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the wooden benches in the lockups.
There’d been five
knifings. Two near the Porte d’ltalie. Three in the remoter part of Montmartre.
not in the Montmartre of the Moulin Rouge and the Lapin Agile but in the Zone,
beyond where the Fortifs used to be, whose population included over 100,000
Arabs living in huts made of old packing cases and roofing-felt.
A few children had
been lost in the exodus from the churches, but they were soon returned to their
anxious parents.
“Hallo! Chaillot?
How’s your veronal case getting on?”
She wasn’t dead. Of
course not! Few went as far as that. Suicide is all very well as a
gesture—indeed, it can be a very effective one. But there’s no need to go and
kill yourself!
“Talking of boudin ,”
said Mambret, who was smoking an enormous meerschaum pipe, “that reminds me
of—”
They were never to
know what he was reminded of. There were steps in the corridor, then the handle
of the door was turned. All three looked round at once, wondering who could be
coming to see them at ten past six in the morning.
“ Salut! ”
said the man who entered, throwing his hat down on a chair.
“Whatever brings
you here, Janvier?”
It was a detective
of the Brigade des Homicides, who walked straight to the stove to warm his
hands.
“I got pretty bored
sitting all by myself and I thought I might as well come over here. After all,
if the killer’s going to do his stuff I’d hear about it quicker here than
anywhere.”
He, too, had been
on duty all night, but round the corner, in the Police Judiciaire.
“You don’t mind, do
you?” he asked, picking up the coffeepot. “There’s a bitter wind blowing.”
It had made his
ears red.
“I don’t suppose
we’ll hear till eight, probably later,” said Lecœur.
For the last
fifteen years, he had spent his nights in that room, sitting at the
switchboard, keeping an eye on the big map with the little lamps. He knew half
the police in Paris by name, or, at any rate, those who did night duty. Of many
he knew even their private affairs, as, when things were quiet, he would have
long chats with them over the telephone to pass the time away. “Oh. it’s you,
Dumas. How are things at home?”
But though there
were many whose voices were familiar, there were hardly any of them he knew by
sight.
Nor was his
acquaintance confined to the police. He was on equally familiar terms with many
of the hospitals.
“Hallo! Bichat?
What about the chap who was brought in half an hour ago? Is he dead yet?”
He was dead, and
another little cross went into the notebook. The latter was, in its
unpretentious way, quite a mine of information. If you asked Lecœur how many
murders in the last twelve months had been done for the sake of money, he’d
give the answer in a moment—sixty-seven.
“How many murders
committed by foreigners?”
“Forty-two.”
You could go on
like that for hours without being able to trip him up. And yet he trotted out
his figures without a trace of swank. It was his hobby, that was all.
For he wasn’t
obliged to make those crosses. It was his own idea. Like the chats over the
telephone lines, they helped to pass the time away, and the result gave him
much the same satisfaction that others derive from a collection of stamps.
He was unmarried.
Few knew where he lived or what sort of a life he led outside that room. It was
difficult to picture him anywhere else, even to think of him walking along the
street like an ordinary person. He turned to Janvier to say: “For your cases,
we generally have to wait till people are up and about. It’s when a concierge
goes up with the post or when a maid takes her mistress’s breakfast into the
bedroom that things like that come to light.”
He claimed no
special merit in knowing a thing like that. It was just a fact. A bit earlier
in summer, of course, and later in winter. On Christmas Day probably later
still, as a considerable part of the population hadn’t gotten to bed until
There’d been five
knifings. Two near the Porte d’ltalie. Three in the remoter part of Montmartre.
not in the Montmartre of the Moulin Rouge and the Lapin Agile but in the Zone,
beyond where the Fortifs used to be, whose population included over 100,000
Arabs living in huts made of old packing cases and roofing-felt.
A few children had
been lost in the exodus from the churches, but they were soon returned to their
anxious parents.
“Hallo! Chaillot?
How’s your veronal case getting on?”
She wasn’t dead. Of
course not! Few went as far as that. Suicide is all very well as a
gesture—indeed, it can be a very effective one. But there’s no need to go and
kill yourself!
“Talking of boudin ,”
said Mambret, who was smoking an enormous meerschaum pipe, “that reminds me
of—”
They were never to
know what he was reminded of. There were steps in the corridor, then the handle
of the door was turned. All three looked round at once, wondering who could be
coming to see them at ten past six in the morning.
“ Salut! ”
said the man who entered, throwing his hat down on a chair.
“Whatever brings
you here, Janvier?”
It was a detective
of the Brigade des Homicides, who walked straight to the stove to warm his
hands.
“I got pretty bored
sitting all by myself and I thought I might as well come over here. After all,
if the killer’s going to do his stuff I’d hear about it quicker here than
anywhere.”
He, too, had been
on duty all night, but round the corner, in the Police Judiciaire.
“You don’t mind, do
you?” he asked, picking up the coffeepot. “There’s a bitter wind blowing.”
It had made his
ears red.
“I don’t suppose
we’ll hear till eight, probably later,” said Lecœur.
For the last
fifteen years, he had spent his nights in that room, sitting at the
switchboard, keeping an eye on the big map with the little lamps. He knew half
the police in Paris by name, or, at any rate, those who did night duty. Of many
he knew even their private affairs, as, when things were quiet, he would have
long chats with them over the telephone to pass the time away. “Oh. it’s you,
Dumas. How are things at home?”
But though there
were many whose voices were familiar, there were hardly any of them he knew by
sight.
Nor was his
acquaintance confined to the police. He was on equally familiar terms with many
of the hospitals.
“Hallo! Bichat?
What about the chap who was brought in half an hour ago? Is he dead yet?”
He was dead, and
another little cross went into the notebook. The latter was, in its
unpretentious way, quite a mine of information. If you asked Lecœur how many
murders in the last twelve months had been done for the sake of money, he’d
give the answer in a moment—sixty-seven.
“How many murders
committed by foreigners?”
“Forty-two.”
You could go on
like that for hours without being able to trip him up. And yet he trotted out
his figures without a trace of swank. It was his hobby, that was all.
For he wasn’t
obliged to make those crosses. It was his own idea. Like the chats over the
telephone lines, they helped to pass the time away, and the result gave him
much the same satisfaction that others derive from a collection of stamps.
He was unmarried.
Few knew where he lived or what sort of a life he led outside that room. It was
difficult to picture him anywhere else, even to think of him walking along the
street like an ordinary person. He turned to Janvier to say: “For your cases,
we generally have to wait till people are up and about. It’s when a concierge
goes up with the post or when a maid takes her mistress’s breakfast into the
bedroom that things like that come to light.”
He claimed no
special merit in knowing a thing like that. It was just a fact. A bit earlier
in summer, of course, and later in winter. On Christmas Day probably later
still, as a considerable part of the population hadn’t gotten to bed until
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