people, people who live alone, without any family or friends.”
Sommer looked at Lec?ur, 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, Lec?ur—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, except Lec?ur, who had promised to do the first day shift as well so that his opposite number could join in a family Christmas party somewhere near Rouen.
It was a thing he often did. so much so that he had come to be regarded as an ever-ready substitute for anybody who wanted a day off.
“I say. Lec?ur, do you think you could look out for me on Friday?”
At first the request was proffered with a suitable excuse—a sick mother, a funeral, or a First Communion, and he was generally rewarded with a bottle of wine. But now it was taken for granted and treated quite casually.
To tell the truth, had it been possible, Lec?ur would have been only too glad to spend his whole life in that room, snatching a few hours’ sleep on a camp bed and picnicking as best he could with the aid of the little electric stove. It was a funny thing—although he was as careful as any of the others about his personal appearance, and much more so than Sommer, who always looked a bit tousled, there was something a bit drab about him which betrayed the bachelor.
He wore strong glasses, which gave him big, globular eyes, and it came as a surprise to everyone when he took them off to wipe them with the bit of chamois leather he always carried about to see the transformation. Without them, his eyes were gentle, rather shy, and inclined to look away quickly when anyone looked his way.
“Hallo! Javel?”
Another lamp. One near the Quai de Javel in the 15th Arrondissement, a district full of factories.
“
“We don’t know yet what it is. Someone’s broken the glass of the alarm in the Rue Leblanc.”
“Wasn’t there a message?”
“No. We’ve sent our car to investigate. I’ll ring you again later.”
Scattered here and there all over Paris are red-painted telephone pillars standing by the curb, and you have only to break the glass to be in direct telephone communication with the nearest police station. Had a passerby broken the glass accidentally? It looked like it, for a couple of minutes later Javel rang up again.
“Hallo! Central? Our car’s just got back. Nobody about. The whole district seems quiet as the grave. All the same, we’ve sent out a patrol.”
How was Lec?ur to classify that one? Unwilling to admit defeat, he put a little cross in the column on the extreme right headed “Miscellaneous.”
“Is there any coffee left?” he asked.
“I’ll make some more.”
The same lamp lit up again, barely ten minutes after the first call.
“Javel? What’s it this time?”
“Same again. Another glass broken.”
“Nothing said?”
“Not a word. Must be some practical joker. Thinks it funny to keep us on the hop. When we catch him he’ll find out whether it’s funny or not!”
“Which one was it?”
“The one on the Pont Mirabeau.”
“Seems to walk pretty quickly, your practical joker!”
There was indeed quite a good stretch between the two pillars.
So far, nobody was taking it very seriously. False alarms were not uncommon. Some people took advantage of these handy instruments to express their feelings about the police. “
With his feet on a radiator, Janvier was just dozing off when he heard Lec?ur telephoning again. He half opened his eyes, saw which lamp was on, and muttered sleepily. “There he is again.”
He was right. A glass broken at the top of the Avenue de Versailles.
“Silly ass,” he grunted, settling down again.
It wouldn’t be really light until half past seven or even eight. Sometimes they could hear a vague sound of church bells, but that was in another world. The wretched men of the flying squad waiting in the cars below must be half frozen.
“Talking of
“What
sleep.
“The one my mother used to—”
“Hallo! What? You’re not going to tell me someone’s smashed the glass of one of your telephone pillars? Really? It must 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,” Lec?ur 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 Trocadero, 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 Elysees 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
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.
