she put the bedclothes over the windowsill for an hour to air.

At ten o’clock, a little bell would ring in the street. That was the greengrocer, with his barrow, passing on his daily round. Twice a week at eleven, a bearded doctor came to see his little brother, who was constantly ill. Andre hardly ever saw the latter, as he wasn’t allowed into his room.

That was all, or so it seemed in retrospect. He had just time to play a bit and drink his milk, and there was his father home again for the midday meal.

If nothing had happened at home, lots had happened to him. He had been to read the meters in any number of houses and chatted with all sorts of people, about whom he would talk during dinner.

As for the afternoon, it slipped away quicker still, perhaps because he was made to sleep during the first part of it.

For his mother, apparently, the time passed just as quickly. Often had he heard her say with a sigh: “There, I’ve no sooner washed up after one meal than it’s time to start making another!”

Perhaps it wasn’t so very different now. Here in the Prefecture de Police the nights seemed long enough at the time, but at the end they seemed to have slipped by in no time, with nothing to show for them except for these columns of the little crosses in his notebook.

A few more lamps lit up. A few more incidents reported, including a collision between a car and a bus in the Rue de Clignancourt, and then once again it was Javel on the line.

It wasn’t Jules, however, but Gonesse, the detective who’d been to the scene of the crime. While there he had received Lec?ur’s message suggesting something might have happened in the other house in the Rue Vasco de Gama. He had been to see.

“Is that you, Lec?ur?” There was a queer note in his voice. Either irritation or suspicion.

Look here, what made you think of that house? Do you know the old woman. Madame Fayet?”

“I’ve never seen her, but I know all about her.”

What had finally come to pass that Christmas morning was something that Andre Lec?ur had foreseen and perhaps dreaded for more than ten years. Again and again, as he stared at the huge plan of Paris, with its little lamps, he had said to himself, “It’s only a question of time. Sooner or later, it’ll be something that’s happened to someone I know.”

There’d been many a near miss, an accident in his own street or a crime in a house nearby. But, like thunder, it had approached only to recede once again into the distance.

This time it was a direct hit.

“Have you seen the concierge?” he asked. He could imagine the puzzled look on the detective’s face as he went on: Is the boy at home?”

And Gonesse muttered, “Oh? So you know him, too?”

“He’s my nephew. Weren’t you told his name was Lec?ur?”

“Yes, but—”

“Never mind about that. Tell me what’s happened.”

“The boy’s not there.”

“What about his father?”

“He got home just after seven.”

“As usual. He does night work, too.”

“The concierge heard him go up to his flat—on the third floor at the back of the house.”

“I know it.”

“He came running down a minute or two later in a great state. To use her expression, he seemed out of his wits.”

“The boy had disappeared?”

“Yes. His father wanted to know if she’d seen him leave the house. She hadn’t. Then he asked if a telegram had been delivered.”

“Was there a telegram?”

“No. Can you make head or tail of it? Since you’re one of the family, you might be able to help us. Could you get someone to relieve you and come round here?”

“It wouldn’t do any good. Where’s Janvier?”

“In the old woman’s room. The men of the Identite Judiciaire have already got to work. The first thing they found were some child’s fingerprints on the handle of the door. Come on—jump into a taxi and come round.”

“No. In any case, there’s no one to take my place.”

That was true enough up to a point. All the same, if he’d really got to work on the telephone he’d have found someone all right. The truth was he didn’t want to go and didn’t think it would do any good if he did.

“Listen, Gonesse, I’ve got to find that boy, and I can do it better from here than anywhere. You understand, don’t you? Tell Janvier I’m staying here. And tell him old Madame Fayet had plenty of money, probably hidden away somewhere in the room.”

A little feverish, Lec?ur stuck his plug into one socket after another, calling up the various police stations of the Eighth Arrondissement.

“Keep a lookout for a boy of ten, rather poorly dressed. Keep all telephone pillars under observation.”

His two fellow-watchkeepers looked at him with curiosity.

“Do you think it was the boy who did the job?”

Lec?ur didn’t bother to answer. The next moment he was through to the teleprinter room, where they also dealt with radio messages.

“Justin? Oh, you’re on, are you? Here’s something special. Will you send out a call to all cars on patrol anywhere near the Etoile to keep a lookout for—”

Once again the description of the boy, Francois Lec?ur.

“No. I’ve no idea in which direction he’ll be making. All I can tell you is that he seems to keep well clear of police stations, and as far as possible from any place where there’s likely to be anyone on traffic duty.”

He knew his brother’s flat in the Rue Vasco de Gama. Two rather dark rooms and a tiny kitchen. The boy slept there alone while his father was at work. From the windows you could see the back of the house in the Rue Michat, across a courtyard generally hung with washing. On some of the windowsills were pots of geraniums, and through the windows, many of which were uncurtained, you could catch glimpses of a miscellaneous assortment of humanity.

As a matter of fact, there, too, the windowpanes ought to be covered with frost. He stored that idea up in a corner of his mind. It might be important.

“You think it’s a boy who’s been smashing the alarm glasses?”

“It was a child’s handkerchief they found,” said Lec?ur curtly. He didn’t want to be drawn into a discussion. He sat mutely at the switchboard, wondering what to do next.

In the Rue Michat, things seemed to be moving fast. The next time he got through it was to learn that a doctor was there as well as an examining magistrate who had most likely been dragged from his bed.

What help could Lec?ur have given them? But if he wasn’t there, he could see the place almost as clearly as those that were, the dismal houses and the grimy viaduct of the Metro which cut right across the landscape.

Nothing but poor people in that neighborhood. The younger generation’s one hope was to escape from it. The middle-aged already doubted whether they ever would, while the old ones had already accepted their fate and tried to make the best of it.

He rang Javel once again.

“Is Gonesse still there?”

“He’s writing up his report. Shall I call him?”

“Yes, please. Hallo, Gonesse, Lec?ur speaking. Sorry to bother you, but did you go up to my brother’s flat? Had the boy’s bed been slept in? It had? Good. That makes it look a bit better. Another thing: were there any parcels there? Yes, parcels, Christmas presents. What? A small square radio. Hadn’t been unpacked. Naturally. Anything else? A chicken, a boudin, a Saint-Honore. I suppose Janvier’s not with you? Still on the spot. Right. Has he rung-up the P. J. ? Good.”

He was surprised to see it was already half past nine. It was no use now expecting anything from the neighborhood of the Etoile. If the boy had gone on walking as he had been earlier, he could be pretty well anywhere by this time.

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