[music] Magray and the Spinster by George Simony. Part 1, Chapter 3. Magray had been known to shrug when people expressed amazement at the resignation of the pool, the sick and the handicapped. The thousands upon thousands of solitary men and women without hope, each confined to a separate little cell in the big city. It knew from experience that man could adapt to any environment once he was filled with his own warmth and his own familiar smells and habits. The launch where he was now sitting in a creaking cane armchair was barely eight feet by terninary. The ceiling was slow. The uncurtained glass door opened onto a dark hall, for the only light on the stairs was operated by a time switch near the front door, a bed with a red idler down. On the table, the gluteness remained of a pig's trotter, crumbs on the brown oilcloth cover, night jacks of bluish wine in the glass. Seated opposite, madam saving your presence for speaking. The cheek practically welded to her shoulder as a result of chronic arthritis of the neck. Her throat wrapped in a thermal jean wall, the ugly pink edge of which showed both her black shawl. "No," Chief Superintendent, saving your presence, I won't sit in the armchair. It belonged to my late husband, and in spite of my age and all my little eggs and paints, I won't wish to take the liberty. A smell of stale cat urine, the cat at all, was stretched out in front of the stove, purring. The electric light bulb, dimmed by 20 years of accumulation of dust on the shade, emitted a reddish glow. From somewhere came the sound of rain dripping into a sink bucket, and every few seconds the roar of a car speeding along the highway, or the rumble of a truck, or the screeching of street car brakes. As I was saying, saving your presence, the poor lady was a landlord. Juliet Boyney was her married name, and when I say poor lady, Chief Superintendent, sir, it's out of respect for the dead, because she was a real bitch, got rest her soul. What's more, it was something to be grateful for. When the good lord, a few months ago, deprived her of the use of her legs, up to her point. It's not that I want to be spiteful, but when she could get around like the rest of us, life just wasn't worth living. When he had checked with the Borklerham police station, Maygré had been astonished to learn that the dead woman was not yet 60. For in spite of her crudely dyed hair, she had looked older, with her bloated face and big bulging eyes. Juliet Marie Jean-Léontin Bonnet, Le Casnove, aged 59, born at Fontenet Le Comte, Von Dé, outside. With her twisted neck, her hair screwed up in a meagre little bun. Her black balloon shawl, tightly drawn over a scrawny buzzer. The very thought of the old concierges with it breasts, caused him to shudder. Madam, saving your presence, gloatingly, savoured her words as early as she had savoured her pickstrotzer, pausing at intervals to direct a glance at the glass door. As you see, this is a quiet house, but this hour everyone, or nearly everyone, is at home. How long has Madam Boyne been the owner of the building? Since it was built, I should think, her husband was a building contractor. He built several houses in Borklerham. He died young, he was under 50, and it was the best thing that could have happened to him. Poor man. After his death, she came here to live. That was 15 years ago. Saving your presence, she was just as bad than as she was when she died, except that she had the use of her legs and was always on my back. She was just as bad with the tenants. God helped the owner if she ever caught sight of a dog or a cat on the stairs, and if ever anyone screwed up the courage to ask her to carry out any repairs, you see what I mean when I tell you that this building was the last of the whole of this area to be converted to electricity. They could hear footsteps on the second floor, and a baby crying. That's Madam Boyne again, explaining Madam's saving your presence. Her husband is a commercial traveler. He has a small car. He's probably away at the moment, covering the sub-western territory. He's usually away for three months at a time. They have four children already, and I expect a fifth. In spite of the fuss, there's been over the baby carriage. Madam Boyne, God rest her soul, would never allow them to leave it in the lobby, so it has to be carted up and downstairs twice a day. There now, that's their maid ticking down with garbage can. The light went on, and a whistened woman in a white apron came into view. The huge galvanized iron can that she was clasping to her stomach gave her deformed appearance. What was I saying? Oh yes, you won't say no to a glass of wine, will you, Chief Superintendent, but you must. I have one good bottle left, a present from Montserve Bonge. He's in a wine tray, you see. Well, one fine day, about 12 years ago, Madam Boyne had sister, who was also a widow, died at Fontaine, and Madam Boyne had sent for her three children, two girls and a boy. Everyone in the neighborhood was amazed at this generosity. In those days, she occupied the whole of the fifth floor. The boy, Montserve was the first to get away. He enlisted in the army to escape from his unscrutches, no doubt, and then he got married. He lives in Paris, somewhere near the Bastille. He hardly ever shows up here. I have the impression he hasn't done too well for himself. Have you seen him recently? Mostly he waits for his sister outside. He doesn't suffer from false pride. His wife is another one who was expecting a baby. He was here last week and went up to the apartment. He needed money, I think. He didn't look very happy when he came down again. The fact is, if you wanted to persuade the old lady to part with her money, saving your presence, you had to be a very early bird, you have very good health. She turned around sharply instead at the door. The light had not been switched on. Still, a faint rustling could be heard. Madam, saving her presence, got up and swiftly opened the door. A girlish figure could be seen slinking away. "Litering on a staircase, as usual," Madam myself, no she. "You should be ashamed of yourself," she sat down again. That's the trouble with having her place his size to look after, she grumbled. Those people, they are the fifth floor tenants, the old lady's nearest neighbors. But as I was saying, first, Monsieur Geha went off to join the army. Then, the younger sister, Bertha, who didn't get on with her aunt either, walked out. She is a sales girl at the Ganadi Leveit. The old woman took the chance and rented half of the apartment space to the Hungarian family to see the she. They have two daughters, Nushi and Putsi. Putsi is the fat one, and she's most of the time loafing around half naked. Mind you, that Nushi, who is only 16, isn't much better. She goes with men at night, in any dark corner she can find, sometimes even in the entrance hall. The best thing he felt was to let the concierge have a say and make the best sense he could have it. Thus, the second floor tenants were named Berneke. The father was out of town. There were four children and the fifth expected, and they kept the maid. The fifth floor tenants were the Sifoshi. Magre had his first taste of the family that morning, in the person of the facts and shameless Putsi. He had now also seen the skinny one, Nushi. Their mother doesn't believe in discipline. People like them don't know about manners and dignity. Listen to this, only last week, when I took up their mail, I knocked, as usual. Someone called out, "Come in." I opened the door in all innocence. And what do I see? Madame Sifoshi, stark naked, smoking a cigarette. She wasn't even embarrassed, and her daughters were there with her in the room. What is Mounsir Sifoshi's profession? His profession. My poor dear sir, saving your presence. He comes and goes. He always has books under his arm. He's the one who does the household shopping. He's two quarters behind with the rent, but you won't catch him hiding from the rent collector. Rather, he seems to look on his visits as something of a joke. Now, poor little Mounsir Lagron, most of Gaston, as I call him. He's very different. He keeps the bicycle shop. A thoroughly honorable little man, who started life selling newspapers and pulled himself up by his bootstraps. Sometimes he finds himself short at the end of the month, and when that happens, I swear to you, he can scarcely look his neighbors in the face, not even me. Although I, he's been married barely three months' end, to save paying rent for lodgings. They sleep at the back of the shop, all among the spare wheels and tires. Well, I never. I bet you that pest, Nushi. It was Maygare who went to the door, having spotted a shadowy figure lurking outside. It was indeed Little Hungarian, with her big dark eyes and her mouth like a bleeding gash. "What do you want?" he asked. She replied, not in the lease put out. "I wanted to see you. I was told that the famous cheap superintendent Maygare. She looked him straight in the eye. Although she was thin, with no hips to speak of, her breasts, by contrast, were well developed and pointed and accentuated by her dress, which was a size too small for her. Very well, now you've seen me. Don't I get asked any questions? Have you anything to tell me? Maybe, outraged, madam saving your presence, sighed and shook ahead as vigorously as her stiff neck would permit. "Come in. What's all this about?" Nushi skipped into the lodge as though she belonged there. She was triumphant. Maybe someone had dared her to have cost the chief superintendent. "I wanted to tell you about Montserre d'Orndur Hall. Who's he?" Maygare asked, turning to the concierge, and she, indignant at the intrusion of Nushi, expostulated. "I don't know what kind of a yarn she's going to spin you, but I can tell you, saving your presence, that those kids will lie as soon as look at you." Montserre d'Orndur Hall used to be a lawyer, a thoroughly respectable man, very sincere, quiet and altogether. He occupies the whole of the fourth floor and has done so for years. He goes out for all his meals. He never has any fistes. He'll be back any moment now, I expect. "So what?" Nushi stated Cooby. Montserre d'Orndur Hall is an old pig. Whenever I come downstairs, he's watching behind his door. What's more, he's followed me into the street, only last month, as I was passing his door. He signaled me to come in. Madam saving your presence held up her hands to the ceiling, as if to say, "Do we have to listen to this depraved child?" Last Monday, I went in, just out of curiosity, and he offered to show me his photographs. It was really rather revolting. He told me that if I would come and visit him sometimes, he'd give me, "Don't listen to her," Chief Superintendent. "I swear," is the truth. I told Putsy about it the very first chance I got, and she went and had a look at the photographs too, and he prepositioned her as well. What inducement did he offer? Same as he offered me, a wristwatch. He must keep a stock on it, and I'll tell you something else too, one night, when I couldn't get sleep. I heard a noise on his landing. I got up and went down and looked in through his keyhole, and I saw him. Hold on, in the post-maker. What's the staircase light on? She was momentarily disconcerted. He could sense her hesitation. "No," she said at last, but there was a moon. How could the moon light the stairs? Through the skylight. There's a skylight just above the landing. This was true. Maegre remembered seeing it, but in that case, why had she hesitated when he had asked her about the staircase light? "Thank you, madam myself. You may go now. Your parents will be wondering. My parents and my sister have gone to the movies." She looked pressed forward. Surely she had an expected Maegre to go up with her to the apartment. "Don't you have any other questions to ask me?" "No, good evening. Is it true that Cecile was dead? By way of replying, he shut the door on her. It's a disgrace, saving oppressors, side to concierge. Another glass of wine, chief superintendent. I wouldn't put it past her to be taking men up to the apartment in the absence of her parents. Did you see the way she looked at you? It quite made me blush for my own sex. Counts and trucks rumbled endlessly past. Maegre returned to the Kain arm chaining, which creaked under his weight. The concierge got up to reveal the sturral and, when she sat down again, the cat jumped up on her lap. It was hot. Everything seemed very remote. The cars and trucks belonged to a distant world, almost, as it were, to another planet. With the lodge as the center, the real world was confined within the walls of the building. Above the bed hung the rubber bow which released the catch of the front door. I take it no one could get into the house without your knowing it. I don't see how. There are two keys. What about the shops? The doors leading into the building have been bricked up. Madam Boyding was scared of burglars. You say that. In the past few months, she never left the house. Mind you, she wasn't absolutely helpless. She was able to move about the apartment using a cane. Sometimes, she even managed to get as far as the lending, to spy on the tenons, or check on whether I'd cleaned the place properly. You never heard her coming. She crept about and felt slippers, and she'd had her cane fitted with a rubber tip. Did she have any fisters? None, except for her nephew, Montsergeha. Who would look in from time to time? Madam myself better never came near her out. I believe, saving her presence, that she has a steady boyfriend. I ran to her one Sunday when I was fisting the cemetery, in company with a very respectable looking gentleman of about 30. I had the feeling that he was a married man, though I couldn't see whether he was wearing a wedding ring. In other words, Madam Boyding lived quite alone with Cecile. That poor girl, so gentle, so devoted, her aunt treated her like a servant, but she never complained. Now there's one who couldn't be accused of running after men, and besides, she wasn't strong. Her health was far from good. She had stomach aches, but that didn't keep her from carting the garbage can down five flights of stairs, and going back, carrying a bucket of coal. I suppose it was Cecile who took the money to the bank. What bank? I presume that when Madam Boyding received her rent money, she wouldn't have put her money in the bank for all the tea and china. She was far too mistrustful. Come to think of it, I remember now that, at the beginning, Moser Bonickel wanted to pay by check. "What's this?" she exclaimed indignantly. "Just you go and tell the man that I want cash." Moser Bonickel ducked his toes in. He stuck to his guns for a fortnight, but in the end he had to give in. "Another glass, Chief Superintendent. I'm not a great one for drink as a rule, saving your presence, but with the right occasion." The bells sounded above the bed. She got up, leaned across the eider-down, pressed the rubber-ball, and announced. "That's Moser Desigles, the tenant of the third floor left. He's an inspector with the bus company. He's on shift work, and to prove it a man went past the lodge wearing the cab of the municipal bus company. The other tenant on that floor is a piano teacher, a spinster. Her name is Mademoiselle Puckoo. Her pupils arrive at hourly intervals, and you can't think how they mess up the stairs when it's raining. I'm surprised most of your daughter's home isn't back yet. When I think of what that impudent kid dared to insinuate, those little minces, vicious as they are, wouldn't think twice about putting a man behind bars just to draw attention to themselves. Did you see the way she looked at you? You an elderly married man and a public official. I know what that means, because my husband was a public official himself. He worked on the railroad. Ah, good. Here is Moser Donte Hall. She got up and once again leaned across the bed to press the rubber-ball. Lights came on in the hall and on the stairs. The soft switch of an umbrella being closed was followed by the careful scraping of shoes on the mat. You won't find him leaving dirty marks all over the place. A dry cough, slow measured footsteps, the door of the lodge opened, and he mailed from me, Mademoiselle. Nothing tonight saving a presence, Moser Donte Hall. A man of 70, with a grey complexion and grey hair, dressed all in black, carrying a damp umbrella. As he raised his eyes to meet Chief Superintendent's, Maygrave frowned, feeling sure that he had seen him somewhere before, and yet when he had first heard the name Donte Hall a little while ago, it had meant nothing to him. He was sure he knew the man. He searched his memory. Where could it have been? You are Chief Superintendent Maygrave, aren't you? Said the tenant quietly, still standing in the doorway. Would you believe that Chief Superintendent, I have just come from your office. I know it is outside of his hours, but I am also aware that occasionally he knew a name leaped into Maygrave's mind. More search house. Suddenly he was convinced that there was a connection between the name and the man who stood before him. Now what was it that that name conveyed to him? A small cafe, patronised by, "Is there something urgent you have to tell me?" Well, I thought if you would be so kindnessed to come up to my apartment for a moment, excuse us, Madame Bernard. Forgive me, Chief Superintendent, for putting you to the trouble of climbing four flights of stairs. I have only just learned at the cadence of air that poor Madame Marcel Sissima. I confess it was a great shock. Maygrave got up and followed Monsieur Donte Hall up the stairs. I could see you recognise me, even if you couldn't recall. We'd better hurry, or we'll be left in the dark. He felt in his pocket for his key and inserted it in the lock. Maygrave looked up and saw Nushi in shadowy outline, leaning over the banisters. No sooner had he done so than a block of spittle landed with a plop at their feet. Monsieur Donte Hall was sensitive to cold. He was wearing a coat even thicker and heavier than Maygrave's, and a long woolen muffler wound around his neck. He was unhealthy and uncaked, looking like so many elderly bachelors, and his apartment smelled as he did of stale pike smoke, soiled underwear, and solitude. One moment, I'll switch on the light. His study might have been that of a lawyer or a business consultant. Dark furniture, black shelves filled with law books, tables covered with green file boxes, periodicals and documents. You do spoke I think. He himself had a row of 10 or so pipes carefully set out on his desk, having first pulled the blind down over the window. He filled one for himself. Do you still not remember me? Admittedly, we only met twice, the first time as she's our best. On who Blanche? I know Monsieur Charles. The other time, in my office at the cadence of Anne, eight years ago, I had a few questions to ask you, and I must admit that you had an answer to everything. A coat smiled, a frozen smile on the frozen face, colorless, but for a tinge of pink in the flashy nose. Please take a seat. I was out this morning. May I ask where you were? Now that I know what's happened, I realize that this is going to look bad for me. All the same, I may as well admit that I spent a good deal of my time in the ballet justice. Going to my former connection with the law, I dare say, I can't seem to lose the habit ever since, ever since you were disbarred in Fortné Lecomte. A fake shrug, as it is say, just so, but it's of so little consequence. And a former lawyer from the provinces went on. I spent most of my time at the courts. Take today, for instance, there was a most interesting case being heard in court 13, a case of blackmail within a family, Mathé Boniface, who represented the son-in-law, Montserve d'Oron, formerly Mathé d'Oron, who had been living in one of the oldest private restances in Fortné, was forever cracking his stiff finger joints. Please stop fishing with your fingers and tell me what you went to see me about in my office, side medley, relighting his pipe, which had gone out. I'm so sorry. When I left the house at 8 o'clock this morning, I was unaware of what had happened in the apartment upstairs. It was until 4 o'clock in the ballet that one of my friends, you learned of the murder of Madame Juliet Boyne, Né Casanova, who, like yourself, came from Fortné Lecomte. "That is so, Chief Superintendent. I came back home, but you were not hidden. I prefer to say nothing to the policeman on duty outside. I returned my streetcar to the cadence of M. You must have been on your way here by then. Chief Superintendent Casio, who knows me, you must indeed be known, under the name of Montserve House, to the head of the five squirt. Donte Horn went on, as though he had not heard. Chief Superintendent Casio told me about sesealed and about, 'Magre got up and tiptoed across the tiny hallway, the door leading to which stood a jar. When abruptly, he flung open the front door, knew she, whose eye had been glued to the keyhole, almost fell flat on her face. She straightened up just in time, and was off up the stairs, like breezed lightning. You were saying, 'Knowing that I should find your hair, I decided to have dinner first. Then I had to wait some time for a streetcar on Place Saint-Michel, but here I am at last. I wanted to tell you myself that I was in Madame Boyne's apartment last night, sometime between midnight and one o'clock. She and I were friends, and I was, in a sense, a professional advisor. Without realising what he was doing, he cracked his finger joints again, and then hastily murmured an apology. Forgive me, don't have it's die hard.' "Magre and a Spinster," by George Simonin. Part 1, Chapter 4. It was a little after 10 o'clock at night. Madam Magre, having finished turning down the big double bed, was standing in front of the glass-fronted wardrobe, decided. Putting her hair in curdles with the aid of hairpin instead she was holding in her mouth. Goulford Richard Lenoir was deserted. The main role beyond the partadolium was also deserted, glinting under the rain, but only a few seconds later, a procession of three, four, six cars appeared on it, preceded by a broad beam of brilliant light. These headlights, as they were passed, barely brushed against Madame Boyne's house, disproportionately tall as it was, and the uglier have having no neighboring houses to conceal its rough hue sides. Madame Piécho's grocery store was still showing the light. The proprietress was sitting in front of the stove in the shop to save view. On the other side of the front door of the building, the bicycle shop was done, except for a patch of light from the open door to the back room, where there could be seen a bed in a young man polishing shoes. The super sheaves had gone to the movies. The concierge, reluctant to go to bed while Maegre was still in the house, was consoling herself by finishing the bottle of red wine, while at the same time entertaining her cat with her commentary on the events of the day. Over there at the forensic laboratory, far away on the other side of Paris, two bodies lay in drawers in that fast human cold storage plant. In Monsieur Don Quixon's apartment, Maegre popped at his pipe, avoiding as fast as he could, looking to form a lawyer in the eye. The apartment, it seemed, was never aired since all the usual household smells were blended in a sickening, musty staleness that seeped into one's clothing and clung for a long time afterward. Tell me, Monsieur Don Quixon, if I'm not mistaken, it was in connection with a vice-charge, was it not, that you were forced to leave fontane? Let's see, it's ancient history by now, but your name came up at police headquarters only a few weeks back, you got two years. That's right, the lawyer replied coolly. And Maegre huddled deeper into his heavy alpha coat, as if to insulate himself against any physical contact with his man. He had not taken off his hat. In spite of his apparent grumpiness, Maegre was very generous toward most forms of human weakness, but there were some people who so refalted him that he physically shrank from them. Monsieur Don Quixon was among them. This refulsion was so deep-seated that Maegre was never wholly at ease in the presence of his collicacio, who, as head of the vice-squad, was in charge of all matters connected with personal morality. It was Casio, who had spoken to him of his man, generally known as Monsieur Charles, a lawyer from the provinces, who had been mixed up in a nasty case concerning to corruption of minors, and had served a two-year term before landing up in Paris. He was a rather unusual case, conducive to reflections on the strangeness of human destiny, barred from the exercise of his profession, and swallowed up in the capital city where he was unknown. Don de Homme, still possessed of an ample income from investments, was able freely to gratify his vicious tastes. He was one of those stingy, somewhat repulsive, shifty-eyed men who, during daytime, keep in the shadows and only come to life when they are elbowing their way through the crowds in pursuit of a likely victim. The former lawyer had been spotted loitering near de Parteson Matang, Beauva Sebastopol, and Bastille, one of the many furtive characters that haunt factory gates and the exits of big stores, and who, at nightfall, scuffle, hunched up and muffled into the dark doorway of some disreputable establishment catering to their special tastes. Needless to say, he was familiar with all such establishments, and was well known to those who ran them. "Hello, Moser Charles, let me see. What have I got for you today?" He was at home in such places. They had become the breath of life to him, and he needed to go there every day. It did not take long for the other habitus to discover that he had formerly been a lawyer. He was occasionally asked to give legal advice. By now, he had joined chosen few who were admitted behind the scenes. He was no longer received as a client but as a friend. If you heard that the house on crude downtown is up for sale, Day Day has had some trouble, and he's leaving next week for South America, with 500,000 friends to his credit. May Gray seemed to be lost in a dream. His head lowered, he was staring at the faded red-fitted carpet. Suddenly, he started. He thought he had heard a sound from the floor about. For a second, he had imagined it came from Madame Boynet's apartment, the thought of Cecile. "It's only Nushi," said Moser Dontihong, with a characteristically mirthless smile. Obviously, since Cecile was dead. Cecile was dead. At that very moment, the chief commissioner of the police, Judy Sier, playing bridge at a friend's house, was briefly describing the scene in the broom closet. The body hunched against the wall, the tall figure of May Gray bending over it. What did he say? "Nothing." He just stood there with his hands in his pockets. I think he was harder hit than at any time during his career. Then he left the building. I would be greatly surprised if he got any sleep tonight. Poor old May Gray. May Gray tapped out his pipe on the heel of a shoe, emptying the ash onto the carpet. "Did you look after Madame Boynet's business interests?" he asked, speaking slowly with a rhyme mouth, as if the words had a bitter taste. "I knew her and her sister in Fortnalacont. You might also say we were neighbors. It was only when I took a lease on this apartment that I discovered she owned the building. She was a widow by that time. You never knew her when she was alive, did you? I wouldn't go so far as to say that she was mad, but she was certainly something of an eccentric. She was obsessed with money. She kept her entire fortune in the apartment, because she was terrified of being robbed by the banks. Very much to your advantage," I don't doubt. It did not take much effort of imagination for May Gray to envisage this man, warming his way into the confidence of the elderly women who ran the establishments which he patronized. Later, Monsieur Don de Holme had taken a step up the ladder and become acquainted with landlords, whom he would join in a game of billet, in the evenings in some bar in Montmartre. Thus, Mater Charles Don de Holme, lawyer from Fontaine, had been transformed into Monsieur Charles, advisor and associate of these gentlemen, who have reposed great trust in him, since being in a know as he was, he could be extremely useful to them in many ways. It was all to her advantage, Chief Superintendent. His long, bloodless, hairy hands fidgeted with the pipes on the table, his nostrils also sprouted tufts of gray hair. Surely, you must have heard of old Juliet. It's true, you've always specialized in murder, but your colleague, Casio, you all started with the house on Houdon town, which was up for sale. I mentioned it to Madam Boinett, whom I always called Juliet, since we had known one another from the time when we were young. Juliet bought it. A year later, I acquired Luparade in Basie on her behalf, and that is one of the most profitable establishment of its kind in a country. Does she know what sort of place you were infesting her money in? Look, Chief Superintendent, I've known a few mices in my time, a lawyer in the provinces meets all sorts of people, but their greed was nothing in comparison with Juliet's. Money had a sort of mystical fascination for her, as anyone in the milieu, as you call it a police headquarters. Ask them how many of their establishments are owned by Juliet. Allow me to quote you a few figures. He got up and took from a wall save a grubby ledger, as he turned over the pages, he licked his unsavory fingers. Last year, I remitted to Juliet 590,000 friends in bills, a profit of 590,000 friends, and she kept all that money in her apartment. I have every reason to believe she did, as she had ceased to be able to go out herself and she would never have entrusted her needs with such large sums of money. Oh, I can guess what you're thinking. I realize that what has happened puts me in a false position, but I give you my word, Chief Superintendent, that you are mistaken. I've never done anyone out of a single penny. Ask any of the people concerned. I don't have to tell you that they're not a sort to permit any irregularity to go unpunished. Any one of them will tell you that Moser Charles is on the level. Would you care for a refill of tobacco? May Gray declined to profit tobacco pouch and took his own out of his pocket. No thanks. As you prefer, I'm doing my best to give you a truthful account. As Albert would say, I'm spilling the beans. This slang expression was accompanied by an odd smile. After all, this was a man who had spent the greater part of his life in the society of the most god-fearing citizens of Fontaine. Juliet had a bee in the bonnet about keeping the nature of her investment secret. She dreaded discovery. Marquis, she never saw a soul. There was nobody to focus snows into her affairs. All the same, she went to absurd lengths. It was almost touching to prevent discovery. For the past six months or more, since she first became housebound, I have been under orders to visit her clandestinely in her apartment. You won't believe the shifts I was put to on the days when I had to call on her. Footsteps on the stairs. The severshees had returned. They could be heard talking loudly in Hungarian, and by the time they reached the floor above, a regular row had broken out. Every morning, the tenant's newspapers are delivered to the lodge. The concierge sorts them out and puts them in the appropriate pigeonholes with the mail. I had to contrive to mark Juliet's paper with a penciled cross when I collected my own. Poor Cecile, who suspected nothing, would come down and fetch her aunt's paper a few minutes later. That same night, at midnight, I would creep upstairs about making a sound. Juliet would be waiting for me at the door, leaning on her cane. The entire staff of the police judiciary had openly laughed at Cecile for suggesting that furniture and honourments had been moved during the night. Did the knee sleep through it all? Cecile, her aunt saw to it that she did. If you have searched the apartment, as I presume you have, you must have found several bottles of sleeping pills in the drawer. On the nights when Juliet was expecting me, she always made sure that Cecile would sleep very soundly, and forgive me, I haven't offered you a dream. What will you have? Nothing, thank you. I see, you're on the wrong track, Chief Superintendent. Of course, you don't have to believe it, but I do assure you that I couldn't so much as ring the neck of a chicken, and I turned feigns at the sight of blood. Madame Boyne was strangled. At this, the former lawyer seemed momentarily taken aback. He looked down at his bloodless hands. That too would be beyond me. Besides, it was not in my own interest to tell me, Monsieur Don De Honde, according to your calculations, how much money did Madame Boyne keep in the apartment? Approximately 800,000 francs. Do you know where this money was hidden? She never told me. Knowing her as I did, I presume that she never let it out of her hands, that there must be somewhere within her reach, and that, in a matter of speaking, she went to bed with her fortune. And yet, none of it has been found. Presumably, she also had papers, the deeds of her various properties, and so on. They had vanished from her desk. What time did you return to your apartment last night? Between one and half past. According to the pathologist, Madame Boyne was killed at around two o'clock in the morning. The concierge states that no one entered the building. One more question. Did anything occur while you were in the apartment to suggest that Cecile might not be asleep? Nothing. Think hard. Are you absolutely sure you couldn't have left something behind in the apartment which might have made it possible for her to suspect that you had been there? Monsieur Charles thought for a moment, but did not seem bothered by the question. I don't see… that's all I wanted to know. Naturally, I must ask you not to leave Paris. Indeed, I should prefer it if you wouldn't leave your apartment. I understand. Magrae was already at the front door. Sorry, I almost forgot. Do your friends often visit you here? He stressed the word "friends". Not one of them has ever set foot in this building. I am a careful man myself, Chief Superintendent. Not excessively careful, like my friend Juliet. I'm not obsessional. My friends, as you call them, don't know where I live and communicate with me through a post-office box number. Still, less would they be likely to know Madam Bynet's address. They don't even know her real name. In fact, a lot of people believe that Juliet didn't really exist, that she was a convenient victim, dreamed up by me from my own purposes. More footsteps on the stairs. The voice of the concierge, out of breath. Just a minute, Monsieur Girard. And she called out. Chief Superintendent. Chief Superintendent. Magrae opened the door and pressed the time switch to turn on the light, which had just gone out. A young man in a state of intense agitation, a stranger to him, stood trembling before him. "Where is my sister?" he demanded, looking wide-eyed at Magrae. "This is Monsieur Girard," explained Madam Bynet. "He burst in like a man man. I told him that Madam was also sealed. Please return to your apartment, Monsieur Donghant," snapped Magrae. The door to the super she's apartment had been opened. Another door opened on the floor below. "Come with me, Monsieur Girard. You may return to your launch," Madam Bynet. The Chief Superintendent had the key to the dead woman's apartment in his pocket. He pushed the young man in and bolted the door. "Have you really only just heard? Is it true? It's a sealed dead. Who told you? The concierge. The apartment had been turned inside out by the technicians from the forensic laboratory. Drawers and cupboards had been searched and their contents scattered all over the place. "I want to know about my sister." "Yes," Cecilia stared. Girard was in such a state of nervous tension that he was not even able to shed a tear. He looked about him in utter bewilderment. His face twitching so horribly that he was painful to watch. "It's not possible. Where is she?" He made a die for his sister's bedroom, but the Chief Superintendent restrained it. "She's not here. Take it easy. Wait." He remembered having seen a bottle of rum in a cupboard. He got it and held it out to the young man. "Have a drink. How did you find out? I was in a cafe when, forgive me. I'm going to ask you a few questions. It's the quickest way. What were you doing this afternoon?" "I went through three different dresses. I was looking for a job. What sort of job?" Girard replied with a rhyme smile. "Anything I could get. My wife is expecting a baby any day now. Our landlord has given us notice. Did you go back home for dinner?" "No, I was in this cafe. It was only then that Maegre realized that Girard, though perhaps not exactly drunk, had been drinking a little too freely. Were you looking for a job in this cafe?" "A hard hostile stare. You too. But of course, just like my wife, how can you know what it's like to chase after non-existent jobs from morning till night? Do you know what I did last week? Three nights running. No. Of course not. As if you cared. Well, I unloaded vegetables at the market just to be able to buy food. Tonight, I went to the cafe to meet someone who had promised me a job. Who was that? I don't know his name. He's tall and redheaded, and he sells radio equipment. What was the name of the cafe? Do you suspect me of killing my aunt? He was shaking from head to foot and seemed on the point of hurling himself like a madman to the cheap superintendent. "The cannon de la Bastille, if you really want to know, I live on hoot de pat de la muy. My friend didn't show up. I didn't want to go back home without having you had any dinner. What's that got to do with you? Someone had left a newspaper behind on a table. As usual, I looked first at the small ads. You can't imagine what it's like, plowing through the small ads, knowing, oh well. He waved the hand, as if to brush away a nightmare. And suddenly, there it was on page three. My aunt's name. I couldn't take it in at first. It was just a few lines. "Landlady strangled in bed in Borglachan. Last night, Madam Judy had boined it. A real estate owner living in Borglachan was..." What time was this? I don't know. It's a long time since I last owned a watch, about how past nine maybe. I heard back home. I told Helen, "You're white, you mean?" Yes, I told her that my aunt was dead, and I caught the bus. The two by any chance stopped for a drink first. Just a small glass to buck me out. I couldn't understand why Cecile hadn't let me know. I presume you have expectations from your aunt? Yes, my two sisters in IRS. I waited for a street car at the shed to let, but about Cecile. Why was Cecile killed? The concierge has just told me. Cecile was killed because she knew the name of the murderer. May Gray sat slowly. The young man, showing no signs of calming down, stretched out his hand for the bottle of rum. But the cheap superintendent intervened. No, that's enough. Sit down. What you could really do with is a cup of strong coffee. Are you insinuating? His town was aggressive. As far as he was concerned, May Gray was the enemy. You are not running away with the idea that I murdered my aunt and my sister at home. He shouted. In a sudden spurt of rage. May Gray made the mistake of not answering. He was not intentional. He was in the throes of one of his fits of obstruction. Or rather, to be more precise, he had just completed the imaginative leap needed to bring the interior of the apartment alive. The same apartment a few years earlier. The eccentric aunt, the three children, Cecile as an adolescent and assisted birther with her hair still loose and Gerhard planning to get away from it all by a mistake. He started. The young man had seized him by the collar of his kill and was young. Why don't you answer? Do you believe? Do you believe I? A powerful smell of spirits. May Gray shrank back and seized the young man by the wrists. Easy, my boy, he meant it. Relax. He had forgotten his own strength and was holding the boy's wrists in a grip of steel. You're hurting me, you can put it. At long last, his eyes overflowed with tears.
