothing said?”

“Not a word. Must
be some practical joker. Thinks it funny to keep us on the hop. When we catch
him he’ll find out whether it’s funny or not!”

“Which one was it?”

“The one on the
Pont Mirabeau.”

“Seems to walk
pretty quickly, your practical joker!”

There was indeed
quite a good stretch between the two pillars.

So far, nobody was
taking it very seriously. False alarms were not uncommon. Some people took
advantage of these handy instruments to express their feelings about the
police. “
Mort aux flics!
” was the favorite phrase.

With his feet on a
radiator, Janvier was just dozing off when he heard Lecœur telephoning again.
He half opened his eyes, saw which lamp was on, and muttered sleepily. “There
he is again.”

He was right. A
glass broken at the top of the Avenue de Versailles.

“Silly ass,” he
grunted, settling down again.

It wouldn’t be
really light until half past seven or even eight. Sometimes they could hear a
vague sound of church bells, but that was in another world. The wretched men of
the flying squad waiting in the cars below must be half frozen.

“Talking of
boudin
—”

“What
boudin
?”
murmured Janvier, whose cheeks were flushed with

sleep.

“The one my mother
used to—”

“Hallo! What?
You’re not going to tell me someone’s smashed the glass of one of your
telephone pillars? Really? It must be the same chap. We’ve already had two
reported from the Fifteenth. Yes, they tried to nab him but couldn’t find a
soul about. Gets about pretty fast, doesn’t he? He crossed the river by the
Pont Mirabeau. Seems to be heading in this direction. Yes, you may as well have
a try.”

Another little
cross. By half past seven, with only half an hour of the night watch to go,
there were five crosses in the Miscellaneous column.

Mad or sane, the
person was a good walker. Perhaps the cold wind had something to do with it. It
wasn’t the weather for sauntering along.

For a time it had
looked as though he was keeping to the right bank of the Seine, then he had
sheered off into the wealthy Auteuil district, breaking a glass in the Rue la
Fontaine.

“He’s only five
minutes’ walk from the Bois de Boulogne,” Lecœur had said. “If he once gets
there, they’ll never pick him up.”

But the fellow had
turned round and made for the quays again, breaking a glass in the Rue Berton,
just around the corner from the Quai de Passy.

The first calls had
come from the poorer quarters of Grenelle, but the man had only to cross the
river to find himself in entirely different surroundings—quiet, spacious, and
deserted streets, where his footfalls must have rung out clearly on the frosty
pavements.

Sixth call.
Skirting the Place du Trocadéro, he was in the Rue de Long-champ.

“The chap seems to
think he’s on a paper chase,” remarked Mambret. “Only he uses broken glass
instead of paper.”

Other calls came in
in quick succession. Another stolen car, a revolver-shot in the Rue de
Flandres, whose victim swore he didn’t know who fired it, though he’d been seen
all through the night drinking in company with another man.

“Hallo! Here’s
Javel again. Hallo! Javel? It can’t be your practical joker this time: he must
be somewhere near the Champs Elysées by now. Oh. yes. He’s still at it. Well,
what’s your trouble? What? Spell it, will you? Rue Michat. Yes, I’ve got it.
Between the Rue Lecourbe and the Boulevard Felix Faure. By the viaduct—yes. I
know. Number 17. Who reported it? The concierge? She’s just been up, I suppose.
Oh, shut up, will you! No, I wasn’t speaking to you. It’s Sommer here, who
can’t stop talking about a
boudin
he ate thirty years ago!”

Sommer broke off
and listened to the man on the switchboard.

“What were you
saying? A shabby seven-story block of flats. Yes—”

There were plenty
of buildings like that in the district, buildings that weren’t really old, but
of such poor construction that they were already dilapidated. Buildings that as
often as not thrust themselves up bleakly in the middle of a bit of wasteland,
towering over the little shacks and hovels around them, their blind walls
plastered with advertisements.

“You say she heard
someone running downstairs and then a door slam. The door of the house, I
suppose. On which floor is the flat? The
entresol
. Which way does it
face? Onto an inner courtyard— Just a moment, there’s a call coming in from the
Eighth. That must be our friend of the telephone pillars.”

Lecœur asked the
new caller to wait, then came back to Javel.

“An old woman, you
say. Madame Fayet. Worked as charwoman. Dead? A blunt instrument. Is the doctor
there? You’re sure she’s dead? What about her money? I suppose she had some
tucked away somewhere. Right. Call me back. Or I’ll ring you.”

He turned to the
detective, who was now sleeping soundly.

“Janvier! Hey,
Janvier! This is for you.”

“What? What is it?”

“The killer.”

“Where?”

“Near the Rue Lecourbe.
Here’s the address. This time he’s done in an old charwoman, a Madame Fayet.”

Janvier put on his
overcoat, looked round for his hat, and gulped down the remains of the coffee
in his cup.

“Who’s dealing with
it?”

“Gonesse, of the
Fifteenth.”

“Ring up the P. J.,
will you, and tell them I’ve gone there.”

A minute or two
later, Lecœur was able to add another little cross to the six that were already
in the column. Someone had smashed the glass of the pillar in the Avenue d’Iéna
only one hundred and fifty yards from the Arc de Triomphe.

“Among the broken
glass they found a handkerchief flecked with blood. It was a child’s
handkerchief.”

“Has it got
initials?”

“No. It’s a
blue-check handkerchief, rather dirty. The chap must have wrapped it round his
knuckles for breaking the glass.”

There were steps in
the corridor. The day shift coming to take over. They looked very clean and
close-shaven and the cold wind had whipped the blood into their cheeks.

“Happy Christmas!”

Sommer closed the
tin in which he brought his sandwiches. Mambret knocked out his pipe. Only Lecœur
remained in his seat, since there was no relief for him.

The fat Godin had
been the first to arrive, promptly changing his jacket for the grey-linen coat
in which he always worked, then putting some water on to boil for his grog. All
through the winter he suffered from one never-ending cold which he combated, or
perhaps nourished, by one hot grog after another.

“Hallo! Yes, I’m
still here. I’m doing a shift for Potier, who’s gone down to his family in
Normandy. Yes. I want to hear all about it. Most particularly. Janvier’s gone,
but I’ll pass it on to the P. J. An invalid, you say? What invalid?”

One had to be
patient on that job, as people always talked about their cases as though
everyone else was in the picture.

“A low building
behind, right. Not in the Rue Michat, then? Rue Vasco de Gamma. Yes, yes. I
know. The little house with a garden behind some railings. Only I didn’t know
he was an invalid. Right. He doesn’t sleep much. Saw a young boy climbing up a
drainpipe? How old? He couldn’t say? Of course not, in the dark. How did he
know it was a boy, then? Listen, ring me up again, will you? Oh, you’re going
off. Who’s relieving you? Jules? Right. Well, ask him to keep me informed.”

“What’s going on?” asked
Godin.

“An old woman who’s
been done in. Down by the Rue Lecourbe.”

“Who did it?”

“There’s an invalid
opposite who says he saw a small boy climbing up a drainpipe and along the top
of a wall.”

“You mean to say it
was a boy who killed the old woman?”

“We don’t know
yet.”

No one was very
interested. After all. murders were an everyday matter to these people. The
lights were still on in the room, as it was still only a bleak, dull daylight
that found its way through the frosty window panes. One of the new watch went
and scratched a bit of the frost away. It was instinctive. A childish memory
perhaps, like Sommer’s
boudin
.

The latter had gone
home. So had Mambret. The newcomers settled down to their work, turning over
the papers on their desks.

A car stolen from
the Square la Bruyère.

Lecœur looked
pensively at his seven crosses. Then, with a sigh, he got up and stood gazing
at the immense street plan on the wall.

“Brushing up on
your Paris?”

“I think I know it
pretty well already. Something’s just struck me. There’s a chap wandering about
smashing the glass of telephone pillars. Seven in the last hour and a half. He
hasn’t been going in a straight line but zigzagging— first this way, then
that.”