Maigret in Montmartre (17 page)

“That doesn’t explain why he went there.”

“Very well—I’ll tell you, if you haven’t already guessed! But please understand that it’s his own idea. He thinks we might just as well tip you the wink, because you’ll bear it in mind and give us the benefit of the doubt if we should ever need it. In this line of business we have to keep on the right side of the police. Anyhow, he’s probably not the only one who’s on to this idea, since Lognon is already prowling around there.”

Seeing that Maigret did not move, Fred exclaimed in astonishment:

“Aren’t you going up there?” Then he added: “Oh, of course—you can’t leave here, in case your Inspectors ring up.”

All the same, Maigret went to the telephone.

“Torrence? Have you any men to spare? Three? Good! Send them up to the Place du Tertre and tell them to keep an eye on Chez Francis, the
bistrot
at the corner. Ring the district police too, and tell them to send some of their men up that way. No, I don’t know exactly. I’m staying here.”

He was rather sorry, now, to have made Picratt’s his headquarters, but didn’t quite feel he ought to go up to the
Butte
.

The telephone rang. It was Lapointe again.

“I don’t know what he’s playing at, sir. For the last half-hour he’s been weaving to and fro around Montmartre. I wonder if he suspects he’s being followed, and is trying to shake us off. He went into a café in the Rue Lepic, and then down again to the Place Blanche, where he took a turn round the same two restaurants. Then he turned back up the Rue Lepic and branched into the Rue Tholozé, where he went into a house where there’s a studio at the far end of the courtyard. An old woman lives there who used to be a
cafè—concert
singer.”

“Does she take drugs?”

“Yes. Jacquin went in to question her as soon as Philippe left. She’s a kind of scruffier version of the Countess. She was tight. She started laughing, and swore she hadn’t been able to give him what he wanted. ‘I haven’t even got any for myself,’ she said.”

“Where is he now?”

“Eating hard-boiled eggs in a bar in the Rue Tholozé. It’s raining cats and dogs. Everything’s all right.”

“He’ll probably go up to the Place du Tertre.”

“We nearly got that far just now, but he suddenly turned back. I wish he’d make up his mind. My feet are frozen.”

Rose and the new girl were clearing the table. Fred had fetched the brandy and was pouring some into the two balloon-glasses, while waiting for coffee.

“I shall soon have to go up and change,” he announced. “That’s not a hint for you to leave. Stay as long as you like. Here’s how!”

“Do you suppose the Grasshopper knows Oscar?”

“Funny! That’s just what I was thinking.”

“He goes to the races every afternoon, doesn’t he?”

“Yes—and you mean the chances are that a man like Oscar, with nothing to do, will spend part of his time there too?”

He drained his glass, wiped his mouth, looked at the girl, who was wondering what to do next, and winked at Maigret.

“I’m going upstairs to change,” he announced. “Come up for a minute, kid, I want to talk to you about your act.”

He winked at Maigret again, and added in an undertone:

“Helps to pass the time, you know!”

Maigret was left alone in the cabaret.

H
e went up to the Place du Tertre, sir, and nearly ran into Inspector Lognon, who just had time to jump back into the shadow.”

“You’re sure he didn’t see him?”

“Quite sure. He went and looked in at the window of Chez Francis. In this weather there’s hardly anyone there. A few regular customers, sitting gloomily over their drinks. He didn’t go in. Then he turned into the Rue du Mont-Cenis and went down the steps to the Place Constantin-Pecqueur, where he stopped outside another café. There’s a big stove in the middle of the floor, sawdust sprinkled around, marble-topped tables, and the
patron
is playing cards with some friends.”

The new girl at Picratt’s came downstairs again, looking slightly embarrassed, and not knowing what to do with herself, came and sat beside Maigret. Perhaps so as not to leave him all alone. She had already put on the black silk dress that had belonged to Arlette.

“What’s your name?”

“Geneviève. They’re going to call me Dolly. I’m to be photographed to-morrow in this dress.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three. Did you ever see Arlette do her act? Is it true she was so awfully good? I’m a bit awkward, aren’t I?”

Next time Lapointe rang up, he sounded depressed.

“He’s going round and round like a circus horse. We’re following, and it’s still raining cats and dogs. We’ve been back through the Place Clichy, and then to the Place Blanche, where he went round the same two restaurants again. As he’s got no morphia, he’s beginning to take a drink here and there. He hasn’t found what he wants, and he’s walking more slowly now, keeping in the shadow of the houses.”

“He still has no suspicions?”

“No. Janvier’s had a chat with Inspector Lognon. Lognon went back to all the places Philippe visited last night, and that’s how he came to hear of Chez Francis. He was just told that Philippe went there now and again, and that probably someone supplied him with dope.”

“Is the Grasshopper still there?”

“No, he left a few minutes ago. At the moment, Philippe is on his way down the steps in the Rue du Mont-Cenis again, most likely to have another look in the café in the Place Constantin-Pecqueur.”

Tania and the Grasshopper came in together. It was still too early to turn on Picratt’s neon sign, but evidently they were all in the habit of arriving in good time. Everybody seemed pretty much at home. Rose put her head round the door before going upstairs to change. She was still holding a dishcloth.

“Oh, there you are!” she said to the new girl.

Then, looking her up and down, she added:

“Another evening, don’t put your dress on so soon. It wears it out unnecessarily.”

And to Maigret she said, in conclusion:

“Help yourself, Inspector. That’s what the bottle’s for.”

Tania seemed to be in a bad temper. She stared at Arlette’s successor and gave a slight shrug.

“Move up a bit, I want to sit down,” she told the girl.

She stared hard at Maigret, and then inquired:

“You haven’t caught him yet?”

“I expect to catch him tonight.”

“You don’t think it’s occurred to him to cut and run?”

She knew something, too. In fact everybody had some scrap of knowledge. He’d had the same impression the night before. And now Tania was wondering whether she wouldn’t be wise to tell what she knew.

“Did you ever meet him with Arlette?”

“I don’t even know who he is or what he looks like.”

“But you know he exists?”

“I’ve a shrewd suspicion.”

“What else do you know?”

“Where he hangs out, perhaps.”

Helpfulness was not her habit, and she spoke sulkily, as though it went against the grain.

“My dressmaker lives in the Rue Caulaincourt, just opposite the Place Constantin-Pecqueur. I’m asleep most of the day, so I usually go there about five o’clock in the afternoon. Twice, I’ve seen Arlette get off a bus at the corner of the
place
and walk across it.”

“In what direction?”

“Towards the steps.”

“It didn’t occur to you to follow her?”

“Why should I have followed her?”

That was a lie. She was inquisitive. By the time she got to the foot of the steps. Arlette had presumably vanished.

“Is that all you know?”

“That’s all. He must live somewhere there.”

Maigret had poured himself a glass of brandy, and was in no hurry to get up when the telephone rang again.

“He’s still at the same game, sir.”

“Hanging round the café in the Place Constantin-Pecqueur?”

“Yes. The only places where he stops now are there, at the two restaurants in the Place Blanche, and outside Chez Francis.”

“Is Lognon still up there?”

“Yes. I just caught a glimpse of him as I went past.”

“Ask him from me to go down to the Place Constantin-Pecqueur and have a word with the proprietor. Not in front of the customers, if he can avoid it. Tell him to ask whether he knows Oscar Bonvoisin—and if not, to give a description of him, because he may be known there by some other name.”

“Right away?”

“Yes. He’ll have the time, while Philippe’s on his round. Tell him to ring me up as soon as he’s done it.”

When he went back into the cabaret, the Grasshopper was there, pouring himself a drink at the bar.

“Not caught him yet?”

“How did you get the tip about Chez Francis?”

“From some pansies. They all know one another, in that bunch. First they told me about a bar in the Rue Caulaincourt where Philippe goes from time to time, and then about Chez Francis, where he sometimes looks in late at night.”

“Do they know Oscar?”

“Yes.”

“Bonvoisin?”

“They don’t know his surname. They told me he’s a local man who comes in now and again for a glass of white wine before bedtime.”

“Does he know Philippe?”

“Everyone’s on speaking terms in that place; he behaves like the rest of them. You can’t say I haven’t helped you.”

“Has he been seen today?”

“No. Nor yesterday.”

“Did they tell you where he lives?”

“Somewhere in the neighbourhood.”

Time was dragging now, and one began to feel as though nothing would ever happen. Jean-Jean, the accordionist, came in and went to the cloakroom to wipe his muddy shoes and comb his hair.

“Not got Arlette’s murderer yet?” he inquired.

Then came another telephone call from Lapointe.

“I passed on your instructions to Inspector Lognon. He’s gone to the Place Constantin-Pecqueur. Philippe’s just gone into Chez Francis and is having a drink, but there’s no one there who answers to the description of Oscar. Lognon will ring you. I told him where you were. Was that right?”

Lapointe’s voice didn’t sound the same as at the beginning of the evening. Every time he wanted to telephone, he had to go into some bar or other. This was his umpteenth phone call; and no doubt he had a drop of something on each occasion, to warm himself.

Fred came downstairs, resplendent in his dinner-jacket, with an imitation diamond in his starched shirt-front, and his freshly-shaven face a pleasant shade of pink.

“Get along up and change now,” he said to Tania.

Then he went to turn on the lights and straighten the rows of bottles behind the bar.

The second musician, Monsieur Dupeu, had just arrived in his turn when Lognon at last rang up.

“Where are you speaking from?” inquired Maigret.

“From Chez Manière, in the Rue Caulaincourt. I’ve been to the Place Constantin-Pecqueur and I’ve got the address!”

He was in a state of great excitement.

“Did they give it to you without any fuss?”

“The
patron
didn’t suspect anything. I didn’t tell him I was a policeman. I pretended I was up from the country, and looking for a friend.”

“Do they call him by name?”

“They call him Monsieur Oscar.”

“Where does he live?”

“Above the steps, on the right, in a little house with a plot of garden in front. There’s a wall all round—the house can’t be seen from the street.”

“He’s not been to the Place Constantin-Pecqueur today?”

“No. They waited for him to begin their game, for he’s usually punctual. That was why the proprietor was playing, instead of him.”

“What has he told them he does in life?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t talk much. They think he has private means—seems comfortably off. He’s a very good
belote
player. He often drops in during the morning, about eleven, for a glass of white wine before doing his shopping.”

“He does his own shopping? Hasn’t he got a servant?”

“No. And no charwoman. They think he’s a bit eccentric”

“Wait for me somewhere near the steps.”

Maigret finished his brandy and went to the cloakroom to fetch his heavy overcoat, which was still damp; the two musicians began to play a few notes; as though to warm themselves up.

“In the bag?” inquired Fred from behind the bar.

“Soon will be, perhaps.”

“Come back here, won’t you? We’ll have a bottle of champagne on it.”

The Grasshopper called a taxi. As he was shutting the door, he said below his breath:

“If it’s the chap I’ve heard some vague talk about, you’d best take care. He’s a tough customer.”

Water was streaming down the windows of the taxi, and the lights of the town could be seen only through a close-striped curtain of rain. Philippe must be splashing through that, somewhere, with the inspectors following him in the shadows.

Maigret got out and walked across the Place Constantin-Pecqueur, where he found Lognon flattened against a wall.

“I’ve identified the house.”

“Any light showing?”

“I looked over the wall. Nothing to be seen. I suppose the pansy doesn’t know the address. What do we do now?”

“Is there any way out at the back?”

“No. This is the only door.”

“We’re going in. You’ve got a gun?”

Lognon merely pointed to his pocket. There was a dilapidated wall, like that of a country garden, overhung by branches of trees. Lognon set to work on the lock, and it took him several minutes, while the Inspector stood on guard.

Once the door opened, they found themselves looking across a small garden towards one of those small, low houses of which a few are still hidden in the byways of Montmartre. It was in complete darkness.

“Go and get the front door open, and then come back here,” said Maigret—who, despite skilled tuition, was a poor hand at picking a lock.

“Wait for me outside the gate, and when the others come past, tell Lapointe or Janvier I’m here, and that they’re to keep on trailing Philippe.”

Inside the house there was not a sound, not a sign of life. But Maigret kept his revolver in his hand. The passage was warm and had a countrified smell: Bonvoisin must use wood for heating. It was a damp house. He hesitated for a moment and then, with a shrug, turned the electric switch he had just found on his right.