Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (46 page)

“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.”