Maigret in Montmartre (18 page)

To his surprise, the place was very clean; it did not have the dejected and rather grubby appearance of most bachelor’s homes. The passage was lit by a lantern with coloured glass panes. Maigret opened the right-hand door and found himself in a drawing-room of the type to be seen in the windows of furniture emporiums—in deplorable taste, but prosperous-looking, with everything made of the heaviest available wood. Next came a dining-room, furnished from the same source in an imitation Provençal style, with plastic fruit on a silver dish.

There was not a speck of dust to be seen, and he found the same spotless cleanliness in the kitchen. The fire was not yet out in the stove, and there was warm water in the kettle. Opening cupboards, he saw bread, meat, butter, and eggs, and there was a bin containing carrots, turnips, and a cauliflower. The house evidently had no cellar, for there was a cask of wine, too, with a glass turned upside-down on the bung, as though it were in frequent use.

There was one more room on the ground floor—across thé corridor, opposite the drawing-room. It was a biggish bedroom, with silk-shaded lamps that gave a very feminine touch, and a satin eiderdown on the bed. It had a profusion of mirrors too, reminding Maigret of certain brothels, and there were almost as many in the bathroom next door.

Except for the food in the kitchen, the cask of wine, and the embers in the stove, there was not a sign of life. Nothing was out of place, as happens even in the best-run house. There were no ashes in the ash-trays. No dirty linen or shabby clothes in the cupboards.

He understood why, when he went upstairs and opened the two landing doors—not without apprehension, for the silence, broken only by the rain drumming on the roof, was rather nerve-wracking.

There was nobody there.

The room on the left was Oscar Bonvoisin’s real bedroom, where he spent his solitary nights. Here the bed was an iron one, covered with thick red blankets; it had not been made, and the sheets were none too clean; on the bedside table lay some fruit, including an apple which had been bitten into, its flesh already brown.

There was a pair of muddy shoes on the floor, two or three packets of cigarettes, and a liberal scattering of cigarette-ends.

Though there was a proper bathroom downstairs, this upper floor had nothing but a handbasin in the corner of the bedroom, with one tap, and a few dirty towels lying around. A pair of trousers hung from a hook.

Maigret sought in vain for papers. The drawers yielded a mixed harvest, including cartridges for an automatic pistol, but not a single letter or document.

Going downstairs again, however, he found a drawer full of photographs in the bedroom chest of drawers. The films were there too, together with the camera and a flash lamp.

Not all the photos were of Arlette. At least twenty women, all young and shapely, had posed for Bonvoisin in the same erotic attitudes. Some of the photographs had been enlarged. Looking for the darkroom, Maigret found it upstairs; there was a red electric lamp hanging above a sink, and a great many little bottles of chemicals.

He was on his way down when he heard steps outside, and flattened himself against the wall, pointing his revolver at the door.

“It’s me, sir,” said a voice.

Janvier stood there, water streaming off him, his hat soaked out of all shape.

“Have you found anything?” he asked.

“What’s Philippe doing?”

“Still going round in circles. I don’t know how he manages to stand up by now. He had a squabble with a flowerseller opposite the Moulin Rouge—he’d asked her for dope. She told me about it afterwards. She knows him by sight. He implored her to tell him where he could find some. Then he went into a telephone-box and rang up Dr Bloch, saying that he was at the end of his tether, and making all kinds of threats. If it goes on much longer he’ll throw a fit in the middle of the street.”

Janvier looked round at the empty house, where lights were burning in every room.

“You don’t suppose the bird has flown?”

His breath smelt of alcohol, and his lips were twisted in a slight, tense smile that Maigret knew well.

“Aren’t you having the railway people warned?”

“Judging by the fire in the stove, he left the house at least three or four hours ago. In other words, if he means to run away he’ll have got on a train long ago. He had plenty to choose from.”

“Still, we could warn the frontier stations.”

Strangely enough, Maigret felt not the slightest inclination to set the cumbersome police mechanism in motion. True, it was only a hunch; but he felt certain the affair was going to be settled in Montmartre, where everything had happened so far.

“You think he’s watching for Philippe somewhere?” asked Janvier.

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea. He went outside and found Lognon, flat against the garden wall.

“You’d better put out the lights and stay here to keep watch,” he said.

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

He thought nothing at all.

“I say, Lognon, what were the addresses where Philippe went last night?”

The Inspector had made a note of them all. Since his release, the young man had been back to every one of them, in vain.

“You’re sure you haven’t left any out?”

Lognon was offended.

“I’ve told you all I know. There’s only one other address and that’s his own, in the Boulevard Rochechouart.”

Maigret said nothing, but he lit his pipe with an air of quiet satisfaction.

“Good. Stay here, just in case. Janvier, you come with me.”

“Have you had an idea?”

“I think I know where we shall find him.”

They walked, with coat-collars turned up and hands thrust deep in their pockets. It wasn’t worth taking a taxi.

As they reached the Place Blanche they caught sight of Philippe in the distance, coming out of one of the two restaurants. A little way behind him was young Lapointe, still wearing his cap; he made them a slight sign.

The others were not far off, still keeping watch on Philippe.

“You come with us,” said Maigret to Lapointe.

They had only five hundred yards still to go, along the almost deserted Boulevard. The night-clubs, whose neon lights were gleaming through the rain, couldn’t be doing much business in weather like this, and the door-keepers in their gold-braided uniforms were keeping under shelter, ready to open their big red umbrellas.

“Where are we going?” asked Lapointe.

“To Philippe’s house.”

For the Countess had been killed in her own flat. And the murderer had been waiting for Arlette at her home in the Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.

It was an old building. Above the shuttered ground-floor windows was a book-binder’s sign, and, to the right of the entrance, that of a bookseller. They were obliged to ring for the
cordon
to be pulled. The door opened silently, the three men stepped into a dimly-lit corridor, and Maigret signed to the others to make as little noise as possible. As they went past the concierge’s door he growled out an indistinguishable name, and then they began to climb the uncarpeted stairs.

On the first floor one of the door-mats was wet, and a ray of light could be seen under the door. From there until they reached the sixth floor they were in pitch darkness, for the
minuterie
had gone out.

“Let me go first, sir,” whispered Lapointe, trying to slip past between Maigret and the wall.

The Inspector pushed him back with a firm hand. He knew from Lognon that Philippe’s attic was the third room on the left on this top floor. His electric torch showed him that the narrow corridor, with its yellowing walls, was empty; he pressed the button of the
minuterie
and the light came on again.

He placed one of his men to either side of the third door, and took hold of the door handle, his revolver ready in the other hand. The handle turned. The door was not locked.

He pushed it with his toe and then stood motionless, listening. As in the house he had just left, he could hear nothing but the rain beating on the roof and water flowing through the drainpipes. It seemed to him that he could hear his companions’ hearts beating as well; his own too, perhaps.

He put out his hand and found the electric light switch, just inside the door.

There was nobody in the room. There was no cupboard to hide in. Bonvoisin’s room—the upstairs one—had been luxurious compared to this. There were no sheets on the bed. There was a chamber-pot that had not been emptied. There were dirty clothes on the floor.

Lapointe bent down and looked under the bed. No use. Not a soul in the place. The room stank.

Suddenly, Maigret had the impression of a movement behind him. To the stupefaction of the two Inspectors, he bounded backwards, gave a half-turn, and heaved vigorously with his shoulder against the opposite door.

The door yielded. It was not shut. There was someone behind it, someone who had been watching them, and it was the faintest movement of the door which had caught Maigret’s attention.

He had thrust so hard across the passage that he was flung forward into the room, and was saved from falling only because he collided with a man almost as heavy as himself.

The room was in darkness, and it was Janvier who had the sense to turn on the light.

“Look out, sir…”

Maigret had already been butted in the chest. He reeled, but saved himself from falling by clutching at something that pitched over with a crash—a bedside table with some china object on it.

He grabbed his revolver by the barrel and tried to strike a blow with the butt. He didn’t know the elusive Oscar, but he had recognized him—this was the man described to him, the man he had been seeing all this time in his imagination. The fellow had bent double again and was charging at the two Inspectors who were barring his way.

Lapointe clutched automatically at his jacket, while Janvier tried to get a grip on his body.

They had no time to look at one another. There was a body lying on the bed, but they could pay no attention to that.

Janvier was knocked down, Lapointe was left with the jacket in his hands, and a figure was darting down the corridor, when a shot rang out. For a moment they didn’t realize who had fired. It was Lapointe, who was too frightened to look in the direction of the fugitive, and was staring at his revolver with a kind of bewildered astonishment.

Bonvoisin staggered on for a few paces, bending forward, and finally collapsed on the floor.

“Take care, Janvier…”

He had an automatic pistol in his hand. The barrel was moving. Then, slowly, the fingers opened and the weapon fell to the ground.

“D’you think I’ve killed him, sir?”

Lapointe’s eyes were starting from his head, and his lips quivering. He couldn’t believe it was he who had done such a thing, and he looked again at his revolver, in respectful astonishment.

“I’ve killed him!” he repeated, still not daring to look at the body.

Janvier was bending over it.

“He’s dead. You got him full in the chest.”

Maigret thought for a moment that Lapointe was going to faint. He laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Your first, is he?” he asked gently.

Then, to cheer the lad up, he added:

“Don’t forget he killed Arlette.”

“So he did…”

It was amusing to see the childish expression on Lapointe’s face; he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Cautious steps were heard on the stairs. A voice asked:

“Has anyone been hurt?”

“Don’t let them come up,” said Maigret to Janvier.

He turned to attend to the human figure he had seen for a second on the bed. It was a girl of sixteen or seventeen—the bookseller’s servant. She was not dead, but a towel had been tied over her face to keep her from shouting. Her hands were tied behind her back and her slip was pushed right up to her armpits.

“Go down and ring up headquarters,” said Maigret to Lapointe. “If you can find a
bistrot
that’s still open, have a drink while you’re about it.”

“Oh—do you think…?”

“It’s an order.”

It was some little time before the girl could speak. She had come up to her room about half-past ten, after a visit to the cinema. Before she had even had time to turn on the light, she had been seized by an unknown man who had been waiting for her in the dark, and he had tied the towel tightly over her mouth. Then he had bound her hands and thrown her on the bed.

After that he had paid no attention to her for a time. He was listening to the sounds in the house; and every now and then he opened the door a crack. He was waiting for Philippe, but he was suspicious, and that was why he did not wait in the young man’s own room. He had no doubt inspected it before crossing to the maid’s attic, and that explained why the door had been open.

“What happened after that?”

“He took my clothes off—and he had to tear them, because of my hands being tied.”

“Did he rape you?”

She nodded, and began to cry. Then, picking up a heap of light-coloured material from the floor, she said:

“My dress is ruined…”

She didn’t realize what a narrow escape she had had. It was most unlikely that Bonvoisin would have left her behind him, alive. She had seen him, just as Philippe had seen him. If he had not strangled her at once, like the other two, it was no doubt because he planned to have a little more fun with her while waiting for the young man to arrive.

By three o’clock in the morning, Oscar Bonvoisin’s body was lying in one of the metal drawers at the mortuary, not far from those of Arlette and the Countess.

Philippe, after a row with a customer at Chez Francis, where he had finally gone in, had been taken to the local police station by a uniformed policeman. Torrence had gone to bed. The Inspectors who had been going the round from the Place Blanche to the Place du Tertre and from there to the Place Constantin-Pecqueur, had gone home too.

Leaving police headquarters on the Quai des Orfèvres with Lapointe and Janvier, Maigret had suggested, after a moment’s hesitation:

“What about a bottle of champagne?”

“Where?”