Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (48 page)

“You don’t like Madame
Martin, do you?”

“Why?”

“I asked if you liked
Madame Martin?”

“Well, if I had a son...”

“Go on.”

“If I had a son I don’t
think I would like Madame Martin for a daughter-in-law. Especially as Monsieur
Martin is such a nice man, so kind.”

“You think he is unhappy
with his wife?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I
have nothing against her, really. She can’t help being the kind of woman she
is.”

“What kind of woman is
she?”

“I couldn’t say, exactly.
You’ve seen her. You’re a better judge of those things than I am. In a way, she’s
not like a woman at all. I’ll wager she never shed a tear in her life. True,
she is bringing up the child properly, decently, but she never says a kind word
to her. She acts exasperated when I tell Colette a fairy tale. I’m sure she’s
told the girl there is no Santa Claus. Luckily Colette doesn’t believe her.”

“The child doesn’t like
her either, does she?”

“Colette is always
obedient. She tries to do what’s expected of her. I think she’s just as happy
to be left alone.”

“Is she alone much?”

“Not much. I’m not
reproaching Madame Martin. It’s hard to explain. She wants to live her own
life. She’s not interested in others. She doesn’t even talk much about herself.”

“Have you ever met her
brother-in-law—Colette’s father?”

“I’ve seen him on the
landing, but I’ve never spoken to him. He walks with his head down, as if he
were ashamed of something. He always looks as if he slept in his clothes. No, I
don’t think it was he last night, Monsieur Maigret. He’s not the type. Unless
he was terribly drunk.”

On his way out Maigret
looked in at the concierge’s lodge, a dark cubicle where the light burned all
day.

It was noon when he
started back across the boulevard. Curtains stirred at the windows of the house
behind him. Curtains stirred at his own window, too. Mme. Maigret was watching
for him so she would know when to put the chicken in the oven. He waved to her.
He wanted very much to stick out his tongue and lick up a few of the tiny snow
flakes that were drifting down. He could still remember their taste.

“I wonder if that little
tike is happy over there,” sighed Mme. Maigret as she got up from the table to
bring the coffee from the kitchen.

She could see he wasn’t
listening. He had pushed back his chair and was stuffing his pipe while staring
at the purring stove. For her own satisfaction she added: “I don’t see how she
could be happy with that woman.”

He smiled vaguely, as he
always did when he hadn’t heard what she said, and continued to stare at the
tiny flames licking evenly at the mica windows of the salamander. There were at
least ten similar stoves in the house, all purring alike in ten similar dining
rooms with wine and cakes on the table, a carafe of cordial waiting on the
sideboard, and all the windows pale with the same hard, gray light of a sunless
day.

It was perhaps this very
familiarity which had been confusing his subconscious since morning. Nine times
out of ten his investigations plunged him abruptly into new surroundings, set
him at grips with people of a world he barely knew, people of a social level
whose habits and manners he had to study from scratch. But in this case, which
was not really a case since he had no official assignment, the whole approach
was unfamiliar because the background was too familiar. For the first time in
his career something professional was happening in his own world, in a building
which might just as well be his building.

The Martins could easily
have been living on his floor, instead of across the street, and it would
probably have been Mme. Maigret who would look after Colette when her aunt was
away. There was an elderly maiden lady living just under him who was a plumper,
paler replica of Mlle. Doncoeur. The frames of the photographs of Martin’s
father and mother were exactly the same as those which framed Maigret’s father
and mother, and the enlargements had probably been made by the same studio.

Was that what was bothering
him? He seemed to lack perspective. He was unable to look at people and things
from a fresh, new viewpoint.

He had detailed his
morning activities during dinner—a pleasant little Christmas dinner which had
left him with an overstuffed feeling—and his wife had listened while looking at
the windows across the street with an air of embarrassment.

“Is the concierge sure
that nobody could have come in from outside?”

“She’s not so sure any
more. She was entertaining friends until after midnight. And after she had gone
to bed, there were considerable comings and goings, which is natural for
Christmas Eve.”

“Do you think something
more is going to happen?”

That was a question that
had been plaguing Maigret all morning. First of all, he had to consider that
Madame Martin had not come to see him spontaneously, but only on the insistence
of Mlle. Doncoeur. If she had got up earlier, if she had been the first to see
the doll and hear the story of Father Christmas, wouldn’t she have kept the
secret and ordered the little girl to say nothing?

And later she had taken
the first opportunity to go out, even though there was plenty to eat in the
house for the day. And she had been so absent-minded that she had bought
butter, although there was still a pound in the cooler.

Maigret got up from the
table and resettled himself in his chair by the window. He picked up the phone
and called Quai des Orfèvres.

“Lucas?”

“I got what you wanted,
Chief. I have a list of all prisoners released for the last four months. There
aren’t as many as I thought. And none of them has lived in the Boulevard
Richard-Lenoir at any time.”

That didn’t matter any
more now. At first Maigret had thought that a tenant across the street might
have hidden money or stolen goods under the floor before he was arrested. His
first thought on getting out of jail would be to recover his booty. With the
little girl bedridden, however, the room was occupied day and night.
Impersonating Father Christmas would not have been a bad idea to get into the
room. Had this been the case, however, Madame Martin would not have been so
reluctant to call in Maigret. Nor would she have been in so great a hurry to
get out of the house afterwards on such a flimsy pretext. So Maigret had
abandoned that theory.

“You want me to check each
prisoner further?”

“Never mind. Any news
about Paul Martin?”

“That was easy. He’s
known in every station house between the Bastille and the Hotel de Ville, and
even on the Boulevard Saint-Michel.”

“What did he do last
night?”

“First he went aboard the
Salvation Army barge to eat. He’s a regular there one day a week and yesterday
was his day. They had a special feast for Christmas Eve and he had to stand in
line quite a while.”

“After that?”

“About 11 o’clock he went
to the Latin Quarter and opened doors for motorists in front of a night club.
He must have collected enough money in tips to get himself a sinkful, because
he was picked up dead drunk near the Place Maubert at 4 in the morning. He was
taken to the station house to sleep it off, and was there until 11 this
morning. They’d just turned him loose when I phoned, and they promised to bring
him to me when they find him again. He still had a few francs in his pocket.”

“What about Bergerac?”

“Jean Martin is taking
the afternoon train for Paris. He was quite upset by a phone call he got this
morning.”

“He got only one call?”

“Only one this morning.
He got a call last night while he was eating dinner.”

“You know who called him?”

“The desk clerk says it
was a man’s voice, asking for Monsieur Jean Martin. He sent somebody into the
dining room for Martin but when Martin got to the phone, the caller had hung
up. Seems it spoiled his whole evening. He went out with a bunch of traveling
salesmen to some local hot-spot where there were pretty girls and whatnot, but
after drinking a few glasses of champagne, he couldn’t talk about anything
except his wife and daughter. The niece he calls his daughter, it seems. He had
such a dismal evening that he went home early. Three
A.M.
That’s all you wanted to know, Chief?”

When Maigret didn’t
reply, Lucas had to satisfy his curiosity. “You still phoning from home, Chief?
What’s happening up your way? Somebody get killed?”

“I still can’t say. Right
now all I know is that the principals are a seven-year-old girl, a doll, and
Father Christmas.”

“Ah?”

“One more thing. Try to
get me the home address of the manager of Zenith Watches, Avenue de l’Opera.
You ought to be able to raise somebody there, even on Christmas Day. Call me
back.”

“Soon as I have something.”

Mme. Maigret had just
served him a glass of Alsatian plum brandy which her sister had sent them. He
smacked his lips. For a moment he was tempted to forget all about the business
of the doll and Father Christmas. It would be much simpler just to take his
wife to the movies....

“What color eyes has she?”

It took him a moment to
realize that the only person in the case who interested Mme. Maigret was the
little girl.

“Why, I’m not quite sure.
They can’t be dark. She has blonde hair.”

“So they’re blue.”

“Maybe they’re blue. Very
light, in any case. And they are very serious.”

“Because she doesn’t look
at things like a child. Does she laugh?”

“She hasn’t much to laugh
about.”

“A child can always laugh
if she feels herself surrounded by people she can trust, people who let her act
her age. I don’t like that woman.”

“You prefer Mlle.
Doncoeur?”

“She may be an old maid
but I’m sure she knows more about children than that Madame Martin. I’ve seen
her
in the shops. Madame Martin is one of those women who
watch the scales, and take their money out of their pocketbooks, coin by coin.
She always looks around suspiciously, as though everybody was out to cheat her.”

The telephone rang as
Mme. Maigret was repeating, “I don’t like that woman.”

It was Lucas calling,
with the address of Monsieur Arthur Godefroy, general manager in France for
Zenith Watches. He lived in a sumptuous villa at Saint-Cloud, and Lucas had
discovered that he was at home. He added:

“Paul Martin is here,
Chief. When they brought him in, he started crying. He thought something had
happened to his daughter. But he’s all right now—except for an awful hangover.
What do I do with him?”

“Anyone around who can
come up here with him?”

“Torrence just came on
duty. I think he could use a little fresh air. He looks as if he had a hard
night, too. Anything more from me, Chief?”

“Yes. Call Palais-Royal
station. About five years ago a man named Lorilleux disappeared without a
trace. He sold jewelry and old coins in the Palais-Royal arcades. Get me all
the details you can on his disappearance.”

Maigret smiled as he
noted that his wife was sitting opposite him with her knitting. He had never
before worked on a case in such domestic surroundings.

“Do I call you back?”
asked Lucas.

“I don’t expect to move
an inch from my chair.”

A moment later Maigret
was talking to Monsieur Godefroy, who had a decided Swiss accent. The Zenith
manager thought that something must have happened to Jean Martin for anyone to
be making inquiries about him on Christmas Day.

“Most able... most
devoted... I’m bringing him into Paris to be assistant manager next year....
Next week, that is... Why do you ask? Has anything—? Be still, you!” He paused
to quiet the juvenile hubbub in the background. “You must excuse me. All my
family is with me today and—”

“Tell me, Monsieur
Godefroy, has anyone called your office these last few days to inquire about
Monsieur Martin’s current address?”