‘Are you angry with him?’
‘No. He can only see through her eyes. He can’t help it.’
‘Has he ever asked you for money?’
‘You don’t know him. He’s too proud for that.’
‘Not even these past few months?’
‘What has happened?’
‘He lost his job in June. For three months, he kept to the same routine as when he was working at Quai de Charenton and brought home the same sum of money.’
‘So he found another job?’
‘Don’t you think that’s difficult, at the age of forty-five, when a person has no specialist skills?’
‘Perhaps. But he would have had to—’
‘Find some money somewhere. He vanished at the end of September.’
‘Has his wife not seen him?’
‘No. His former boss, Oscar Chabut, was killed with four gunshots, in the middle of the street, by an unknown man.’
‘And you think that—?’
‘I don’t know, Monsieur Pigou. I’m investigating. I came to see you in the hope of learning something.’
‘I know even less than you. His wife didn’t even think it useful to inform me. Do you think he’s done something he regrets and is hiding?’
‘That is possible. I am almost certain I caught sight of him a couple of times in the past few days. And I have every reason to believe that it is he who telephoned me twice and who sent me a note written in block capitals …’
‘You didn’t tell him—’
‘Tell him what? If he was the person who shot his boss, he’s playing with fire, as if he wanted to get himself arrested. That happens more frequently than you’d believe. He’s homeless, without any means. He knows he’ll inevitably be caught sooner or later. He’s not ashamed of having fired. On the contrary, he’s proud of it, because Chabut was a despicable creature.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’ll keep you posted, Monsieur Pigou. For your part, should he contact you, kindly telephone me.’
‘I told you: it is highly unlikely that he’d turn to me.’
‘Thank you for your time.’
Lapointe asked him:
‘Did he know anything?’
‘Even less than the wife. I’m the one who informed him of his son’s disappearance. He’s a fastidious little old man who spends his time polishing his wooden floor and his furniture and tidying his apartment. I didn’t see a television set or a transistor radio. Let’s go to Quai des Orfèvres now. It’s time to put an end to this.’
One hour later, five of Maigret’s colleagues were assembled in his office.
6.
‘Sit down, boys. You may smoke, of course.’
Maigret himself lit a pipe and looked at each man in turn, a faraway look in his eyes.
‘You all know the bare bones of this case. Since I began investigating the death of Oscar Chabut as he was emerging from a building in Rue Fortuny, a man has apparently been taking an interest in my comings and goings. He is clever, because he seems to anticipate my every move. He is adept at vanishing quickly into the crowd, because I haven’t managed to catch up with him yet.’
It was already dusk, but no one had turned the lights on and this meeting was taking place in semi-darkness. It was very warm in the office. They had had to bring in two chairs from the adjacent room.
‘I have no proof of this individual’s culpability. Only conjecture. And also his insistence on behaving like a fugitive.
‘I have known his identity since this afternoon, and I also know his background, which sounds unbelievable at first.
‘He is the wine merchant’s book-keeper. A lowly man. A small-timer. He’s been married for eight years. His wife, who was a sales assistant, very quickly stopped working and criticized him for not earning more. Make a note of her name and address, Lourtie. I’ll tell you why later. Liliane Pigou, 57a, Rue Froidevaux. It’s opposite the Montparnasse cemetery. She spends most of her time sprawled half-naked on a divan, listening to records, chain-smoking and reading magazines and comics.
‘I’ve called you in because I’ve decided to lay hands on him at all costs. He’s probably armed, but I don’t think he’ll try to shoot.
‘You, Janvier, pick six men to pair up and work shifts at Quai des Orfèvres. The individual has telephoned me here twice, written me quite a long letter, and spied on me from across the road at least once. Regrettably, he managed to slip away before I could catch up with him.’
The air was becoming a bluish haze. Maigret turned on the desk light with the green lampshade but not the ceiling light, so parts of the room were still in shadow, with only the faces standing out.
‘All of you, make a note of his description. He is shortish, less than one metre seventy. He’s not fat but on the plump side, with a very round face. He’s wearing a dark-brown suit and a crumpled raincoat. He smokes cigarettes. And lastly, he walks with a limp. Since an accident he had a few years ago, he throws his left leg out to the side when he walks.’
‘Dark hair?’ asked Lourtie.
‘Dark hair, yes, and also brown eyes, and thickish lips. He looks not exactly like a tramp but like a man who’s at the end of his tether.
‘The reason I want two men on duty is because of his skill at disappearing.
‘Understood, Janvier?’
‘Yes, chief.’
Maigret turned to chubby Lourtie, who was puffing on his pipe.
‘What I just said to Janvier applies to you too. You don’t need to remain on duty yourselves, but you must ensure your men are in position and relieve each other regularly.’
‘We will.’
‘Now you, Torrence. A team of six, like the others. We’re pulling out all the stops. I don’t want to risk him slipping through our fingers. Your patch is Place des Vosges, around the Chabuts’ home. Madame Chabut is a beautiful woman of around forty, very elegant, dressed by the top fashion houses. She has a driver and a Mercedes. She may sometimes use her husband’s car, a red Jaguar convertible.’
They looked at one another like schoolboys in the classroom.
‘And now, Lucas. You, Lucas, will cover Quai de Charenton. Today is Saturday. There shouldn’t be anyone in the offices or the warehouse this afternoon, and no one tomorrow either. I don’t know whether there are security guards.’
‘Understood, chief.’
‘I’m staking out the places where he’s most likely to appear. He never comes very close. He seems to be intrigued by our investigation, trying by any means possible to guess what’s happening and what is going to happen.
‘I wonder whether perhaps, deep down, he is secretly hoping to be caught.’
‘What about me?’ asked Lapointe.
‘You stay here, on call, ready to come and pick me up at any hour. You will also coordinate all the intelligence you receive and keep me updated by telephone.’
They thought the briefing was over and were about to stand up when Maigret raised his hand to stop them.
‘There are still some unanswered questions. This man lost his job at the end of June. As far as we can ascertain, he had no savings, unless he hid them from his wife, to whom he gave his monthly pay packet. His boss didn’t pay him for June, keeping that sum to reimburse some of the money he’d embezzled. Yet on the 30th of June he went home with the same amount as every month.
‘Until September, he left his apartment every morning and came home at the same time as usual, so his wife was unaware that he no longer worked at Quai de Charenton.
‘I presume he looked for work but didn’t find any.
‘In September, he disappeared. Since then, it would appear that he’s hit rock bottom, that he’s given up the struggle, and, from the look of him, he doesn’t sleep in a bed at night.
‘He must have found a few francs a day even if only to eat. Now, there’s one place that is a magnet for people on the streets, and that is Les Halles. I don’t know where they’ll go when the market moves to Rungis,
in a few months’ time.’
The telephone rang.
‘Hello! Inspector Maigret? It’s the same man again. He insists on talking to you in person.’
‘Put him through.’
And he said to the others:
‘It’s him!’
‘Hello, yes. I’m listening …’
‘You went to see my wife. I knew you would. You spent a long time with her while your inspector waited in a nearby bar. Is she very angry with me?’
‘In my opinion, not at all.’
‘She’s not too unhappy?’
‘She didn’t give me the impression of someone who is unhappy.’
‘Did she mention money at all?’
‘No.’
‘I wonder what she’s living on.’
‘She went to see Chabut a few weeks ago and he gave her a thousand francs.’
There was a snigger on the other end of the line.
‘What did my father tell you?’
It was staggering. He knew almost everything that Maigret had done, although he didn’t have a car or any money to take taxis. He criss-crossed Paris unnoticed with his limp and vanished as if by magic the moment he was recognized.
‘He didn’t tell me anything in particular. I gathered that he doesn’t like your wife very much.’
‘You mean he hates her. That’s why we fell out. I had to choose between her and him …’
He appeared to have backed the wrong horse.
‘Why don’t you come and see me here at Quai des Orfèvres, so we can have a conversation face to face? If you didn’t kill Chabut, you will leave as free as when you came in. If you did, a good lawyer will ensure you receive the minimum sentence, if he doesn’t manage to get you acquitted. Hello …! Hello …!’
Gilbert Pigou had hung up.
‘You heard. He already knows I went to see his wife in their apartment and that I paid a visit to his father.’
It was almost a game at which, so far, Pigou was winning hands down. And yet, he wasn’t especially smart. On the contrary.
‘Where was I? Oh, yes! Les Halles. It’s the place in Paris where there’s the best chance of finding someone who’s sinking fast. From tonight, I want a dozen officers to go over the area with a fine-tooth comb. They can enlist the help of the inspectors of the first arrondissement, who know the neighbourhood inside-out.’
Would all these measures turn out to be useless? There was no harm in hoping, but the chances of Pigou letting himself get caught were slim. He might even be outside once again, on the pavement opposite, watching the lit windows of Maigret’s office.
‘That’s all, boys.’
Just as they were rising to their feet like schoolboys and were about to head for the door, Maigret spoke again.
‘An important order. None of the men must be armed. You neither. I don’t want him to be shot at any cost, no matter what happens.’
‘Supposing he shoots first,’ grumbled chubby Lourtie.
‘I said “at any cost”. Besides, he won’t shoot. I insist on having him brought in alive and well.’
It was half past five. Maigret had done everything he could. All that remained was for him to wait and let things unfold. He was tired and his flu was still hampering him.
‘Lapointe. Stay for a minute. What do you think of my plan?’
‘It might just work.’
Lapointe wasn’t convinced.
‘If you want my honest opinion, either we’ll nab him by chance, heaven knows when, or he’ll give us the slip for as long as he’s decided not to let himself get caught.’
‘I’m tempted to think so too, but I have to take action. Drive me home, would you? I can’t wait to put my slippers on and sit by the fire, can’t wait to be in my bed either.’
His head was throbbing and he could feel the beginnings of a sore throat. Was his flu in fact a throat infection?
When he was in the car, he gazed curiously about him but didn’t spot the figure that was causing him so much concern.
‘Stop off at the Brasserie Dauphine for a moment.’
He had an unpleasant taste in his mouth and felt the need for a nice cool beer before going home.
‘What will you have?’
‘A beer as well. It was hot in your office.’
Maigret drank two, thirstily, wiped his mouth and relit his pipe. At Châtelet, they saw the Christmas illuminations and the fairy lights strung across the street. In a department store, Christmas carols were blaring from loudspeakers.
In front of his apartment building too, he looked left and right in the hope of glimpsing Pigou, but he couldn’t see any shadowy form resembling him.
‘Goodnight, my boy.’
‘I hope you feel better, chief.’
He climbed the stairs slowly and was breathless when he reached his landing, where Madame Maigret was waiting for him. She immediately saw that he was no better and that he was becoming downhearted.
‘Come in quickly. Don’t catch cold.’
On the contrary, he was too hot and was sweating. He removed his heavy overcoat and scarf, loosened his tie and sank into his armchair with a sigh.
‘My throat’s starting to hurt.’
She wasn’t overly worried by his illness because almost every year he had a dose of flu lasting one or two weeks. He tended to forget it, and hated not feeling himself.
‘Did anyone telephone?’
‘Are you expecting a call?’
‘More or less. He called me earlier at the office and he must know our address here. He’s in a desperate state and feels compelled to make contact with me.’
This reminded him of past cases, particularly the one of a murderer who, for almost thirty days, had written him daily letters running to several pages, from a different café each time, judging by the letterhead. To catch him would have meant watching every bar and café in Paris, and there weren’t sufficient police resources to do that.
One morning, in the aquarium, the glass-walled waiting room at Quai des Orfèvres, Maigret had spotted a shortish, middle-aged gentleman waiting patiently.
It was his man.
‘What’s for dinner?’
‘Skate with black butter. That won’t be too heavy for you?’
‘It’s not my stomach that’s troubling me.’
‘Do you want me to call Pardon?’
‘Leave the poor man in peace. He has enough work with those who are seriously ill.’
‘Why don’t I bring you dinner in bed?’
‘For the sheets to be soaked through within an hour?’
The only thing he agreed to do was to get undressed and put on his pyjamas and dressing gown and slippers. He tried to read the newspaper, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking of Pigou, the humble book-keeper turned thief because his wife disparaged him for being afraid of his boss and not having the gumption to ask for a rise.
Where was he right now? Did he still have a little money? Where and how had he got hold of it?
He thought about Chabut too, arrogant, having nothing but contempt for others, feeling the need to make himself disagreeable. He had succeeded brazenly in business, but that hadn’t made him any less vulnerable; he was the same man who had been a door-to-door salesman in the hope of securing an order for a case of wine.
Maigret had encountered other shy people who resented all those around them.
‘Dinner’s ready.’
He wasn’t hungry, but he ate all the same. He found it hard to swallow. Maybe the next day his voice would be hoarse?
The squad from Quai des Orfèvres must already be in position at the various locations assigned to them. Maigret had almost added:
‘Have a pair stationed opposite my apartment on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.’
A sort of human respect had prevented him. Almost as if he were afraid. On leaving the table, he went over and glanced out of the window. It wasn’t raining, but there was a strong wind, an easterly again, which would bring a cold chill. He saw two
sweethearts walking arm-in-arm, stopping every few metres to kiss.
He also noticed police officers on bicycles, wearing hooded capes, leisurely making their rounds. Most windows on the opposite side of the street were lit and, behind some curtains, silhouettes could be seen, including those of an entire family sitting at a circular table.
‘Aren’t you going to watch television?’
‘No.’
He didn’t feel like doing anything. Only grumbling, as always when he felt out of sorts or an investigation was dragging on.
He refused to go to bed earlier than usual and went back to skimming the newspaper. Half an hour later, he went over and stood by the window again, scanning the street for a shape that had become almost familiar.
There was no one on the pavement, and only a taxi was driving down the boulevard.
‘Do you think he’ll come?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You look as though you’re expecting something.’
‘I’m always expecting something. It could just as easily be a telephone call from Lapointe.’
‘Is he on duty?’
‘All night. His job is to coordinate any intelligence that comes in.’
‘Do you think the man is beginning to panic?’
‘No. He’s staying calm. He doesn’t seem to be aware of the situation he’s in. He’s a man who’s been humiliated all his life. For years, he bowed his head. All of a sudden, he feels liberated in a way. The entire police force is looking for him but isn’t able to lay hands on him. Isn’t that a sort of victory? He’s become someone important.’
‘And he’ll be even more important when he’s on trial.’
‘That’s why he can’t make up his mind whether to let himself be caught or to carry on playing cat-and-mouse with us.’
He went back to the newspaper. His pipe didn’t taste good, but he smoked it anyway, as a matter of principle, so to speak. He didn’t want to give in either, give in to the flu, and he kept his eyes open even though his eyelids were red and prickling.
Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 11
