‘Didn’t you know he was in your house?’
‘Don’t answer!’ the young man said to her. ‘He has no right to arrest me. I haven’t done anything. I challenge him to prove I’ve done anything wrong.’
Without further delay, Maigret turned to Lapointe.
‘Is this the suitcase?’
‘She wasn’t too sure at first, then she said yes, then she said she couldn’t be certain without opening it.’
‘Have you opened it?’
‘I wanted you to be present. I gave the man at the station a temporary receipt. He insists we send him an official requisition application as soon as possible.’
‘Ask Coméliau for one. Is the man still there?’
‘I suppose so. He didn’t look as if he was about to go off duty.’
‘Phone him. Ask him if someone can replace him for a quarter of an hour. It shouldn’t be impossible. Tell him to get in a taxi and come here.’
‘Got it,’ Lapointe said, looking at Antoine.
Was the man from the left luggage office going to recognize him? If he did, everything would get even easier.
‘Phone Moers. I’d like him to come, too, and carry out a proper search, along with photographers.’
‘Right, chief.’
Madame Calas, who was standing there in the middle of the room, as if paying a visit, now also asked, as Antoine had already done:
‘Are you arresting me?’
She seemed disconcerted when Maigret simply replied:
‘Why?’
‘Can I come and go as I please?’
‘In the house, yes.’
He knew what she wanted, and indeed, she walked straight to the kitchen and disappeared into the corner where the bottle of cognac was. To cover her tracks, she moved some dishes and swapped her shoes, which she wasn’t used to and probably hurt her feet, for her felt slippers.
When she returned, she had regained her composure. She went behind the counter.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘A white wine, yes. And one for the inspector. Maybe Antoine would like a glass of beer?’
He was behaving like a man who has plenty of time. It might even have been supposed that he had no idea what he was going to do from one moment to the next. Having sipped at his wine, he walked to the door and locked it.
‘Do you have the key to the suitcase?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘Probably in “his” pocket.’
In Calas’ pocket, since he was supposed to have left the house with his suitcase.
‘I need some kind of tool. Do you have any pliers?’
It took her a while to lay her hands on a pair of pliers. Maigret placed the suitcase on one of the tables and waited for Lapointe to finish making his telephone calls before starting to force the not very strong lock.
‘I ordered a white wine for you.’
‘Thank you, chief.’
The metal twisted and finally snapped, and Maigret lifted the lid. Madame Calas had remained on the other side of the counter. Although she was looking in their direction, she didn’t appear especially interested.
The suitcase contained a grey suit of rather thin fabric, a pair of almost new shoes, some shirts, some socks, a razor, a comb and a toothbrush as well as a bar of soap wrapped in paper.
‘Is this your husband’s?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Aren’t you sure?’
‘He does own a suit like that.’
‘Isn’t it upstairs any more?’
‘I haven’t looked.’
She wasn’t helping them, nor was she trying to allay suspicion. Since the day before, she had been answering questions in as few words and with as few details as possible, although without ever becoming as aggressive as Antoine, for instance.
Antoine was so scared, he kept getting on his high horse, whereas Madame Calas didn’t seem to have anything to fear. The comings and goings of the police officers, the discoveries they might make, were a matter of indifference to her.
‘Do you notice anything?’ Maigret said to Lapointe as he looked through the suitcase.
‘That everything has been stuffed in just anyhow?’
‘Yes. That’s how men pack most of the time. There’s something odder than that. Calas was supposedly going on a journey. He took a spare suit with him, as well as shoes and underwear. In theory, he would have packed upstairs in the bedroom.’
Two men in plasterers’ overalls shook the door, stuck their faces to the window, seemed to be yelling something that couldn’t be heard and walked off.
‘Can you tell me why, in that situation, he would have taken dirty linen with him?’
One of the two shirts, indeed, had been worn, as had a pair of pants and a pair of socks.
‘You think he wasn’t the one who put these things in the case?’
‘It might have been him. It probably was. But not when he was leaving for his trip. When he packed his bag, he was on the point of coming home.’
‘I see.’
‘Did you hear that, Madame Calas?’
She nodded.
‘Do you still claim that your husband left on Friday afternoon and took this case with him?’
‘I have nothing to change in what I said.’
‘Are you sure he wasn’t here on Thursday? And that it wasn’t Friday that he came home?’
She merely shook her head.
‘Whatever I say, you’ll believe what you want to believe.’
A taxi stopped outside. Maigret went to open the door. The employee from the left luggage office got out of the cab.
‘Keep the taxi. I’ll only need you for a moment.’
Maigret let him in. For a moment or two, the man stood there wondering what they wanted of him, looking around to get his bearings. His gaze came to rest on Antoine, who was still sitting in the corner of the banquette.
He turned to Maigret and opened his mouth. Then he examined the boy again.
During all this time, which seemed long, Antoine looked him in the eyes with a defiant air.
‘I think …’ the man began, scratching the back of his neck.
He was honest and was struggling with his conscience.
‘I have to say, seeing him like this, I’d say it’s him.’
‘You’re lying!’ the boy cried angrily.
‘It might be easier if he was standing.’
‘Stand up.’
‘No.’
‘Stand up!’
Madame Calas’ voice, behind Maigret’s back, said:
‘Stand up, Antoine.’
‘Like this,’ the man murmured after a moment’s thought, ‘I’m a bit surer. Doesn’t he have a leather jacket?’
‘Have a look upstairs, in the room at the back,’ Maigret said to Lapointe.
They waited in silence. The man glanced towards the counter, and Maigret understood that he was thirsty.
‘A glass of white wine?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
Lapointe returned with the jacket that Antoine had been wearing the day before.
‘Put it on.’
The young man looked at Madame Calas to ask her advice. Reluctantly, he resigned himself, once the handcuffs had been removed.
‘Don’t you see how he’s trying to get in with the coppers? They’re all the same. You just have to say the word “police” and they start shaking. Well, now, are you still going to claim you’ve seen me before?’
‘I think so.’
‘You’re lying.’
The man turned again to Maigret and said in a calm voice that nevertheless quivered with emotion:
‘I assume my statement’s important? I wouldn’t like to harm anyone for nothing. This young man looks like the one who came to the station on Sunday and deposited the suitcase. Since I had no idea anybody was going to ask me about him, I didn’t look at him all that closely. Maybe, if I saw him in the same place, in t
he same lighting …’
‘We’ll bring him to the station today or tomorrow,’ Maigret decided. ‘I’m very grateful to you. Cheers!’
He walked him to the door and closed it behind him. There was a kind of indefinable slackness in Maigret’s attitude that rather intrigued Lapointe, who couldn’t have said when it had started. Maybe it dated from right at the beginning of the investigation, from as soon as they had got to Quai de Valmy the day before, or as soon as they had entered the Calas bistro.
Maigret was acting as he usually did, was doing what he had to do. But wasn’t he doing it with a lack of conviction that his inspectors had seldom seen in him? It was hard to define. He seemed to be acting rather reluctantly. The material clues barely interested him, and he appeared to be pondering thoughts that he wasn’t conveying to anyone.
It was especially noticeable here, in this bistro, and even more so whenever he addressed Madame Calas or watched her out of the corner of his eye.
It was as if the victim didn’t count, as if the dismembered body meant nothing to him. He had barely bothered with Antoine and he had to make an effort to think of certain professional duties.
‘Call Coméliau. I’d prefer it to be you. Tell him in a few words what’s happened. It’s probably best if he signs a committal order for the boy. He’ll do it anyway.’
‘What about her?’ Lapointe asked, indicating Madame Calas.
‘I’d rather not.’
‘What if he insists?’
‘He’ll do what he wants. He’s in charge.’
He didn’t take the precaution of speaking in a low voice, and the other two were listening.
‘You ought to have a bite to eat,’ he advised Madame Calas. ‘They may be taking you away soon.’
‘For a long time?’
‘For as long as the magistrate sees fit to keep you at his disposal.’
‘Will I spend the night in prison?’
‘In the cells at headquarters first, probably.’
‘What about me?’ Antoine asked.
‘You, too,’ Maigret replied, adding: ‘Not in the same cell!’
‘Are you hungry?’ Madame Calas asked Antoine.
‘No.’
She nevertheless headed for the kitchen, but only to knock back a swig of brandy. When she returned, she asked:
‘Who’ll mind the store while I’m away?’
‘Nobody. Don’t worry. We’ll keep an eye on it.’
He couldn’t stop looking at her, still in the same way, as if for the first time he was dealing with somebody he didn’t understand.
He had met some clever women in his career, and some had stood up to him for a long time. But he’d always known from the start that he would eventually gain the upper hand. It was a matter of time, patience and determination.
With Madame Calas, it wasn’t the same. He couldn’t put her in any category. If someone had told him that she had murdered her husband in cold blood and cut him into pieces on the kitchen table, he wouldn’t have objected. But nor would he have objected if someone had asserted that she had no idea what had happened to her husband.
There she was, in front of him, in the flesh, thin and faded in her dark dress, which hung on her body like an old curtain hanging at a window. She was quite real, with the gleam of an intense inner life in her dark eyes, and yet there was something immaterial, something elusive about her.
Did she know she produced that impression? You might have thought so from the calm, perhaps ironic way in which she, too, looked at Maigret.
That was the source of the unease Lapointe had felt earlier. This was less a police investigation to discover a culprit than a personal matter between Maigret and this woman.
Whatever didn’t relate directly to her was of lesser interest to Maigret. Lapointe was to have proof of that a moment later, when he came out of the phone booth.
‘What did he say?’ Maigret asked, referring to Coméliau.
‘He’ll sign an order and have it brought to your office.’
‘Does he want to see him?’
‘He assumes you’ll want to question him first.’
‘What about her?’
‘He’ll sign a second order. You can do what you want with it, but in my opinion …’
‘I understand.’
Coméliau was expecting Maigret to go back to his office, summon Antoine and Madame Calas in turn and question them for hours until they spilled the beans.
The head still hadn’t been found. There was no positive proof that the man whose remains had been fished out of the Canal Saint-Martin was Omer Calas. At least now, because of the suitcase, there was a strong presumption of guilt, and many interrogations, started with fewer advantages than this one, had ended after a few hours in a complete confession.
Not only was that Judge Coméliau’s thought, it was also Lapointe’s, and he could barely conceal his surprise when Maigret said:
‘Take him to headquarters. Go with him to my office and question him. Don’t forget to bring him up something to eat and drink.’
‘Are you staying here?’
‘I’ll wait for Moers and the photographers.’
Embarrassed, Lapointe motioned to the young man to stand up. Before leaving, Antoine yelled at Maigret:
‘I warn you, you’ll pay for this.’
At almost the same moment, the viscount, who had been prowling the various offices of the Police Judiciaire as he did every morning, was continuing his rounds in the examining magistrates’ corridor.
‘Nothing new, Monsieur Coméliau? Haven’t they found the head yet?’
‘Not yet. But we have an almost positive identification.’
‘Who is he?’
For ten minutes, Coméliau gladly answered questions, not sorry that for once it was he and not Maigret who had the attention of the press.
‘Is the inspector over there?’
‘I imagine so.’
And so the search of the Calas residence and the arrest of a young man, known so far only by his initials, were announced two hours later in the afternoon newspapers, then on the five o’clock bulletin on the radio.
Alone now with Madame Calas, Maigret had gone to fetch a drink from the counter and had carried it over to a table and sat down. For her part, she hadn’t moved, remaining behind the bar in the classic pose of the bistro owner’s wife.
They heard the factory sirens announcing midday. In less than ten minutes, more than thirty people came and stuck their noses against the closed door. Some, seeing Madame Calas through the window, gesticulated as if trying to argue with her.
‘I saw your daughter,’ Maigret said suddenly, breaking the silence.
She looked at him without saying a word.
‘She confirmed that she came to visit you about a month ago. I wonder what the two of you talked about.’
It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t see fit to answer.
‘I got the impression she’s a well-balanced person, who’s been clever enough to do well for herself. I don’t know why, but it crossed my mind that she’s in love with her boss and may even be his mistress.’
She still didn’t react. Did any of this interest her? Did she have any feelings for her daughter?
‘It can’t have been easy for her at first. It’s hard for a girl of fifteen to get by alone in a city like Paris.’
She looked at him with eyes that seemed to see through him.
‘What is it you want?’ she asked in a weary voice.
Yes, what was it he wanted? Wasn’t Coméliau right? Shouldn’t he be grilling Antoine right now? And wouldn’t a few days in the cells at headquarters change Madame Calas’ attitude?
‘I wonder why you married Calas and why, later, you didn’t leave him.’
It wasn’t a smile that came to her lips but an expression that might pass for mockery – or pity.
‘You did it deliberately, didn’t you?’ Maigret continued without clarifying what he meant.
He had to
get there in the end. There were moments, like now, when it seemed to him that it would only take a slight effort, not only for him to understand everything, but for that invisible wall between them to disappear.
Find the word that had to be said, and then she would be simply human towards him.
‘Was the other man here on Friday afternoon?’
This time he obtained a result: she gave a start.
‘What other man?’ she finally asked reluctantly.
‘Your lover. The real one.’
She would have liked to appear indifferent and not ask any questions, but she finally yielded.
‘Who?’
‘A middle-aged man with red hair and a pockmarked face, whose first name is Dieudonné.’
She had completely withdrawn back into her shell. There was nothing more to read in her features. At that moment, a car drew up outside, and Moers got out, with three men and their equipment.
Once more, Maigret went and opened the door. No, he hadn’t succeeded. But he didn’t think he had completely wasted the time he had just spent alone with her.
‘What do you want us to look at, chief?’
‘Everything. The kitchen first, then the two rooms and the toilet on the first floor. There’s also the courtyard and, last but not least, the cellar which is probably under this trapdoor.’
‘Do you think this is where the man was killed and dismembered?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What about this suitcase?’
‘Examine it, as well as its contents.’
‘That could take all afternoon. Are you staying?’
‘I don’t think so, but I’ll probably drop by later.’
He went into the booth, called Judel at the police station opposite and gave him instructions for the house to remain under surveillance.
‘You’d do better to come with me,’ he announced to Madame Calas.
‘Shall I take some clothes and toiletries?’
‘That might be wise.’
On her way through the kitchen, she stopped for a long swig. They then heard her walking about in the bedroom on the first floor.
‘Aren’t you afraid of leaving her on her own, chief?’
Maigret shrugged. If there were traces to wipe out, compromising objects to get rid of, that must have been taken care of a long time ago.
Maigret and the Headless Corpse Page 8
