In fact, when he got back to his office, he bumped into a group of journalists and photographers.
‘Is it true that you almost witnessed a murder?’
‘I only got to the scene quite quickly because I was very close by.’
‘Is it true that this boy, Antoine Batille, is the son of Batille the perfume-maker?’
How had the press found out? Did the leak come from the station?
‘The concierge says—’
‘Which concierge?’
‘The one in Quai d’Anjou.’
He hadn’t even seen her. He hadn’t given her his name, or his title. The maid must have talked.
‘It was you who told the parents, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did they react?’
‘Like a man and a woman who are being informed that their son has been killed.’
‘Do they suspect anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you think it might be a political matter?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘A love affair, then?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And nothing was taken, was it?’
‘No.’
‘So?’
‘So, nothing, gentlemen. The investigation is just beginning, and when it has yielded some results, I’ll pass them on.’
‘Have you seen the daughter?’
‘Who?’
‘Minou. The Batilles’ daughter. Apparently she’s famous in certain well-heeled circles.’
‘I haven’t seen her, no.’
‘She keeps strange company.’
‘You tell me that, but I’m not investigating her.’
‘You never know, do you.’
He forced his way through them, pushed open the door of his office and closed it again. He gave himself enough time to fill a pipe, standing by the window, and then opened the door to the inspectors’ office. They weren’t all there yet. Some were making phone calls, others typing up their reports.
‘Are you busy, Janvier?’
‘Another ten lines to type, chief, and I’ll be done.’
‘Come and see me.’
While he was waiting, he phoned the forensic doctor who had replaced his old friend Dr Paul.
‘We’ll send it to you towards the end of the morning … Yes, it’s urgent, less because I’m waiting for the post-mortem than because the parents are impatient … Do as little damage to him as possible … Yes … That’s right … I see you understand … Much of Paris high society will pass to pay their respects. I’ve already got journalists in the corridor.’
The first thing was to go to Rue Popincourt. The previous day, Gino Pagliati hadn’t had time to tell him much, and his wife had barely opened her mouth. Then there were the man called Jules and the three other card-players. Finally, Maigret remembered the silhouette of the old woman he had seen at a window.
‘What are we doing, chief?’ Janvier asked as he came into the office.
‘Is there a free car in the courtyard?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Drive me to Rue Popincourt. Not far from Rue du Chemin-Vert. I’ll tell you where to stop.’
His wife was right, he noticed as he waited for the car in the middle of the courtyard: it was as cold as December.
2.
Maigret realized that Janvier himself was rather surprised about the importance given to this case. Every night, a certain number of stabbings are recorded somewhere in Paris, particularly in busy areas, and normally the papers would only have devoted a few lines to the tragedy in Rue Popincourt under the heading ‘other news’.
Stabbings
A young man, Antoine B—, 21, a student, was stabbed several times while walking along Rue Popincourt at about 10.30. The crime appears to have been the work of a prowler, and the approach of a pair of local shopkeepers prevented him from robbing the victim. Antoine B— succumbed to his injuries upon arrival at Saint-Antoine Hospital.
Except that Antoine B. was called Batille and he lived on the Quai d’Anjou. His father was a well-known figure in Paris society, and almost everyone knew Mylène perfumes.
The little black police car crossed Place de la République, and Maigret found himself in his own district, a network of narrow, busy streets bounded by Boulevard Voltaire on one side and Boulevard Richard-Lenoir on the other.
He and Madame Maigret crossed those little streets every time they came to the Pardons for dinner, and Madame Maigret often did her shopping in Rue du Chemin-Vert.
It was at Gino’s, as the shop was commonly known, that she bought not only pasta, but mortadella, prosciutto from Milan and olive oil in big gold cans. The shops were narrow, deep and badly lit. Today, because of the overcast sky, almost all the lamps were lit, creating a fake daylight that made people’s faces look like waxworks.
A lot of old women. A lot of middle-aged men, too, on their own, carrying a basket of provisions. Resigned faces. Some of them stopped occasionally and brought a hand to their heart as they waited for the end of a spasm.
Women of every nationality, with a young child in their arms and a boy or a little girl clinging to their dress.
‘Stop here and come with me.’
He started with the Pagliatis. There were three women customers in the shop, and Lucia was busy.
‘My husband’s at the back. Just push the little door.’
Gino was busy making ravioli on a long marble slab covered with flour.
‘My goodness! Inspector, I thought you would come.’
He had a loud voice, and naturally radiant features.
‘Is it true that the poor boy is dead?’
The news wasn’t yet in the papers.
‘Who told you that?’
‘A journalist who was here ten minutes ago. He took my photograph, and I’ll be seeing my portrait in the paper.’
‘I would like you to repeat to me what you said last night, in as much detail as possible. You were coming back from seeing your brother and sister-in-law …’
‘… Who is expecting a baby, yes. Rue de Charonne. We had only brought one umbrella for both of us because, when we walk in the street, Lucia always takes my arm.
‘You remember the rain that was coming down, a storm. Several times I thought the umbrella was going to turn inside out, and I was holding it in front of us like a shield.
‘Which explains why I didn’t see him sooner.’
‘Who?’
‘The killer. He must have been walking in front of us, a certain distance away, but I was only concerned with protecting us from the rain and not wading in the puddles. He might also have been standing in a doorway.’
‘When did you notice him?’
‘He was already past Chez Jules, where the light was still on.’
‘Could you see how he was dressed?’
‘I talked to my wife about that last night. We both think he was wearing a light-coloured mackintosh with a belt. He had a quick, agile way of walking.’
‘Did he seem to be following the young man in the jacket?’
‘He was moving faster than him, as if to catch up with him or overtake him.’
‘How far were you from the two men?’
‘Perhaps a hundred metres. I could go and show you.’
‘Did the one who was walking ahead turn round?’
‘No. The other man caught up with him. I saw his arm going up and coming down. I couldn’t make out the knife. He struck three or four times, and the young man in the jacket fell forwards on to the pavement. The murderer took a few steps towards Rue du Chemin-Vert, then came back. He must have seen us, because we were only about sixty metres away. He even bent down and stabbed him two or three more times.’
‘You didn’t chase him?’
‘You know, I’m quite stout and I suffer from emphysema. It isn’t easy for me to run.’
He was blushing, embarrassed.
‘We quickened our step, and this time he vanish
ed around the corner of the street.’
‘Did you hear the sound of a car starting?’
‘I don’t think so … I didn’t notice …’
Mechanically, and without Maigret having to tell him to, Janvier was jotting down the conversation in shorthand.
‘And when you reached the wounded man …?’
‘You saw him just as I left him. His jacket was torn in several places, and we could see blood flowing. I immediately thought about calling a doctor and rushed to Dr Pardon’s house, asking Lucia to stay there.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I thought we couldn’t leave him all alone.’
‘Did your wife say anything when you came back?’
‘As if on purpose, no one passed by.’
‘The injured man didn’t speak?’
‘No. He was breathing badly, with a gurgle in his chest. Lucia will be able to tell you. She’s at her busiest right now.’
‘No other detail occurs to you?’
‘No. I’ve told you everything I know.’
‘Thank you, Gino.’
‘How is Madame Maigret?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
An alleyway to the side led to a courtyard, where, behind glass, a welder was working in his studio. The district was full of such courtyards and cul-de-sacs, all of them with small craftsmen’s workshops.
They crossed the street and, a little further on, Maigret pushed open the door of Chez Jules. By day, the little café was almost as dark as it was in the evening, and the milky globe lamp was lit. A bulky man whose shirt poked out between his trousers and his waistcoat was leaning on the bar. He had a flushed complexion, a thick neck and a goitrous-looking double chin.
‘What can I get you, Monsieur Maigret? A glass of Sancerre? It comes from my cousin, who …’
‘Two,’ Maigret said, leaning in turn on the counter.
‘Today, you’re not the first.’
‘A journalist, I know.’
‘He took my photograph, as I am now, holding a bottle. You know Lebon. He worked in the highways department for thirty years. Then he had an accident, and now he’s drawing his pension, plus a little allowance because of his eye. He was here last night.’
‘There were four of you playing cards, isn’t that right?’
‘A game of manille. Always the same players every evening except Sunday. I’m closed on Sundays.’
‘Are you married?’
‘My wife’s upstairs, she’s ill.’
‘At what time did the young man come in?’
‘It must have been ten o’clock.’
Maigret glanced at the advertising clock on the wall.
‘Ignore that. It’s twenty minutes fast … First of all he opened the door a few centimetres, as if to see what kind of place it was. It was a lively game. The butcher was winning, and when he’s winning he gets insulting, as if he’s the only one who knows how to play.’
‘So he came in. And then?’
‘I asked him, from my seat, what he wanted to drink, and, after hesitating, he murmured:
‘“Do you have any cognac?”
‘I waited until I’d played the four cards that I was still holding and went behind the bar. As I served him, I noticed a kind of triangular black box that he was wearing over his stomach, hanging around his neck, and I said to myself that it must have been a camera. Sometimes tourists get lost around here, but not very often.
‘I went back to my seat at the table. Baboeuf dealt the cards. The young man didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He wasn’t interested in the game either.’
‘Did he seem anxious?’
‘No.’
‘Did he face the door as if he was waiting for somebody?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘Or as if he was afraid of seeing somebody bursting in?’
‘No. He stood where he was with his elbow on the bar, and from time to time he sipped from his glass.’
‘What impression did he make on you?’
‘Well, he was drenched. With his jacket and his long hair he looks like some young people you see these days.
‘We went on playing as if he wasn’t there, and Baboeuf was becoming more and more excited because he kept getting a good hand.
‘“Maybe you should go home and see what your wife’s up to,” Lebon joked.
‘“Perhaps you should think about your own wife, who’s a bit too pretty for you, and who …”
‘For a moment I thought a fight was going to break out. It calmed down, as it always does. Baboeuf played his hand.
‘“What do you think of that?”
‘Then Lebon, who was on the banquette beside me, elbowed me in the ribs and nodded towards the customer standing at the bar. I looked at him, not understanding. He looked as if he was laughing to himself. Isn’t that right, François? I wondered what you were trying to show me. You said to me in a low voice:
‘“Just now.”’
And the man with the glass eye took up the story.
‘I’d noticed a movement of his hand on the device. I have a nephew who got a thing like that for Christmas, and he enjoys recording what his parents say. He looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, standing there with his glass, but he was listening to everything that we were saying, as the tape went round …’
‘I wonder,’ Jules muttered, ‘what he expected to do with that.’
‘Nothing. Like my nephew. He records for the sake of it, then he doesn’t give it another thought. Once he played one of his parents’ arguments back to them, and my brother nearly broke the thing.
‘“If I catch you doing that again, you little brat …”
‘Baboeuf wouldn’t be too happy if you played him back his boasts from yesterday.’
‘How long did the young man stay?’
‘Just under half an hour.’
‘He only had one drink?’
‘Yes. He even left a bit of cognac in the bottom of his glass.’
‘So he went out, and you didn’t hear anything more?’
‘Nothing. Just the wind, and the water coming out of the drainpipe, on to the pavement.’
‘Did anyone come in before him?’
‘You see, in the evening I only stay open for the game, because only these few regulars come in. It only gets crowded in the morning, for coffee, croissants or a glass of white wine with Vichy water. At about ten thirty workmen come in for a break, when there’s a building site locally. We do most of our trade before lunch and in the early evening.’
‘Thank you.’
Here again, Janvier had jotted down the conversation, and the landlord of the bistro had kept darting little glances at him.
‘He didn’t teach me anything new,’ Maigret sighed. ‘He only confirmed what I already knew.’
They returned to their seats in the car. Some women looked at them, because people already knew who they were.
‘Where to, chief?’
‘To the office, first of all.’
His two visits to Rue Popincourt hadn’t been pointless. First of all, there had been the account of the assault from the Neapolitan. Antoine Batille’s assailant had stabbed him several times. He had started to move away and then, for some mysterious reason, he had retraced his steps, in spite of the couple a little way off on the pavement. Was it to finish off his victim, whom he had stabbed again before running off?
He was wearing a light-coloured raincoat with a belt; that was all they knew about him. As soon as he reached Quai des Orfèvres, in his office, which was pleasantly warm, Maigret called the Pagliatis’ shop.
‘Could I have a word with your husband? This is Maigret.’
‘I’ll call him, inspector.’
And Gino was on the line:
‘Hello. How can I help you?’
‘Tell me. There’s one question that I forgot to ask you. Was the murderer wearing a hat?’
‘A journalist has just asked me the same thing. That’s the thi
rd one since this morning. I had to ask my wife. She’s like me. She can’t be certain, but she’s almost sure that he was wearing a dark hat. You know, it happened so quickly.’
The light-coloured, belted raincoat seemed to indicate quite a young man, while his hat probably added a few years. Not many young people still wore hats these days.
‘Tell me, Janvier, I don’t suppose you know anything about these contraptions?’
Maigret didn’t know anything about them, any more than he knew about photography or cars, which was why his wife did the driving. In the evening, he barely knew how to switch from one television channel to another.
‘My son has one just like it.’
‘Be careful not to wipe the recording.’
‘Don’t worry, chief.’
Janvier smiled and pressed some buttons. They heard a hubbub, the sound of forks and plates, a confusion of voices in the distance.
‘And for Madame.’
‘Do you have boeuf gros sel?’
‘Of course, Madame.’
‘With lots of onions and gherkins.’
‘You know what the doctor told you. No vinegar.’
‘One minute steak and one boeuf gros sel with lots of onions and gherkins. Would you like salad with that?’
The recording was far from perfect, and there was a constant background noise that prevented them from making out every word.
A silence. Then a sigh, very distinct.
‘You’ll never see sense. Tonight, you’ll have to get up and have some bicarbonate of soda.’
‘Who gets up, you or me? And then, when you go on snoring …’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘You do snore, particularly when you’ve had a bit too much Beaujolais, as you will do again tonight.’
‘One steak, medium rare. I’ll bring the boeuf gros sel straight away.’
‘You hardly touch it at home.’
‘We aren’t at home.’
There were some noises that sounded like gargling. A voice said:
‘Waiter! Waiter! Could you finally …’
Then silence, as if the tape had been cut. Then a neutral voice said very clearly, because this time it must have been speaking right into the microphone:
‘Brasserie Lorraine, Boulevard Beaumarchais.’
Almost definitely the voice of Antoine Batille, stating where the recording had been made. He had probably had his dinner at Boulevard Beaumarchais and discreetly turned on his tape recorder. The waiter would probably remember him. It would be easy to check.
Maigret and the Killer Page 3
