Free Cynthia Manson (ed) by Merry Murder Page B

be the same chap. We’ve already had two
reported from the Fifteenth. Yes, they tried to nab him but couldn’t find a
soul about. Gets about pretty fast, doesn’t he? He crossed the river by the
Pont Mirabeau. Seems to be heading in this direction. Yes, you may as well have
a try.”
    Another little
cross. By half past seven, with only half an hour of the night watch to go,
there were five crosses in the Miscellaneous column.
    Mad or sane, the
person was a good walker. Perhaps the cold wind had something to do with it. It
wasn’t the weather for sauntering along.
    For a time it had
looked as though he was keeping to the right bank of the Seine, then he had
sheered off into the wealthy Auteuil district, breaking a glass in the Rue la
Fontaine.
    “He’s only five
minutes’ walk from the Bois de Boulogne,” Lecœur had said. “If he once gets
there, they’ll never pick him up.”
    But the fellow had
turned round and made for the quays again, breaking a glass in the Rue Berton,
just around the corner from the Quai de Passy.
    The first calls had
come from the poorer quarters of Grenelle, but the man had only to cross the
river to find himself in entirely different surroundings—quiet, spacious, and
deserted streets, where his footfalls must have rung out clearly on the frosty
pavements.
    Sixth call.
Skirting the Place du Trocadéro, he was in the Rue de Long-champ.
    “The chap seems to
think he’s on a paper chase,” remarked Mambret. “Only he uses broken glass
instead of paper.”
    Other calls came in
in quick succession. Another stolen car, a revolver-shot in the Rue de
Flandres, whose victim swore he didn’t know who fired it, though he’d been seen
all through the night drinking in company with another man.
    “Hallo! Here’s
Javel again. Hallo! Javel? It can’t be your practical joker this time: he must
be somewhere near the Champs Elysées by now. Oh. yes. He’s still at it. Well,
what’s your trouble? What? Spell it, will you? Rue Michat. Yes, I’ve got it.
Between the Rue Lecourbe and the Boulevard Felix Faure. By the viaduct—yes. I
know. Number 17. Who reported it? The concierge? She’s just been up, I suppose.
Oh, shut up, will you! No, I wasn’t speaking to you. It’s Sommer here, who
can’t stop talking about a boudin he ate thirty years ago!”
    Sommer broke off
and listened to the man on the switchboard.
    “What were you
saying? A shabby seven-story block of flats. Yes—”
    There were plenty
of buildings like that in the district, buildings that weren’t really old, but
of such poor construction that they were already dilapidated. Buildings that as
often as not thrust themselves up bleakly in the middle of a bit of wasteland,
towering over the little shacks and hovels around them, their blind walls
plastered with advertisements.
    “You say she heard
someone running downstairs and then a door slam. The door of the house, I
suppose. On which floor is the flat? The entresol . Which way does it
face? Onto an inner courtyard— Just a moment, there’s a call coming in from the
Eighth. That must be our friend of the telephone pillars.”
    Lecœur asked the
new caller to wait, then came back to Javel.
    “An old woman, you
say. Madame Fayet. Worked as charwoman. Dead? A blunt instrument. Is the doctor
there? You’re sure she’s dead? What about her money? I suppose she had some
tucked away somewhere. Right. Call me back. Or I’ll ring you.”
    He turned to the
detective, who was now sleeping soundly.
    “Janvier! Hey,
Janvier! This is for you.”
    “What? What is it?”
    “The killer.”
    “Where?”
    “Near the Rue Lecourbe.
Here’s the address. This time he’s done in an old charwoman, a Madame Fayet.”
    Janvier put on his
overcoat, looked round for his hat, and gulped down the remains of the coffee
in his cup.
    “Who’s dealing with
it?”
    “Gonesse, of the
Fifteenth.”
    “Ring up the P. J.,
will you, and tell them I’ve gone there.”
    A minute or two
later, Lecœur was