Death Before Breakfast by George Bellairs Page A

proud of. Weare grieved that he should ever have been born in Sens. His notoriety brings us no credit; only shame.’
    â€˜You knew him before he went to Paris and earned himself a reputation?’
    â€˜He was born and brought up in Sens. His father was a worker on the roads, but Etienne did better for himself. He was apprenticed to Souquier, the jeweller – the shop’s still there in the Grande Rue. Then, he joined-up when war began and we heard he was somewhere in Savoy, in the Resistance. He returned a bit of a hero and went back to his old trade. But that wasn’t good enough for Monsieur Etienne any more. He went to try his fortune in Paris; and rare good fortune he got, too. In gaol. Then, he became quite a celebrity.
Le Roi d’Argent
, indeed. And now the police are after him for another big jewel robbery.’
    â€˜I’m afraid they won’t catch up with him, either. He’s dead. He fled to England and was murdered there.’
    â€˜You don’t say! I’ve been wondering what you were here for. I suppose you’re the police?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And the gentleman with you, he’s from the English police?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Are you on your way to tell his mother?’
    â€˜She lives here still?’
    â€˜Yes. In a little street behind the cathedral. Rue des Petits Cochons. Anybody will tell you. She’s a very decent woman. Nobody holds it against her that she’s got a no-good son. The rest of her children are very respectable. Her husband was knocked down on the road and killed years ago. She’s written-off Etienne completely. I believe he was in town not long ago, and called on her. She showed him the door. She ought to have sent for the police. They were after him. Just like his cheek to turn-up here. Straight fromcrime to his mother. I suppose it might be considered natural to do that, but not after his record.’
    â€˜Did he stay long in the town?’
    â€˜I can’t say. It might have been a rumour. Then he went south. Picked up a woman, I heard, and went off with her. He arrived here in a car, dressed-up to the nines and throwing his money about. Stayed at the best hotel, too. It’s years since he was here before and only a few recognised him. He said he wanted to see his mother again. In any event, nobody would betray him to the police. He’s a sort of local hero. He trades on his war record and the fact that nowadays people seem to admire the Arsène Lupin sort of thieves with plenty of cheek. It’s disgusting!’
    â€˜Well, thanks, Monsieur Close. I think perhaps we’d better go and have a word with his mother.’
    It was a sunny November afternoon as they stepped out into the main street. Sens is normally a bustling little place, but to-day was a saint’s festival and it was busier than ever. Roundabouts and booths in the little square, cheap jacks hawking their stuff under the walls and in the very porch of the magnificent cathedral. Customers of the cafés in the side-streets were sitting in the open, enjoying their
apéritifs
in the burst of bright weather. Children playing were still dressed in summer clothes.
    Rue des Petits Cochons was one of a number of shabby, narrow alleys running from the back of the cathedral. Groups of women standing at doors, children playing on the uneven pavements. Luc asked where Madame Jourin lived. One of the women indicated a house across the way.
    Something seemed to have happened already at the Jourin home. A small knot of women, some of them with babies in arms, were gathered, gossiping in the middle of the street opposite the house. They eyed the newcomers inquisitively.
    â€˜Police! ’ said a voice.
    Madame Jourin’s was like the rest of the crowded tenements there. Narrow fronted, with the paint peeled from the woodwork. There was a pervading smell of drains and from a house nearby emerged the strong aroma of cooking