No identity papers. Cigarettes, a lighter, a pocket notebook, of which a number of pages were covered by fine handwriting in pencil.
‘Looks like poetry.’
‘Actually, I’d say that’s exactly what it is.’
Moers was over the moon to have the two sets of objects which he could rush off with to his lair under the eaves. Soon after this, an inspector deposited Bronsky’s file on the desk. The photo, hard and cruel as anthropometric photographs always are, did not match exactly the description Marchand had given for this man, who was still young, looked drawn and had a two-day beard and a prominent Adam’s apple.
‘Has Janvier phoned?’
‘He said everything was quiet and that you can reach him on Passy 62-41.’
‘Get me the number.’
He began to read half aloud. According to his file, Bronsky had been born in Prague and was now thirty-five years old. He had studied at the University of Vienna, after which he lived in Berlin for two years. There he married a Hilda Braun but when he entered France at the age of twenty-eight he was alone. His papers were in order. He was already giving his profession as ‘film director’, and his first address was a hotel on Boulevard Raspail.
‘Janvier on the phone, sir.’
‘Is that you, young man? Have you eaten? … Listen carefully. I’m going to send you a car with two men.’
‘There are two of us here already,’ protested Janvier in an aggrieved voice.
‘Never mind that now. Listen to what I say. When they get there, leave them outside. They mustn’t show themselves. It is vital that anyone going into the building or getting out of a taxi should not suspect that they are there. I want you and your colleague to go inside. Wait until the lights have been turned off in the concierge’s lodge. What’s the building like?’
‘New, modern, very smart. A tall white façade and a wrought-iron and glass front door.’
‘Right. Mumble some name or other and go upstairs.’
‘How will I know which apartment? …’
‘You’re right. Look, there must be a dairy somewhere near which delivers milk. Get the dairyman out of bed if you have to. Tell him a tale, preferably involving a woman.’
‘Got it.’
‘Can you remember how to pick a lock? Go in. Don’t put any lights on. Lie low in a corner so you’d both be able to intervene if the need arises.’
‘Understood, sir,’ sighed poor Janvier who would probably be spending many hours keeping very still in a dark, strange apartment.
‘And especially, no smoking!’
He even permitted himself a sadistic little smile. Then he chose the two men for the stake-out in Rue de Longchamp.
‘Take your guns. We can’t be sure how all this will turn out.’
He glanced at Colombani. The two men understood each other perfectly. This was no ordinary crook they were dealing with but the leader of a gang of killers. They had no right to take any risks.
An arrest in the bar of the Folies-Bergère, for example, would have been easier. But no one could predict how Bronsky would react. There was a good chance that he was armed and it was probable that he was the kind of man who would defend himself and even shoot into the crowd so that he could make the most of the ensuing panic.
‘Who’ll volunteer to go out and order beers to be brought up from the Brasserie Dauphine? And sandwiches!’
It was a sign that one of the Police Judiciaire’s memorable nights was about to begin. The atmosphere of both offices in Maigret’s section started to feel like that of a field HQ. Everybody was smoking, everybody was on edge. The phones were silent.
‘Give me the Folies-Bergère.’
It took some time before Marchand came to the line. He had to be fetched from off the stage, where he was sorting out an argument between two exotic dancers.
‘Yes, old son,’ he began before he even knew who was on the line.
‘Maigret.’
‘Well?’
‘Is he there?’
‘I saw him a few moments ago.’
‘Good. Don’t say anything to him. Give me a ring only if he leaves by himself.’
‘Will do. Don’t knock him about too much will you?’
‘It’ll probably be someone else who’ll take care of him,’ replied Maigret enigmatically.
It was only a few minutes before Francine Latour would walk on to the stage of the Folies with the comic actor Dréan, at probably the same time as her lover would step into the overheated auditorium, stand for a moment at the back like a regular attender and listen with only half an ear to an exchange of dialogue which he knew by heart and to the laughter which surged from all sides.
Maria was still lying in her hospital room, tense and furious because in accordance with the rules her baby had been taken away for the night and because two policemen were standing outside, guarding the corridor. There was a further officer, just one, in another wing of the Laennec, where Pietr had just been taken after he emerged from the operating theatre.
Coméliau, in apprehensive mood, was with friends in Boulevard Saint-Germain. He had left them briefly to call Maigret.
‘Still nothing?’
‘A few small items. Carl Lipschitz is dead.’
‘Was the shot fired by one of your men?’
‘No. By one of his. The kid, Pietr, was shot in the knee by one of my inspectors.’
‘So that means there’s only one still on the loose?’
‘Serge Madok, yes. And the leader of the bunch.’
‘Whom you still haven’t identified.’
‘His name is Jean Bronsky.’
‘Say again?’
‘Bronsky.’
‘Isn’t he a film producer?’
‘I don’t know if he’s actually a producer but he does dabble in cinema.’
‘Just under three years ago, I had him sent down for eighteen months.’
‘That’s our man.’
‘Are you getting close to him?’
‘At this moment he’s at the Folies-Bergère.’
‘Where?’
‘I said: at the Folies-Bergère.’
‘Aren’t you going to arrest him?’
‘In a while. We’ve got plenty of time now. I’d rather limit any damage, if you follow me.’
‘Take a note of this number. I’ll be here with friends until about midnight. After that I’ll be at home waiting for your call.’
‘I think you’ll probably be able to get some sleep.’
Maigret was right. Jean Bronsky and Francine Latour first took a taxi to Maxim’s for a quiet supper. It was from his office at Quai des Orfèvres that Maigret continued to follow their progress. By now it was the second time that the waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine had come up with his tray. There were dirty glasses all over the office together with half-eaten sandwiches, and the smell of tobacco smoke caught in the throat. But despite the heat, Colombani had not removed his camelhair coat, which he regarded as a kind of uniform. He also kept his hat tilted on the back of his head.
‘Aren’t you going to bring the woman in?’
‘What woman?’
‘Nine. Albert’s wife.’
Maigret shook his head and looked irritated. Was this or was this not any of his business? He was quite prepared to collaborate with the people from Rue des Saussaies, provided they did not interfere.
Actually he was, for the moment, like a man feeling his way. As Monsieur Coméliau had just pointed out, he was free to arrest Jean Bronsky
whenever he liked. He remembered something he had said right at the start of the inquiry, to whom he no longer remembered, with unaccustomed solemnity: ‘This is a very nasty business. They are killers …’
Killers who all knew they had nothing to lose, so much so that if they were arrested in the middle of a crowd, and if the crowd got to know that these men were the Picardy gang, the police would not be able to prevent a lynching.
After what they had done on those farms, any jury would sentence them to death, and they knew it. Maria might, because of her child, have a slight hope of obtaining mercy from the president of the Republic.
Would she get it? It was doubtful. There was the testimony of the little girl who had survived and the evidence of the burned feet and breasts. There was the arrogance of the female, even her untamed beauty, which would weigh against her in the minds of the jury. Civilized men fear wild creatures, especially wild creatures of their own kind who remind them of life in the primeval forests of past ages. Jean Bronsky was an even more dangerous wild animal, a brutish beast dressed by the best tailor in Place Vendôme, a savage in a silk shirt who had been to university and was primped and preened every morning by a hairdresser like some peacock.
‘You’re playing it careful,’ observed Colombani at one point, as Maigret sat patiently in front of one of the phones.
‘I’m playing it careful.’
‘What if he slips between our fingers?’
‘I’d rather that than have one of my men gunned down.’
And thinking of which, what was the point of leaving Chevrier and his wife in their bistro out at Quai de Charenton? Phone them? They were probably in bed now. Maigret smiled and gave a shrug. Who knows? Maybe their brief masquerade was giving them a thrill, and there was no reason why they shouldn’t go on playing at running a bar for another few hours.
‘Hello? … Is that you, sir? … They’ve just gone into the Florence.’
It was the smartest club in Montmartre. Champagne de rigueur. Doubtless Francine Latour was wearing a new dress and had new diamonds to show off. She was very young, not yet weary of that kind of life. Are there not old women who are rich and titled and own private mansions in Avenue du Bois or in Faubourg Saint-Germain who have been going to the same nightspots for forty years?
‘It’s time!’ said Maigret decisively.
He took his revolver out of the drawer and checked that it was loaded. Colombani looked at him and gave a faint smile.
‘Want me to come along with you?’
This would be generous of Maigret. The action was taking place in his jurisdiction. It was he who had rooted out the Picardy gang. He could have kept the job to himself and his men and thus Quai des Orfèvres would have put yet another one over on the Rue des Saussaies.
‘Got your gun with you?’
‘It lives in my pocket.’
Maigret’s didn’t. He rarely needed it.
As they crossed the courtyard, Colombani gestured towards one of the police cars.
‘No. I prefer a taxi. Attracts less attention.’
He chose one carefully, one with a driver he knew, though in truth almost all the taxi-drivers knew him.
‘Rue de Longchamp. Drive down it at walking speed.’
The building where Francine Latour lived stood relatively tall in the street, not far from a famous restaurant where Maigret recalled having eaten a number of good lunches. Everywhere was closed. It was now two in the morning. They needed to find a place to park. Maigret was serious, peevish and silent.
‘Drive round again. Stop when I tell you to. Keep just your sidelights on, as if you’re waiting to pick up a fare.’
They were less than ten metres from the apartment block. They could just make out an inspector lurking in the shadow of a carriage entrance. There had to be another officer somewhere and, up in the apartment, Janvier and his colleague were still waiting in the dark.
Maigret smoked, taking shallow pulls at his pipe. He could feel Colombani’s shoulder next to his. He was sitting by the door next to the kerb.
They remained like this for forty-five minutes. Taxis passed infrequently. At a few houses further along the street, residents returned home. Eventually a cab pulled up outside the apartment building, and a slim young man sprang on to the pavement, turned and leaned back inside to help his companion climb out.
Maigret simply said: ‘Yes!’
He calculated his moves carefully. For some time his door had been slightly open, and he had kept a firm hold on the handle. With an agility no one would have expected of him, he rushed forwards and leaped on the man just as, leaning into the taxi to look at the meter, he was reaching into the pocket of his dinner-jacket for his wallet.
The young woman screamed. Maigret grabbed the man by the shoulders from behind, and his weight propelled him forwards so that they both fell on to the pavement. Maigret, who had been struck on the chin by the man’s head, made a grab for Bronsky’s hands to prevent him from going for his revolver. Colombani was already at his side and, cool and calm, stamped a heel into the Czech’s face.
Francine Latour, still screaming for help, reached the front door of the building and started ringing the bell wildly. The two inspectors arrived at a run, and the struggle lasted for a few minutes more. Maigret was the last to get to his feet, as he had been underneath.
‘Anyone injured?’
In the taxi’s sidelights, blood could be seen on Maigret’s hand. He looked around him then realized it had come from Bronsky’s nose, which was bleeding profusely. His hands were pinned behind his back by handcuffs and this made him bend slightly forwards. There was a fierce expression on his face.
‘You bastards!’ he snarled.
When an inspector made as if to pay back the insult with a kick to his shins, Maigret said, as he delved into his pocket for his pipe:
‘Let him get the poison off his chest. It’s pretty much the only freedom he’ll have from now on.’
They almost forgot Janvier and his colleague upstairs in the apartment, where, slavishly carrying out their orders, they would probably have stayed until morning.
10.
He was reporting to the commissioner of the Police Judiciaire first, which would not have exactly pleased Coméliau.
‘First-rate result, Maigret. Now do me the pleasure of going home to bed. We’ll take care of the details in the morning. Are we going to call in both of those stationmasters?’
From Goderville and Moucher, who would have to formally identify the man they had seen, one as he got off the train on 19 January, and the other as he got on a few hours later.
‘Colombani’s looking after it. They’re on the way.’
Jean Bronsky was there with them, on a chair, in the office. Never had there been quite so many beers and sandwiches on the table. What surprised the Czech most was that they weren’t bothering to question him.
Francine Latour was also present. She had absolutely insisted on coming because she was totally and utterly convinced that the police were making a great big mistake. So, just as an adult gives a child a book with pictures in to keep it quiet, Maigret had handed her Bronsky’s file, which she was now reading, not without giving her lover horrified looks from time to time.
‘What will you do now?’ asked Colombani.
‘Phone the examining magistrate and then I’m going home to bed.’
‘Want me to drop you?’
‘No thanks. Don’t bother. It would only delay you.’
Maigret was up to his tricks again, and Colombani knew it. In a firm voice he gave the
taxi-driver the address, Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. But a few moments later he tapped on the glass partition between the back and the front seats:
‘Drive along the Seine and make for Corbeil.’
It was thus that he saw the new day break. He made out the first anglers as they took up their positions on the banks of the river, from which a faint mist rose. He saw the first barges blocking the approaches to the locks and the smoke that was beginning to drift up from the houses into a mother-of-pearl sky.
‘You’ll come to an inn somewhere a little way upstream,’ he said after they had passed Corbeil.
They found it. Its well-shaded terrace looked out on to the Seine, and the inn itself was surrounded by leafy alcoves where people came in droves on Sundays. The proprietor, a man with a long red moustache, was emptying a boat and fishing nets were spread over the floating landing-stage.
After the kind of night he had just had, it was a pleasure to walk through the dewy grass and breathe in the scent of the earth, the smell of logs burning in a hearth and see the maid, her hair not yet done, toing and froing in the kitchen.
‘Is there any coffee?’
‘In a few minutes, though really we aren’t open.’
‘Does your paying guest usually come down early?’
‘I’ve been hearing her moving around her room for some time. Listen.’
And indeed they both could hear the sound of footsteps coming from above the ceiling with its stout, exposed beams.
‘It’s her coffee that I’m just making.’
‘Lay the table for two.’
‘Are you a friend of hers?’
‘I should say so. I’d be surprised if I wasn’t.’
And a friend he proved to be. It happened very simply. When he introduced himself and gave his rank, she was briefly frightened. But he spoke in a kindly voice:
‘Would you mind if I had my breakfast with you?’
Two places were set on a table by the window: solid earthenware plates on a red-chequered cloth. The coffee steamed in bowls. The butter had a taste of hazelnuts to it.
Maigret's Dead Man Page 18
