Maigret (5 page)

He was back on the second floor just
after the troop of inspectors had left. Visitors began to take their places outside
various doors – people who had been summoned, or who had come to lodge a complaint,
or who had something they wanted to report.

Maigret had spent most of his life in
this atmosphere but now he looked around him with a sort of disgust.

Was Philippe still in
the chief's office? Probably not! By now he would have been arrested and two
of his colleagues would be escorting him to the examining magistrate's
chambers!

What had been said to him, behind the
padded door? Had they spoken to him honestly and plainly?

‘You have committed a blunder. The
evidence against you is such that the public would not understand if you remained at
liberty. But we will endeavour to uncover the truth. You will remain one of
us.'

That was probably not what had been
said. Maigret thought he could hear the chief, uncomfortable while waiting for
Amadieu, mutter between coughs:

‘Inspector, I am extremely
displeased with you. It was easier for you to get into the police than for anyone
else thanks to your uncle. Have you shown yourself worthy of that favour?'

And Amadieu would go further:

‘As of now, you are in the hands
of the examining magistrate. With the best will in the world, there is nothing we
can do for you.'

And yet this Amadieu, with his long pale
face and his brown moustache, which he was always tapering, was not a bad man. He
had a wife and three children, including a daughter he wanted to provide with a
dowry. He had always believed that everyone around him was scheming, that they all
wanted his job and were constantly seeking to compromise him.

As for the chief, in two years'
time he would reach retirement age and until then it was best to avoid trouble.

This was a standard
gangland killing, in other words, a run-of-the-mill case. Were they going to risk
complications by protecting a rookie inspector who had gone astray and was
Maigret's nephew to boot?

Cageot was a crook and everyone knew it.
He himself didn't even hide it. He cashed in on all sides. And when he sold
someone to the police, it was because that person was no longer useful to him.

Nevertheless, Cageot was a dangerous
criminal. He had friends, connections. And above all, he was good at protecting
himself. They would get him one day, for sure. They had him in their sights. They
had checked his alibi and the investigation would follow the proper course.

But there was no need for
overzealousness! And there was certainly no need for Maigret, with his habit of
putting his foot in it.

Maigret had reached the little paved
courtyard where a morose crowd waited outside the juvenile court. Despite the
sunshine, there was a chill in the air and in the shade there was still a dusting of
frost between the flagstones.

‘That idiot Philippe!'
grumbled Maigret almost sick with revulsion.

For he was well aware that he was going
round and round like a circus horse. There was no point waiting for a brainwave; in
police matters, brainwaves were of no use. Nor was it a matter of discovering a
phenomenal lead, or a clue that had eluded everyone else.

It was simpler and more brutal. Cageot
had killed Pepito, or had him killed. The challenge was to get Cageot finally to
admit that this was the truth.

Now Maigret was
strolling along the riverbank, close to the laundry boat. He did not have the power
to summon Cageot to an office and lock him in for a few hours, or to repeat the same
question a hundred times, roughing him up if necessary to make him crack.

Nor could he summon the café owner, the
waiter or the men who played
belote
every night a hundred metres from the
Floria.

He had barely started using Fernande
when she had literally been snatched away from him.

He reached the Chope du Pont-Neuf,
pushed open the glazed door and went over to shake hands with Lucas, who was sitting
at the bar.

‘How are things, chief?'

‘Not good!' replied
Maigret.

‘It's tough, isn't
it?'

It wasn't tough. It was a
hopelessly tragic situation.

‘I'm getting old! Maybe
it's the effect of rural life.'

‘What are you drinking?'

‘I'll have a
Pernod!'

He said that almost defiantly. He
remembered that he had promised to write to his wife, but he hadn't felt up to
it.

‘Is there some way I can
help?'

Lucas was a curious character, always
badly dressed, puny into the bargain, who had neither wife nor family. Maigret let
his gaze rove around the place, which was beginning to fill up, and he had to crease
his eyes when he turned to the window where the sun was streaming in.

‘Have you worked with
Philippe?'

‘A couple of times.'

‘Was he very
disagreeable?'

‘There are people who resent him
because he doesn't say much. He's shy, you know. Have they banged him
up?'

‘Cheers.'

Lucas was concerned to see Maigret so
tight-lipped.

‘What are you going to do,
chief?'

‘I know I can trust you, so
I'll tell you. I'm going to do
everything
that's
necessary. Do you understand? It's best that someone knows, so if anything
were to happen—'

He wiped his mouth on the back of his
hand, and tapped a coin on the bar to attract the waiter's attention.

‘Leave it! It's my
round,' said Lucas.

‘If you insist. I'll buy a
round when this is over. Goodbye, Lucas.'

‘Goodbye, chief.'

Lucas' hand lingered for a moment
in Maigret's rough paw.

‘All the same, you will take care,
won't you?'

And Maigret, on his feet, boomed:

‘I cannot stand
cretins!'

He walked off alone. He had plenty of
time, since he had no idea where he was going.

As Maigret pushed open the door of the
Tabac Fontaine, at around 1.30, the owner, who had just risen, was slowly making his
way down a spiral staircase into the back of the café. Although not as tall as
Maigret, he was just as broad and burly. As he crossed the room, he exuded a whiff
of the bathroom – his hair reeked of cologne and there were traces of talcum powder
behind his ears. He wore neither a jacket nor a collar. His lightly starched shirt
was snowy white, fastened by a swivel stud.

He went behind the bar, shoving the
waiter roughly aside, grabbed a bottle of white wine and a glass, diluted the wine
with mineral water, threw back his head and gargled.

At that hour, there were just a few
passing customers snatching a hurried coffee. Maigret went and sat by the window,
but the owner, oblivious of him, tied on a blue apron and turned to a blonde girl
seated at the till of the cigarette counter.

He said no more to her than to the
waiter, opened the cash register, looked at a notebook and stretched, now fully
awake. His day was beginning, and the first thing he noticed on inspecting his realm
was Maigret staring placidly at him.

They had never met, but the owner
still knitted his thick,
black eyebrows. He appeared to be racking
his brains. Unable to place Maigret, he scowled. And yet he could never have
foreseen that this placid customer was going to sit there for twelve full hours!

Maigret's first task was to go
over to the till and say to the girl:

‘Have you got a telephone
token?'

The booth was in a corner of the café.
It only had a frosted glass door, and Maigret, sensing the owner had his eye on him,
jiggled the handset making a series of loud clicks. Meanwhile, using the pen-knife
he was holding in his other hand, he cut the cable at the point where it went under
the floor, so that no one would notice that it had been severed.

‘Hello! … Hello! …' he
yelled.

He emerged fuming.

‘Is your telephone out of
order?'

The owner glanced over at the cashier,
who looked surprised.

‘It was working a few minutes ago.
Lucien telephoned for some croissants. Didn't you, Lucien?'

‘Barely a quarter of an hour
ago,' confirmed the waiter.

The owner wasn't suspicious yet,
but he was still watching Maigret covertly. He went into the booth and tried to make
a call, persisting for a good ten minutes without noticing the severed cable.

Impassive, Maigret had returned to his
table and ordered a beer. He was stocking up on patience. He knew that he was going
to have to sit on that same chair for hours, in front of that fake mahogany pedestal
table, confronted
with the sight of the pewter bar and the glazed
booth where the girl sold tobacco and cigarettes.

As he came out of the telephone booth,
the owner kicked the door shut, walked over to the doorway and sniffed the air of
the street for a moment. He stood very close to Maigret, who was staring fixedly at
him. Finally becoming aware of that penetrating gaze, he spun round.

Maigret didn't move a muscle. He
was still wearing his overcoat and hat, as if about to leave.

‘Lucien! Run next door and
telephone for someone to come and repair the phone.'

The waiter hurried out, a dirty napkin
over his arm, and the owner himself served two builders who came in, their faces
clown-like under an almost even layer of plaster dust.

An atmosphere of doubt hung in the air
for perhaps another ten minutes. When Lucien announced that the engineer would not
be coming until the next day, the owner
turned to Maigret again and muttered
under his breath:

‘Bastard!'

He could have meant the tardy engineer,
but the insult was chiefly addressed to the customer in whom he finally recognized a
policeman.

It was 2.30 and this was the prologue to
a long, drawn-out performance, which eluded everybody present. The owner's
name was Louis. Customers who knew him came and shook his hand, exchanged a few
words with him. Louis himself rarely served. Most of the time, he stayed in the
background, behind the bar, between the waiter and the girl on the cigarette
counter.

And he watched Maigret over their heads.
He made no
bones about it, and Maigret watched him with equal
brazenness. The situation could have been comical, for they were both big, broad and
heavy, and they were trying to outstare each other.

Neither was a fool, either. Louis knew
exactly what he was doing when, from time to time, he glanced at the glass door,
afraid of seeing a certain person walk in.

At that hour, Rue Fontaine was bustling
with everyday activities like any other Paris street. Opposite the bar there was an
Italian grocery where the local housewives came to do their shopping.

‘Waiter! A calvados.'

The lethargic blonde cashier stared at
Maigret with mounting curiosity. Meanwhile, the waiter had intuited that something
was amiss, although he didn't know what exactly, and he gave the owner
an
occasional wink.

It was just after three when a big,
light-coloured limousine pulled up outside. A tall, youngish, dark-haired man with a
scar on his left cheek alighted and entered the café, extending his hand over the
bar.

‘Hello, Louis.'

‘Hello, Eugène.'

Maigret had a direct view of Louis, and
he could see the newcomer's reflection in the mirror.

‘A mint-soda, Lucien. And make it
quick.'

He was one of the
belote
players, probably the owner of a brothel in Béziers that Fernande had mentioned. He
wore a silk shirt and his clothes were well tailored. He too smelled fragrant.

‘Have you seen the—'

He broke off
mid-sentence. Louis had signalled to him that someone was eavesdropping and Eugène
looked up at Maigret's reflection.

‘Hmm! Where's that iced
soda, Lucien?'

He took a cigarette from a monogrammed
case, and lit it from his lighter.

‘Nice weather, isn't
it!' said the owner, with irony, still eyeing Maigret.

‘Nice weather indeed. But
there's a funny smell in here.'

‘What smell?'

‘Something fishy.'

They both roared with laughter, while
Maigret puffed gently on his pipe.

‘See you later?' queried
Eugène, extending his hand once again.

He wanted to know if they'd be
meeting up as usual.

‘See you later.'

This conversation galvanized Louis, who
grabbed a dirty cloth and, with a grin, came over to Maigret.

‘May I?'

He wiped the table so clumsily that he
knocked over the glass, spilling the contents on to Maigret's trousers.

‘Lucien! Bring the gentleman
another glass.'

And, by way of apology:

‘No extra charge!'

Maigret gave a vague smile in
return.

By five o'clock the street lamps
were lit, but it was still light enough outside to identify the customers as they
crossed the road and reached for the door handle.

When Joseph Audiat
walked in, Louis and Maigret looked at each other, as of one accord, and from that
moment it was almost as if they had been exchanging protracted secrets. There was no
need to mention the Floria, or Pepito, or Cageot.

Maigret knew, and Louis knew that he
knew.

‘Evening, Louis!'

Audiat was a short man, dressed in black
from head to foot, with a slightly crooked nose and eyes that darted everywhere. He
walked up to the bar and held his hand out to the blonde cashier, saying:

‘Hello, sweetheart.'

Then to Lucien:

‘A Pernod, young man.'

He talked a lot. He gave the impression
of an actor on stage. But Maigret soon discerned a certain anxiety beneath his
façade. Audiat also had a nervous twitch. As soon as his smile left his lips, he
automatically struggled to recompose it.

‘No one here yet?'

The café was empty. There were only two
customers standing at the bar.

‘Eugène's been
in.'

The owner
re-enacted the scene he
had played earlier, pointing out Maigret to Audiat who, less diplomatic than Eugène,
swung round, looked Maigret in the eye and spat on the floor.

‘Anything else?' he
said.

‘Nothing. Did you win?'

‘No. Zilch! I was given a tip that
backfired. I was in with
a chance for the third race, but the horse
missed the start. Give me a packet of Gauloises, sweetheart.'

He could not keep still; he kept
shifting from one foot to the other, gesticulating and waggling his head.

‘Can I make a phone
call?'

Louis looked daggers at Maigret.

‘No you can't. The gentleman
over there wrecked the phone.'

It was open war. Audiat was ill at ease.
He was afraid of making a blunder, for he had no idea what had happened before his
arrival.

‘Are we seeing each other this
evening?'

‘As usual!'

Audiat downed his Pernod and left.
Meanwhile, Louis came and sat down at the table next to Maigret, where the waiter
brought him a hot meal which he had cooked on the gas ring in the back.

‘Waiter!' Maigret called
out.

‘Here! Nine francs
seventy-five—'

‘Bring me two ham sandwiches and a
beer.'

Louis was eating some reheated
sauerkraut with two appetizing-looking sausages.

‘Is there any ham left, Monsieur
Louis?'

‘There must be an old piece in the
icebox.'

He chewed noisily, crudely exaggerating
his movements. The waiter brought Maigret two dry, shrivelled sandwiches, but he
pretended not to notice.

‘Waiter! Some mustard—'

‘There isn't any.'

The two hours that followed went faster,
for the bar was
invaded by passers-by dropping in for an aperitif.
The owner condescended to serve them himself. The door kept opening and closing,
sending a blast of cold air in Maigret's direction each time.

Now the temperature had dropped to
freezing. For a while, the passing omnibuses were crammed full, and there were
passengers standing on the platform at the rear. Then, gradually, the street grew
empty. The seven o'clock flurry gave way to an unexpected quiet, a prelude to
the very different bustle of the evening.

The toughest hour was between eight and
nine. The place was deserted. The blonde girl behind the till had been replaced by a
woman in her forties, who began sorting all the coins from the cash register into
piles. Louis had gone up to his room, and when he came back down, he was wearing a
jacket and tie.

Joseph Audiat was the first to put in an
appearance, a few minutes after nine. He looked around for Maigret and strolled over
to Louis.

‘Everything OK?'

‘Everything OK. There's no
reason why it wouldn't be, is there?'

But Louis did not have the same energy
as earlier. He was tired, and did not look at Maigret with the same cockiness. And
Maigret himself seemed to exhibit a certain weariness. He must have drunk a little
of everything – beer, coffee, calvados, mineral water. Seven or eight saucers were
piled up on the table in front of him, and he had to order another drink.

‘Look! Here come Eugène and his
friend.'

The pale-blue limousine
had drawn up alongside the kerb again, and two men came into the bar, Eugène first
of all, dressed as he had been that afternoon, then a younger, timid-looking man who
smiled at everyone.

‘What about Oscar?'

‘He's bound to
come.'

Eugène winked, jerking his head in
Maigret's direction, moved two tables together and went over to fetch the red
mat and the chips from a drawer.

‘Shall we begin?'

They were all putting on an act. But it
was Eugène and the owner who were calling the tune. Especially Eugène, who was
freshly arrived on the scene. He had brilliant white teeth and a genuine
cheerfulness, and women must have gone crazy over him.

‘At least we'll be able to
see clearly tonight!' he said.

‘Why?' asked Audiat, who was
always a bit slow on the uptake.

‘Because we have a luminary among
us!'

That luminary was Maigret, who was
smoking his pipe less than a metre away from the players.

Louis picked up the slate and the chalk
with a ritual gesture. He was the one who usually kept score. He drew the columns
headed with the players' initials.

‘What are you drinking?'
asked the waiter.

Eugène narrowed his eyes, glanced over
at Maigret's calvados and replied:

‘The same as the gentleman over
there!'

‘A strawberry cordial,' said
Audiat, on edge.

The fourth man had a strong Marseille
accent and could
not have been in Paris long. He took his cue from
Eugène, for whom he appeared to have a profound admiration.