Maigret (2 page)

‘Dear God!' groaned Madame
Maigret.

‘It only lasted for a few seconds.
I put the gun near Pepito's hand, to make it look like a suicide,
then—'

Maigret rose to his feet and took up his
favourite position in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. He
was unshaven. He had put on a little weight since the days when he used to stand
like that in front of his stove at Quai des Orfèvres.

‘When you left, you ran into
someone, am I right?'

He knew it.

‘Just as I was closing the door
behind me, I bumped into a man who was walking past. I apologized. Our faces were
almost touching. I don't even know whether after that I closed the door
properly. I walked to Place Clichy. I took a taxi and gave the driver your
address.'

Madame Maigret put the sugar bowl down
on the beech table and slowly asked her husband:

‘Which suit are you
wearing?'

For half an hour, it was a mad rush.

Maigret could be heard shaving and
getting dressed in the bedroom. Madame Maigret cooked some eggs and questioned
Philippe.

‘Have you heard from your
mother?'

‘She's well. She was
planning to come to Paris for Easter.'

The driver was invited in, but he
refused to remove his heavy brown overcoat. Droplets of water trembled in his
moustache. He sat down in a corner and stayed put.

‘My braces?' shouted Maigret
from upstairs.

‘In the top drawer.'

Maigret came down wearing his coat with
a velvet collar and his bowler hat. He pushed away the eggs waiting for him on the
table and, defying his wife, drank a fourth glass of brandy.

It was 5.30 when the door opened and the
three men stepped outside and got into the taxi. It took a while for the engine to
start. Madame Maigret stood shivering in the doorway while the oil lamp made the
reddish reflections dance on the little window panes.

The sky was so light, it felt like
daybreak. But this was February and it was the night itself that was
silver-coloured. Each blade of grass was rimed with frost. The apple trees in the
neighbouring orchard were iced so white that they looked as fragile as spun
glass.

‘See you in two or three
days!' yelled Maigret.

Philippe, embarrassed, shouted:

‘Goodbye,
Aunt!'

The driver slammed the car door again
and crunched the gears for a moment.

‘Please forgive me,
Uncle—'

‘What for?'

What for? Philippe didn't dare
say. He was asking forgiveness because there was something dramatic about this
departure. He recalled his uncle's silhouette earlier, by the fireplace, with
his nightshirt, his old clothes, his slippers.

And now, he barely dared look at him. It
was indeed Maigret who was beside him, smoking his pipe, his velvet collar upturned,
his hat perched on his head. But it wasn't an enthusiastic Maigret. It
wasn't even a Maigret who was sure of himself. Twice he turned round and
watched his little house receding.

‘Did you say that Amadieu will
arrive at Rue Fontaine at eight?' he asked.

‘Yes, at eight
o'clock.'

They had time. The taxi was going quite
fast. They drove through Orléans, where the first trams were setting out. Less than
an hour later, they reached the market in Arpajon.

‘What do you think,
Uncle?'

It was draughty in the back of the car.
The sky was clear. There was a golden glow in the east.

‘How could Pepito have been
killed?' sighed Philippe, who received no reply.

They stopped after Arpajon to warm up in
a café and almost at once it was daylight, with a pale sun slowly rising where the
fields met the horizon.

‘There was no
one but him and me in—'

‘Be quiet!' said Maigret
wearily.

His nephew huddled in his corner with
the look of a child caught misbehaving, not daring to take his eyes off the
door.

They entered Paris as the early-morning
bustle was beginning. Past the Lion de Belfort, Boulevard Raspail, the Pont-Neuf
…

The city looked as if it had been washed
in clean water, so bright were the colours. A train of barges was gliding slowly up
the Seine and the tugboat whistled, puffing out clouds of immaculate steam to
announce its flotilla.

‘How many passers-by were there in
Rue Fontaine when you came out?'

‘I only saw the man I ran
into.'

Maigret sighed and emptied his pipe,
tapping it against his heel.

The driver pulled down the glass
partition and inquired: ‘Where to?'

They stopped for a moment at a hotel on
the embankment to drop off Maigret's suitcase, then they got back into the
taxi and made their way to Rue Fontaine.

‘It's not so much what
happened at the Floria that worries me. It's the man who bumped into
you.'

‘What are you thinking?'

‘I'm not thinking
anything!'

He came out with this favourite
expression from the past as he turned round to glimpse the outline, once so
familiar, of the Palais de Justice.

‘At one point I thought of going
to the big chief and telling him the whole story,' muttered Philippe.

Maigret did not answer
and, until they reached Rue Fontaine, he kept his gaze fixed on the view of the
Seine as it flowed through a fine blue and gold mist.

They pulled up a hundred metres from
number 53. Philippe turned up the collar of his overcoat to conceal his
dinner-jacket, but at the sight of his patent-leather shoes, people turned round to
stare all the same.

It was only 6.50. A window-cleaner was
washing the windows of the corner café, the Tabac Fontaine, which stayed open all
night. People on their way to work stopped off for a quick
café crème
with
a croissant. There was only a waiter serving since the owner
did not get to bed
before five or six in the morning and rose at midday. He was a swarthy young
southern-looking fellow with black hair. There were cigar ends and cigarette butts
lying on a table next to a slate used for keeping score for card games.

Maigret bought a packet of shag and
ordered a sandwich, while Philippe grew impatient.

‘What happened last night?'
asked Maigret, his mouth full of bread and ham.

And, gathering up the change, the waiter
answered bluntly:

‘People are saying the owner of
the Floria was killed.'

‘Palestrino?'

‘I don't know. I'm on
the day shift. And during the day, we don't have anything to do with the
nightclubs.'

They left. Philippe did not dare say
anything.

‘You see?' grumbled
Maigret.

Standing on the kerb, he added:

‘That's the work of the man
you bumped into, you realize.
Theoretically, no one should know
anything before eight o'clock.'

They walked towards the Floria, but they
stopped fifty metres short. They spotted the peaked cap of a Paris police sergeant
standing in front of the door. On the opposite pavement, a knot of people had
gathered.

‘What shall I do?'

‘Your chief is bound to be at the
scene. Go up to him and tell him—'

‘What about you, Uncle?'

Maigret shrugged and went on:

‘—Tell him the truth.'

‘Supposing he asks where I went
next?'

‘Tell him you came to fetch
me.'

There was resignation in his voice. They
had got off on the wrong foot, and that was all! It was a stupid business and
Maigret felt like gnashing his teeth.

‘I'm sorry,
Uncle!'

‘No emotional scenes in the
street! If they let you go free, meet me in the Chope du Pont-Neuf. If I'm not
there, I'll leave you a note.'

They did not even shake hands. Philippe
headed straight for the Floria. The sergeant did not know him and tried to bar him
from entering. Philippe had to show his badge, then he vanished inside.

Maigret remained at a distance, his
hands in his pockets, like the other onlookers. He waited. He waited for almost half
an hour, without the least idea of what was going on inside the club.

Detective Chief Inspector Amadieu came
out first,
followed by a short, nondescript man who looked like a
waiter.

And Maigret needed no explanations. He
knew that this was the man who had bumped into Philippe. He could guess
Amadieu's question.

‘Was it right here that you bumped
into him?'

The man nodded. Inspector Amadieu
beckoned Philippe, who was still inside. He came out, looking as nervous as a young
musician, as if the entire street were aware of the suspicions that were about to
engulf him.

‘And was this the gentleman who
was coming out at that moment?' Amadieu must have been saying, tugging his
brown moustache.

The man nodded again.

There were two other police officers.
The divisional chief glanced at his watch and, after a brief discussion, the man
sauntered off and went into the Tabac Fontaine while the policemen went back inside
the Floria.

Fifteen minutes later, two cars arrived.
It was the public prosecutor.

‘I've got to go back to
repeat my statement,' the man from the Floria told the waiter at the Tabac
Fontaine. ‘Another white wine and Vichy, quick!'

And, discomfited by Maigret's
insistent stare as he stood nearby drinking a beer, he lowered his voice and
asked:

‘Who's that?'

Maigret sat with his head bent over his
work with the application of a schoolboy. He drew a rectangle and placed a little
cross somewhere in the centre. Then he stared at his effort and frowned. The
rectangle represented the Floria, and the cross, Pepito. At the far end of the
rectangle, Maigret drew another, smaller one: the office. And in this office he
placed a dot indicating the gun.

This was pointless. It meant nothing.
The case wasn't a geometry problem. Maigret doggedly continued all the same,
scrunched the page into a ball and started all over again on a fresh sheet.

Only now he was no longer concerned with
placing crosses in rectangles. Poring over the page, deeply engrossed, he tried to
pin down a snatch of conversation, a look, an unwitting attitude.

He sat alone at his former table at the
back of the Chope du Pont-Neuf. And it was too late to wonder whether he had been
right or wrong to come. Everyone had seen him. The owner
had shaken his
hand.

‘How's it going with the
chickens and rabbits?'

Maigret was sitting by the window and he
could see the Pont-Neuf bathed in a rosy glow, the steps of the Palais de Justice,
the gates of the police headquarters. A white napkin under his arm, the beaming
owner was in a chatty mood:

‘So life's
good! Dropping in to see your old pals?'

The beat officers were still in the
habit of playing a hand of
belote
in the Chope before setting off on their
rounds. There were some new faces who didn't know Maigret, but the others,
after greeting Maigret, spoke to their colleagues in hushed tones.

That was when he had drawn his first
rectangle, his first cross. The hours dragged by. At aperitif time, there were a
dozen ‘boys' in the place.

Trusty Lucas, who had worked with
Maigret on a hundred cases, came over looking slightly sheepish.

‘How are you, chief? Come for a
breath of Paris air?' Lucas still called him chief, in memory of the old
days.

And Maigret, between two puffs of smoke,
merely muttered:

‘What did Amadieu have to
say?'

There was no point lying to him. He
could see their faces and he knew the Police Judiciaire well enough to know what was
going on. It was midday, and Philippe had not yet put in an appearance at the
Chope.

‘You know what Inspector Amadieu
is like. We've had a few problems at HQ recently. Things are a bit tricky with
the public prosecutor. So—'

‘What did he say?'

‘That you were here, of course.
That you were going to try to—'

‘Let me guess. His words were
“act the wise guy”.'

‘I have to go,' stammered
Lucas, embarrassed.

Maigret ordered another beer and became
absorbed in
drawing his rectangles while most of the tables were
talking about him.

He ate lunch at the same table, now in
the sunlight. The photographer from the criminal records office was eating nearby.
As he drank his coffee, Maigret repeated to himself, pencil in hand:

‘Pepito was here, between two rows
of tables. The murderer was concealed somewhere. There's no shortage of hiding
places. He fired, unaware of the presence of that idiot Philippe, then went into the
office to get something. He had just put his gun down on the desk when he heard a
noise and so he hid again. And from then on, the two of them played cat and
mouse.'

It was simple. Pointless looking for any
other explanation. The murderer had eventually reached the door without being seen
and made it out into the street while Philippe was still inside.

So far, nothing extraordinary. Any fool
would have done the same thing. The clever part was what happened next: the idea of
ensuring that someone would recognize Philippe and testify against him.

And, a few moments later, it was done.
The murderer had found his man, in an empty street in the dead of night. This person
bumped into Philippe as he emerged and rushed off to fetch the policeman on duty in
Place Blanche.

‘I say, officer, I've just
seen a suspicious-looking character coming out of the Floria. He was in such a rush
that he didn't bother to close the door.'

Maigret, without looking at his former
colleagues, who
were drinking beers, could guess what the
old-timers were whispering to the new boys:

‘Have you heard of Detective Chief
Inspector Maigret? That's him!'

Amadieu, who didn't like him, must
have announced in the corridors of the Police Judiciaire:

‘He's going to try and act
the wise guy. But we'll show him!'

It was four in the afternoon and
Philippe had not appeared yet. The newspapers came off the presses with details of
the murder, including his alleged confession. Another dirty trick of
Amadieu's.

Quai des Orfèvres was in turmoil, phones
ringing, files dredged up, witnesses and informers brought in for questioning.

Maigret's nostrils were quivering
as he sat hunched on the banquette patiently doing little drawings with the tip of
his pencil.

He had to find Pepito's killer at
all costs. But he was not on good form, he felt afraid, anxious as to whether he
would succeed. He watched the young police officers and tried to fathom what they
thought of him.

Philippe did not arrive until 5.45. He
stood there for a moment, as if dazzled by the light. As he sat down beside Maigret,
he attempted a smile and stammered:

‘It went on for ages!'

He was so exhausted that he wiped his
hand across his brow as if to collect his thoughts.

‘I've been at the
prosecutor's office. The examining magistrate questioned me for an hour and a
half. But before that, he made me wait in the corridor for two hours.'

Everyone was watching
them. And while Philippe talked, Maigret looked at the men facing them.

‘You know, Uncle, it's much
more serious than we thought.'

For Maigret, each word was loaded with
significance. He knew the examining magistrate, Gastambide, a stocky Basque who was
meticulous and contemptuous, who weighed up his words, spent several minutes
formulating his sentences then letting them drop as if to declare:

‘What can you say to
that?'

And Maigret was familiar with that
corridor, filled with defendants under police guard, the benches crammed with
restless witnesses, women in tears. If Philippe had been made to wait, it was
deliberate.

‘The magistrate told me not to
deal with any cases, to take no action before the end of the investigation. I am to
consider myself suspended from duty and I must remain at his disposal.'

It was aperitif hour, the noisiest time
at the Chope du Pont-Neuf. All the tables were full. The air was thick with pipe and
cigarette smoke. From time to time, a newcomer greeted Maigret from across the
room.

Philippe did not dare look at anyone,
not even his companion.

‘I'm very sorry,
Uncle.'

‘What else has
happened?'

‘Everyone thought, naturally, that
the Floria would be closed, at least for a few days. But it isn't going to be.
Today, there was a series of phone calls, some baffling developments. Apparently,
the Floria was sold two days ago and
Pepito was no longer the
owner. The buyer has friends in high places and tonight the joint will be open for
business as usual.'

Maigret frowned. Was it because of what
he had just heard, or because Detective Chief Inspector Amadieu had just walked in
with a colleague and sat down at the other end of the room?

‘Godet!' Maigret
shouted.

Godet was an inspector from the vice
squad who was playing cards three tables away. He turned round, cards in hand,
unsure whether to get up.

‘When you've finished your
game!'

And Maigret screwed up all his scraps of
paper and threw them on to the floor. He downed his beer in one gulp and wiped his
mouth, looking over in Amadieu's direction.

Amadieu had heard him. He watched the
scene from a distance as he poured water into his Pernod. Intrigued, Godet finally
went over to Maigret's table.

‘Did you want to speak to me,
sir?'

‘Hello, old friend!' said
Maigret, shaking his hand. ‘A simple piece of information. Are you still with
the Vice? Good. Can you tell me whether Cageot showed his face at HQ this
morning?'

‘Hold on. I think he came into the
office at around eleven.'

‘Thank you, my friend.'

That was all! Maigret looked at Amadieu.
Amadieu looked at Maigret. And now it was Amadieu who was uncomfortable and Maigret
was the one suppressing a smile.

Philippe did not dare
speak. The case had just moved up a rung. The game was being played over his head
and he didn't even know the rules.

‘Godet!' bawled a voice.

This time, all the police officers in
the room shuddered as they watched the inspector get up again, still holding his
cards, and walk over to Chief Inspector Amadieu.

There was no need to hear what was said.
It was clear that Amadieu wanted to know:

‘What did he ask you?'

‘Whether I'd seen Cageot
this morning.'

Maigret lit his pipe, let the match burn
down to the very end and finally rose, calling:

‘Waiter!'

Drawn up to his full height, he waited
for his change, glancing casually around the room.

‘Where are we going?' asked
Philippe once they were outside.

Maigret turned to him, as if surprised
to see him there.

‘You're going to bed,'
he said.

‘What about you, Uncle?'

Maigret shrugged, thrust his hands in
his pockets and walked off without answering. He had just spent one of the most
unpleasant days of his life. Hours on end stuck in his corner. He had felt old and
feeble, with no energy, no inspiration.

Then the shift happened. A little flame
shot up. But he had to take advantage of it right away.

‘We'll see, damn it!'
he grunted to boost his spirits.

Normally, at this hour, he would be
reading his
newspaper under the lamp, his legs outstretched in
front of the log fire.

‘Do you come to Paris
often?'

Maigret, propping up the bar of the
Floria, shook his head and merely replied:

‘Uh-huh, from time to time
…'

He was feeling buoyant again. He did not
express his good humour in smiles, but he had an inner feeling of well-being. One of
his gifts was the ability to laugh inwardly without betraying his outer gravitas. A
woman was sitting next to him. She asked him to buy her a drink and he nodded in
acquiescence.

Two years ago, a prostitute would never
have made that mistake. But his overcoat with its velvet collar and his standard
black, hard-wearing serge suit and tie told her nothing. If she mistook him for a
provincial out on the town, it meant he had changed.

‘Something happened here,
didn't it?' he muttered.

‘The boss got bumped off last
night.'

She also misread the look in his eye,
which she thought was one of interest. But things were not so straightforward!
Maigret was back in a world he had long since left behind. This nondescript little
woman, he knew her without knowing her. He was certain that she did not have a
record and that, on her passport, her occupation was given as
artiste
or
dancer
. As for the Chinese barman who served them, Maigret could have
recited his criminal history. The cloakroom attendant, on the other hand, had
clocked him and had greeted him anxiously, trying to place him.

Among the waiters,
there were at least two whom Maigret had brought into his office in the past for
questioning in cases similar to Pepito's killing.

He ordered a brandy with water. He
vaguely watched the room and instinctively positioned crosses, as he had done on
paper. Customers who had read the papers were asking questions and the waiters were
explaining, pointing out the spot near the fifth table where the body had been
found.

‘Would you like to share a bottle
of champagne?'

‘No, dear.'

The woman almost guessed, and was at
least intrigued as Maigret's gaze followed the new owner, a young man with
fair hair whom he had known as the manager of a Montparnasse dance hall.

‘Will you see me home?'

‘Of course! In a while.'

In the meantime, he went into the
toilets and guessed where Philippe had hidden. At the back of the main room, he
could glimpse the office with its door ajar. But that was of no interest. He knew
the scenario before setting foot in Rue Fontaine. The actors too. Going round the
room, he could point to each person, saying:

‘At this table, we have a newlywed
couple from the South out for a night on the town. This young man who is already
drunk is a young German who will end the night minus his wallet. Over there, the
gigolo with a criminal record and packets of cocaine in his pockets. He is in
cahoots with the head waiter, who has done three years inside. The plump brunette
spent ten years at Maxim's and is winding up her career in
Montmartre—'