because she had a title.”
“Do you know Monsieur Oscar?”
“Oscar who?”
“Any Oscar.”
“Well, there’s my son.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventeen. He’s apprenticed to a carpenter in the Boulevard Barbès.”
“Does he live here with you?”
“Of course.”
Janvier, having made his call, came in to report:
“The doctor’s at home. He had two more patients to see and then he’ll come at once.”
Inspector Lognon was keeping ostentatiously aloof all this time—touching nothing and pretending not to listen to what the concierge was saying.
“Did the Countess ever get any letters with a bank address on them?”
“Never.”
“Did she go out much?”
“She sometimes stayed in for ten or twelve days at a stretch—in fact I used to wonder if she wasn’t dead, for there wouldn’t be a sound out of her. She must have been lying in a stupor on that filthy bed. Then she’d dress up, put on a hat and gloves, and one would almost have taken her for a lady, except that she always had a kind of wild look on her face.”
“Did she stay out long, at such times?”
“It varied. Sometimes for only a few minutes, sometimes for the whole day. She’d come back loaded with parcels. Wine was delivered to her by the case. It was always that cheap red stuff—she bought it from the grocer in the Rue Condorcet.”
“Did the delivery man come into the flat?”
“He used to leave the case outside the door. I had words with him because he wouldn’t use the back stairs—said they were too dark and he didn’t want to fall on his nose.”
“How did you come to hear she was dead?”
“I didn’t hear she was dead.”
“But you opened her door?”
“I didn’t have to take the trouble—and I wouldn’t have taken it.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the fourth floor. On the fifth there’s an old gentleman, partly paralysed, and I do his housework and take him up his meals. He used to be in the Inland Revenue. He’s been living in the same flat for years and years, and he lost his wife six months ago. You may have read about it in the papers; she was run over by a bus one morning at ten o’clock, when she was crossing the Place Blanche on her way to the market in the Rue Lepic”
“What time do you go up to do his housework?”
“About ten o’clock every morning. On my way down I sweep the stairs.”
“Did you sweep them this morning?”
“Why wouldn’t I have?”
“You go up once before that, with the letters?”
“Not right up to the fifth floor—the old gentleman doesn’t get many letters and he’s in no hurry to read them. The third floor people both go out to work and leave early, about half past eight, so they pick up their letters as they go past my lodge.”
“Even if you’re not there?”
“Even if I’m out shopping—yes. I never lock the door. I do all my marketing in this street, and I keep an eye on the house while I’m about it. Do you mind if I open the window?”
Everyone was hot. They had all moved back into the first room—except Janvier, who was searching through drawers and cupboards as he had done in the morning at Arlette’s flat.
“So you only bring the letters up as far as the second floor?”
“That’s right.”
“And this morning about ten o’clock, you passed by this door on your way up to the fifth floor?”
“Yes, and I noticed it was a crack open. That surprised me a bit, but not much. On my way down I didn’t think to look. I’d put everything ready for my old gentleman, and I didn’t need to go up again till half past four—that’s when I take him up his supper. On the way down I noticed this door was still a crack open, and without thinking, I called out—not loudly:
“‘ Madame la comtesse! ’ ”
“Because that’s what everybody called her. She had a foreign name, difficult to pronounce. It was quicker to say ‘Countess’.
“There was no answer.”
“Was there a light on in the flat?”
“Yes. I
“Do you know Monsieur Oscar?”
“Oscar who?”
“Any Oscar.”
“Well, there’s my son.”
“How old is he?”
“Seventeen. He’s apprenticed to a carpenter in the Boulevard Barbès.”
“Does he live here with you?”
“Of course.”
Janvier, having made his call, came in to report:
“The doctor’s at home. He had two more patients to see and then he’ll come at once.”
Inspector Lognon was keeping ostentatiously aloof all this time—touching nothing and pretending not to listen to what the concierge was saying.
“Did the Countess ever get any letters with a bank address on them?”
“Never.”
“Did she go out much?”
“She sometimes stayed in for ten or twelve days at a stretch—in fact I used to wonder if she wasn’t dead, for there wouldn’t be a sound out of her. She must have been lying in a stupor on that filthy bed. Then she’d dress up, put on a hat and gloves, and one would almost have taken her for a lady, except that she always had a kind of wild look on her face.”
“Did she stay out long, at such times?”
“It varied. Sometimes for only a few minutes, sometimes for the whole day. She’d come back loaded with parcels. Wine was delivered to her by the case. It was always that cheap red stuff—she bought it from the grocer in the Rue Condorcet.”
“Did the delivery man come into the flat?”
“He used to leave the case outside the door. I had words with him because he wouldn’t use the back stairs—said they were too dark and he didn’t want to fall on his nose.”
“How did you come to hear she was dead?”
“I didn’t hear she was dead.”
“But you opened her door?”
“I didn’t have to take the trouble—and I wouldn’t have taken it.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is the fourth floor. On the fifth there’s an old gentleman, partly paralysed, and I do his housework and take him up his meals. He used to be in the Inland Revenue. He’s been living in the same flat for years and years, and he lost his wife six months ago. You may have read about it in the papers; she was run over by a bus one morning at ten o’clock, when she was crossing the Place Blanche on her way to the market in the Rue Lepic”
“What time do you go up to do his housework?”
“About ten o’clock every morning. On my way down I sweep the stairs.”
“Did you sweep them this morning?”
“Why wouldn’t I have?”
“You go up once before that, with the letters?”
“Not right up to the fifth floor—the old gentleman doesn’t get many letters and he’s in no hurry to read them. The third floor people both go out to work and leave early, about half past eight, so they pick up their letters as they go past my lodge.”
“Even if you’re not there?”
“Even if I’m out shopping—yes. I never lock the door. I do all my marketing in this street, and I keep an eye on the house while I’m about it. Do you mind if I open the window?”
Everyone was hot. They had all moved back into the first room—except Janvier, who was searching through drawers and cupboards as he had done in the morning at Arlette’s flat.
“So you only bring the letters up as far as the second floor?”
“That’s right.”
“And this morning about ten o’clock, you passed by this door on your way up to the fifth floor?”
“Yes, and I noticed it was a crack open. That surprised me a bit, but not much. On my way down I didn’t think to look. I’d put everything ready for my old gentleman, and I didn’t need to go up again till half past four—that’s when I take him up his supper. On the way down I noticed this door was still a crack open, and without thinking, I called out—not loudly:
“‘ Madame la comtesse! ’ ”
“Because that’s what everybody called her. She had a foreign name, difficult to pronounce. It was quicker to say ‘Countess’.
“There was no answer.”
“Was there a light on in the flat?”
“Yes. I
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