‘Did you get any sleep last night?’
‘Yes, chief. I almost had my eight hours.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘I’m not desperate yet.’
‘I’ll send someone to relieve you later. For now, just sit in the armchair and stay by the window. As long as you don’t put the lights on, nobody can see you from the house opposite.’
Wasn’t that what Cuendet had done for nearly six weeks?
‘Make a note of all comings and goings, and if any cars arrive, try to get the numbers.’
A moment later, Maigret was rapping at the neighbouring door. He had to wait a while before he heard the creaking of springs, then footsteps on the floor. The door was half opened.
‘What is it?’
‘Police.’
‘Again?’
Resigned, the woman went on:
‘Come in!’
She was in her nightdress. Her eyes were swollen, and her make-up, which she hadn’t taken off before going to bed, had spread, distorting her features.
‘Can I go back to bed?’
‘Why did you say: again? Have the police been here recently?’
‘Not here, but on the streets. They’ve been hassling us endlessly for weeks now. I’ve spent at least six nights in the cells in the past month. What have I done this time?’
‘Nothing, I hope. And I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone about my visit.’
‘Aren’t you from the Vice Squad?’
‘No.’
‘I think I’ve seen your photograph somewhere.’
If it wasn’t for her smudged make-up and badly dyed hair, she wouldn’t have been ugly: not particularly fat, but heavy, her eyes still lively.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know yet. Have you lived here long?’
‘Since I got back from Cannes in October. I always do Cannes in the summer.’
‘Do you know your neighbour?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one in 33.’
‘The Swiss?’
‘How do you know he’s Swiss?’
‘Because of his accent. I worked in Switzerland two or three years ago. I was a hostess in a nightclub in Geneva, but they wouldn’t renew my residence permit. I don’t suppose they like the competition.’
‘Did he speak to you? Did he ever come to see you?’
‘I’m the one who went to him. One afternoon, I got up and realized I was out of cigarettes. I’d already passed him in the corridor, and he always said a pleasant hello to me.’
‘What happened?’
She made an expressive face.
‘That’s just it: nothing! I knocked at the door. He took so long to open, I wondered what he was up to. But he was dressed, there was nobody with him, and the room was tidy. I saw he smoked a pipe. He had one in his mouth. I said to him:
‘ “I don’t suppose you have any cigarettes?”
‘He said no, he was sorry, then after a hesitation, he offered to go and buy me some.
‘I was just like I was when I opened the door to you, with nothing on but my nightdress. There was chocolate on the table, and when he saw me looking at it, he offered me a piece.
‘I thought: this was it. I mean, we’re neighbours, we owe each other that. I started eating a piece of chocolate and glanced at the book he was reading, something about Italy, with old engravings.
‘ “Don’t you get bored all on your own?” I asked him.
‘I’m sure he wanted it. Not that I think I’m that impressive. There was a moment when he seemed to be on the verge, then all of a sudden he stammered:
‘ “I have to go out. Someone’s expecting me …” ’
‘Is that all?’
‘I think so. The walls aren’t thick here. You can hear noises from one room to the other. And he probably didn’t get much sleep at night, if you see what I mean.
‘He never complained. As you may have noticed when you came up, the toilets are at the other end of the corridor, just above the stairs. There’s one thing I can tell you, which is that he didn’t go to bed early, because I met him at least twice, going to the toilets in the middle of the night, fully dressed.’
‘Do you ever happen to look at the house opposite?’
‘The madwoman’s house?’
‘Why do you call her the madwoman?’
‘No reason. Because I think she looks mad. You know, from here, you can see everything. In the afternoon, I have nothing to do and I sometimes look out of the window. They don’t usually draw the curtains in the house opposite, and it’s worth a look, in the evening, to see their chandeliers. Huge crystal chandeliers, with dozens of bulbs …
‘Her room is just opposite mine. It’s just about the only room where they draw the curtains towards the end of the afternoon, but they’re opened again in the morning, and then it’s like she doesn’t realize anyone can see her walking about stark naked. I don’t know, maybe she does it deliberately. There are women who get a kick out of that.
‘She has two chambermaids to take care of her, but she also rings for the valet when she’s like that. Some days, the hairdresser comes in the middle of the afternoon, sometimes later, when she gets all dressed up. She isn’t bad, for her age, I have to admit …’
‘How old would you say she is?’
‘About forty-five. Only, with women who look after themselves like she does, you can never be sure.’
‘Does she get lots of visitors?’
‘Sometimes, there are two or three cars in the courtyard, not usually more than that. Most of the time, she’s the one who goes out. Apart from the gigolo, of course!’
‘What gigolo?’
‘I’m not saying he’s a real gigolo. He’s a bit young for her, not even thirty. A good-looking young man, tall, dark, dressed like a window dummy, drives a fantastic car.’
‘Does he come to see her often?’
‘Hey, I’m not always at the window! I have my work, too. Some days, I start at five in the afternoon. It doesn’t give me much time to look at people’s houses. Maybe he comes once or twice a week, maybe three times.
‘What I am sure of is that he sometimes spends the night there. Usually, I get up late but, on days when I report to the police, I have to get up early in the morning. Anyone would think your colleagues deliberately choose those hours! Well, two or three times, the gigolo’s car – I’ll call him the gigolo – was still in the courtyard at nine o’clock.
‘As for the other one …’
‘There’s another one?’
‘Sure, the old one! The steady one.’
Maigret couldn’t help smiling, hearing this interpretation of the facts by Olga.
‘What’s the matter? Did I say something stupid?’
‘Carry on.’
‘There’s a very smart-looking guy with silvery hair who shows up sometimes in a Rolls-Royce and has the most handsome chauffeur I’ve ever seen.’
‘Does he also sometimes spend the night there?’
‘I don’t think so. He never stays long. If my memory serves me well, I’ve never seen him late in the evening. Usually around five o’clock. Probably comes for tea …’
She seemed quite happy to demonstrate that she knew that some people, in a world a long way from her own, have tea at five o’clock.
‘I don’t suppose you can tell me why you’re asking me these questions?’
‘That’s right, I can’t.’
‘And I have to keep quiet about it?’
‘That’s absolutely essential.’
‘It’s for my own good, right? Don’t worry. I’ve heard about you from my friends, though I imagined you were older.’
She smiled at him, her body slightly arched beneath the blanket.
After a short silence, she murmured:
‘No?’
And he replied with a smile:
‘No.’
She burst out laug
hing.
‘Just like my cousin!’
Then, suddenly serious:
‘What has he done?’
He was on the verge of telling her the truth. He was tempted to do so. He knew he could count on her. He knew also that she was capable of understanding more things than Judge Cajou, for example. Might certain details she couldn’t remember now occur to her if she was put in the picture?
Later, if it became necessary.
He headed for the door.
‘Will you be back?’
‘Quite likely. What’s the food like at the Petit-Saint-Paul?’
‘The owner’s wife does the cooking. If you like andouillettes, you won’t find any better in the neighbourhood. Only, the tablecloths are made of paper, and the waitress is a bitch.’
It was midday when he headed for the Petit-Saint-Paul. Once there, the first thing he asked for was a token so that he could phone his wife and tell her he wouldn’t be back for lunch.
He hadn’t forgotten about Fernand and his gang, but he couldn’t help himself.
5.
It was actually a break he had given himself, as if on the sly, and he felt a touch of remorse. Not too much, though, firstly because Olga hadn’t exaggerated about the andouillettes, secondly because the Beaujolais, although a little heavy, was still fruity, and finally because, sitting in a corner at a table on which a sheet of rough paper stood in for a tablecloth, he had been able to ruminate to his heart’s content.
The owner’s wife, who was short and fat, with a grey bun on the top of her head, occasionally half opened the kitchen door and glanced into the room. She wore an apron of the same blue as Maigret’s mother had once worn, a blue that was darker at the edges and paler towards the middle where it had been rubbed more in the washing.
It was also true that the waitress, a tall brunette with a colourless complexion, was sour-faced and looked at you defiantly. From time to time, her features tensed, as if from a fleeting pain, and Maigret would have sworn that she had just had a miscarriage.
There were workers in their work clothes, a few North Africans, a woman newspaper vendor dressed in a man’s jacket and cap.
What was the point of showing Cuendet’s photograph to the waitress, or to the moustached owner, who was in charge of the wine? From where Maigret was sitting, which was probably where he had sat, Honoré, provided he wiped the mist from the window every three minutes, could have looked out at the street and the mansion.
He had almost certainly not confided in anyone. Like everyone else, they had taken him for a quiet little man, and in a way it was true.
Of his type, Honoré Cuendet had been a craftsman, and because Maigret was thinking at the same time about the men who had carried out the hold-up in Rue La Fayette – that was what he called ruminating – he found him a tad old-fashioned, like this restaurant in fact, which would probably soon be replaced by a brighter establishment, perhaps self-service.
Maigret had known other lone wolves, in particular the famous Commodore, who had worn a monocle and a red carnation in his buttonhole, had stayed at the most luxurious hotels, had been always impeccable and dignified beneath his white hair, and whom they had never been able to catch red-handed.
The Commodore had never set foot in prison, and nobody knew what had become of him. Had he retired to the country under a new identity, or had he seen out his final days in the sun on some Pacific island? Had he been murdered by a fellow criminal who wanted to get his hands on his accumulated wealth?
There were organized gangs at that time, too, but they didn’t work in the same way. Above all, the people recruited into them were different.
Even twenty years earlier, for example, in the case of something like the Rue La Fayette robbery, Maigret would have known immediately where to look, in which neighbourhood, even in which bistro frequented by known criminals.
In those days, they could barely read and write and wore their profession on their faces.
Now, they were technicians. The Rue La Fayette hold-up, like the previous ones, had been meticulously planned, and it had taken a chance occurrence for one of the men to be knocked out: the presence, in the crowd, of an off-duty policeman who, contrary to regulations, was armed and who, reacting instinctively, despite the risk of hitting an innocent bystander, had opened fire.
True, Honoré Cuendet had also modernized. Maigret remembered something Olga had said. She had talked about people who have tea at five o’clock. For her, it was a world apart. For Maigret, too. But Cuendet had taken the trouble to carefully study the daily routine of such people.
He didn’t break windows, didn’t use crowbars, didn’t cause any damage.
Outside, people were walking quickly, their hands in their pockets, their faces stiff with cold, all with their own little affairs, their own little concerns in their heads, all with their personal dramas, their need to do something.
‘The bill, mademoiselle.’
She scribbled the figures on the embossed paper tablecloth, moving her lips and glancing occasionally at the slate on which the prices of the dishes were written.
He walked back to the office, and as soon as he sat down at his desk, with his files and his pipes in front of him, the door opened, and Lucas came in. They both opened their mouths at the same time. Maigret spoke first.
‘We need to send someone to relieve Fumel at the Hôtel Lambert in Rue Neuve-Saint-Pierre.’
Not someone belonging to what might have been called his personal team, but a man like Lourtie, for example, or Lesueur. Neither was free, and in the end it was Baron who left Quai des Orfèvres a little later with instructions.
‘What about you? What were you going to say?’
‘There’s news. Inspector Nicolas may have got hold of something.’
‘Is he here?’
‘He’s waiting for you.’
‘Send him in.’
He was an inconspicuous man, which was why he had been sent to prowl around Fontenay-les-Roses, his mission to casually get the neighbours of the Raison family – the shopkeepers, the workers at the garage where the wounded gangster kept his car – to talk.
‘I don’t yet know if it means anything, chief, but I get the feeling we may have a bit of a lead. Last night, I found out that Raison and his wife were very friendly with another couple who live in the same building. In the evening, they sometimes watched television together. When they went to the cinema, one of the two women looked after the other’s children along with her own.
‘The name of these people is Lussac. They’re younger than the Raisons. René Lussac’s only thirty-one, and his wife is two or three years younger. She’s very pretty, and they have a little boy of two and a half.
‘So, following your instructions, I decided to keep an eye on René Lussac, who’s a salesman for a musical instrument maker. He also has a car, a Floride.
‘Last night, he left home after dinner, and I followed him. I had a car at my disposal. He didn’t suspect I was behind him, or he’d easily have shaken me off. He went to a café at Porte de Versailles, the Café des Amis, a quiet place frequented by the local shopkeepers, who go there to play cards. Two people were waiting for him, and they played belote like people who see each other regularly.
‘That struck me as strange. Lussac has never lived anywhere near Porte de Versailles. I wondered why he came all that way to play cards in such an unremarkable place.’
‘Were you inside the café?’
‘Yes. I was sure he hadn’t spotted me at Fontenay-les-Roses and I wasn’t taking any risks by showing my face. He didn’t pay any attention to me. All three of them were playing normally, but they kept checking the time.
‘At exactly nine thirty, Lussac asked the cashier for a token and went and shut himself in the phone booth, where he stayed for about ten minutes. I could see him through the window. He wasn’t phoning anywhere in Paris because, after lifting the receiver once, he only said a few words and hung up. Without coming out of the booth
, he waited and the phone rang a few moments later. In other words, it must have been a regional or international call.
‘When he came back to the table, he seemed worried. He said a few words to them, looked around suspiciously then gestured to them to resume the game.’
‘How were the two other men?’
‘I went out before they did and waited in my car. I didn’t think there was any point in continuing to follow Lussac, who would probably be going back to Fontenay-les-Roses. I chose one of his companions at random. Each of them had his own car. The one who looked the oldest to me was the first one to get into his car, and I followed him to a garage in Rue La Boétie. He left his car there and then walked to a building in Rue de Ponthieu, behind the Champs-Élysées, where he rents a furnished studio apartment.
‘His name is Georges Macagne. I checked this morning through the hotels agency. Then I went upstairs and found his criminal record. He’s been sentenced twice for car theft and once for grievous bodily harm.’
This might at last be the breakthrough they’d so long been waiting for.
‘I decided not to question the owners of the café.’
‘You did the right thing. I’ll ask the examining magistrate for a court order, and then I want you to go to the central switchboard and ask them to find out who René Lussac phoned last night. They won’t do anything without a written order.’
As Inspector Nicolas was leaving the office, Maigret called the Hôpital Beaujon, where he had a little difficulty in getting put through to the inspector on duty outside Raison’s door.
‘What’s his condition?’
‘I was just about to phone you. They went to fetch his wife. She’s just arrived. I can hear her crying in his room. Wait, the head nurse is just coming out. Will you stay on the line?’
Maigret continued to hear the muffled noises of a hospital corridor.
‘Hello? It’s just as I thought. He’s died.’
‘Did he talk?’
‘He didn’t even regain consciousness. His wife is lying face down on the floor in the middle of the room, crying away.’
‘Did she see you?’
Maigret and the Lazy Burglar Page 7
