Maigret in Montmartre (5 page)

Maigret, who had sat down, said slowly:

“I’d forgotten for the moment that your name was Albert.”

“After what she’d told him, Sergeant Lucas ought not to have let her go off by herself, without any protection at all.”

He spoke like a small, sulky boy, and Maigret smiled.

“Come over here and sit down,” he said.

Lapointe hesitated, as though he felt resentful towards Maigret too. Then, reluctantly, he came and sat down on the chair opposite his chief’s desk. He still hung his head, staring at the floor, while Maigret sat gravely puffing at his pipe. The two looked rather like a father and son in solemn colloquy.

“You’ve not been here very long yet, but you must have realized by now that if we had to give police protection to everyone who comes to us with an accusation, you’d often have no time for sleep or even to swallow a sandwich. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, sir. But…”

“But what?”

“She was different.”

“Why?”

“Well, you can see she wasn’t just talking for the sake of talking.”

“Tell me about it, now you’re feeling a bit calmer.”

“Tell you about what?”

“Everything.”

“How I got to know her?”

“Yes. Begin at the beginning.”

“I was with a chap from Meulan, an old school-friend who’s not often been to Paris. First of all we went out with my sister, then we took her home and went up to Montmartre together, just the two of us. You know the sort of thing. We went into two or three joints and had a drink in each, and as we came out of the last of them, a kind of gnome pushed a card at us.”

“Why do you call him a kind of gnome?”

“Because he looks about fourteen years old, but his face is all wrinkled in fine lines—the face of a man who’s past his youth. At a short distance you’d take him for a little street arab, and I suppose that’s why they call him the Grasshopper. My friend had been disappointed with the places we’d tried so far, and I thought he might get more of a kick out of Picratt’s; so we went there.”

“How long ago was this?”

He thought for a moment and seemed quite astonished and rather upset by what his memory told him; but he was forced to admit:

“Three weeks.”

“And that was how you met Arlette?”

“She came to sit at our table. My friend, who isn’t used to that kind of thing, took her for a tart. We had a row when we got outside.”

“About her?”

“Yes. I’d realized at once that she was different from the others.”

Maigret let this pass without a smile; he was cleaning one of his pipes with the greatest care.

“And you went back there the following night?”

“Yes—to apologize for the way my friend had spoken to her.”

“What had he actually said?”

“He’d offered her money to sleep with him.”

“And she refused?”

“Of course. I got there early, to make sure of finding the place more or less empty, and she allowed me to stand her a drink.”

“A drink, or a bottle?”

“A bottle. The proprietor won’t let them sit down at a table if they’re only offered a drink. It has to be champagne.”

“I see.”

“I know what you’re thinking. All the same, she came and told the police what she knew, and she’s been strangled.”

“Did she say anything to you about being in danger?”

“Not in so many words. But I knew there were some mysteries in her life.”

“Such as?”

“It’s difficult to explain, and no one will believe me, because I was in love with her.”

He spoke the last few words in a lower voice, raising his head and looking his chief straight in the face—ready to take offence at the slightest suggestion of irony.

“I wanted to get her to drop the life she was leading.”

“You wanted to marry her?”

Lapointe hesitated; he was visibly embarrassed.

“I hadn’t thought about that. I don’t suppose I’d have married her right away.”

“But you wanted her to stop showing herself naked in a cabaret?”

“I know it made her miserable.”

“Did she tell you so?”

“It wasn’t as simple as that, sir. Of course I understand it looks différent from your point of view: I know what sort of women one generally meets in places like that.

“But for one thing it was very difficult to tell what she was really thinking, because she used to drink. Usually, as you know, they don’t drink. They pretend to, so as to encourage the clients, but all they really take is some syrup or other, served in a little glass so that it looks like a liqueur. Isn’t that so?”

“Nearly always.”

“Arlette used to drink because she
had
to. Nearly every evening. So much so, that before she went on for her act, Mr Fred, the proprietor, had to come round and make sure she could still stand up.”

Lapointe had become so much at home at Picratt’s that he spoke of ‘Mr Fred’, just as the employees no doubt did.

“You never stayed till closing time?”

“She wouldn’t let me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d let out that I had to get up early and go to work.”

“Did you tell her you were in the police?”

The young man blushed again.

“No. I told her I lived with my sister, and it was she who told me to go home. I never gave her any money. She wouldn’t have accepted it. She would never let me order more than one bottle of champagne, and she always chose the least expensive kind.”

“Do you think she was in love with you?”

“Last night I felt sure she was.”

“Why? What did you talk about?”

“The same as usual—about her and me.”

“Did she tell you who she was and what her parents did in the world?”

“She admitted she had a false identity card, and said it would be terrible if her real name were found out.”

“Was she well educated?”

“I don’t know. She certainly wasn’t made for that job. She never told me about her past life. She only referred to some man she said she’d never be able to shake off—adding that it was her own fault, that it was too late now, and that I must stop coming to see her because it only made her unhappy to no purpose. That’s what makes me think she was beginning to love me. She was clutching my hands hard, all the time she was talking.”

“Was she already drunk?”

“Perhaps. She’d certainly been drinking, but she was quite clear-headed. She was like that nearly every time I saw her—all strung up, with an expression either of grief or of hectic gaiety in her eyes.”

“Did you ever go to bed with her?”

Lapointe glared almost with hatred at his chief.

“No!”

“Didn’t you ever ask her?”

“No.”

“And she never suggested it?”

“Never.”

“Did she kid you into believing she was a virgin?”

“She’d been forced to submit to several men. She hated men.”

“Why?”

“Because of that.”

“Because of what?”

“Because of what they did to her. It had happened when she was almost a child—I don’t know the details—and it left its mark on her. She was haunted by the memory of it. She was always talking about some man she was terrified of.”

“Oscar?”

“She didn’t mention his name. I suppose you think she was fooling me and that I’m a simpleton. I don’t care if you do. She’s dead, and that at least proves she was right to be afraid.”

“Didn’t you ever want to go to bed with her?”

“Once I did,” he admitted, “the first evening, when I was with my friend. Did you ever see her alive? Yes, of course—but only for a few minutes, this morning, when she was worn out. If you’d seen her as she usually was, you’d understand…No other woman…”

“No other woman…?”

“It’s too difficult to explain. All the men who went there were wild to have her. When she did her act…”

“Did she go to bed with Fred?”

“She’d had to submit to him, the same as to the others.”

Maigret was trying to discover how much Arlette had given away.

“Where?”

“In the kitchen. Rose knew. She didn’t dare to make a fuss, because she’s so afraid of losing her husband. Have you ever seen her?”

Maigret nodded.

“Did she tell you her age?”

“I suppose she must be over fifty.”

“She’s nearly seventy. Fred’s twenty years younger than she is. It seems she was one of the most beautiful women of her day, and was kept by some very wealthy man. She’s really in love with her husband. So she daren’t show any sign of jealousy and she tries to fix things so that everything happens in her own house. She feels it’s less dangerous that way—you understand?”

“I understand.”

“She was more scared about Arlette than about any of the others, and she’d hardly let her out of her sight. But it was Arlette who practically kept the place going. Without her, they won’t get a soul. The other girls are just the commonplace type you find in every cabaret in Montmartre.”

“What happened last night?”

“Did she say anything about it?”

“She told Lucas you were with her, but she only mentioned your Christian name.”

“I stayed till half past two.”

“At what table?”

“Number six.”

He spoke like one who was at home in the place—almost as though he belonged there.

“Was there anybody in the next box?”

“Not in number four. A whole crowd came in to number eight—men and women, a very noisy lot.”

“So if there had been anyone in number four you wouldn’t have noticed?”

“Oh yes, I should. I didn’t want anyone to hear what I was saying, so I got up every now and then and looked over the partition.”

“You didn’t see, at any table, a short, thick-set, middle-aged man with grey hair?”

“No.”

“And while you were talking to Arlette, she didn’t seem as though she were listening to any other conversation?”

“I’m certain she wasn’t. Why?”

“Would you like to go on working on the case, with me?”

The young man looked at Maigret, first in surprise and then with a sudden flush of gratitude.

“You’ll really let me, although…”

“Now listen—this is important. When she left Picratt’s at four o’clock this morning, Arlette went to the police station in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld. The Sergeant who took down her statement says she was very strung up, and not too steady on her feet.

“She talked to him about two men who came in and sat down at number four table while she was at number six with you, and said she had overheard part of their conversation.”

“Why on earth did she say that?”

“That’s what I want to find out. When we know that, we shall probably be a lot further on than we are at present. And that’s not all. The men were talking about some Countess that one of them was planning to murder. Arlette said that when they left she got a clear view of them from behind, and that one of them was middle-aged, shortish, broad-shouldered, and grey-haired. And that during the conversation she caught the name ‘Oscar’, which seemed to be addressed to this man.”

“But I’m pretty sure I should have heard…”

“I’ve been along to see Fred and his wife. They say the same—that table number four wasn’t occupied at all last night, and that nobody corresponding to that description came into Picratt’s. So Arlette must have had some information and wouldn’t or couldn’t confess how she’d come across it. She was drunk—you said so yourself. She didn’t think the police would bother to check where the clients had sat during the evening. You see what I mean?”

“Yes. And what made her mention a name?”

“Exactly. She wasn’t asked for one. There was no need for her to do it. So she must have had some good reason. She must have been giving us a clue. And that isn’t all. At the police station she seemed very sure of herself; but when she got here, after the effect of the champagne had worn off, she was much less talkative, and Lucas had the impression she’d have been glad to withdraw everything she’d said. And yet, as we know now, she hadn’t made it all up.”

“I’m certain she hadn’t.”

“She went home, and was strangled by someone who was waiting for her, hidden in her bedroom cupboard. Someone who must have known her very well, known his way about her flat, and probably had a key to it.”

“What about the Countess?”

“No news so far. Either she hasn’t been killed, or no one has found the body yet—it might be that. Did she ever say anything to you about a Countess?”

“Never.”

Lapointe stared down at the desk for a moment and then asked, in an altered voice:

“Do you think she suffered much?”

“Not for long. The murderer was very strong, and she didn’t even struggle.”

“Is she still in her room?”

“She’s just been taken to the mortuary.”

“May I go and see her?”

“When you’ve had something to eat.”

“What shall I do after that?”

“Go to her flat in the Rue Notre-Dame de Lorette. Ask Janvier for the key. We’ve already been over the place, but you, who knew her, may find a meaning in some detail that escaped us.”

“Thank you,” said the young man eagerly; he was convinced that Maigret was giving him this task solely as a favour.

Maigret took care not to mention the photographs, whose corners were sticking out from under a file that lay on his desk.

Someone came to tell him that five or six journalists were waiting in the corridor, clamouring for news. He had them brought in, told them only part of the story, but gave each of them one of the photographs—those which showed Arlette in her black silk dress.

“And you might mention,” he added, “that we should be glad if a certain Jeanne Leleu, who must be going by another name now, would come forward. We promise her there’ll be no publicity, and we haven’t the slightest wish to make trouble for her.”

He lunched late, at home, and had time to read through Fred Alfonsi’s file when he got back to the office. Paris still looked ghostly in the fine, misty drizzle, and the people in the streets seemed as though they were moving through a kind of aquarium, and hurrying to get out.

The proprietor of Picratt’s had a bulky police file, but there was hardly any significant information in it. When he was twenty years old he had done his military service in the penal
Bataillons d’Afrique
—for at that time he was being kept by a prostitute who lived in the Boulevard Sébastapol, and had already been arrested twice for assault and battery.