‘Do you have a photograph of your husband?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t have a single picture of him?’
‘No.’
‘Or of yourself?’
‘Not of myself either. Except on my identity card.’
Maigret knew from experience that people not having a photograph of themselves didn’t happen once in a thousand times.
‘Do you live upstairs?’
She nodded. The building, he had noted from outside, had only one upper floor. There must be two or three rooms up there, probably two bedrooms and a bathroom or a junk room.
‘How do you get up there?’
‘There’s a staircase from the kitchen.’
She went to the kitchen a little while later, this time to stir something that was cooking. The main door burst open, and Lapointe came in, panting, his cheeks flushed, his eyes shining, pushing a young man in front of him.
Lapointe, the youngest and newest of Maigret’s inspectors, had never been so proud of himself.
‘He really gave me a run for my money!’ he said with a smile, reaching for his drink, which was still on the counter. ‘Two or three times, I thought he was going to get away. It’s a good thing I was the 500 metre champion at school.’
The young man was also panting heavily.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ he proclaimed, turning to Maigret.
‘In that case you have nothing to fear.’
Maigret looked at Lapointe.
‘Did you get his identity card?’
‘To be on the safe side, I’ve kept it in my pocket. He’s definitely the one who rides a delivery tricycle for a firm called Pincemail. He’s also the one who was on the quayside this morning and hurried away when he was approached.’
‘Why?’ Maigret asked the young man.
The latter had a stubborn air about him. He was the kind of youth who likes to make out that he’s tough.
‘Why don’t you answer?’
‘I have nothing to say.’
‘Did you get anything from him on the way back?’ Maigret asked Lapointe.
‘We were too breathless to talk much. His name’s Antoine Cristin. He’s eighteen and lives with his mother in an apartment in Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin.’
A few of the customers were looking at them, but not with any unusual degree of curiosity: it wasn’t rare in this neighbourhood for the police to put in an appearance.
‘What were you doing outside?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He was looking in through the window,’ Lapointe said. ‘As soon as I saw him, I remembered what Judel told us, and I rushed outside.’
‘Why did you run away if you weren’t doing anything wrong?’
The young man hesitated, made sure that at least two of their neighbours were listening and said, lips quivering:
‘Because I don’t like coppers.’
‘But you watch them through the window?’
‘There’s no law against it.’
‘How did you know we were here?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then why did you come?’
He blushed and bit his lip, which was thick.
‘Answer me.’
‘I was passing.’
‘Do you know Omer?’
‘I don’t know anyone.’
‘How about Omer’s wife?’
Madame Calas was back behind the counter and watching them. Once again, it was impossible to read the slightest fear, the slightest apprehension on her face. If she had something to hide, she was stronger than any culprit or any witness Maigret had ever encountered.
‘Do you know her?’
‘By sight.’
‘Have you ever been in here for a drink?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Where’s your tricycle?’
‘With my boss. I finish work at five.’
Maigret signalled to Lapointe. The inspector understood, because it was one of the few agreed signals among the men of the Police Judiciaire. Lapointe went into the phone booth and called, not Gare Montparnasse, but the police station that was almost opposite, on the other side of the canal. He finally managed to get Judel on the line.
‘The boy’s here, at Calas’. In a few minutes, the chief will let him go, but he’d like someone to be ready to keep a tail on him. Anything new?’
‘More false leads and dead ends: fights in four or five bars on Sunday evening; someone who thinks he heard a body fall in the water; a prostitute who claims an Arab stole her handbag …’
‘Talk to you later.’
Maigret was still beside the young man, feigning indifference.
‘What are you drinking, Antoine? Wine? Beer?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t you ever drink?’
‘Not with coppers. You’re going to have to let me go in the end.’
‘You seem very sure of yourself.’
‘I know the law.’
He was big-boned, a sturdy country boy who hadn’t yet lost his health in Paris. How many times had Maigret seen kids of the same kind end up knocking an old tobacconist or haberdasher senseless for a few hundred francs one evening?
‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’
‘I’m an only child.’
‘Does your father live with you?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Does your mother work?’
‘She’s a cleaner.’
‘Give him back his identity card,’ Maigret said to Lapointe. ‘Does it have the right address on it?’
‘Yes.’
The boy wasn’t yet sure this wasn’t a trap.
‘Can I go?’
‘Whenever you want.’
He didn’t say thank you or goodbye, but Maigret surprised a furtive wink he gave Madame Calas.
‘Now phone the station.’
He ordered two more glasses of white wine. The bistro had partly emptied. Apart from him and Lapointe, there were only five customers left, including the domino players.
‘I don’t suppose you know him?’
‘Who?’
‘The young man who just left.’
‘Yes!’ she replied without hesitation.
It was so simple that Maigret was thrown.
‘Does he come here often?’
‘Quite often.’
‘For a drink?’
‘He doesn’t drink much.’
‘Beer?’
‘And wine sometimes.’
‘Is it after his work that you see him?’
‘No.’
‘During the day?’
She nodded. Her unchanging calm was finally starting to exasperate Maigret.
‘When he passes.’
‘You mean when he rides by on his tricycle? In other words, when he has deliveries in the area?’
‘Yes.’
‘Usually around what time?’
‘Half past three, four o’clock.’
‘Does he have a regular round?’
‘I think so.’
‘Does he stand at the bar?’
‘Sometimes he sits down.’
‘Where?’
‘At that table there. Near me.’
‘Are you good friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t he say that?’
‘Probably to act tough.’
‘Does he usually act tough?’
‘He tries to.’
‘Do you know his mother?’
‘No.’
‘Are you from the same village?’
‘No.’
‘So he just came in one day, and you became acquainted?’
‘Yes.’
‘Around half past three, isn’t your husband usually in a brasserie playing billiards?’
‘Most of the time, yes.’
‘Do you think it was by chance that Antoine chose that time to come and see you?’
‘It never occurred to me.’
Maig
ret realized the apparent enormity of the question he was about to ask, but he had a sense things were even more unreal around him.
‘Does he flirt with you?’
‘That depends on what you mean by that.’
‘Is he in love with you?’
‘I suppose he likes me.’
‘Do you give him presents?’
‘I sometimes slip him a banknote from the till.’
‘Does your husband know?’
‘No.’
‘Hasn’t he ever noticed?’
‘Now and then.’
‘Did he get angry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he suspect Antoine?’
‘I don’t think so.’
When they had gone down the two steps from the entrance, they had entered a world in which all values were different and where words themselves had another meaning. Lapointe was still in the booth, talking to Gare Montparnasse.
‘Do you mind my asking you a more personal question, Madame Calas?’
‘You’ll do what you want to do anyway.’
‘Is Antoine your lover?’
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn her eyes away from Maigret.
‘Now and then,’ she admitted.
‘You mean you’ve had relations with him?’
‘You’d have found out in the end. I’m sure it won’t take him long to talk.’
‘Has it happened often?’
‘Quite often.’
‘Where?’
The question was of some importance. When Omer Calas was absent, his wife had to be ready to serve those customers who came in. Maigret glanced up at the ceiling. From the bedroom on the first floor, would she hear the door open and close?
With the same simplicity as ever, she looked towards the far end of the room, the door open on the kitchen.
‘In there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever been caught?’
‘Not by Omer.’
‘Who by?’
‘A customer once who was wearing shoes with rubber soles and who, on seeing nobody at the counter, headed for the kitchen.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘He laughed.’
‘Did he tell Omer?’
‘No.’
‘Did he come back?’
Maigret had an inkling. So far, he hadn’t been mistaken about Madame Calas’ character, and even his boldest hypotheses had turned out to be correct.
‘Did he come back often?’ he insisted.
‘Two or three times.’
‘When Antoine was here?’
‘No.’
It was easy to find out if the young man was in the bistro because if he was, and it was before five o’clock, he would have left his tricycle outside the door.
‘Were you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have to go with him to the kitchen?’
He had the impression that there was a gleam in her eyes, a barely perceptible irony. Was he mistaken? It seemed to him that, in her silent language, she was saying:
‘What’s the point of asking me these questions? You’ve already understood.’
She understood Maigret, too. It was as if they were evenly matched, more precisely as if they both possessed the same experience of life.
It was so quick that a second later Maigret would have sworn it had been a figment of his imagination.
‘Are there many others?’ he asked in a quieter, almost conspiratorial voice.
‘A few.’
Then, without moving, without leaning towards her, he asked a final question:
‘Why?’
That was a question she was only able to answer with a vague gesture. She didn’t strike a romantic pose, didn’t construct a whole novel around herself.
He had asked her why, and if he didn’t understand it by himself, she couldn’t explain it to him.
But he did understand. It was only a confirmation he was looking for, and she didn’t need to speak to give him that.
He knew now how low she had descended. What he still didn’t know was where she had started from to get there. Would she reply with the same honesty to questions about her past?
He couldn’t test that immediately, because Lapointe now rejoined him.
‘There’s a train for Poitiers at 4.48 on weekdays,’ Lapointe said after a sip of wine. ‘The station chief has already questioned two of the employees, but they didn’t see anyone answering the description provided. He’ll make some more inquiries and give you the result at headquarters. He did say, though, that it might be a better idea to phone Poitiers. As the train stops several times on the way and then continues southwards, fewer passengers get off there than get on at Montparnasse.’
‘Pass it on to Lucas. I’d also like him to phone Saint-Aubin and the nearest villages. There must be a constabulary somewhere. There are also the inns.’
Lapointe asked for more tokens, and Madame Calas handed them to him with an indifferent gesture. She didn’t ask any questions, seemed to find it natural to be questioned about her husband’s travels, even though she knew all about the discovery made in the Canal Saint-Martin and the search that had been going on all day, almost outside her windows.
‘Did you see Antoine last Friday?’
‘He never comes on Friday.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he does a different round.’
‘But after five o’clock?’
‘My husband is almost always back by then.’
‘So he didn’t come here in the afternoon or in the evening?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’ve been married to Omer Calas for twenty-four years?’
‘I’ve been living with him for twenty-four years.’
‘Aren’t you married?’
‘Yes. We got married at the town hall of the tenth arrondissement, but it’s only been sixteen or seventeen years. I’d have to count.’
‘Do you have any children?’
‘A daughter.’
‘Does she live here?’
‘No.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old is she?’
‘She’s just turned twenty-four. I had her when I was seventeen.’
‘Is she Omer’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Is she married?’
‘No.’
‘Does she live alone?’
‘She has an apartment on the Ile Saint-Louis.’
‘Does she work?’
‘She’s an assistant to one of the surgeons at the Hôtel-Dieu, Professor Lavaud.’
For the first time, she was saying more than was absolutely necessary. Did she still have the same feelings as everybody else, in spite of everything? Was she proud of her daughter?
‘Did you see her last Friday?’
‘No.’
‘Does she ever visit you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When was the last time?’
‘About three weeks ago, maybe a month.’
‘Was your husband here?’
‘I think so.’
‘Does your daughter get on well with him?’
‘She has as little contact with us as possible.’
‘Is she ashamed of you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘How old was she when she left home?’
Her cheeks had grown slightly flushed.
‘Fifteen.’
Her voice was curter than before.
‘Without warning?’
She nodded.
‘With a man?’
She shrugged.
‘I don’t know. It makes no difference.’
Only the domino players were still left in the room. They put the dominoes back in the box and tapped the table with coins. Madame Calas knew what they wanted. She went and refilled their glasses.
‘I
sn’t that Maigret?’ one of them asked in a low voice.
‘Yes.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He hasn’t said.’
She hadn’t asked him either. She went to the kitchen, came back to the bar, and murmured:
‘If you’ve finished, it’s time I had something to eat.’
‘Where do you have your meals?’
‘There!’ she said, pointing to one of the tables at the back.
‘We won’t be much longer. Did your husband have appendicitis a few years ago?’
‘Five or six years ago. He had an operation.’
‘Who performed it?’
‘The name will come back to me. Wait. Dr Gran … Granvalet. That’s the one! He used to live on Boulevard Voltaire.’
‘Doesn’t he live there any more?’
‘He’s dead. At least that’s what a customer who was also operated on by him told us.’
If Granvalet had been alive, they could have found out from him if Omer Calas bore scars in a rainbow pattern on his stomach. The next day, they would have to try his assistants and the nurses. Unless, of course, Omer had been found alive and well in a village near Poitiers.
‘Was your husband fired at with a shotgun some time ago?’
‘Not since I’ve known him.’
‘Has he ever gone hunting?’
‘Maybe he used to hunt when he lived in the country.’
‘You’ve never noticed some quite faded scars in a rainbow arc on his stomach?’
She seemed to think this over, frowned and finally shook her head.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I haven’t looked at him so closely for a long time.’
‘Did you love him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How long was he your only lover?’
‘Years.’
She had given this word a particular resonance.
‘Did you meet when you were very young?’
‘We’re from the same village.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A hamlet called Boissancourt, about halfway between Montargis and Gien.’
‘Do you ever go back there?’
‘No, never.’
‘Have you ever been back?’
‘No.’
‘Is that since you’ve been with Omer?’
‘I was seventeen when I left.’
‘Were you pregnant?’
‘Six months.’
‘Did people know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Including your parents?’
Still with the same simplicity, which had something incredible about it, she replied curtly:
Maigret and the Headless Corpse Page 5
