[ Music ] May Gray and the Spinser by George Simenor, Part 1, Chapter 1. >> From the moment he let it in the doorway of the apartment house on Boulevard Ricard Lenoir, May Gray saved his pipe with greater enjoyment than on other mornings. The first fork of the year was an unexpected treat, like the first snow to a child, especially as this was no noxious yellowish winterfall, but rather a milky haze interspersed with halos of light. Yeah, it was crisp. He felt a tingling in his fingers and tip of his nose and his footsteps rang out on pavement. A faint smell of mothballs still clung about heavy velvet collet overcoat, which was such a familiar sight at the Kedus Over. With his hands in his pockets and his spoiler head pulled down low over his forehead, May Gray saunted unheardly toward police headquarters. Indulgently, he smiled as the slip of a girl appeared suddenly out of the fog at the run and collided with his dark bulky figure. Oh, sorry, mister, she was off again in the flesh, anxious not to miss her bus or subway. The whole of Paris, that morning, seemed to be enjoying the fog every bit as much as the chief superintendent, only the tucks on the set, invisible to the passersby, intermittently sounded a horse an easy note. One impression about all remained with him, though he could not have explained why. Having crossed the La Bastille, he was passing a little bistro on his way down Boulevard, Henri Cat. The door, like the door of most cafe on this cold morning, was shut for the first time for months. As he went past, someone opened it and made race nostrils were sailed by a gust of fragrance, which was forever to remain with him as the very quintessence of Paris at daybreak. The fragrance of frothy coffee and honk for some, spiced with a hint of rub. Behind the steamed up windows, he could just make out in shadowy outline some 10, 15, or perhaps 20 people crammed up against a sink counter, breakfasting before rushing off to work. It was just nine as he went through the arched gateway of police headquarters and, along with several of his colleagues, climbed a great staircase, which, as always, was thick with dust. No sooner was his head on the level with the first floor landing than he glanced mechanically toward the glass walled waiting room, catching sight of Cecile, sitting on one of the green velvet chairs he frowned. Or rather, to be perfectly honest, he deliberately assumed a grumpy expression. "What do you know, Megrae? She's back!" He was Cassium, head of the feist squad, who had arrived close on his heels. Inevitably, he would be subjected to a lot more banter of his sort, as he was, every time Cecile came to see him. He attempted to sling paths without being seen. How long had she been there? She was quite capable of sitting in one spot like an effigy for hours at a time. Her hands folded on her bag, her absurd green hat, a little askew on top of her tightly screwed bag hair. Needless to say, the chief superintendent did not escape unseen. She sprang to her feet, her mouth opened. He could not hear her voice through the glass screen, but no doubt she had murmured with a sigh. At last, unchanging his shoulders, Megrae made a dash for his office at the end of the corridor. He was intercepted by the guard, eager to announce her. "I know, I know. She'll just have to wait," mumbled Megrae. Owing to the fog, he had to switch on the green shaded light on his desk. He took off his coat and hat and glanced at the stove, reflecting that if it was as cold as this tomorrow, he would give orders to have it lit. Then, rubbing his coat hands together, he sat down heavily, breathed a sigh of contentment, and picked up the telephone. "Hello. Is that Livier de Mont? Can I speak to Monsieur Jean-Vier, please?" "Hello, is that you, Jean-Vier?" In accordance with instructions, Inspector Jean-Vier had been at his post in this little cafe on Whose Santon Twin, since seven o'clock that morning. From there, seated at one of the tables, he could keep watch onto a tell there's a card. Any developments? They're all tucked up, saving some, Chief. The woman went out half an hour ago to buy bread and butter, and a quarter pound of crown coffee. She's just got back. His Lucas had his post. I caught a glimpse of him at the window when I arrived. Good. I'm sending Jean-Vier to the lady. Chill to the bone, are you? It's a bit raw, but I'm okay. The thought of Sergeant Lucas shut up in one room for the past four days in the guise of an elderly, invalid, made may-grade chuckle. He was saddled with the job of keeping tents on a game of posts, five or six of them, who were all hold up together in a schooled hotel disappeared. There was nothing much to go on, except that one of them, nicknamed "The Baron," had changed the bill. Stolen from the events it had far, had a peri-mutual window at Longshong. This particular crowd were in the habit of wondering about Paris, aimlessly as far as anyone knew, but their lives seemed to revolve around a young woman who lived on crew the V-heart, though whether she was the mistress of one of them, or was useful to them in some other capacity, no one could tell. Lucas, disguised as a sick man, muddled up in shores, watched him from morning till night from a room in the building opposite. May-grade got up and went across to empty his pipe into the cold bucket. He had a whole collection of pipes on his desk, and as he went to pick up another, he caught sight of the slip that seceded what filled in. Just as he was about to read it, a bell shrilled, insistent in the corridor. The daily briefly, he scooped up the violence that had been laid out for him and, in company with all the other departmental heads, made his way to the chief commissioner's office. They went through the usual little ceremony. The commissioner, who had long white hair and a fandic bed, shook hands with each of them, in turn. "Have you seen her?" May-grade plagued the innocent. "Who?" "Sisil." "If I were in Madame May-grade's shoes?" "Poor Sisil." And yet she was still a young woman. May-grade had seen her personal papers. She was fairly 28, but if ever anyone had spinsed her, written all over her, it was she. In spite of her eagerness to be friendly, she was totally lacking in charm, those black dresses of hers, which she made herself from cheap paper patterns, that absurd green hat. Beneath such wrappings, it was impossible to imagine any feminine chance, and her extreme pallor and, to capital, the slight cast in one eye. "She squints," asserted Chief Superintendent Cassie. This was an exaggeration. One could not go as far as to say that she was cross-eyed. All the same, it had to be admitted that her left and right pupils were not in perfect alignment. She was in the habit of turning up, resigned in advance to be in kept waiting at eight in the morning. May I see Chief Superintendent May-grade, please?" "I don't know if he'll be coming in this morning. I could take you to Inspector Bergen, who, now thank you, I'll wait." And she would wait. All day, if need be, motionless, patient, and uncomplained. Until the Chief Superintendent reached the top of the stairs, when she would spring to her feet, seemingly in the grip of some powerful emotion. "Take it from me, my dear fellow, she's in love." The Chief Superintendent stood about idly, chatting for a while, until the talk feared imperceptively toward the work in hand. "Any new developments in the Pelican case, Cassie?" I've summoned the proprietor for questioning at 10 o'clock. He's found a talk. "Go easy I can, won't you?" He's got an influential friend in Parliament, and I don't want any trouble. "What news of your polls, May-grade?" "I'm still waiting. I intend to keep watch myself tonight. If by tomorrow there are still no developments, I'll try the effect of a personal confrontation with the woman. A dirty bunch. Three murders in six months. All at isolated farms in the north. Cores, brutal things, dealing death with a hatchet. A golden glow was spreading through the fog. It was no longer necessary to have the lights on. The Chief Commissioner pulled a fire toward him across his desk. "If you have a moment to spare this morning, May-grade, it's a fairly welfare matter. A 19-year-old youth, the son of a prosperous industrialist, who I'll see to it. The breathing went on for another half hour, amid the fumes of pipes and cigarettes with periodic interruptions from telephone. Very well, Monster de Minister. Yes, indeed, Monster de Minister." Outside in the fast corridors, the inspectors could be heard scurrying back and forth between the various offices, and there was much banging of doors and ringing of telephones. May-grade, with his papers under his arm, returned to his own office. His mind occupied with the gang of polls. Absolutely, he put his papers down on top of the slip filled in by sissing. He had only just sat down when the guard knocked at the door, about that young woman. Well, will you see her now? Later. First, he wanted to settle the matter in which the Chief Commissioner had enlisted his aid. He knew where to find a young man, on whom he had had his eye for some time. "Hello! Can me your tell me a softie, or rude lunch?" It was a sea hotel, where youths like the young man in question hung out to sniff cocaine and indulge their kinky vices. "Hello! Listen, Francis. I think I'm going to have to close down the place of yours. For good. What? I couldn't care this. Aren't you laying in on a bit thick? You can do yourself a good turn if you tick my advice and send young doucheman over to me right away. Better still, bring him along yourself. I have a few words to say to that young man. Oh yes, he is at your place, all right. And even if he isn't, I'm quite sure you know how to get hold of him before lunch. I'm counting on him." There was a call waiting for him on another line, an embarrassed examining magistrate. Chief Superintendent made me. It's about Pennypool, Chief Superintendent. He claims that you obtained his confession by intimidation. He says you make him strip to the skin in your office, and left him there, start naked for five hours. In a duty office next door, a crowd of inspectors, with the hat set gently on the heads and cigarettes dangling from the lips, were waiting their orders. It was 11 o'clock before he remembered Cecile and pressed the buzzer. I'm seeing the young woman now. The guard was back within seconds. There was no end of him. She's gone, Chief Superintendent. Now, his first reaction was to shrug it off, then as he sat down again, he frowned. This was not like Cecile. We had once waited seven hours for him. Sitting motionless in a waiting room, there were papers all over his desk. He searched through them for the slip she had filled in, at last, and the young doucheman's file he found. I must see you most urgently, something terrible happened last night, Cecile Padon. In response to the buzzer, the guard returned. "Tell me," Leo pulled. "What time does she leave?" "I don't know," Chief Superintendent. Everybody seems to be buzzing for me this morning. She was still there, half an hour ago. Was there anyone else in the waiting room? Two people for the Chief Commissioner, an elderly man asking to see someone in the department of public prosecution. Then, well, you know, how it is in the mornings. People coming and going the whole time. I hadn't noticed until just now, that the young lady was no longer there. Mae Gray felt a nasty little twitch of uneasiness in his chest. He was not happy about it. Poor Cecile. She wasn't all that much of a figure of fun. If she comes back, let me know. He had changed his mind. He called in one of his inspectors. The proprietor of the hotel, Miosotti, will be here shortly with a young man of the name of Duchampo. Tell them there to wait for me. If I'm not bagged by lunchtime, the hotel proprietor can go back to his work, but hold on to the young man. When he got to the point, so we shall, he was on the point of hailing a taxi, a suggestion, and precisely because he thought of it as a gesture, he changed his mind and decided to take the streetcar. The wretched Cecile and her concerns weren't all that important. Why should he concede? The fall, far from dispersing, was thickening, though it was growing less cold. Mae Gray stood on the open platform, smoking his pipe. The rattling and breaking of the streetcar almost shook his head off his shoulders. How long ago was that Cecile first put in an appearance that police had orders? About six months. His diary was in his office, but he could check when he got back. She had lost no time in asking to see Chief Superintendent Mae Gray, but probably only because she had seen his name in the papers. She had seemed perfectly calm. Had she been aware that her story sounded like the product of an over-fertile imagination? By speaking, with a visible effort in level tones, looking the Chief Superintendent straight in the eye and smiling, she had done her best to counteract the elements of fantasy in her narrative. I'm not an impressionable woman, Chief Superintendent, and I swear I'm telling you the literal truth. I know the exact position of every piece of furniture in ornament, as you would expect, since I do all the housework. My aunt has always been opposed to employing a maid. The first time it happened, I thought I must be mistaken. But after that, I paid particular attention. And yesterday, I marked the positions of various objects. I even went further. I fixed the length of thread across the front door. Well, now, not only did I find that two chairs had been moved, but also that the thread had been broken. So obviously, someone must have been in the apartment. Whoever it was spent some time in the sitting room and what's more, opened my aunt's desk. I'd rigged up something there too. It's the third time in two months. My aunt has been almost wholly incapacitated for some months. No one has a key to the apartment, and yet the lot hasn't been forced. I haven't liked to mention it to Aunt Juliet. It would only worry her. All the same, I'm certain of one thing. Nothing has been taken. If it had been, she would have mentioned it. She's so suspicious of everyone. In short, Maegre had said, summing up what you're saying is that some person unknown has broken into the apartment where you live with your aunt three times during the night in the past two months. And that, on each occasion, he went into the sitting room and moved the chairs around. And the blotter, she reminded it. He moved the chairs in the blotter and searched the desk, in spite of its being locked, and the locks remaining intact. I should add that last night, someone had been smoking in there, she persisted. Neither my aunt nor I smoked. No man came to the apartment yesterday, and yet this morning, the sitting room smelled a tobacco. I'll come and have a look around. That's just what I wanted to avoid. My aunt isn't an easy person. She'll be angry with me, especially as I've said nothing about it to her. In that case, what do you want us to do? I don't know. I feel I can trust you. Perhaps, if you could keep watch for a couple of nights in the hallway. Poor misguided creature. Does she really think that a chief superintendent of the police judiciary had nothing better to do than to lurk about for nights on end in a stairwell, checking up on some garbled story brought to him by a foolish girl? I'll send Lucas alone tomorrow night. Can't you come yourself? No, absolutely not. She was going too far, and her fixation. His colleagues were right there, was very like that of someone jilted in love. He may not come again tomorrow, maybe three days from now or five or ten. How should I know? I'm scared. Chief Superintendent, the thought of a man. Where do you live? At Borque Larente, about the Marbillon de Port D'Onión, on de Hurne Nationale, just opposite the fifth stop. It's a big five-story brick building with shops on the ground floor, a bicycle shop in the groasis. We live on the fifth floor. Lucas had gone there and questioned the neighbors. On his return, he had sounded skeptical. An old woman, housebound for the past few months, and a niece pressed into service as part domestic partners. The local police had been involved and had kept watch for nearly a month. No unauthorized person had been seen to enter the building at night. All the same, Cecile had returned to the Kiedes Unvevev. He's been in the apartment again, Chief Superintendent. This time I found traces of ink on the blotter, and I put in fresh paper only yesterday evening. Did you find anything missing? Nothing. May Gray had been misguided enough to tell the story to his colleagues, and soon the whole apartment was pulling his leg. May Gray has made a conquest. The young woman with the squid, physical behind the glass wall of the waiting room, became an object of physical scrutiny. Colleagues were forever knocking on his door. Watch out, there's someone waiting for you. Who, your lady friend? For eight nights in succession, Lucas had lurked on the staircase and had not seen or heard anything. Maybe he'll come tomorrow night, Cecile has suggested. But there was no justification for incurring further expense. Cecile is here. Cecile was a celebrity. Everyone called her Cecile. Inspectors about to knock on May Gray's door would be stopped with the warning. Careful, he's got some of him. Who, Cecile? May Gray changed three cars to the port Donium. At the fifth stop, he got off. On his right, a building stood all by itself, flanked on either side by wasteland. The effect was of a thin slice of layer cage sticking out into the road. There seemed to be nothing in this. Cars sped toward Appajon and Onium. And there were trucks returning from the central market. The door to the building was sandwiched between a bicycle shop and a rosus. The concierge was scraped in carrots. Is Mademoiselle Padon back yet? Mademoiselle Cecile, I don't think so. But if you can't ring the bell, Madem Boinett will let you in. I understood that she's bad rhythm. She is, more or less. But she's had a remote control system installed within reach of a chair, the same as I have in the launch. And besides, if she really wants to, five floors up, May Gray hated Slats. These were dark and coveted in the buckle round. The walls were dingy. Each floor had a different smell, according to what was cooking in the various kitchens. The sounds also varied. The tingling of the piano, the squealing of children, the reverberation of voices raised in anger. On the fifth floor, on the left, a dusty, fisting card had been affixed above the bell. Jean Sivishi. So it must be the apartment on the right. He rang the bell. He could hear it ringing throughout the apartment. But there was no click of a latch being released. And no one came to the door. He ran again. Embarrassment was superseded by anxiety. Anxiety by remorse. Behind him, a woman's voice asked. "What do you want?" He turned around to see a shapely young woman wearing an extremely becoming pale blue dressing gown. Madem Boinett. "That's her apartment, all right?" She replied, speaking with a slight foreign accent. "Is there no answer?" "That's odd." She tried the bell herself, revealing more bare flesh as she raised her up. Even if Cecile is out, her aunt. May Gray hung about on the landing for another 10 minutes, then set off to look for a locksmith. The nearest one was almost a mile away. This time, the sound of his approach brought out not merely the girl but her mother and sister as well. Has there been an accident, do you think? The lock, which had not been tempered with, gave easily. May Gray let the way into the apartment, which was overcrowded with old furniture and ornaments. He spared them only a cursory glance, a sitting room at number 8230, a dining room, an open door, and lying on a mahogany bed, an old woman with dyed hair. "Who would you please leave? Do you hear?" he shouted, turning on the three women. "If this is how you get your kicks, I'm sorry for you." An odd sort of corpse, a fat little old woman with a painted face and stringy hand, heavily peroxide, showing white at the roots, in a red dressing gown and with one stocking, just one, on the leg that dangled over the side of the bed. There was no possible doubt about it. She had been strangled. Looking fierce and troubled, he returned to the landing. Someone go and get the police officer. Five minutes later, he was in a telephone booth in a bistro nearby. "Hello, this is Chief Superintendent Mainway. Who is that speaking?" "Good. Listen, my boys. It's the seal around. I want you to slip across to the public prosecutor's office. See if you can have a word with a director in person. Tell me, got it? I'm staying here, and you'd better let the forensic people know as well. If, by any chance, the seal turns up. What's the matter with you? Listen, this is no laughing matter. When he came out of the bistro, after having downed a glass of rum at the bar, a crowd of about 50 people had gathered outside an oddly shaped building. In spite of himself, he surged to crowd for the seal. It was not until five o'clock that afternoon that he was to learn that the seal was dead. "Knock-shiss." "Knock-shiss." "Edative." "Harmful." "Poisonous." "Hore very unpleasant." "Contessence." "Crantessence." "Now, the most perfect or typical example of equality or class." "Perimuture." "Perimuture." "Now, a form of betting in which those facking the first three places to find the loser states." "May Gray and a Spinster." By George Simino. But one, chapter two. Once again, with the dining table set for two, Madam May Gray wants to be kept waiting. Not that she wasn't used to it. The telephone, finally installed, had made no difference. May Gray invariably forgot to let her know. As to young Dujmal, it would be left to Cassium to deliver the customary lecture. Slowly, with knitted brows, the cheap superintendent had once again climbed the five flights of stairs. Oblivious of the life going on behind closed doors on every floor, he was thinking only of Cecile, unattractive Cecile, who had been the butts of so many jobs, and who was spanderingly referred to by some of his colleagues as May Gray's cold girl. This house in the suburbs had been her home. This dark staircase had been used by her every day. The smells of this place had still clung about her close as she set, fearful yet uncomplaining, in the waiting room, at the care this of them. Whenever May Gray had condescended to grant her an interview, had there not always been more than a hint of ill concealed irony under his mask of gravity as he asked. Well, have the honourments been on the move again? Did you find inkwell at the wrong end of the table this morning? As the paper knife escaped from a straw, when he reached the fifth floor, he gave orders to the police officer to admit no one to the apartment, and pushed open the door. Then he turned back to take a good look at the doorbell. It was not an electric bell button, but a thick red and yellow rope, he pulled it, an old-fashioned metal bell tinkled in the sitting room. Will you see to it, officer, that no one touches this door? It did not think that any useful fingerprints might be found there, but one could never be sure. He was in his sour mood. He was still haunted by the memory of Cecile sitting in her aquarium, as the waiting room at police headquarters was familiarly called because one of its walls was entirely of glass. It did not need a doctor to tell him that the old woman had been dead for some else, well before the time of her niece's arrival and to care this of them. Had Cecile been a witness to the murder. If so, she had not cried out, all gone for help. She had spent the rest of the night in the apartment with the corpse, and in the morning, had washed and dressed as usual. The glimpse he had had of her on arrival at headquarters had been enough to show him that she was stressed as he had always seen her. To make doubly sure, he decided to check. As he considered it a matter of some importance, he began looking for her room. At first, he could not find it. The front of the apartment consisted of three rooms, the sitting room, the dining room, and the unspad room. To the right of the corridor, there were a kitchen and pantry, with a door at the back. Beyond the store, May Gray found a little cubbyhole, dimly lit by a skylight and furnished with an iron bedstead, a wash basin, and a wardrobe, which had been Cecile's bedroom. The bed was unmade. There was soapy water in the wash basin and a comb on the side, with a few dark hairs between the teeth. A salmon-pink flannel dressing gown was flung over a chair. Had Cecile known already, by the time she started getting dressed, it must have been almost as dark as night when she went out into the street, or rather into the road, for the building fronted onto the highway. She must have waited in darkness at the streetcar stop, barely a hundred yards away. The fork had been thick. On arrival at police headquarters, she had filled in a slip and sat down in the waiting room facing the black framed wall case, with the photographs of members of the force killed on an active service. At last, May Gray's head had emerged from the stairwell. She had sprung to her feet. He would grant her an interview. She would be able to unburden herself. But more than an hour had passed, and she was still waiting. The corridors were coming to life. Inspectors hurried to and from. Doors opened and shut. People were admitted to the waiting room, and then called out one after another by the guard. She and only she was left waiting. What was it that had prompted her to leave? Mechanically, May Gray filled his pipe. He could hear voices out on the landing. The neighbors airing the views and the police officer quietly advising them to return to their own apartments. What had become of Sissy? During the whole of the hour that he spent alone the apartment, this was the question that obsessed him and gave him that absent sluggish love so familiar to his police. All the same, in his own fashion, he was working. Already, he was steep in the atmosphere of the apartment. As soon as he had set foot in the entrance hall, or rather the long dark hallway that served as such, he had observed that everything around him was old and shoddy. There was enough furniture in this small apartment to furnish twice the number of rooms, nothing but old furniture of no particular style or date, and not a single piece of any value. It reminded him of a provincial option of household defence, following the death or bankruptcy of the owner, a respectable middle-class citizen whose austere mode of life had been a well-kept secret until then. In contrast, however, there was not a pin other place, and everything was sprupulously clean. Every service, however small, was highly polished, and every ornament, however tiny, in its appointed place. The apartment could just as appropriately have been lit by candles or gas as by electricity. So little did it reflect contemporary life, and indeed the light fixtures hanging from the ceilings were converted gas lamps. The sitting room was more like a jump shop than a room. Its walls covered with family portraits, watercolours, and worthless prints and black, gilt, and fake carved wood frames. Near the window stood an enormous mahogany desk with movable panels, of the types still to be found in the offices of the managers of big country aesthetics. Wrapping a hang achieve around his hand, May Gray opened all the drawers in turn. Some were full of ottoman such as keys, bits of ceiling wax, pillboxes, along yet frame, diaries going back 20 years, and yellowing receipts. Four of the drawers were empty, none had been forced. I'm chairs with one upholstery, a shell with knickwicks, a work table, two lewy-sized long-case clots. In a dining room, May Gray found another such clock. There was also one in the entrance, and he noted with surprise, indeed almost with amusement, two more in the dead woman's bedroom. Obviously she had had an obsession about clots, and the odd thing was that they all worked. May Gray became aware of this fact at midday, when they all began striking one up to the other. The dining room, too, was over furnished, so much so that there was barely room to move. Here, as in all the other rooms, there were heavy curtains over the windows, as if the inmates had dreaded the intrusion of daylight. Why, when death was structured down without warning in the middle of the night, had the woman be wearing one stocking? He looked around for the other, and found it on the bedside round. Thick black, woolen stockings, the legs were swollen in bluish in color, from which May Gray deduced that the seal's aunt had suffered from dropsy. A walking stick, which she had picked up off the floor, seemed to indicate that she was not completely bedridden, but able to get around in the apartment. Finally, hanging above the bed was a bell road similar to the one on the landing. He pulled it, listened, and heard the front door click open. He went to shut it, and silently cursed the neighbors who were still out there. Why had the seal suddenly decided to leave the cave as a van? What could possibly have persuaded her to do so, when she had such very grave news to impart to the chief superintendent? She alone knew the answer. She alone could tell, and, as time went by, May Gray drew more and more uneasy. What could those two women possibly have found to do all day? He wondered, in spite of himself, as he looked about him, and saw furniture and more furniture laden with fragile knickknacks of spun glass and brittle china, each one ugly than the next. Glass globes and closing models of the grottel at lurdies and the bay of Naples. Photographs hanging crooked in cheap brass frames, a paper-thin Japanese cup with a mended handle, a number of odd tulip glasses filled with artificial flowers. Once again, he went into the iron's bedroom, where the body still lay on the mahogany bed, with one leg inexplicably clad in a stocking. At about one o'clock, there was a flurry of movement outside in the street, then on the stairs and on the landing. While all this was going on, the Chief Superintendent was slumped deep in an armchair in a sitting, still wearing his coat and hat, in a haze of blue smoke from the pipe that he had been smoking continuously. The sound of voices made him start, like a man awakened from a dream. Well, Chief Superintendent, what's this all about, my dear fellow? Vito, the deputy public prosecutor, smilingly shook him by the hand. He was followed by the diminutive examining magistrate, Mabil, the police doctor, and a clerk, who was already looking about for a table on which to spread his papers. Anything of interest? Good Lord, what a miserable duck. A few seconds later, the van from the foreign secondary drew up in front of the building, and the photographers swarmed in with the bulky equipment. Overall, the police superintendent of the Bork-Laren Division picked his way among this impressive gathering of officials, hoping that, in due calls, someone would notice him. Please go back to your apartments, ladies and gentlemen, repeated to policemen at the door. There is nothing to see here. Later, you will all be interviewed separately. Get out of the way, will you, please? Come along now, move. It was five o'clock in the afternoon. The fork had transformed itself into a fine drizzle, and a street lambs had been switched on earlier than usual. Magray, his hat pulled down over his eyes, walked rapidly through the freezingly cold entrance hall of police headquarters, and hastily went up the dimly lit staircase. He gave a quick, unthinking glance at the aquarium, more than ever resembling a re-acquarium with the lights switched on. There were four or five people waiting in frozen attitudes, like waxworks in a Musée-Gravonne, and the chief superintendent wondered why on earth that particular shade of green, which lent a deftly parallel to the human skin, had been chosen for the wallpaper, upholstery, and table covering. Someone was asking for you, sir, I believe, set one of the inspectors on his way elsewhere with a bundle of files under his arm. The boss wants to see, the guard now informed him, forcing in his work of sticking stems on envelopes. Magray, without even looking into his own office, went straight on to see the chief commissioner. Only the death's land was switched on. Well, Magray, the silence. A wretched business, to say the least, any new developments said the apartment. Magray sensed that the chief had bad news for him. He waited, his heavy brows knitted. I did try to reach you, but he had already left Boglerheim. It's about that young woman, a short while ago, Victor. Victor, who was afflicted with a stammer, was one of the dormant in the Palais de Justice. He had a warless massage and a horse voice, not unlike a sea lion's. Victor was accosted in the corridor by the public prosecutor, who was in a prickly mood. Listen, my friend, which is said his corridor had been properly swept today. Now, as everyone knew, when the public prosecutor addressed anyone in his friend, Magray's thoughts were raising ahead of the chief commissioner's words. To cut a long story short, Victor, in a panic, made a dive for the broom closet. Can you guess what he found there? Sissil replied the chief superintendent. If insane, no surprise, his head drewed. He had had time. Back there in the apartment, why what unknown as the standard procedures were being carried up around him to consider the problem of Sissil from every possible angle, but had not been able to come to a satisfactory conclusion? It always came down to the same question. What could possibly have persuaded her to leave the cadence of error, considering the very grave news she had to impart to me? He was becoming more and more convinced that she had not gone of her own free will. Someone had sought her out there in the very nerve center of police activity, within a few feet of Magray's own door, and persuaded her to leave within him. What inducement had he offered? Who carried sufficient weight with the young woman too? Now, in a flash, he understood. "I should have known," he groaned, striking his forehead with his clenched fist. "What do you mean? I should have known that she couldn't have left the building, that nothing would have persuaded her to leave the building." He was furious with himself. "She's dead, of course," he groaned, staring at the floor. "Yes, if you'd like to come with me." The chief commissioner pressed a buzzer and told the god, "If anyone asks for me or telephones, say I'll be back very shortly." Both men were equally troubled, but the chief superintendent carried the additional burden of a bad conscience, and the day had started so well. He recalled the rheumatic gust of hot air, a blend of frothy coffee, croissants, and rum, the illuminous morning form. "By the way, Junior called a wild girl, apparently your pulse. With the sweep of his hand, he seemed to consign every pole on earth to oblivion." The chief commissioner led the way through the gas door. For the past 10 years, at least there had been talk or walling it up, but nothing had been done, because everyone found it so convenient. This was the door, in fact, which provided direct access between the police judiciary headquarters and the Palais de Justice and the archives. The building was rather like the backstage areas of a theatre, full of narrow stairways and winding pastures, when one was escorting a prisoner to see a judge in chambers. On the right, a staircase leading to the attics which housed police records and the forensic laboratory. A little farther on, a door with frosted glass panels, beyond which laid a hurly burly of the Palais de Justice, lawyers scurrying to and fro, the press of spectators crowning into the various courtrooms. Beyond was another, smaller door cut, for godmills, what reason, into the supporting wall of the building itself. In front of this door, an inspector was posted. He was smoking a cigarette, which he extinguished as soon as he saw the two men. Who knew of the existence of this door? Only the personnel of the department. It opened onto a fairly deep closet, a hole about six feet square, in which Victor, who liked to have his equipment with an easy reach, kept his brooms and buckets. The inspector made himself inconspicuous. The Chief Commissioner opened the closet and, as it was not fitted with a light, struck the match. "Here she is," he said. As there was not quite enough room for a body to lie full length on the floor of the closet, Cecile had fallen forward against the wall with her chin pressed down onto her chest. Maegran, suddenly feeling hot, mocked his face with his hand achieved and crammed his pipe, still smoldering into his pocket. There was no need for words. The two of them stood looking down at her. The Chief Commissioner and the Chief Superintendent, who mechanically removed his hand. "Do you know what I think, Chief? Someone must have gone into the waiting room and told her I was ready to see her, but not in my own office. Someone whom she took to be a member of my own staff. The Chief Commissioner merely murdered him. Speed was of the essence. Do you see? I might be ready to see her at any moment. She knew who had murdered her out. All he had to do was to open his door, beyond which she could see nothing. Cecile had only to take one step into the dark. First, she was stunned by a blow with a trunching or some other blunt instrument. The foolish green hat lying on the floor confirmed this hypothesis. And besides, there were traces of clotted blood clinging to the young woman's damn hand. She must have staggered, or possibly fallen, before the arms murdered her, to avoid making any noise, strangled her. Are you sure of that, Chief? Maegran counted them. That's what the pathologist thinks. I wanted you to be here before he started on the autopsy. You seem surprised. One, the arms were strangled too, wasn't she? Correct. What are you getting at, Maegran? I just don't see how both murders could have been committed by the same man. When Cecile turned up here this morning, she knew who had killed her out. Do you think so? If not, she would have given the alarm early. According to the pathologist, her arms were stared by two o'clock this morning. Either Cecile witnessed the murder, or, what was to stop the murderer from killing her at the same time, there in the apartment at Boc La Rene. Maybe she was hiding somewhere, as I was saying, or else she found her arms body when she got up about half past six this morning. I know she walked about then. Because her alarm was set for half past six, she said nothing to anyone. Instead, she came straight here. It does seem more. Not if we assumed that she knew the murderer. She wanted to speak to me personally. She didn't trust the local superintendent of police at Boc La Rene. The fact that she was killed to prevent her from talking proves that she knew, but supposing she had seen her as soon as she arrived, may be flushed, which was unusual for him. Yes, you've got a point there. That's something I can't quite make out. Maybe the murderer was tied up elsewhere before, or else he didn't yet know. When abrupt dismissive gesture, he grumbled. It doesn't make sense. What does it make sense? What I've just been saying, if last night's murder had shown his face in the Aquarium. The Aquarium? Soul Chief. That's the inspector's name for the waiting room. Cecile would never have gone anywhere with him, so it must have been someone else. Either someone she didn't know, or someone she knew entrusted. In Maygreen, looking stubborn and determined, stood contemplating the sad little bundle lying and crumpling against the wall among the grooms and buckets. It had to be someone she didn't know, the same, with seven decisivelys. Ma, she might have gone off with someone she knew if she'd met him in the street, but not here. I confess, I was half expecting to hear that she'd been found in the sand, or some patch of waste ground. But, bending to avoid hitting his head on the low frost piece of the doorway, he stepped into the cupboard and struck one match and then enough and gave the body a slight push. What are you looking for in the room? Her bag. The bag was as much a part of her as the indescribable green hat. It was a capacious bag, like a small trunk, and as she sat waiting in the Aquarium, Cecile always kept it carefully cradled on her lap. It's disappeared. What do you conclude from that? Whereupon Maegre, forgetting the disparity of rank, gave way to a burst of irritability. Conclude, conclude. Are you able to draw any conclusion? The fair-haired inspector, who was well within earshot, averted his head. Noticing this, Maegre pulled himself up short. I'm sorry Chief, but you must admit that this place is about as secure as a barn, to think that someone should have been able to go into the waiting room, and he was at the end of his tether, savagely a bit the stem of his pipe. Not to mention that a cursed door, which should have been boarded up years ago. If you had interviewed a young woman when Paul Maegre, he was a pathetic sight, tall and heavily built, looking as solid as a rock, with his head bowed, staring at that limp bundle of clothes at his feet, that light this lump, and once again, mopping his face with his hand-in-chief. What are we going to do, as the Chief Commissioner, wanting to change the subject? Acknowledge publicly that a murder had been committed within the very presets of police headquarters, or, to be more precise, in this breach in the party wall between police headquarters and the palliative justice. There's just one favor I'd like to ask you. Would you mind if I put Lucas in charge of that business of the Poles? Maybe he was just that Maegre was hungry. He had had nothing to eat since breakfast. On the other hand, he had had three little sips of brandy, which had sharpened his appetite. If that's what you want. Shut the store up, dear Phantom, and stay on guard. I'll be back shortly. Maegre returned to his office, and, still wearing his hat in coat, telephone, Madam Maegre. No, I have no idea when I'll be home. He would take too long to explain. Of course not. I shan't be leaving pals. He considered ordering sandwiches, as he so often did, from the Brasserie Dauphine, but he felt he needed air. He was still just laying outside. He decided to go to the little bar opposite the statue of Henri Cattel in the middle of the port nip. He ordered a ham sandwich. How are things, Chief Superintendent? The waiter knew Maegre. He recognized the significance of those drooping eyelids in that set face. Having trouble, a game of burlot was in progress at a table near the bar. Other customers were playing the pinball machines. Maegre bit into his sandwich and thought Sussine is dead. In spite of his heavy overcoat, it sent a shiver down his spot. Cabihole. Cabihole. Now, a small and close space or room. L'oniot. L'oniot. Now, a pair of glasses or opera glasses held in front of a person's eyes, by a long handle at one side. Ephince. Ephince. Verve. Refield a presence of equality or something. Indicate. Inconspicuous. Inconspicuous. Adjective. Not clearly visible or attracting attention. Pathologist. Pathologist. Now, a scientist who studies the causes and effects of diseases, especially one who examines laboratory samples of body tissue for diagnostic or forensic purposes.
