Maigret in Montmartre (14 page)

“Antoinette fell for him—she was crazy about him. So was Maria.”

“You mean the housemaid and the kitchen-maid?”

“Yes. And others who worked there before them. Servants never stayed long in that house. You never knew whether to take your orders from the old man or from the Countess. You see what I mean? Oscar didn’t make love to the servants, as you said a minute ago. As soon as he saw a new one, he just stared at her as though he was taking possession of her.

“Then, the first evening, he’d go upstairs and into her room as though it was all arranged beforehand.”

“Some men are like that—they believe no woman can resist them.”

“Antoinette cried her eyes out.”

“Why?”

“Because she was really in love with him, and hoped for a time that he’d marry her. But once he’d had enough he’d go away without a word. And after that he’d take no more notice of them. Never say anything pleasant or pay them the slightest attention. Until he was in the mood again, and then back he’d go to one of their rooms.

“Anyhow, he had all the women he wanted, and not only servants.”

“You think he had an affair with the Countess?”

“Before the Count had been dead two days.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw him come out of her room at six in the morning. That was partly why I left. When the servants begin to share the best bedroom, it’s the last straw.”

“Was he getting above himself?”

“He was doing just as he liked. You could feel there was nobody giving him orders any more.”

“Did it never occur to you that the Count might have been murdered?”

“It was none of my business.”

“But it did occur to you?”

“It occurred to the police too, didn’t it? Else why did they ask us all those questions?”

“It might have been Oscar?”

“I don’t say that. She was probably just as capable of doing it herself.”

“Did you go on working at Nice?”

“At Nice and Monte Carlo. I like the climate down there, and I’ve only come to Paris accidentally, to please my employers.”

“You never heard any more about the Countess?”

“I saw her go past once or twice, but we didn’t lead the same kind of life.”

“And Oscar?”

“I never saw him again in those parts. I don’t think he stayed on the Riviera.”

“But you think you caught sight of him a few weeks ago. What did he look like?”

“All you policemen seem to think that whenever one passes a man in the street one notices everything about him.”

“Had he aged much?”

“He’s like me—fifteen years older than he was.”

“That means he’s in his fifties.”

“I’m nearly ten years older than he is. Another three or four years in service, and then I’ll retire to a little house I’ve bought at Cagnes and cook only for myself. Fried eggs and cutlets.”

“You don’t remember how he was dressed?”

“In the Place Clichy?”

“Yes.”

“In rather dark clothes. I don’t say black, but dark. He had a heavy overcoat on, and gloves. I noticed the gloves. He was very smart.”

“What about his hair?”

“A man doesn’t go round carrying his hat, in the middle of winter.”

“Was it grey at the temples?”

“I think so. But that wasn’t what struck me.”

“What did?”

“He’d got fatter. He was always broad-shouldered. Used to go around naked to the waist whenever he could, because he had tremendous muscles, and some women found that attractive. He didn’t look so powerful when he had his clothes on. Now—if it was him I met—he looks rather like a bull. His neck’s thicker, and he seems even shorter than he used to.”

“You never heard any more of Antoinette?”

“She died. Not long afterwards.”

“What of?”

“A miscarriage. At least that’s what I was told.”

“And Maria Pinaco?”

“I don’t know if she’s still at it, but last time I saw her she had her stretch on the Cours Albert-Premier, at Nice.”

“Was that long ago?”

“Two years, or a bit more.”

She did have the curiosity to ask him:

“How was the Countess killed?”

“Strangled.”

She made no comment, but looked as though she thought that sounded quite like Oscar’s way.

“And who was the other woman?”

“A girl you’re not likely to have known—she was only twenty years old.”

“Nice of you to remind me that I’m an old woman.”

“That’s not what I meant. She came from Lisieux, and there’s nothing to suggest that she ever lived on the Riviera. All I know is that she once visited La Bourboule.”

“Near Le Mont-Dore?”

“In Auvergne—yes.”

She looked at Maigret with thoughtful eyes.

“Well, once I’ve begun to give him away…” she muttered. “Oscar came from the Auvergne,” she went on. “I don’t know exactly what part, but he had a bit of an accent, and when I wanted to annoy him I’d imitate it. He’d go pale with rage. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll ask you to clear out, because it’s only half an hour to lunch-time, and I need the kitchen to myself.”

“I may be back to see you again.”

“Well, so long as you give no more trouble than you have today…! What’s your name?”

“Maigret.”

The kitchen-maid jumped—evidently she read the papers—but the cook had obviously never heard of him.

“I shall remember that, because it means ‘thin’ and you’re rather on the fat side. Now I come to think of it, Oscar’s about your build, these days, but a head shorter. You see what I mean?”

“Thank you very much.”

“Not at all. Only if you arrest him, I’d prefer not to be called as a witness. Never does you any good, when you’re in service. Besides, those lawyers ask a lot of questions to try and make a fool of you. It happened to me once, and I swore it shouldn’t happen again. So don’t count on me.”

She showed him calmly out of the door, and he had to walk the whole length of the Avenue before finding a taxi. Instead of going to the Quai des Orfèvres, he went home to lunch. He got back to the office about half-past two; the snow had quite stopped by then, and the streets were covered with a thin layer of blackish, greasy mud.

When he opened the door of the ‘confessional’ he found it was blue with smoke, and there were about twenty cigarette-ends in the ashtray. It was Torrence who had smoked them, for Philippe was not a smoker. There was a tray there too, with the remains of some sandwiches, and five empty beer-glasses.

“Would you come outside for a moment?”

Emerging into the outer office, Torrence mopped his forehead and relaxed, sighing:

“That chap’s wearing me out. He’s like a wet rag—nothing to get hold of. Twice I thought he was going to come clean. I’m sure he’s got something to say. He seems to be at the end of his tether—looks at you with imploring eyes—and then, at the last second, he changes his mind and swears he doesn’t know a thing. It makes me sick. Just now he drove me so far that I slapped him in the face with the flat of my hand. Do you know what he did?”

Maigret said nothing.

“He put his hand to his cheek and began snivelling, as though he was talking to another pansy like himself: ‘You’re very unkind!’ I mustn’t do that again, because I bet it gives him a thrill.”

Maigret couldn’t help smiling.

“Am I to go on?”

“Have another shot. We’ll try something else presently, perhaps. Has he had anything to eat?”

“He nibbled daintily at a sandwich, with his little finger crooked in the air. You can see he’s missing his dope. If I promised him some, he might begin to talk. The narcotics people must have some, don’t you think?”

“I’ll mention it to the Chief. But don’t do anything about it yet. Just keep on with your questions.”

Torrence gave a glance round at his familiar surroundings, drew a deep breath of air, and went back again into the depressing atmosphere of the ‘confessional’.

“Anything fresh, Lapointe?” asked Maigret.

Lapointe had hardly put down the telephone since his arrival that morning and, like Torrence, had lunched on a sandwich and a glass of beer.

“About a dozen Bonvoisins, but not one of them’s an Oscar.”

“Try to get a call through to La Bourboule. You may have better luck there.”

“Have you got a tip?”

“Perhaps.”

“From the cook?”

“She thinks she met him quite lately in Paris—and better still, in Montmartre.”

“Why La Bourboule?”

“For one thing, he comes from that district, and for another thing, Arlette seems to have had an eventful meeting with someone or other down there, five years ago.”

Maigret spoke without much conviction.

“No news of Lognon?” he went on.

He rang up the Police Station in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld himself, but was told that Inspector Lognon had only looked in for a moment.

“He said he was working for you and would be out all day.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Maigret paced to and fro in his office, smoking his pipe. Then he seemed to reach a decision, and went for an interview with his chief.

“What’s the news, Maigret?” he was asked. “Why weren’t you in to hear the report this morning?”

“I was asleep,” he confessed frankly.

“Have you seen the afternoon papers?”

Maigret indicated by a gesture that these did not interest him.

“They’re wondering whether any more women are going to be strangled.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man who killed the Countess and Arlette isn’t a lunatic. On the contrary, he knows exactly what he’s about.”

“Have you identified him?”

“Perhaps. Probably, in fact.”

“D’you expect to arrest him today?”

“We have to discover where he hangs out, and I haven’t the faintest idea about that, except that it’s more than likely to be in Montmartre. There’s only one circumstance in which there might be another victim?”

“What’s that?”

“If Arlette talked to anybody else—for instance, to Betty or Tania, the other women at Picratt’s.”

“Have you asked them?”

“They don’t say a word. Neither does Fred, the proprietor, neither does the Grasshopper. And neither does that unhealthy worm Philippe, although he’s been questioned all morning. And he, at least, knows something, I’ll be bound. He used to be always seeing the Countess. It was she who supplied him with morphine.”

“Where did she get it?”

“Through her doctor.”

“You’ve arrested him?”

“Not yet. That’s a job for the narcotics people. I’ve been wondering for the last hour whether I ought to take a risk, or not.”

“What risk?”

“The risk of being landed with another corpse. That’s what I want your advice about. It’s more than probable that this chap Bonvoisin killed both women, and I’ve no doubt we can lay hands on him by routine methods. But that may take days, or weeks. It’s largely a matter of luck. And unless I’m much mistaken, he’s no fool. Before we catch him he may bump off someone else—or several other people—for knowing too much.”

“What’s the risk you want to take?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to.”

The Chief smiled.

“Explain, please.”

“If Philippe knows something, as I’m convinced he does, Oscar must be feeling very uneasy. I need only tell the press that Philippe has been questioned for several hours with no result, and then let him go.”

“I’m beginning to understand.”

“The first possibility is that Philippe will go straight to Oscar, but I’m not really counting on that. Unless it’s his only way of getting dope—he’s beginning to need it very badly.”

“And the other possibility?”

The Chief had already guessed what it was.

“You see the notion. A drug addict can’t be trusted. Philippe’s said nothing yet, but that doesn’t mean he’ll keep quiet for ever, and Oscar knows it.”

“So he’ll try to get rid of him.”

“That’s it I—I didn’t want to make the experiment without consulting you.”

“D’you think you can prevent him from killing the boy?”

“I shall take every precaution. Bonvoisin isn’t the man to use a gun. Guns make too much noise, and he doesn’t seem to like noise.”

“When do you propose to let your witness go?”

“At dusk. It’ll be easier to keep a discreet watch over him then. I’ll put as many men as necessary on his tail. And after all, if there should be an accident I don’t feel it would be any great loss.”

“I’d rather there wasn’t one.”

“So would I.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then the Chief said with a sigh:

“I leave it to you, Maigret. Good luck.”

“You were quite right, sir.”

“About what?”

Lapointe was so glad to be playing an important part in an investigation, that he had almost forgotten Arlette’s death.

“I got the information at once. Oscar Bonvoisin was born at Le Mont-Dore, where his father was a hotel porter and his mother a chambermaid in the same hotel. He had his first job there, as a page boy. Then he left the district and didn’t come back till about ten years ago—when he bought a house, not at Le Mont-Dore, but nearby, outside La Bourboule.”

“Does he usually live there?”

“No. He spends part of the summer there, and sometimes a few days in the winter.”

“He isn’t married?”

“No—a bachelor. His mother’s still alive.”

“Living in his house?”

“No. She has a small flat in the town. It’s thought that he supports her. He’s supposed to have made a good deal of money and to be doing some very big business in Paris.”

“The description?”

“Fits with what we’ve got.”

“Would you like to take on a confidential job?”

“You know I would, sir.”

“Even if it’s pretty risky and means a lot of responsibility?”

His love for Arlette must have come surging back, for he said a little too ardently:

“I don’t care if I’m killed.”

“Right! It’s not a question of being killed, but of seeing that someone else isn’t. And it’s essential for you not to look like a police inspector.”

“You think I generally look like one?”

“Go to the wardrobe room and pick yourself out something suitable for an unemployed man who’s looking for work and hoping not to find any. Take a cap rather than a hat. And be careful not to overdo it.”