Maigret in Montmartre (11 page)

Lognon was there too, but made no move to rise; he just looked at the Inspector and sighed. That was his way. He had a positive need to feel wronged, unlucky, a victim of circumstances. He had been working all night, trailing round the wet streets while hundreds of thousands of Parisians were asleep. The case was out of his hands now, since headquarters had taken it over. But he had done his best, knowing that the credit would go to others; and he had made a discovery.

He had been sitting in the waiting-room for the last half-hour, together with a strange young man with long hair, a pale face, and a thin nose, who stared straight ahead of him as though about to faint.

And naturally nobody paid any attention to him. They just left him to kick his heels. They didn’t even ask who he’d brought with him, or what he’d found out. Maigret merely murmured: “See you in a minute, Lognon!” as he showed the lady out.

Maigret opened the door of his office and stood back, saying: “Please sit down.”

He soon realized he had made a mistake. Because of what Rose had said, and because of his visitor’s respectable, rather prim appearance, her black clothes and stiff manner, he had assumed it was Arlette’s mother, who had recognized her daughter’s photograph in the papers.

Her first words did not correct this impression. “I live at Lisieux,” she said, “and I came up by the first train this morning.”

Lisieux was not far from the sea, and he seemed to remember that there was a convent there.

“I saw the paper yesterday evening and recognized the photograph at once.”

She put on a distressed expression, because she felt that would be expected; but she was not in the least upset. There was even a gleam of triumph in her little black eyes.

“Naturally, the girl has altered in the last four years, and that style of hairdressing makes her look different. But I have no doubt whatever that it is she. I would have gone to see my sister-in-law, but we have not spoken to each other for years now, and it is not for me to make the first advance. You understand?”

“I understand,” said Maigret gravely, with a little puff at his pipe.

“The name was different too, of course. But living the life she did, it was only natural she should have changed her name. However, I was puzzled to learn that she called herself Arlette and had an identity card in the name of Jeanne Leleu. The strange thing is that I used to know the Leleu family…”

He waited patiently, watching the falling snow.

“Anyhow, I showed the photograph to three different people, reliable people who had known Anne-Marie well, and they all agreed that it was undoubtedly she—the daughter of my brother and sister-in-law.”

“Is your brother still alive?”

“He died when the child was only two. He was killed in a railway accident—you remember it, perhaps, the famous Rouen catastrophe. I’d warned him…”

“Your sister-in-law lives at Lisieux?”

“Never left the place. But as I told you, we are quite out of touch. It would take too long to explain why. I am sure you will agree that there are some people with whom it is quite impossible to remain on friendly terms. Let us leave it at that!”

“Let us leave it at that!” he repeated.

Then he asked: “What was your brother’s name, by the way?”

“Trochain, Gaston Trochain. Ours is a large family, probably the largest in Lisieux, and one of the oldest. I don’t know whether you are acquainted with the place…”

“No, Madame. I have only passed through.”

“But you doubtless noticed the statue of General Trochain in the principal square. He was our great-grandfather. And the château with the slate-tiled roof that you see on your right as you go towards Caen, was our family property. It no longer belongs to us. It was bought by some
nouveaux riches
after the 1914 war. But my brother was comfortably off.”

“Would it be indiscreet to ask you what he did?”

“He was an Inspector in the Department of Civil Engineering. My sister-in-law was the daughter of an ironmonger who had made a little money, from whom she inherited nine or ten houses and a couple of farms. While my brother was alive she was accepted in society for his sake. But as soon as she was widowed, people began to realize that she had married above her, and now she is left practically alone in her big house.”

“Do you think she will have seen the newspaper?”

“Undoubtedly. The photograph was on the front page of the local paper that everyone sees.”

“Don’t you find it strange that she has not got into touch with us?”

“Not in the least. She will certainly not do so. She is too proud. In fact I am convinced that if she were confronted with the body she would swear it was not her daughter. I know she had heard nothing from the girl for the last four years. Nobody had, at Lisieux. And she’s not upset about her daughter—only about what people are thinking.”

“Do you know why the girl left home?”

“I should say nobody could stay under the same roof as that woman. But there was another reason. I don’t know where the child inherited her character from; it was not from my brother, everyone will tell you that. But when she was fifteen, she was expelled from her convent school. And after that, if I happened to go out in the evening, I never dared look at dark doorways, for fear of seeing her there with a man. Even married men, there were. My sister-in-law thought fit to lock her up, which has never been a wise method, and it only made her worse. People say she climbed out of the window once without her shoes, and was seen like that in the street.”

“Is there any distinguishing mark by which you would be sure of recognizing her?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“What is it?”

“I have not been blessed with children myself. My husband was never very strong, and he has been an invalid for years now. When my niece was a little girl, her mother and I were still on friendly terms. As the child’s aunt I often took care of her, and I remember she had a birthmark under her left heel a small port wine mark that never faded out.”

Maigret picked up the telephone and asked for the police mortuary.

“Hello? This is the Judicial Police. Will you please look at the left foot of the young woman who was brought in yesterday? Yes…I’ll hold on. Tell me if you find any distinguishing point…”

The woman waited with the complete self-assurance of one to whom misgivings were unknown—sitting very straight on her chair, her hands folded over the silver clasp of her handbag. One could imagine her sitting like that in church, listening to the sermon, with that same hard, secretive face.

“Hello? Yes…That’s all…Thank you. Someone will be coming along to identify the body…”

He turned to the lady from Lisieux.

“You’re not afraid to go, I take it?”

“It is my duty,” she replied.

He had not the heart to keep poor Lognon waiting any longer: besides, he felt no wish to escort his visitor to the morgue. He went over and looked into the next door office.

“Are you free, Lucas?”

“I’ve just finished my report on the Javel business.”

“Would you take this lady round to the mortuary?”

She was taller than Sergeant Lucas, and very stiff, and as she marched ahead of him down the corridor, she looked rather as though she were leading him on a string.

L
ognon came in, driving his prisoner in front of him. Maigret noticed that the young man’s hair was so long that it made a kind of pad at the back of his neck, and that he was carrying a heavy brown canvas hold-all, clumsily mended with string, its weight pulling him to one side as he walked.

Opening the door that led to the Inspectors’ office, the Inspector signed to the young man to go in there.

“See what’s inside that,” he said to his waiting subordinates, pointing to the hold-all.

About to close the door, he had a second thought

“Make him let his trousers down, to see if he’s got needle-marks.”

Alone with the gloomy Lognon, he turned and looked at him benevolently. He was not disturbed by the man’s bad temper, and knew his wife did not lead him a very pleasant life. Some of the other men had tried to be friendly with Lognon. But he was too much for them. The mere sight of his glum face, with its perpetual air of foreseeing disaster, was enough to provoke a shrug or a grin.

Maigret rather suspected that he had developed a taste for bad luck and ill-temper and adopted them as his pet vices gloating over them just as some old men gloat over their chronic bronchitis and the sympathy it earns for them.

“Well, old chap?”

“Well, here I am.”

That meant that Lognon was ready to answer questions, since he was a mere underling, but that he thought it outrageous to have to present a report—he, who would have led the investigation if it hadn’t been for the Judicial Police—he, who knew his district inside out and had not allowed himself a moment’s rest since the previous day.

His pursed lips said more clearly than words: “I know what will happen. It’s always like this. You’ll pick my brains, and to-morrow or next day the papers will announce that Inspector Maigret has cleared up the crime. With the usual talk about his unerring instinct and his methods.”

Lognon, in fact, didn’t believe in all that, and this probably accounted for his attitude. If Maigret was an Inspector, and the other fellows here were in the Special Branch instead of kicking their heels in a district police station, it was only because they’d been lucky, or pulled strings, or knew how to make anything of themselves.

In his opinion, he was as good as the best of them.

“Where did you pick up that lad?”

“At the Gare du Nord.”

“When?”

“This morning, at half past six. Before it was light.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I’ve known it for ages. This is the eighth time I’ve arrested him. He’s best known by his first name, Philippe. His full name is Philippe Mortemart, and his father is a professor at Nancy University.”

It was unusual for Lognon to provide so much information in one breath. His shoes were muddy, and as they were old they must have let the water in; his trousers were damp up to the knees, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weary.

“You realized at once who it was when the concierge mentioned a long-haired young man?”

“I know the district.”

Which amounted to a hint that Maigret and his men had no need to interfere.

“Did you go to his home? Where does he live?”

“In an attic, at the top of a block of flats in the Boulevard Rochechouart. He wasn’t there.”

“What time was that?”

“Six o’clock yesterday evening.”

“Had he already taken away his bag?”

“Not yet.”

It had to be admitted that Lognon was the most persistent of bloodhounds. He had gone off on a trail, not even sure that it was the right one, and had followed it up without losing heart for a moment;

“You were looking for him from six o’clock yesterday until this morning?”

“I know his haunts. He needed money to get away, and he was looking for someone to borrow from. It wasn’t till he’d got the money that he went to fetch his bag.”

“How did you find out he was at the Gare du Nord?”

“From a woman who’d seen him take the first bus at the Square d’Anvers. I found him in the waiting-room.”

“And what have you been doing with him since?”

“I took him to the Station to question him.”

“And…?”

He either knows nothing or won’t say anything.“ Maigret had a curious impression that the Inspector was in a hurry to get away, and that it wasn’t because he wanted to go to bed.

“I suppose I’m to leave him with you?”

“Have you made your report?”

“I’ll give it to my Inspector this evening.”

“Was it Philippe who supplied the Countess with drugs?”

“Unless it was she who kept him supplied. Anyhow, they were often seen together.”

“Had that been going on long?”

“Several months. If you don’t need me any more…” He obviously had something on his mind. Either Philippe had dropped some remark that had set him thinking, or else, during his all-night search, he had come across a clue that he was eager to follow up before other people got on the same track.

Maigret, too, knew the district, and could imagine how Philippe and the Inspector had spent the night. In order to get money, the young man must have been looking up everybody he knew, and he would be looking among the drug addicts. He would have asked the prostitutes lurking at the doors of shady hotels; he would have asked café waiters and night-club porters. Then, as the streets emptied, he would have knocked on the doors of hovels inhabited by degenerates like himself, as seedy and penniless as he was.

Had he succeeded in getting a supply of the drug he wanted? If not, he would fall completely to pieces before long.

“Can I go now?”

“Thank you. You’ve done a good job.”

“I’m not suggesting he killed the old woman.”

“Neither am I”

“You’re going to hold him?”

“Perhaps.”

Lognon went off, and Maigret opened the door of the Inspectors’ office. The hold-all was lying on the floor, open. Philippe’s face had the colour and general appearance of melted tallow, and whenever anyone moved he raised his arm, as though afraid of being hit.

Not one of the men showed the least pity for him—disgust was written clearly on all their faces.

The bag held only some shabby underwear, a pair of socks, some bottles of medicine—Maigret sniffed at them to make sure they didn’t contain heroin—and a few notebooks. He flicked over the pages. They were filled with poems or, to be more exact, with disjointed phrases inspired by the delirium of a drug addict.

“Come in here!” he said.

Philippe slid past him in the attitude of one who expects a kick in the pants. He must be accustomed to them. Even in Montmartre there are people who can’t see a fellow like that without hitting him.

Maigret sat down, and left the young man to stand up, sniffing all the time with a dry, exasperating twitch of his nostrils.

“Was the Countess your mistress?”

“She was my protectress,” came the reply, in the mincing tones of a homosexual.