‘Not in the state she’s in.’
‘Did she come by taxi?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Go down to the main entrance and wait. Follow her in case she tries to get in contact with someone or make a phone call.’
‘Got it, chief.’
Perhaps the case was coming to an end, perhaps, thanks to that telephone call by Lussac, they were at last going to track down Fernand. It was quite logical that he would have gone to ground somewhere in the country, not far from Paris, probably one of those inns kept by retired prostitutes or former criminals.
If the telephone lead didn’t yield results, they could still make the rounds of those places, although that might take a long time, and it was quite possible that Fernand, who was the brains of the gang, was changing his refuge every day.
Maigret called the examining magistrate who was dealing with the case and brought him up to date, promising him a report, which he began immediately to draw up, because the magistrate wanted to inform the prosecutor that very evening.
Among the things he put in his report was the fact that the car that had been used for the hold-up had been found near Porte d’Italie. As they had anticipated, it was a stolen car, and of course, they hadn’t found anything useful in it, let alone any interesting fingerprints.
He was hard at work when the clerk, old Joseph, came and told him that the commissioner wanted to see him in his office. For a moment, he thought it might be something to do with the Cuendet case. Perhaps his chief had somehow got wind of his activities. He was fully expecting to be rapped over the knuckles.
In actual fact, it was all about a new case: the daughter of an important figure, who had been missing for three days. She was seventeen, and it had been discovered that she was secretly attending drama classes and had even been an extra in some as yet unreleased films.
‘Her parents want to avoid it getting into the newspapers. There’s every likelihood that she left of her own free will …’
He put Lapointe on the case and, as darkness fell beyond the windows, plunged back into his report.
At five o’clock, he went to see his counterpart in Special Branch, who looked like a cavalry officer. Here, there wasn’t the bustle that prevailed in Maigret’s department. The walls were lined with green filing cabinets, their locks as complicated as the locks of safes.
‘Tell me, Danet, do you happen to know a man named Wilton?’
‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘Nothing very specific so far. Someone mentioned him to me, and I’d like to know a bit more about him.’
‘Is he involved in a crime?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You do mean Stuart Wilton?’
‘Yes.’
So Danet knew him, just as he knew every foreign personality living in Paris or spending a lot of time there. Perhaps he even had a file on Wilton in those green cabinets, but he made no move to get it out.
‘He’s a very important man.’
‘I know. Very rich, too, so I’ve been told.’
‘Very rich, yes, and a great friend of France. In fact, he’s chosen to live here for most of the year.’
‘Why?’
‘Firstly, because he likes the life here.’
‘And what else?’
‘Perhaps because he feels freer in our country than on the other side of the Channel. What intrigues me is why you’re asking me these questions, because I don’t see what connection there could possibly be between Stuart Wilton and your department.’
‘There isn’t one yet.’
‘Is it because of a woman that you’re interested in him?’
‘It’s not even true to say that I’m interested in him. There certainly is a woman who—’
‘Which one?’
‘He’s been married several times, hasn’t he?’
‘Three times. And he’ll probably get married again one of these days, even though he’s pushing seventy.’
‘So he’s very fond of women?’
‘Very.’
Danet was answering reluctantly, as if they were needlessly broaching questions that were his concern alone.
‘I assume not only the ones he marries?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Is he on good terms with his last wife?’
‘You mean the French one?’
‘Florence, yes, the one who, so I’ve been told, used to be part of a dance troupe?’
‘He’s remained on excellent terms with her, as he has with his two previous wives. The first was the daughter of a rich English brewer, and he had a son with her. She’s remarried and now lives in the Bahamas. The second was a young actress. They didn’t have any children. He only lived with her for two or three years. He left her the use of a villa on the Riviera, where she lives quietly.’
‘And to Florence’, Maigret muttered, ‘he gave a mansion.’
Danet frowned anxiously.
‘Is she the one you’re interested in?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘She’s not much in the public eye, though. Mind you, I haven’t had the opportunity to study Wilton from that angle. What I know about him is what everyone says in a certain set in Paris. Florence does indeed live in one of the mansions that belonged to her former husband.’
‘In Rue Neuve-Saint-Pierre.’
‘That’s correct. Though I’m not certain the house belongs to her. As I said, Wilton, when he divorces, remains on friendly terms with his wives, he leaves them their jewellery, their furs, but I doubt that he would leave them, as their own property, a mansion like the one you mentioned.’
‘What about the son?’
‘He also spends some of his time in Paris, but less than his father. He does a lot of skiing in Switzerland and Austria, takes part in motor rallies and regattas on the Riviera and in England and Italy, and plays polo.’
‘In other words, he’s a man of independent means.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Married?’
‘He was, for a year, to a model, and got a divorce. Listen, Maigret, I’m not trying to outsmart you. I don’t know where you’re going with this, or what you have in mind. I just ask you not to do anything without telling me. When I say that Stuart Wilton is a great friend of France, it’s true, and it’s not for nothing that he’s a Commander of the Legion of Honour. He has enormous interests here and he’s a man to be treated with kid gloves.
‘His private life is no concern of ours, unless he has seriously infringed the law, which would surprise me. He’s a ladies’ man. To be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he has some hidden vice or other. But I have no desire to know about it.
‘As far as his son is concerned, and his son’s divorce, I can tell you what was rumoured at the time, because you’ll find out about it anyway. Lida, the model young Wilton married, was an exceptionally beautiful girl, of Hungarian origin, unless I’m mistaken. Stuart Wilton was opposed to the marriage. The son went ahead anyway, and one fine day, he apparently realized that his wife was his father’s mistress. There was no fuss. In that set, it’s rare for people to make a fuss, and things are sorted out amicably. The son simply asked for a divorce.’
‘And Lida?’
‘What I’m telling you happened about three years ago. Since then, she’s often had her photograph in the newspapers, because she’s been friendly with a number of international celebrities. If I’m not mistaken, she now lives in Rome with an Italian prince. Is that what you wanted to know?’
‘I have no idea.’
It was true. Maigret was tempted to put his cards on the table, to tell his colleague everything. But the two men saw things from different points of view.
With reference to what Olga had said that morning, Detective Chief Inspector Danet probably sometimes had tea at five o’clock, while Maigret, at midday today, had had lunch in a bistro with paper tablecloths, surrounded by manual workers and North Africans.
&nb
sp; ‘I’ll come back and speak to you again when I know a bit more. By the way, is Stuart Wilton in Paris right now?’
‘Unless he’s on the Riviera. I can find out. It’s best if I do it.’
‘And the son?’
‘He lives at the Hôtel George-V, in the residential part, where he has a suite all year.’
‘Many thanks, Danet.’
‘Take care, Maigret.’
‘I promise I will!’
He certainly wasn’t going to pay a visit to Stuart Wilton and ask him questions. And if he went to the George-V, he would be answered in a polite but vague fashion.
Judge Cajou knew what he was doing in issuing his press release: the affair in the Bois de Boulogne had been a gangland slaying, which meant that there was no point in getting upset about it, or in looking too closely into it.
Some crimes cause a public stir. It depends on not very much sometimes: the personality of the victim, the way the victim was killed, even the place where it happened.
If Cuendet had been murdered in a nightclub on the Champs-Élysées, for example, he would have been entitled to a front-page headline.
But his was an almost anonymous death, without anything to retain the attention of people reading their newspapers in the Métro.
A criminal who had never committed any sensational crime and could just as easily have been fished up out of the Seine.
And yet, it was he, much more than Fernand and his gang, who interested Maigret, even though he wasn’t officially allowed to get involved in the case.
When it came to the gangsters from Rue La Fayette, the whole police force had been placed on alert. But when it came to Cuendet, poor Fumet, with no car at his disposal, not even sure that he would have his taxi fare refunded if he was unfortunate enough to have to take one, was the only person investigating.
He had had to go to Rue Mouffetard, search Justine’s apartment, ask questions which she had answered in her inimitable way.
All the same, once he was back in his office, Maigret phoned the Forensic Institute. Instead of asking to be put through to Dr Lamalle or one of his assistants, he preferred to speak to a laboratory worker he had known for a long time and for whom he had sometimes done favours.
‘Tell me, François, did you attend the post-mortem on Honoré Cuendet, the man who was found in the Bois de Boulogne?’
‘Yes, I did. Didn’t you get the report?’
‘I’m not in charge of the investigation, but I’d like to know.’
‘I understand. Dr Lamalle thinks the victim was struck about ten times. He was first hit from behind with so much force that the skull was fractured. Death was instantaneous. You know Dr Lamalle’s very good, don’t you? He’s not quite our old Dr Paul, of course, not yet, but everybody here already likes him.’
‘What about the other blows?’
‘They were to the face when the man was lying on his back.’
‘What kind of instrument do they think was used?’
‘They discussed it for a long time and even did a few experiments. Apparently, it wasn’t a knife, and it wasn’t a spanner or a tool like that, the kind that’s usually used. It wasn’t a crowbar either, or a club. I heard them say that whatever it was, it had a number of sharp edges. And it was heavy and solid.’
‘A statuette?’
‘That’s the supposition they put in their report.’
‘Were they able to establish the approximate time of death?’
‘According to them, it was about two in the morning. Between one thirty and three, but closer to two.’
‘Did he lose a lot of blood?’
‘Not just blood, but brain matter as well. There was still some stuck to his hair.’
‘Did they analyse the stomach contents?’
‘You know what it contained? Not yet digested chocolate. There was also alcohol, though not much, which had just started entering the bloodstream.’
‘Many thanks, François. If they don’t ask you, don’t say I phoned.’
‘I’d prefer it that way, too.’
Soon afterwards, Fumel telephoned Maigret.
‘I went to see the old woman, chief, and took her to the Forensic Institute. It’s definitely him.’
‘How did it go?’
‘She was calmer than I’d feared. When I offered to take her home again, she refused and set off alone for the Métro station.’
‘Did you search the apartment?’
‘I didn’t find anything except books and magazines.’
‘No photographs?’
‘A not very good photograph of the father, as a Swiss soldier, and a picture of Honoré as a baby.’
‘No notes? Did you search through the books?’
‘Nothing. The man didn’t write letters and didn’t receive any. Let alone his mother.’
‘There’s a lead you could follow, provided you’re very careful. A man named Stuart Wilton lives in Rue de Longchamp, where he owns a mansion, I don’t know the number. He has a Rolls-Royce and a chauffeur. They probably park the car in the street or keep it in a garage. Try to find out if, inside it, there’s a rug made from wildcat fur. Wilton’s son lives at the George-V and also has a car.’
‘Got it, chief.’
‘One other thing. It’d be useful to have photographs of the two men.’
‘I know a photographer who works on the Champs-Élysées.’
‘Good luck!’
Maigret spent half an hour signing documents. When he left Quai des Orfèvres, instead of heading to his usual bus stop, he walked in the direction of the Saint-Paul neighbourhood.
It was still as cold and as dark, the lights of the city had a different glow from their usual one, and the silhouettes of the pedestrians were blacker, as if all shades between light and dark had been erased.
As he turned the corner of Rue Saint-Paul, a voice emerged from the darkness:
‘Well, inspector?’
It was Olga, standing in a doorway, dressed in a rabbit coat. He decided to ask the girl for a piece of information he had been about to look for elsewhere, especially as she was in the best position to answer his question.
‘Tell me, when you need to have a drink or warm yourself up after midnight, what’s open in the neighbourhood?’
‘Léon’s.’
‘Is it a bar?’
‘Yes. In Rue Saint-Antoine, just opposite the Métro station.’
‘Did you ever run into your neighbour there?’
‘The Swiss? Not at night, no. Once or twice in the afternoon.’
‘What was he drinking?’
‘White wine.’
‘Thanks.’
It was she who said to him, before pounding the pavement again:
‘Good luck!’
He had a photograph of Cuendet in his pocket. He walked into the steam-filled bar and ordered a glass of cognac, and immediately regretted it on seeing six or seven stars on the bottle.
‘Do you know this man?’
The owner wiped his hands on his apron before taking the photograph, which he examined with a pensive air.
‘What has he done?’ he asked cautiously.
‘He’s dead.’
‘How did he die? Did he kill himself?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him often. Three or four times. He didn’t speak to anyone. The last time …’
‘When was that?’
‘I couldn’t say exactly. Last Thursday or Friday evening. Maybe Saturday. The other times, he came in the afternoon and had a drink at the counter like a man who’s thirsty.’
‘Just one?’
‘Let’s say two. No more than that. He wasn’t what you’d call a drinker. I can recognize them as soon as I set eyes on them.’
‘What time was it, that last evening?’
‘After midnight … Wait … My wife had gone upstairs. So it must have been between half past midnight and one o’clock.’
‘How
come you remember so clearly?’
‘First of all, at night, there’s usually only the regulars, sometimes a taxi driver who’s cruising … Or sometimes cops who come and have a drink on the sly … There was a couple, I remember, at the table in the corner, talking low. Apart from that, the place was empty. I was busy with my percolator. I didn’t hear any footsteps. And when I turned round, he was leaning on the counter. I was quite surprised …’
‘Is that why you remember him?’
‘And also because he asked me if I had real kirsch, not kirsch-flavoured brandy. We don’t serve it often. I took a bottle from the second row, this one, look, with German words on the label, and that seemed to please him. He said: “It’s a good one!”
‘He took his time warming the glass in the hollow of his hand and drank slowly, looking at the time on the clock. I realized he was wondering whether to ask for another one, and when I held up the bottle, he didn’t refuse. He wasn’t drinking for the hell of it, but because he liked the kirsch.’
‘Did he talk to anyone?’
‘Only me.’
‘Did the customers in the corner pay any attention to him?’
‘They’re lovers. I know them. They come twice a week and sit there for hours, whispering and looking each other in the eyes.’
‘Did they leave soon after him?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘You didn’t see anyone who might have been watching him from the pavement?’
The man shrugged, as if he had been insulted.
‘I’ve been here for fifteen years …’ he sighed.
Meaning: nothing unusual could happen without his noticing it.
Soon afterwards, Maigret walked into the Hôtel Lambert. This time, the owner’s wife was in the office. She was younger and more attractive than Maigret would have predicted, having seen her husband.
‘You’ve come about 33, haven’t you? The gentleman’s upstairs.’
‘Thanks.’
On the stairs, he had to flatten himself against the wall to let a couple come down. The woman was wearing a lot of perfume, and the man turned his head away, embarrassed.
The room was in darkness, Baron was sitting in the armchair he had pulled close to the window. He must have smoked a whole packet of cigarettes, because the air was stifling.
‘Anything new?’
‘She went out half an hour ago. Before that, a woman came to see her, carrying a large box, a linen maid or a dressmaker, I assume. They both went into the bedroom. For a while, all I could see were these two dark figures moving about, then they were still, with one of them on her knees, as if for a fitting.’
Maigret and the Lazy Burglar Page 8
