Death Before Breakfast (11 page)

‘Is Madame Jourin in?'

‘Police?'

‘Yes.'

‘Enter. We thought you'd call. Last time it was the men in uniform. Now it's the flics. We can't tell you anything.'

‘May we see Mme. Jourin, please?'

‘I said come in.'

A dark, narrow place, smelling of old stone and decayed woodwork. A step down into the living-room. Beyond, another door, presumably to the sleeping quarters and the kitchen.

A large hearth with an iron cooking-stove. Old furniture scattered here and there. A plain wooden sideboard. Faded photographs of years ago hanging on the walls. A crucifix over the sideboard with a little holy-water stoop beneath it. On the sideboard, a jam-jar of faded wild flowers in water green from a need of a change.

At the bare wooden table in the middle of the room a plump little old woman with a large stomach was preparing a meal. A mixing-board, a small pile of fresh bones, onions and the smell of garlic. Her hands were covered in flour. On one corner of the table, a bottle of wine, half-full, and two coarse glasses with the dregs of drinks in them.

‘Police,' said the man.

Judging from the attitudes of the pair of them, the old
woman and the peasant had been quarrelling. She gave him a nasty look.

‘What of it? The fellow from the gendarmerie's been here already to let us know he's dead.'

‘You might show some sorrow.'

‘I ought to be glad. Better dead and in God's peace than carrying on the way he has done since he came back. Disgracing the family.'

She put her hands on her hips and the row looked like starting again.

‘I know you admired him. You were always on his side. …'

She turned to Luc and Littlejohn and then pointed at the man.

‘He used to say Etienne had been led astray. I ask you. Is a man led astray unless he wants to be? He's Etienne's brother, in case you don't know. I'm his mother. The boys always ganged-up against me and now, he thinks because Etienne's met his death through the life he's been leading, I ought to rouse the street with my lamentations.'

Luc was trying hard to get a word in edgeways.

‘We're sorry to call at an inconvenient time, Madame Jourin, but we're anxious to ask you one or two questions which might help us to trace Etienne's murderer.'

‘I'm a god-fearing woman, monsieur, and God will avenge the wrong. He doesn't need a lot of inquisitive detectives to help Him.'

‘We're only doing our duty, madame. We deeply sympathise with you. We've come all the way from Paris to see you. I hope you're going to help us.'

‘There's nothing much I can tell you. He wouldn't listen to what I had to say, and this is the result. I told him he was no son of mine. What his father would have said, I don't know. He was a sensitive man. It would have killed him.'

She cast her eyes towards one of the photographs of a heavily bearded man, who looked more scared than anything else.

She had a tired, lined face and hard dark eyes. A woman who had obviously endured a lot in life and had fought her way through it somehow. She looked at the meal she was preparing and then at her two visitors.

‘I suppose I'd better listen to what you have to say. Otherwise you'll be here all afternoon and there'll be no dinner. My daughter and son-in-law will be here before long, and they'll expect feeding whatever's happened to her brother. What did you want to know?'

‘When did you last see your son?'

‘In the Spring. From what he said, he'd spent a spell in prison for something somebody else had done since last he saw me. Somebody else I I've heard that tale before. He said he was going south. Arrived in a car, like a lord. I told him he was no son of mine. He laughed. Offered me money. “Buy yourself something”, he said. I threw it back in his face. I suppose he was on his way to the Midi, where there are plenty of fools with money to steal from.'

‘Did he stay with you whilst he was in Sens?'

‘Not he. He was too high-up in the world to want his old bed in his mother's house. He was flaunting it in the best hotel in town. He had a woman with him, too, I was told. He was always a petticoat-chaser. This one, they told me, was like a duchess. He didn't bring her here to see me, I can tell you. I'd have shown her the door. He's still married to the girl he wed just before the war. Although he's not lived with her since the day he left for Paris. She'll never divorce him. She's a good catholic, that girl. She's gone home to her mother in Auxerre.'

‘And the last you saw of him was in Spring?'

‘Yes. He was travelling to Lyon, he said. He'd call on his way back. I told him not to trouble unless he was prepared
to mend his ways. He mustn't have been prepared, because he never called again.'

Littlejohn let Luc do all the talking. They understood each other. In fact, Littlejohn had never collaborated with anyone whose methods – if such they could be called – were as similar to his own. He listened to the questions and answers, now and then casting an eye on Jourin's brother, sitting listlessly at the table, drinking another glass of wine. Outside, the crowd had increased. Word had gone round that the Paris police were with Madame Jourin. Some of the women kept passing the window and trying to see what was going on inside. Conversation was brisk and loud.

The room was hot and stuffy. The iron stove was purring and ready for the dinner.

‘Did your son ever write to you, Madame Jourin?'

‘Once or twice. I can't read and write properly. Bernard – that's the one sitting there drinking wine, in spite of his grief – Bernard used to read them to me. Then, I put them on the fire. I never answered them, except once. Etienne put some money in a letter and I sent it back. It was written from somewhere in Paris. I don't know whether it ever reached him. I don't much care so long as I wasn't made to keep it.'

Bernard was drinking, his close-set eyes roving over the edge of the glass. Littlejohn caught his shifty glance. He knew the money had never reached Paris!

‘You didn't keep any of the letters, you say.'

‘No.'

Bernard lowered his glass. He seemed to think this was a matter on which he could, at last, make himself heard.

‘He sent a postcard from London. My little daughter, Lise, kept it because she'd never seen a picture of London before.'

‘When did that come?'

‘About April this year. I know because it's Lise's birthday
in April and she asked for it as a birthday card.'

‘Is it here?'

‘No. It's at home. I live in Avallon, and I'm only here for the day. The Avallon police told me about Etienne and I came on the first 'bus in case I was wanted. It seems I wasn't.'

He buried his nose in his glass again.

Madame Jourin must have been nearly eighty, judging from the ages of her children. She was remarkably strong and active for her years. Now, she seemed in full control of the situation.

‘I thought your daughter lived in Paris, madame.'

‘She did. Her husband lost his job through his quick temper. He fancies himself a politician and quarrels with everybody who doesn't think like him. He's got a job, for as long as he can manage to keep it, here in Sens. They're living with me. …'

Littlejohn wondered how they all managed it!

‘. …Their children are grown-up now. The boy's in the army and a fine boy he is, too. Their daughter's married to a motor mechanic and expecting her second any time. And their clever uncle Etienne brings disgrace on all of them.'

She began ferociously to attack the contents of the mixing-board again.

‘I suppose it's God's will and what can't be cured must be endured. We'll live through it.'

More faces at the window.

‘Bernard, go out and tell that Goupil woman to mind her own business. Go on. Tell them all to go away. There's nothing here for them.'

Bernard shuffled to the door and they could hear him gruffly trying to disperse the crowd, who told him he didn't own the street.

That was all there was to it. There seemed little to help
them there. The old woman took advantage of Bernard's absence to tackle Luc again. She did it almost in a whisper.

‘Will they be bringing his body home?'

‘Do you wish it?'

‘Yes. I want him to be decently buried where I'll know where to find him. I know he was a disgrace while he was alive; but dead, I want him in God's peace, buried proper with the comfort of the church.'

‘I'll do my best.'

She emptied the bones in a pan of stock.

‘We'll be going now, thank you, madame. We're both very sorry.'

‘I thank you for your good manners, sir. Not all the police are so kind.'

Her eyes had softened and now her upper lip was trembling. They bade her good-bye and, as Littlejohn turned to close the door, and she thought she was alone, she sprawled her arms across the mixing-board and sank her head on them. Her heavy shoulders shook with dry sobbing.

Outside, Bernard was still quarrelling with the crowd of inquisitive women.

Luc and Littlejohn made their way back to the Rue de la République, the high street which carries the main road from Paris to the South.

‘She said he stayed at the best hotel in town?'

‘Yes.'

‘That would be
l'Hôtel du Cathedral
Let's try it.'

Enriched by passing traffic, especially that of the summer months on its way to the Riviera, the
Hôtel du Cathedral
was sumptuous. Revolving doors, deep carpets, everything of the best. In November, the place was a bit quiet and the hall-porter had shed his magnificient summer uniform and was doing heavier work in his shirt sleeves. He met them in the porch. Luc wasted no time.

‘I'd like to see the proprietor. Police.'

‘Good God! What's up? I hope it isn't anything wrong we've been doing.'

‘The proprietor?'

‘He and madame are in Paris. Monsieur Guy is at home, however. Want to see him?'

‘Their son?'

‘Yes.'

‘He'll do.'

‘I'll ask if he'll see you.'

‘He'd better.'

The porter shambled off among the palms in the rear of the hall and almost at once emerged following a tall, slim young man with a small dark moustache and sideboards. At that time of day, even, he was dressed like a tailor's dummy. He'd been trained in Paris and had highly manicured finger-nails and hair plastered with aromatic brilliantine.

‘You wished to see me?'

He eyed Luc's soiled raincoat and slouch hat. When he'd finished scrutinising Littlejohn as well, he seemed in a better temper.

‘You're English?'

‘Yes. This is Chief-Inspector Luc of the Paris Sûreté.'

That changed his tune! He rubbed his hands.

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?'

‘Just answer a few questions, if you please.'

‘Delighted to help. May I offer you a drink?'

‘No, thanks, we're anxious to get back to Paris. My friend here has to be back at Scotland Yard this evening.'

Monsieur Guy seemed even more eager to help. His body worked in convulsions of anxiety to do the right thing. He clapped his hands for the porter.

‘Bring the bottle of the best Marc de Bourgogne, Simon. No, no, gentlemen, I insist. It will not take more of your time, if you honour me by drinking with me.'

He poured out three high-speed heavy helpings of the brandy.

‘To your successful endeavours, gentlemen. …'

Then in a lower tone.

‘What is it?'

‘Just some information about someone who might have stayed here this Spring. Etienne Jourin.'

Monsieur Guy was pale, but turned paler.

‘I hear he's been murdered in England. It's all over the town.'

‘Did he ever stay here?'

‘He did. For several days. Last May, it was. How can I forget it?'

‘Why?'

Monsieur Guy flung his hands in the air, like someone playing diabolo.

‘He was a gaolbird. He'd not long been released from prison, I'm sure. It was all regular here, of course. He filled in the usual
fiche
when he checked-in, but gave a false name. Unfortunately my father was away in Auxerre on business at the time, and I was then in Paris, working. Mademoiselle Lebrun was in charge of the reception. My mother was looking after the hotel until my father returned at week-end. Neither of them knew Jourin. If my father or I had been here, it would, of course, have been different. We knew him in the old days. As it was, they booked him in. He took a suite. Yes, he did. The impertinent bounder. We'd have showed him the door. Kicked him out. As it was, he stayed four days. Then my father returned, recognised him, and asked him to leave.'

‘He didn't tell the police?'

‘No. He wasn't aware that the police were still after him. They didn't tell us till much later, long after he'd gone. Jourin took it with his usual impudence. Asked if he might telephone, and booked a suite at the
Carlton
, at Cannes. I
must say, he paid the bill here, and tipped the staff lavishly, just to show-off. I don't know where he'd got his money from. Presumably robbed someone on the way.

‘And that was that, eh?'

Monsieur Guy had to take another drink of his brandy to brace him.

‘It was not. As you might guess, he left scandal behind him. First, he seduced a new floor-maid we had. A girl from Sens, too, to add to the trouble. After he'd gone, her mother came here and played merry hell in front of a party of high-class guests who'd just arrived. Her language was dreadful, I believe. They had to give brandy to one of the ladies of the high-class party. The mother wanted the address of Jourin, but, of course, we didn't give it. This is a discreet hotel. …'

Littlejohn hid his smile in his brandy glass. He could imagine it. The mother of the wronged new girl, coarsely filling the hall with her oaths and lamentations, and perhaps some other unspeakable details as well, and the management and staff rushing round, being discreet, trying to get the woman in the street. …