Maigret in Montmartre (15 page)

Janvier was back, and Maigret gave him very similar instructions.

“You’re to look like a clerk going home from work.”

Then he chose two inspectors whom Philippe had never seen.

He called the four men into his office, spread out a plan of Montmartre, and explained what they were to do.

Dusk was falling fast. The lamps on the quay and up the Boulevard Saint-Michel were already lit.

Maigret was reluctant to wait for complete darkness, but it would be more difficult to follow Philippe without attracting his attention—and Bonvoisin’s, which was more important in the deserted streets before the night life of Montmartre began.

“Would you come here for a moment, Torrence?”

Torrence emerged, to declare furiously:

“I give it up! He makes me spew, that lad does! Anyone else can try who’s got a strong stomach, but as for me…”

“You’ll have finished in five minutes.”

“We’re to let him go?”

“As soon as the last edition of the evening papers is out.”

“What have the papers got to do with him?”

“They’ll announce that he’s been questioned for hours, with no result.”

“I see.”

“Go and shake him up a bit more. Then put his hat on his head and push him out, telling him he’d better behave himself.”

“Do I give him back his syringe?”

“His syringe and his money.”

Torrence looked at the four waiting Inspectors.

“Is that why they’re all dolled up for a fancy-dress ball?”

One of the four went to look for a taxi, in which he was to wait quietly near the entrance to police headquarters. The others set out for certain strategic points.

Meanwhile, Maigret had found time to ring up the ‘narcotics squad’ and the police station in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld.

Torrence had purposely left the door of the ‘confessional’ ajar, and his thunderous voice could be heard at full pitch, as he told Philippe exactly what he thought of him.

“I wouldn’t even touch you with a barge-pole, d’you understand?” he roared. “I’d be afraid of giving you the wrong idea. And now it’s time I had this office disinfected. Take what you call your overcoat. Put your hat on.”

“You mean I can go?”

“I mean I’m sick of the sight of you—we all are. You’re more than we can stand—is that clear? Pick up your rubbish and get out, you filthy rat!”

“There’s no need to jostle me.”

“I’m not jostling you.”

“You’re shouting at me…”

“Get out!”

“I’m going…I’m going…Thank you.”

A door opened, and banged shut. At this hour the corridor was deserted, and only two or three people were waiting in the badly-lit anteroom.

Philippe made his way down the long, dusty passage, where he looked like an insect hunting for its way out.

Maigret, who was watching him through the crack of his own door, saw him at last reach the stairs and begin to descend.

All the same, he felt a little remorseful. He shut the door and looked at Torrence, who was stretching himself like an actor who has just got back to his dressing-room. Torrence could see that he was worried and thoughtful.

“You think he’ll get himself bumped off?”

“What I’m hoping is that the attempt will be made, but won’t succeed.”

“The first thing he’ll do will be to rush to where he thinks he can find morphia.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where?”

“To Dr Bloch.”

“Will he give him any?”

“I sent him a message to forbid him to, and he won’t dare.”

“So what?”

“I don’t know. I’m going up to Montmartre. The men know where to find me. You stay here. If anything turns up, phone me at Picratt’s.”

“That means more delicious sandwiches for me. Never mind—I shan’t be sharing them with that pansy this time!”

Maigret put on his hat and coat, chose two empty pipes from the selection on his desk, and put them in his pockets.

Before taking a taxi to the Rue Pigalle, he called in at the Brasserie Dauphine for a brandy. He had lost his hangover, but began to suspect that he was in for another next morning.

A
rlette’s photographs had at last been removed from the showcase. Instead, there were those of another girl, who had taken her place and was to do the same act, perhaps even in the same dress. But Betty was right, it was a difficult business. The girl was young and plump, probably pretty; but even in the photo, her gesture of beginning to undress had a provocative vulgarity which was reminiscent of an indecent postcard, or of one of the clumsily-painted nudes that undulate on the canvas-sided booths of fair-grounds.

The door opened at a push and Maigret went in. A lamp was burning above the bar and another at the far end of the room, with a long stretch of dimness between the two. Right at the back of the room was Fred, in a white, polo-necked sweater, with big horn spectacles on his nose, reading the evening paper.

The Alfonsis’ upstairs quarters were so cramped that in the day-time they probably used the cabaret as a dining-room and sitting-room. Very likely some of the regular customers, who were more like personal friends, came in for a drink at the bar at
apéritif
time.

Fred looked across the top of his glasses at Maigret advancing towards him and, without getting up, held out a fat hand and motioned him to sit down.

“I was expecting you,” he said.

He didn’t explain why, and Maigret didn’t ask. Fred finished reading his article on the case, took off his spectacles, and inquired:

“What will you take? A brandy?”

He went to the bar, poured out two glasses, and returned to his seat with the contented sigh of a man glad to be at home. Steps could be heard overhead.

“Is your wife up there?” asked the Inspector.

“Yes—giving a lesson to the new girl.”

Maigret repressed a smile at the thought of fat Rose giving a lesson in the art of strip-tease.

“Doesn’t it interest you?” he asked Fred, who answered with a shrug:

“She’s a pretty kid. Her breasts are better than Arlette’s and her skin’s clearer. But it’s not the same thing.”

“Why did you make out to me that you’d never been with Arlette except in the kitchen?”

Fred showed no embarrassment.

“You’ve been questioning the hotel-keepers? I had to tell you that, because of my wife. No sense in hurting her feelings unnecessarily. She’s always afraid I’ll leave her one day for a younger woman.”

“You wouldn’t have left her for Arlette?”

Fred looked Maigret straight in the eyes.

“For her, yes, if she’d asked me to.”

“You’d really fallen for her?”

“Call it how you like. I’ve had hundreds of women in my life, probably thousands. I’ve never bothered to count ’em. But I’ve never known another like her.”

“Did you suggest she should settle down with you?”

“I gave her to understand that it wouldn’t displease me, and that she’d do quite well out of it.”

“And she refused?”

Fred sighed, raised his glass, gazed through it for a moment, and then took a sip.

“If she hadn’t refused, she’d probably be alive now. You know as well as I do that she had a man somewhere. How he kept his hold on her, I never found out.”

“You tried?”

“I even trailed her sometimes.”

“With no result?”

“She was too smart for me. What’s your game with the pansy?”

“You know Philippe?”

“No. But I know others like him. Now and then one of ’em ventures in here, but I don’t encourage them. D’you suppose it’ll lead to anything?”

It was Maigret’s turn to reply by silence. Fred had understood, of course. He was practically in the same line of business—the two of them worked with much the same material, only in a different way and for different reasons.

“There are certain things you didn’t tell me about Arlette,” remarked the Inspector gently.

Fred gave a slight smile.

“You’ve guessed what they were?” he inquired.

“I’ve guessed what kind they were.”

“May as well take the opportunity, while my wife’s still upstairs. Although the kid’s dead, I prefer not to talk too much about her in front of Rose. Between you and me, I’ll probably never leave the old girl. We’re so used to each other, I couldn’t get along without her. Even if I’d gone away with Arlette I’d most likely have come back.”

The telephone began to ring. There was no call-box—the instrument was in the cloakroom, and Maigret went towards it, saying:

“That’ll be for me.”

He was right. It was Lapointe.

“It’s just as you said, sir. He went straight to Dr Bloch’s house, by bus. He was only in there for a very few minutes and when he came out he was a bit paler than before. Now he’s making for the Place Blanche.”

“Everything all right?”

“Everything’s all right. Don’t worry.”

Maigret went back to his seat, and Fred asked no questions.”

“You were telling me about Arlette.”

“I’d always thought she was a girl from a good family, who’d left home for some whim. Matter of fact, it was Rose who called my attention to some points I hadn’t noticed. And I rather think she was younger than she made out. She’d probably swapped identity cards with an older friend.”

Fred spoke slowly, like a man pondering over pleasant memories, while Maigret’s gaze followed his, down the long dusky funnel of the narrow room, to where the polished mahogany of the bar beside the door gleamed in the lamplight.

“It’s hard to explain what I mean. Some girls have an instinct for love-making, and I’ve come across virgins who were hotter than any old pro. But Arlette was different.

“I don’t know the fellow who taught her her stuff, but I take off my hat to him. As I told you before, I’m an authority on the subject, but I assure you I’ve never come across a woman who was her equal. He’d not only taught her as much as I knew, but some tricks I didn’t know as well. At my age, just imagine! And with the life I’ve led! I was staggered.

“And she enjoyed doing it, that I’d swear. Not only going to bed with anybody and everybody, but even her act; such a pity you didn’t see that.

“I’ve known women of thirty-five or forty, most of them a bit cracked, who found it amusing to lead men on. I’ve known young girls who liked playing with fire. But they were never like her—they never went at it so purposefully.

“I know I’m not explaining it properly, but I can’t describe exactly what I mean.

“You asked me about a fellow called Oscar. I don’t know if there is such a person, or who he is. But what’s certain is that Arlette was in somebody’s hands, and that he had a firm hold on her. Do you suppose she suddenly felt sick of him and decided to give him away?”

“When she went to the police station in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld at four o’clock yesterday morning, she knew a crime was to be committed, and that it involved a Countess.”

“But why did she pretend she’d found it out here, by listening to a conversation between two men?”

“To begin with, she was drunk. That was probably what made her decide to take the step.”

“Unless she drank to screw up her courage to the right point?”

“I wonder,” murmured Maigret, “if the way she behaved with young Albert…”

“Oh, by the way, I’ve discovered he’s one of your Inspectors!”

“I didn’t know it myself at first. He was genuinely in love.”

“I noticed that.”

“There’s a romantic streak in every woman. He was urging her to change her way of life. She could have had a husband if she wanted.”

“And you think that made her fed up with Oscar?”

“At any rate she felt restive at one moment, and went to the police station. But even then she didn’t want to say too much. She left him a chance to get away with it, by giving only a vague description and a Christian name.”

“A mean trick all the same, don’t you think?”

“Once faced with’the police, she may have regretted her idea. She was surprised at being kept there, and at being sent to the Quai des Orfèvres, and she’d had time to sleep off her champagne. So then she was much less definite—came near to declaring she’d made it all up.”

“That’s just like a woman,” nodded Fred. “What puzzles me is how the chap found out. Because he was already waiting for her when she got back home.”

Maigret stared silently at his pipe.

“I bet you thought I knew him and wouldn’t admit it,” went on Fred.

“Perhaps.”

“At one moment you even thought it might be me.”

It was Maigret’s turn to smile at this.

“In fact I’ve been wondering,” continued the other, “whether it wasn’t on purpose that she gave a description that sounded a bit like me—just because her man is quite different.”

“No. The description was correct.”

“D’you know the fellow?”

“His name’s Oscar Bonvoisin.”

Fred showed no reaction. The name was evidently unknown to him.

“Well, he’s no fool!” he exclaimed. “Whoever he may be, I take off my hat to him. I thought I knew Montmartre inside out, I’ve talked it over with the Grasshopper, who’s always rooting about in corners. Arlette had been working here for two years. She lived only a few hundred yards away. As I’ve told you, I followed her more than once, because I was curious. So don’t you find it extraordinary that we should know nothing about this fellow?”

He flicked at the paper spread out on the table.

“What’s more, he was in with that crazy old Countess. Women like that don’t go around unnoticed. They belong to a separate world, where everybody knows everybody, more or less. And yet your men seem to be as much in the dark as I am. Lognon dropped in a while ago and tried to pick my brains, but there weren’t any pickings.”

The telephone rang again.

“Is that you sir? I’m speaking from the Boulevard de Clichy. He’s just gone into the restaurant at the corner of the Rue Lepic and been round to all the tables, as though looking for someone. He looked disappointed. There’s another restaurant next door, and he began by pressing his nose against the window. Then he went in, and through to the cloakroom. Janvier went in afterwards, and questioned the attendant. She said he’d asked whether a man called Bernard had left a message for him.”