The First Fingerprint by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Page B

guest as discreetly as possible. It must have been the first time in her life that she had received such a person in the comfort of her home. The situation intrigued her just as much as it brought out her congenital nosiness.
    De Palma spoke first:
    â€œWhen did you last see your neighbor?”
    â€œThe last Wednesday of November. I can’t remember the exact date …”
    Yvonne thought it over, puckering her brow and adopting a mysterious air as if she were the possessor of great secrets.
    â€œUsually, on Tuesdays, she goes to teach in Aix, then comes back at about 8:00 in the evening. She hardly ever goes out. I didn’t hear her that evening. I thought she must have stayed late with her students or something. Then, when I didn’t see her the next morning, I thought that something must be wrong. I went to see your colleagues at the Commissariat on boulevard Chave. They told me to wait. A couple of days later, I went back to tell them that she still hadn’t come home. That time they listened to me. They told me that they’d put her in the missing persons file.”
    â€œWhere do you think she could be?”
    â€œI have absolutely no idea, Officer. All I know is that she didn’t pay me rent for November or December. In my opinion, she must be dead by now, or else kidnapped by some sadist.”
    De Palma did not tell her that Christine Autran had been hanged and thrown into the sea like a piece of dead meat. He wanted to get as much information as possible from this witness, so for the moment he had to avoid any psychological shocks.
    â€œWhat did she like doing? Did she have any hobbies or anything?”
    â€œHer job. She loved her job. Apart from that, I don’t know of anything …”
    The elderly woman thought it over. She stared at her shiny shoes, tapping them on the thick Chinese rug.
    â€œOh yes!” she suddenly exclaimed, as though re-emerging from a long meditation. “She liked walking in the creeks. I used to tell her thatit was no place for a woman, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She went there all the time. Alone. She was always alone, the poor thing. She was a beautiful woman, she could have got married. But she preferred her freedom. You know what young people are like these days … I got married in 1940 to the gentleman you see there, on the piano. He was a conductor. I was twenty and he was thirty. It was a different era … Christine’s mother died about twenty years ago. She had no other family, and as far as I know she had no friends.”
    â€œI suppose you have spare keys to her flat?”
    Yvonne Barbier suddenly lit up. She got to her feet and vanished into what was presumably her lumber room.
    â€œOf course I have a spare. Do you want us to go up and have a look?” she said, heading toward the front door.
    â€œWe’ll see about that later.”
    â€œFrom what I can understand, you think that she really has disappeared, or that she’s dead, is that right?”
    â€œIt is a possibility we are bearing in mind,” de Palma replied vaguely. “But as you know, we police officers see so many strange things …”
    â€œShe’s dead. I’m sure of it. Just like two and two makes four. She’s been living her for twenty years, coming home every evening. Sometimes she doesn’t go out all day. I can hear her walking from one room to another.”
    â€œAnd you haven’t noticed anything unusual of late?” de Palma asked. “No-one has been here to ask after her, no sales reps or workmen, nothing?”
    â€œNo, nobody. There’s just the old folk like me who live here. You can question them, if you want. But they’ll only tell you the same thing.”
    He was not going to learn much that day. It was 12:30. De Palma asked Yvonne Barbier to show him Autran’s flat.
    â€œShouldn’t you have a search warrant?”
    â€œNo, Madame Barbier. That’s