Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (47 page)

“Did you meet anyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I was wondering
if anyone tried to speak to you.”

She had had plenty of
time to go much further than the Rue Amelot or the Rue du Chemin-Vert where
most of the neighborhood shops were located. She had even had time to go across
Paris and back by taxi or the Metro.

Mlle. Doncoeur returned
to ask if there was anything she could do. Madame Martin was about to say no
when Maigret intervened: “I’d like you to stay with Colette while I step into
the next room.”

Mlle. Doncoeur understood
that he wanted her to keep the child busy while he questioned the
foster-mother. Madame Martin must have understood, too, but she gave no
indication.

“Please come in. Do you
mind if I take off my things?”

Madame Martin put her
packages in the kitchen. She took off her hat and fluffed out her pale blonde
hair. When she had closed the bedroom door, she said: “Mlle. Doncoeur is all
excited. This is quite an event, isn’t it, for an old maid—particularly an old
maid who cuts out every newspaper article about a certain police inspector, and
who finally has the inspector in her own house.... Do you mind?”

She had taken a cigarette
from a silver case, tapped the end, and snapped a lighter. The gesture somehow
prompted Maigret’s next question:

“You’re not working,
Madame Martin?”

“It would be difficult to
hold a job and take care of the house and the little girl, too, even when the
child is in school. Besides, my husband won’t allow me to work.”

“But you did work before
you met him?”

“Naturally. I had to earn
a living. Won’t you sit down?”

He lowered himself into a
rude raffia-bottomed chair. She rested one thigh against the edge of a table.

“You were a typist?”

“
I have been a typist.”

“For long?”

“Quite a while.”

“You were still a typist
when you met Martin? You must forgive me for asking these personal questions.”

“It’s your job.”

“You were married five
years ago. Were you working then? Just a moment. May I ask your age?”

“I’m thirty-three. I was
twenty-eight then, and I was working for a Monsieur Lorilleux in the
Palais-Royal arcades.”

“As his secretary?”

“Monsieur Lorilleux had a
jewelry shop. Or more exactly, he sold souvenirs and old coins. You know those
old shops in the Palais-Royal. I was salesgirl, bookkeeper,
and
secretary. I took care of the shop when he was away.”

“He was married?”

“And father of three
children.”

“You left him to marry
Martin?”

“Not exactly. Jean didn’t
want me to go on working, but he wasn’t making very much money then and I had
quite a good job. So I kept it for the first few months.”

“And then?”

“Then a strange thing happened.
One morning I came to work at 9 o’clock as usual, and I found the door locked.
I thought Monsieur Lorilleux had overslept, so I waited....”

“Where did he live?”

“Rue Mazarine with his
family. At half-past 9 I began to worry.”

“Was he dead?”

“No. I phoned his wife,
who said he had left the house at 8 o’clock as usual.”

“Where did you telephone
from?”

“From the glove shop next
door. I waited all morning. His wife came down and we went to the commissariat
together to report him missing, but the police didn’t take it very seriously.
They just asked his wife if he’d ever had heart trouble, if he had a
mistress—things like that. But he was never seen again, and nobody ever heard
from him. Then some Polish people bought out the store and my husband made me
stop working.”

“How long was this after
your marriage?”

“Four months.”

“Your husband was already
traveling in the southwest?”

“He had the same
territory he has now.”

“Was he in Paris when
your employer disappeared?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Didn’t the police
examine the premises?”

“Nothing had been touched
since the night before. Nothing was missing.”

“Do you know what became
of Madame Lorilleux?”

“She lived for a while on
the money from the sale of the store. Then she bought a little dry-goods shop
not far from here, in the Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. Her children must be grown up
now, probably married.”

“Do you still see her?”

“I go into her shop once
in a while. That’s how I know she’s in business in the neighborhood. The first
time I saw her there I didn’t recognize her.”

“How long ago was that?”

“
I don’t know. Six months or so.”

“Does she have a
telephone?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“What kind of man was
Lorilleux?”

“You mean physically?”

“
Let’s start with the physical.”

“He was a big man, taller
than you, and broader. He was fat, but flabby, if you know what I mean. And
rather sloppy-looking.”

“How old?”

“Around fifty. I can’t
say exactly. He had a little salt-and-pepper mustache, and his clothes were
always too big for him.”

“You were familiar with
his habits?”

“He walked to work every
morning. He got down fifteen minutes ahead of me and cleared up the mail before
I arrived. He didn’t talk much. He was a rather gloomy person. He spent most of
the day in the little office behind the shop.”

“No romantic adventures?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Didn’t he try to make
love to you?”

“No!” The monosyllable
was tartly emphatic.

“But he thought highly of
you?”

“
I think I was a great help to him.”

“Did your husband ever
meet him?”

“They never spoke. Jean
sometimes came to wait for me outside the shop, but he never came in.” A note
of impatience, tinged with anger, crept into her voice. “Is that all you want
to know?”

“May I point out, Madame
Martin, that you are the one who came to get me?”

“Only because a crazy old
maid practically dragged me there so she could get a close-up look at you.”

“You don’t like Mlle.
Doncoeur?”

“I don’t like people who
can’t mind their own business.”

“People like Mlle.
Doncoeur?”

“You know that we’ve
taken in my brother-in-law’s child. Believe me or not, I’ve done everything I
can for her. I treat her the way I’d treat my own child....” She paused to
light a fresh cigarette, and Maigret tried unsuccessfully to picture her as a
doting mother. “... And now that old maid is always over here, offering to help
me with the child. Every time I start to go out, I find her in the hallway,
smiling sweetly, and saying, ‘You mustn’t leave Colette all alone, Madame
Martin. Let me go in and keep her company.’ I sometimes wonder if she doesn’t
go through my drawers when I’m out.”

“You put up with her,
nevertheless.”

“How can I help it?
Colette asks for her, especially since she’s been in bed. And my husband is
fond of her because when he was a bachelor, she took care of him when he was
sick with pleurisy.”

“Have you already
returned the doll you bought for Colette’s Christmas?”

She frowned and glanced
at the door to the child’s bedroom. “I see you’ve been questioning the little
girl. No, I haven’t taken it back for the very good reason that all the big department
stores are closed today. Would you like to see it?”

She spoke defiantly,
expecting him to refuse, but he said nothing. He examined the cardboard box,
noting the price tag. It was a very cheap doll.

“May I ask where you went
this morning?”

“I did my marketing.”

“Rue Amelot or Rue du
Chemin-Vert?”

“Both.”

“If I may be indiscreet,
what did you buy?”

Furious, she stormed into
the kitchen, snatched up her shopping bag, and dumped it on the dining room
table. “Look for yourself!”

There were three tins of
sardines, butter, potatoes, some ham, and a head of lettuce.

She fixed him with a
hard, unwavering stare. She was not in the least nervous. Spiteful, rather.

“Any more questions?”

“Yes. The name of your
insurance agent.”

“My insurance....” She
was obviously puzzled.

“Insurance agent. The one
who came to see you.”

“I’m sorry. I was at a
loss for a moment because you spoke of
my
agent as though he were really handling a policy for
me. So Colette told you that, too? Actually, a man did come to see me twice,
trying to sell me a policy. He was one of those door-to-door salesmen, and I
thought at first he was selling vacuum cleaners, not life insurance. I had a
terrible time getting rid of him.”

“Did he stay long?”

“Long enough for me to
convince him that I had no desire to take out a policy.”

“What company did he
represent?”

“He told me but I’ve
forgotten. Something with ‘Mutual’ in it.”

“And he came back later?”

“Yes.”

“What time does Colette
usually go to sleep?”

“I put out her light at
7: 30, but sometimes she talks to herself in the dark until much later.”

“So the second time the
insurance man called, it was later than 7: 30?”

“Possibly.” She saw the
trap. “I remember now I was washing the dishes.”

“And you let him in?”

“He had his foot in the
door.”

“Did he call on other
tenants in the building?”

“I haven’t the slightest
idea, but I’m sure you will inquire. Must you cross-examine me like a criminal,
just because a little girl imagines she saw Santa Claus? If my husband were
here—”

“By the way, does your husband
carry life insurance?”

“I think so. In fact, I’m
sure he does.”

Maigret picked up his hat
from a chair and started for the door. Madame Martin seemed surprised.

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. It seems
your brother-in-law promised to come and see his daughter today. If he should
come, I would be grateful if you let me know. And now I’d like a few words with
Mlle. Doncoeur.”

There was a convent smell
about Mlle. Doncoeur’s apartment, but there was no dog or cat in sight, no
antimacassars on the chairs, no bricbrac on the mantelpiece.

“Have you lived in this
house long, Mlle. Concoeur?”

“Twenty-five years,
Monsieur l’lnspecteur. I’m one of the oldest tenants. I remember when I first
moved in you were already living across the street, and you wore long mustaches.”

“Who lived in the next
apartment before Martin moved in?”

“A public works engineer.
I don’t remember his name, but I could look it up for you. He had a wife and
daughter. The girl was a deaf-mute. It was very sad. They went to live
somewhere in the country.”

“Have you been bothered
by a door-to-door insurance agent recently?”

“No recently. There was
one who came around two or three years ago.”