‘Was her face bloody?’
‘Yes. I didn’t want her to suffer. I don’t know. I carried on hitting her.’
Maigret thought he could hear the assistant public prosecutor, in court, saying: ‘Stiernet then launched into a savage attack against his unfortunate victim …’
‘What about when she collapsed?’
‘I looked at her and I couldn’t take in what had happened. I didn’t want to kill her. I swear. You can believe me.’
‘But you remained cool-headed enough to search the drawers.’
‘Not straight away. At first I walked towards the door. Then I remembered that I only had one franc fifty left in my pocket and that I’d been thrown out of my lodgings because I owed three weeks’ rent.’
‘So you retraced your steps?’
‘Yes. I didn’t search the apartment as you seemed to be saying. I just opened a few drawers. I found an old purse which I slipped into my pocket. Then I came across a cardboard box containing two rings and a cameo brooch.’
These items were on Maigret’s desk, by his pipes, and so was the worn purse.
‘You didn’t discover her stash?’
‘I didn’t look for it. I was in a hurry to get out of there, away from the sight of her. Wherever I was in the room, she still seemed to be staring at me. On the stairs, I passed Madame Menou. I went into a bar and drank a brandy. Then, seeing as there were sandwiches on the counter, I ate three.’
‘Were you hungry?’
‘I suppose so. I ate, I drank a coffee, then I started wandering through the streets. I wasn’t much better off than before, because there was only eight francs twenty-five in the purse.’
I wasn’t much better off than before!
He had said that as if it were the most natural thing in the world and Maigret, pensive, couldn’t take his eyes off his face.
‘Why did you choose the Gare du Nord?’
‘I didn’t choose it. I ended up there by chance. It was very cold out.’
This was the 15th of December. The chill wind sprinkled tiny snowflakes on to the cobblestones like dust.
‘Did you want to get to Belgium?’
‘With the few francs I had left?’
‘What were your plans?’
‘First of all, to sleep.’
‘Did it occur to you that you’d be arrested?’
‘I didn’t think about it.’
‘What did you think about?’
‘Nothing.’
In fact, the police had found the hoard of money: twenty-two thousand francs wrapped in packaging paper on top of his grandmother’s wardrobe.
‘What would you have done if you’d discovered the money?’
‘I don’t know.’
The door opened and Lapointe came into the office.
‘Inspector Fourquet has just phoned. He wanted to speak to you, but I told him you were busy.’
Fourquet belonged to the seventeenth arrondissement, a very bourgeois, wealthy neighbourhood where murders were rare.
‘A man has been killed in Rue Fortuny, two hundred metres from the Parc Monceau. From his ID, it seems he’s quite a big shot, an important wine wholesaler.’
‘Is that all that’s known?’
‘Apparently he was walking to his car when he was hit by four bullets. There were no witnesses. It’s not a busy street and, at that moment, there was no one about.’
Maigret’s gaze fell on Stiernet and he shrugged.
‘Is Lucas here?’
He went over to the door and spotted Lucas at his desk.
‘Would you come in for a minute?’
Stiernet’s round eyes went from one to the other as if none of this concerned him.
‘Question him again from the beginning and write down his answers. Then have him sign the statement and take him down to the cells. You, Lapointe, come with me.’
He put on his heavy black overcoat and wound the navy-blue wool scarf knitted by Madame Maigret around his neck. Before going out, he filled a fresh pipe, which he lit in the corridor, after a last glance at the murderer.
Although it wasn’t that late, there were few people out and about because of the icy wind that stung faces and blew straight through the thickest clothes. The two men clambered into one of the little black cars belonging to the Police Judiciaire and drove to the other side of Paris in record time.
In Rue Fortuny, officers were stopping traffic and preventing curious bystanders from approaching the body, which could be seen lying on the pavement. Four or five men were coming and going around it.
Fourquet was there and stepped forwards to meet Maigret.
‘The neighbourhood chief inspector has just arrived, and so has the doctor.’
Maigret already knew the chief inspector well and he shook his hand. He was an elegant, pleasant man.
‘Do you know Oscar Chabut?’
‘Should I know him?’
‘He’s quite an important man, one of the biggest wine merchants in Paris: Le Vin des Moines. You’ll have seen the name on lorries and posters. He has barges on the river and railway tank-wagons.’
The man lying on the pavement was corpulent but not fat. He had the build of a rugby player. The doctor had stood up and was dusting down the knees of his trousers, which were covered in powdery snow.
‘He couldn’t have survived more than two or three minutes. The autopsy will tell us more.’
Maigret looked at the very light-blue, almost grey, staring eyes, the craggy face with a solid jaw that was beginning to sag.
The van with the team from Criminal Records pulled up by the kerb and the forensic experts brought out their equipment, as a film or television crew would.
‘Have you informed the prosecutor’s office?’
‘Yes. He’s going to send a deputy and an examining magistrate.’
Maigret looked around for Fourquet and spied him a few paces away, his long arms wrapped around his body in an attempt to keep warm.
‘Which is his car?’
There were five or six parked by the kerb, all expensive models. Chabut’s was a red Jaguar.
‘Have you searched the glove box?’
‘Yes. Sunglasses, a Michelin Guide, two road maps of Provence and a packet of cough pastilles.’
‘It’s almost certain he had just come out of a building in this street.’
Rue Fortuny wasn’t very long and, on turning round, Maigret recognized the private mansion in front of which the body still lay. It was a 1900s-style house, with ornate carved stonework around the windows. He thought he saw the cover of the spyhole in the studded oak door move.
‘Come with me, Lapointe …’
He walked over to the doorstep and pressed the bell. It was some time before the door opened. A woman stood in the unlit entrance hall, half of her face and one shoulder visible from the outside.
‘What is it?’
Maigret knew who she was.
‘Good evening, Blanche.’
‘What do you want of me?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret. Don’t you remember? Admittedly, it’s a good ten years since we last saw each other.’
He pushed open the door without being invited in.
‘Come in,’ he said to Lapointe. ‘You’re too young to have known Madame Blanche, as everyone calls her.’
As if he was already in familiar surroundings, Maigret turned the light switch and pushed one of the double doors that opened into a vast lounge. It was full of carpets and wall hangings, multicoloured cushions and lamps with silk shades giving out a soft glow.
Madame Blanche looked around fifty but she must have been sixty. She was a plump little woman whom some would have found very distinguished. She was wearing a black silk dress and a triple-strand pearl necklace that stood out in striking contrast.
‘As active and as discreet as ever?’
He’d first met her thirty years earlier, when she was still a streetwalker on Boulevard de la Madeleine. She was pretty an
d sweet, and always had a friendly smile that gave her two dimples.
Later, she became a madam’s assistant in an apartment in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, where clients could be assured of meeting pretty women.
She had come up in the world. Now she was the owner of this private residence offering lovers an elegant, luxurious hideaway and the best brands of champagne and whisky.
‘What happened?’ asked Maigret while she composed herself.
‘Nothing happened here. I don’t know what went on outside. I noticed some to-ing and fro-ing.’
‘You didn’t hear any shots?’
‘Were they shots? I thought it was a car backfiring.’
‘Where were you?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’d just finished eating in the kitchen. Just a little slice of bread and some ham. I never have dinner.’
‘Who is in the house?’
‘No one. Why?’
‘Who was Oscar Chabut with?’
‘Who is Oscar Chabut?’
‘You had better cooperate, otherwise I’ll have to take you to Quai des Orfèvres.’
‘I only know my clients by their first names. They are nearly all important people.’
‘And you only open the door a fraction after looking at them through the spyhole.’
‘This is a respectable establishment. I don’t accept just anyone. That’s why the Vice Squad leaves us in peace.’
‘Did you also look through the spyhole when Chabut left?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Lapointe, drive her to Quai des Orfèvres, where she might be a bit more talkative.’
‘I can’t leave here. I’ll tell you what I know. I presume this Chabut is the client who left around half an hour ago.’
‘Is he a regular? Did he come here often?’
‘From time to time.’
‘Once a month? Once a week?’
‘More like weekly.’
‘Always with the same person?’
‘No, not always.’
‘Was his companion today a new one?’
She hesitated and eventually shrugged.
‘I don’t see why I should get myself into hot water. She’s been here around thirty times over the past year.’
‘Did he telephone you to tell you he was coming?’
‘As they all do.’
‘What time did they get here?’
‘Around seven.’
‘Together, or separately?’
‘Together. I recognized the red car straight away.’
‘Did they order anything to drink?’
‘The champagne was waiting for them in an ice bucket.’
‘Where is the woman?’
‘But … She left—’
‘After Chabut was shot?’
He caught a flicker of indecision in her eyes.
‘Of course not.’
‘You claim she left first?’
‘She did, that’s a fact.’
‘I don’t believe you, Blanche.’
He had often had to deal with establishments of this kind in the course of his career and was familiar with their ways. So he knew it was always the man who left first, giving his companion time to freshen up.
‘Show me to the room they used. Lapointe, you watch the corridor and make sure no one leaves. Now, where were they?’
‘On the first floor. The pink room.’
The walls were panelled, the bannister rail carved. The carpet underfoot, secured by brass stair-rods, was pale blue and soft.
‘When I saw you turn up—’
‘Because you were watching through the spyhole?’
‘That’s only natural, isn’t it? I wanted to find out what was going on. When I recognized you, I guessed at once that it spelled trouble for me—’
‘Admit you knew his name.’
‘Yes.’
‘And that of his companion?’
‘Only her first name, I swear. Anne-Marie. They call her the Grasshopper.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s tall and skinny, with long legs and long arms.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I told you, she left first.’
‘And I don’t believe you.’
She pushed open a door into a secluded room where a maid could be seen changing the sheets of a four-poster bed. On a pedestal table was a champagne bottle and two glasses, one of which had lipstick marks and still contained some liquid.
‘You can see for yourself that—’
‘That she’s neither in this room nor in the bathroom. That is correct. How many other rooms do you have?’
‘Eight.’
‘Are some of them occupied?’
‘No. My clients arrive mainly towards the end of the day or much later. I was expecting one at nine o’clock. He must have seen a crowd of people in the street and—’
‘Show me the other rooms.’
There were four on the first floor, all in nineteenth-century style, with heavy furniture and a profusion of hangings in faded colours.
‘You can see there’s no one here.’
‘Let us continue.’
‘Why would she have gone to the top floor?’
‘Let me see it anyway.’
The first two rooms were indeed empty, but in the third a young woman was sitting bolt upright on a garnetcoloured padded velvet chair.
She sprang up. She was tall and slim, with almost no bust or hips.
‘Who is she?’ asked Maigret.
‘She’s the girl who was waiting for the nine o’clock client.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘No.’
But the girl shrugged. She looked under twenty, and now there was a couldn’t-care-less attitude about her.
‘He’ll find out in the end. He’s a policeman, isn’t he?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
‘No kidding?’
She gazed at him with curiosity.
‘Are you handling this case personally?’
‘As you can see.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
She turned towards Madame Blanche and said reproachfully:
‘Why did you lie to me and say he was only wounded?’
‘I couldn’t tell. I didn’t get anywhere near him.’
‘Who are you, mademoiselle?’
‘Anne-Marie Boutin. I’m his private secretary.’
‘Did you often come here with him?’
‘Around once a week. Always on a Wednesday, because that’s the day I’m supposed to have an English lesson.’
‘Let’s go downstairs,’ grunted Maigret.
He was a little nauseated by all the pastel tones and soft lighting that made people’s faces look a little blurred.
They had stopped in the lounge, but no one had sat down. Voices could be heard, comings and goings outside in the street where the icy wind was blustering, whereas indoors it was too hot, as in a glasshouse. As in a glasshouse too, there were giant plants in Chinese vases.
‘What do you know about your boss’s murder?’
‘What she told me,’ replied the Grasshopper, pointing to Madame Blanche. ‘That someone shot him and wounded him. That the concierge from next door went out and probably phoned the police, because they turned up within a few minutes.’
The police station was just around the corner, in Avenue de Villiers.
‘Did he die more or less straight away?’
‘Yes.’
He thought she turned a little paler, but she didn’t cry. It was as if she had merely received a shock. She went on flatly:
‘I wanted to leave right away, but she wouldn’t let me.’
‘Why not?’ Maigret asked Madame Blanche.
‘She’d have walked into the arms of your colleague, who’d just arrived. I’d rather keep her and my establishment out of all this. If the newspapers get wind of it, it will almost certainly get us closed down.’
/> ‘Tell me exactly what you saw. Where was the man who shot him?’
‘Between two cars, just opposite the front door.’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’
‘No. The lamp post is quite a long way away. I could only see an outline.’
‘Was he tall?’
‘More on the short side, broad shoulders, dark clothes. He fired three or four times, I didn’t count. Monsieur Oscar clutched his stomach, staggered for a moment and then fell on his face.’
Maigret watched the young woman, who was upset but did not appear distraught.
‘Did you love him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How long had you been his mistress?’
She looked taken aback at the word.
‘It wasn’t quite what you think. He let me know when he wanted me, but he never spoke of love. I didn’t think of him as a lover …’
‘What time is your mother expecting you home?’
‘Between half past nine and ten.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Rue Caulaincourt, near Place Constantin-Pecqueur.’
‘Where are Oscar Chabut’s offices?’
‘Quai de Charenton, after the Bercy warehouses.’
‘Will you be there tomorrow morning?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I may need you. Lapointe, go out with her and walk her to the Métro, so that if the press has already been alerted, she won’t be harassed.’
He fiddled with his pipe as if he was hesitant to fill it and light it in these surroundings. In the end he decided to do so.
Madame Blanche had her hands folded over her podgy stomach and looked at him calmly, with the air of someone who has a clear conscience.
‘Are you sure you didn’t recognize the shooter?’
‘I swear.’
‘Did your client sometimes come with married women?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Was he a frequent visitor?’
‘Sometimes I’d see him several times in the same week, then I’d hear nothing from him for ten days or two weeks. That was rare.’
‘No one telephoned you about him?’
‘No.’
The deputy prosecutor and the examining magistrate had left. The chill was even more biting than earlier and the men from the Forensic Institute, who had put the wine merchant’s body on a stretcher, were heaving it into the van.
The experts from Criminal Records were getting back into their van too.
Maigret and the Killer Page 15
