Free Cynthia Manson (ed) by Merry Murder

two
or even later, to say nothing of their having to sleep off a good many glasses
of champagne.
    Before then, still
more water would have gone under the bridge—a few more stolen cars, a few
belated drunks.
    “Hallo!
Saint-Gervais?”
    His Paris was not
the one known to the rest of us—the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Opéra—but one
of somber, massive buildings with a police car waiting under the blue lamp and
the bicycles of the agents cyclistes leaning against the wall.
    “The chief is
convinced the chap’ll have another go tonight,” said Janvier. “It’s just the
night for people of that sort. Seems to excite them.”
    No name was
mentioned, for none was known. Nor could he be described as the man in the fawn
raincoat or the man in the grey hat, since no one had ever seen him. For a
while the papers had referred to him as Monsieur Dimanche, as his first three
murders had been on Sunday, but since then five others had been on weekdays, at
the rate of about one a week, though not quite regularly.
    “It’s because of
him you’ve been on all night, is it?” asked Mambret.
    Janvier wasn’t the
only one. All over Paris extra men were on duty, watching or waiting.
    “You’ll see,” put
in Sommer. “when you do get him you’ll find he’s only a loony.”
    “Loony or not, he’s
killed eight people,” sighed Janvier, sipping his coffee. “Look. Lecœur—there’s
one of your lamps burning.”
    “Hallo! Your car’s
out? What’s that? Just a moment.”
    They could see Lecœur
hesitate, not knowing in which column to put a cross. There was one for
hangings, one for those who jumped out of the window, another for—
    “Here, listen to
this. On the Pont d’Austerlitz, a chap climbed up onto the parapet. He had his
legs tied together and a cord round his neck with the end made fast to a
lamppost, and as he threw himself over he fired a shot into his head!”
    “Taking no risks,
what? And which column does that one go into?”
    “There’s one for
neurasthenics. We may as well call it that.”
    Those who hadn’t
been to Midnight Mass were now on their way to early service. With hands thrust
deep in their pockets and drops on the ends of their noses, they walked bent
forward into the cutting wind, which seemed to blow up a fine, icy dust from
the pavements. It would soon be time for the children to be waking up, jumping
out of bed, and gathering barefoot around lighted Christmas trees.
    “But it’s not at
all sure the fellow’s mad. In fact, the experts say that if he was he’d always
do it the same way. If it was a knife, then it would always be a knife.”
    “What did he use
this time?”
    “A hammer.”
    “And the time
before?”
    “A dagger.”
    “What makes you
think it’s the same chap?”
    “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,