Murder for Christmas by Anthology

Author:Anthology [Anthology]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-10-22T00:00:00+00:00

At 10 o’clock that evening the investigation was still blocked. It was unlikely that anyone in the whole building had gone to sleep, except Colette. She had finally dozed off, with her father sitting in the dark by her bedside.

Torrence had arrived at 7:30 with his part-time musician and checkroom attendant, who declared:

“She’s the one. I remember she didn’t put the check in her handbag. She slipped it into a big brown shopping bag.” And when they took him into the kitchen he added, “That’s the bag. Or one exactly like it.”

The Martin apartment was very warm. Everyone spoke in low tones, as if they had agreed not to awaken the child. Nobody had eaten. Nobody, apparently, was even hungry. On their way over, Maigret and Lucas had each drunk two beers in a little cafe on the Boulevard Voltaire.

After the cornetist had spoken his piece, Maigret took Torrence aside and murmured fresh instructions.

Every corner of the apartment had been searched. Even the photos of Martin’s parents had been taken from their frames, to make sure the baggage check had not been secreted between picture and backing. The dishes had been taken from their shelves and piled on the kitchen table. The larder had been emptied and examined closely. No baggage check.

Madame Martin was still wearing her pale blue negligee. She was chainsmoking cigarettes. What with the smoke from the two men’s pipes, a thick blue haze swirled about the lamps.

“You are of course free to say nothing and answer no questions. Your husband will arrive at 11:17. Perhaps you will be more talkative in his presence.”

“He doesn’t know any more than I do.”

“Does he know as much?”

“There’s nothing to know. I’ve told you everything.”

She had sat back and denied everything, all along the line. She had conceded only one point. She admitted that Lorilleux had dropped in to see her two or three times at night when she lived in the Rue Pernelle. But she insisted there had been nothing between them, nothing personal.

“In other words he came to talk business—at 1 o’clock in the morning?”

“He used to come to town by a late train, and he didn’t like to walk the streets with large sums of money on him. I already told you he might have been smuggling gold, but I had nothing to do with it. You can’t arrest me for his activities.”

“Did he have large sums of money on him when he disappeared?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t always take me into his confidence.”

“But he did come to see you in your room at night?”

Despite the evidence, she clung to her story of the morning’s marketing. She denied ever having seen the two taxi drivers, the luggage dealer, or the check-room attendant.

“If I had really left a package at the Gare du Nord, you would have found the check, wouldn’t you?”

She glanced nervously at the clock on the mantel, obviously thinking of her husband’s return.

“Admit that the man who came last night found nothing under the floor because you changed the hiding place.

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