Maigret in Montmartre (12 page)

“In other words, you didn’t go to bed with her?”

“She was interested in my writing.”

“And gave you money?”

“She helped me to get along.”

“Did she give you a lot?”

“She wasn’t rich.”

This was confirmed by the state of his suit, which, though well-cut, was completely threadbare—a blue, double-breasted suit. His shoes must have been given to him, for they were patent leather shoes, more appropriate to evening clothes than to the dirty raincoat he was wearing.

“Why did you try to run away to Belgium?”

The lad did not answer at once, but looked at the door leading into the next office, as though dreading that Maigret would call two tough Inspectors to beat him up. Perhaps that had happened to him on previous occasions when he was arrested.

“I’ve done no harm. I don’t understand why I’ve been arrested.”

“You go with men?”

In his heart of hearts he was proud of it, like all pansies, and an involuntary smile crossed his unnaturally red lips. Maybe he even got a thrill from being pushed about by real men!

“So you won’t answer?”

“I have some men friends.”

“But you have women friends too…”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Am I right in supposing that the men provide you with enjoyment and the old ladies with cash?”

“They appreciate my company.”

“Do you know many?”

“Three or four.”

“And they’re all your protectresses?”

It took some self-control to speak of such things in an ordinary voice and to look at the lad as though he were a human being.

“They help me sometimes.”

“Do they all take drugs?”

Seeing him turn away his head without replying, Maigret lost his temper. He did not get up, seize the fellow by ths filthy collar of his raincoat, and shake him; but he rapped out his next words in a metallic voice.

“Listen! I’m not feeling very patient today, and I’m not Lognon. Either you answer my questions at once, or else I’ll put you in the cooler for a nice long time. And my Inspectors can have a turn at you first.”

“You mean they’ll hit me?”

“They’ll do whatever they like.”

“They’ve no right to.”

“And you’ve no right to hang around spoiling the view. Now, try to answer me. How long had you known the Countess?”

“About six months.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“In a little bar in the Rue Victor-Massé, almost opposite her house.”

“Did you realize at once that she took drugs?”

“It was easy to see.”

“So you sucked up to her?”

“I asked her to give me a little.”

“Had she got any?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“She hardly ever ran short.”

“Do you know how she got it?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Answer my question. Do you know?”

“I think so.”

“How?”

“From a doctor.”

“A doctor who takes dope himself?”

“Yes.”

“Dr Bloch?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“That’s a lie. Ever been to see him?”

“A few times.”

“Why?”

“To get him to give me some.”

“And did he?”

“Only once.”

“Because you threatened to give him away?”

“I had to have some at once. I’d been without for three days. He gave me an injection—just one.”

“Where used you to meet the Countess?”

“In the little bar and at her flat.”

“Why did she give you morphine and money?”

“Because she took an interest in me.”

“I’ve already warned you that you’d better answer my questions.”

“She was lonely.”

“Hadn’t she any friends?”

“She was always alone.”

“You made love to her?”

“I tried to give her pleasure.”

“In her flat?”

“Yes.”

“And you both used to drink red wine?”

“It made me quite sick.”

“And you fell asleep on her bed. Did you ever spend the night there?”

“I stayed as much as two days there.”

“Without ever pulling back the curtains, I bet. Without knowing when it was day and when it was night. Isn’t that so?”

After which he doubtless roamed about the streets like a sleep-walker, in a world to which he no longer belonged, looking for another opportunity.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“When did you begin?”

“Three or four years ago.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still in touch with your parents?”

“My father washed his hands of me long ago.”

“And your mother?”

“She smuggles a money-order to me now and then.”

“Tell me about the Countess.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

“She used to be very rich. She was married to a man she didn’t love, an old fellow who never gave her a moment’s peace and had her trailed by a private detective.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Yes. He used to get a report everyday, describing all she’d said and done, almost minute by minute.”

“Was she already doping herself?”

“No. I don’t think so. He died, and everybody tried to grab the money he’d left her.”

“Who was ‘everybody’?”

“All the gigolos on the Riviera, the professional gamblers, her women friends…”

“Did she never mention any names?”

“I don’t remember any. You know what it’s like. When you’ve got your load, you talk in a different way…”

Maigret knew this only by hearsay, having never given it a trial.

“She still had some money?”

“Not much. I think she was gradually selling her jewels.”

“Did you ever see them?”

“No.”

“Didn’t she trust you?”

“I don’t know.”

He was swaying on his legs—they must be skeleton-thin under those loose trousers—to such an extent that Maigret motioned to him to sit down.

“Was there anyone else in Paris besides yourself who was still trying to get money out of her?”

“She never spoke to me about anyone.”

“You never saw anybody in her flat, or talking to her in the street or in a bar?”

Maigret noticed a perceptible hesitation.

“N…no!”

He looked sternly at the lad.

“You haven’t forgotten what I told you?”

But Philippe had pulled himself together.

“I never saw anyone with her.”

“Neither a man nor a woman?”

“Nobody.”

“Did you ever hear the name ‘Oscar’ mentioned?”

“I don’t know anybody of that name.”

“She never seemed to be afraid of anyone?”

“She was only afraid of dying all alone.”

“Did she ever have rows with you?”

The lad’s face was too pasty to blush, but a faint pink tinge appeared at the tips of his ears.

“How did you guess?”

He added, with a knowing, slightly contemptuous smile:

“It always ends like that.”

“Explain.”

“Anybody will tell you so.”

That meant, “anybody who takes drugs.”

Then he added in a dreary tone, as though realizing that he would not be understood:

“When she’d run out of dope and couldn’t find any more at once, she’d turn on me, accusing me of having wheedled the stuff out of her, or even of having stolen it—swearing there’d been six or a dozen phials left in the drawer the night before.”

“Had you a key to her flat?”

“No.”

“Did you never go there when she was out?”

“She was hardly ever out. Sometimes she stayed in her room for a week or more on end.”

“Answer my question, yes or no. Did you never go into her flat when she was out?”

Another almost imperceptible hesitation.

“No.”

Maigret muttered as though to himself, without persisting:

“Liar!”

Because of this Philippe, the atmosphere of his own office had become almost as stifling and unreal as that of the flat in the Rue Victor-Massé.

Maigret knew enough about drug addicts to feel certain that now and then, when he was short of dope, Philippe must have tried to get some at all costs. In such a case he would do what he had done the night before, when he was trying to find the money to leave Paris—he would go the round of all his acquaintances, begging shamelessly, all self-respect abandoned.

On the low level where he lived, it must be difficult at times. So he would surely remember that the Countess nearly always had a supply in her drawer, and that if for once she should be reluctant to part with it, he need only wait for her to go out.

This was only a hunch, but it was a logical one.

These people spy on one another, envy one another, steal from one another, and sometimes inform on one another. The police are always getting anonymous telephone calls from vengeful characters.

“When did you last see her?”

“The day before yesterday, in the morning.”

“Sure it wasn’t yesterday morning?”

“Yesterday morning I was ill and stayed in bed.”

“What was the matter with you?”

“I’d been out of dope for two days.”

“Wouldn’t she give you any?”

“She swore she hadn’t any, and that the doctor hadn’t been able to supply her.”

“Did you quarrel?”

“We were both in a bad temper.”

“Did you believe what she said?”

“She showed me the empty drawer.”

“When did she expect the doctor to come?”

“She didn’t know. She’d rung him up and he’d promised to come.”

“You haven’t been back there since?”

“No.”

“Now listen. The Countess’s body was found yesterday afternoon, about five o’clock. The evening papers were out already. So the news didn’t appear till this morning. But you spent the night looking for money so you could get away to Belgium. How did you know the Countess was dead?”

He was obviously about to say:

“I didn’t know.”

But the Inspector’s stony stare made him change his mind.

“I went along the street and saw a crowd on the pavement.”

“What time was that?”

“About half past six.”

Maigret had been in the flat then, and it was true that a policeman had been left at the door to keep out inquisitive idlers.

“Turn out your pockets.”

“Inspector Lognon has made me do that already.”

“Do it again.”

He brought out a dirty handkerchief, two keys on a ring—one was the key of his bag—a penknife, a purse, a little box containing pills, a pocket-book, a notebook, and a hypodermic syringe in its case.

Maigret took the notebook, which was an old one with yellowed pages, full of addresses and telephone numbers. There were hardly any surnames, only initials or Christian names. No mention of an Oscar.

“When you heard the Countess had been strangled, you thought you would be suspected?”

“It’s always like that.”

“So you decided to go to Belgium. Do you know anybody there?”

“I’ve been to Brussels several times.”

“Who gave you the money?”

“A friend—a man.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“You’d better tell me.”

“The doctor.”

“Dr Bloch?”

“Yes. I hadn’t found anything. It was three o’clock in the morning and I was beginning to feel scared. Finally I rang him up from a bar in the Rue Caulaincourt.”

“What did you say to him?”

“That I was a friend of the Countess, and that I must have money right away.”

“And he let you have it?”

“I also said that if I were arrested it might be unpleasant for him.”

“In other words, you blackmailed him. Did he tell you to come to his flat?”

“He said if I came to the Rue Victor-Massé, where he lives, he’d be waiting on the pavement.”

“Was that all you asked him for?”

“He gave me a phial of morphine too.”

“And I suppose you gave yourself a shot at once, in some doorway? Is that all you’ve got to tell me?”

“That’s all I know.”

“Is the doctor a homo, too?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

Philippe shrugged his shoulders, as though the question were too childish to answer.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Are you thirsty?”

The young man’s lips quivered, but it was not food or drink that he needed.

Maigret got up, almost with an effort, and again opened the door into the next office. Torrence happened to be there—a tall, powerful fellow with great beefy hands. Suspects who were interrogated by him would have been surprised to learn that he had a soft heart.

“Come here,” said the Inspector. “You’re to shut yourself up with this chap, and not let him out till he’s come clean. I don’t care whether it takes twenty-four hours or three days. When you’re tired, hand over to someone else.”

Philippe protested, wild-eyed.

“I’ve told you all I know. This is a mean trick…”

Then, shrill-voiced as an angry woman:

“You’re a brute!…You’re horrid!…You…you…”

Maigret stood aside to let him pass, and exchanged a wink with the burly Torrence. The two men went through the Inspectors’ big office and into a room which was jokingly known as ‘the confessional’.

“Have some beer and sandwiches sent up for me!” called Torrence to Lapointe as he went by.

Alone with his assistants, Maigret stretched, shook himself, and refrained with some difficulty from flinging open the window.

“Well, boys?”

Then he noticed that Lucas was back already.

“She’s here again, sir, waiting to speak to you.”

“The aunt from Lisieux? Oh yes—how did she behave?”

“Like an old woman who enjoys nothing so much as a funeral. No vinegar or smelling-salts needed. She inspected the body calmly from head to foot. Half-way through, she jumped and asked me:

“‘Why have they shaved her?’

“I explained that it wasn’t us, and she nearly choked. She showed me the birthmark on the sole of the girl’s foot, and said: ‘You see! But I should have recognized her even without that.’

“Then, as we were leaving, she announced, without consulting me: ‘I’m going back with you. I have something else to say to the Inspector.’

“She’s in the waiting-room, and I don’t think it’ll be easy to get rid of her.”