‘Of course, it’s all for effect. Feinstein is making it very clear that he is not as blind to his wife’s peccadilloes as he likes to make out.
‘Anyway, there they are behind the lean-to. Basso’s thinking about his nice villa, his wife and kid across the river. He has to hush this whole thing up. He tries to stop him pulling the trigger, it’s all getting out of hand, he makes a grab for the gun … then bang! That’s it. One bullet from a tiny little revolver …’
James finally looked at Maigret.
‘So I ask you. What the hell does any of this matter?’
He laughed. A laugh of contempt.
‘And now we have hundreds of people scuttling around like ants who’ve just had their ant-hill set alight. The Bassos are being hunted like animals. And to cap it all, Mado still can’t give up on her lover. Landlord!’
The landlord reluctantly put down his cards.
‘What do I owe you?’
‘But now Basso has 300,000 francs at his disposal.’
James merely shrugged his shoulders as if to reiterate his earlier question: ‘What the hell does any of this matter?’
Then suddenly, he exclaimed:
‘Wait! I remember how all this started. It was a Sunday. Some people were dancing in the garden of the villa. Basso was dancing with Madame Feinstein, and someone bumped into them, knocking them to the ground. They were lying there in each other’s arms. Everyone laughed, including Feinstein.’
James picked up his change, but didn’t seem to want to leave. Finally, he sighed:
‘Another glass, landlord.’
He had downed six glasses, but he wasn’t drunk. He must have had a bit of a sore head. He frowned and wiped his brow with his hand.
‘Well, you’ve got to get back to the chase.’
He sounded like he felt sorry for Maigret.
‘Three poor devils; a man, a woman and a child, all being hounded simply because the man slept with Mado.’
Was it his voice, his physical presence, the atmosphere of the bar? Whatever it was, he wove a fascinating spell, and Maigret was struggling to regain his objective view of the events that had taken place.
‘Cheers, drink up. I’d better be getting back. I wouldn’t put it past my wife to stick a bullet in me. It’s stupid, stupid …’
He opened the door with a tired movement. Outside, in the badly lit street, he looked Maigret in the eyes and said:
‘A strange occupation.’
‘What? The police?’
‘Just being a man … When I get home my wife will count the change in my pocket to see how much I’ve been drinking. Goodnight. See you in the Taverne Royale tomorrow?’
James went off, leaving Maigret with a sense of unease, which it took him a long time to shake off. It was as if all his thoughts had been unravelled and all his values had been turned on their head. Even the street looked distorted, the passers-by were a blur, and the long, thin trams were like brightly glowing worms.
It was like the ant-hill James had talked about. An ant-hill in a turmoil because one ant had been killed!
In his mind’s eye, Maigret saw the haberdasher lying in the long grass behind the Two-Penny Bar. Then he saw all the police out manning the roadblocks. The ant-hill all stirred up!
‘Drunken fool!’ he murmured as he thought of James with a bitterness not altogether devoid of affection.
He made a fresh effort to look at the case objectively. He had forgotten what he had come to James’s apartment to do – to find out where James had taken the 300,000 francs. But then he thought of the Basso family – the father, the mother and the child – skulking in their hideaway, jumping at the slightest noise from outside.
‘That damn fellow gets me drinking every time we meet!’
He wasn’t drunk, but he did feel out of sorts and went to bed in a bad mood, dreading the next day, when he would wake up with a thumping headache.
‘You have to have a little bolt-hole to call your own,’ James had said, talking of the Taverne Royale.
He didn’t just have a bolt-hole, he inhabited a whole world of his own, totally self-contained, created in a haze of Pernod or brandy, in which he wandered around totally indifferent to the real world. It was a formless world, a teeming ant-hill of flitting shadows where nothing mattered, nothing had any purpose, where it was possible to wander aimlessly, effortlessly, feeling neither joy nor sadness, cocooned in a thick mist.
A world into which James, with his clownish manner and his apathetic way of talking, had sucked Maigret without seeming to do so.
So much so that the inspector found himself thinking about the Bassos – the father, the mother and the son – cowering in the cellar where they had sought refuge, listening anxiously to the footsteps coming and going over their heads.
When he got up he was even more conscious of the absence of his wife, from whom the postman delivered a postcard.
We are starting to make the apricot jam. When will you be coming to taste it?
He sat down heavily at his desk, causing the pile of letters in his in-tray to topple over. He called out, ‘Come in!’ to the clerk who was knocking at the door.
‘What is it, Jean?’
‘Sergeant Lucas has phoned asking for you to come to Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.’
‘Which number?’
‘He didn’t say. He just said Rue des Blancs-Manteaux.’
Maigret checked that there wasn’t anything in his mail that required urgent attention, then went on foot to the Jewish quarter, of which Rue des Blancs-Manteaux was the main shopping street, with a number of second-hand dealers huddled in the shadow of the large pawnshop.
It was 8.30 in the morning. It was quite quiet. At the corner of the street Maigret spotted Lucas, who was walking up and down with his hands in his pockets.
‘Where’s our man?’ asked Maigret anxiously, for Lucas had been given the task of following Victor Gaillard after the latter’s release the previous night.
With a movement of the head the officer pointed out the figure of a man standing in front of a shop window.
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘I’ve no idea. Last night he wandered round Les Halles. He ended up dossing on a bench. At five o’clock this morning a policeman moved him on, and he made his way straight here. Ever since then he’s been strolling round this house – occasionally wandering off then coming back again – pressing his nose against the window, all obviously for my benefit.’
Victor noticed Maigret and wandered off, his hands in his pockets, whistling ironically. He found a doorway and sat down in it, as if he had nothing better to do. The sign on the shop window read:
Hans Goldberg. Articles Bought and Sold. All Types of Bargains.
In the semi-darkness inside the shop sat a small man with a little goatee beard, who looked perturbed at the unusual activity outside his window.
‘Wait here,’ said Maigret.
He crossed the road and went inside the shop, which was stuffed with old clothes and a variety of other junk that gave off a musty odour.
‘Are you looking for any item in particular?’ the little Jew asked, not sounding terribly convinced that Maigret was a customer.
At the back of the shop there was a glass door leading into a room where a very fat woman was washing the face of a child of about two or three. The washbasin was placed on the kitchen table next to the cups and the butter dish.
‘Police,’ said Maigret.
‘I suspected as much.’
‘Do you know that person who’s been hanging around in front of your shop all morning?’
‘The tall thin chap with the cough? I’ve never seen him before. But his presence has been bothering me, and I asked my wife just earlier, but she didn’t recognize him either. He’s not an Israeli
te.’
‘And do you recognize this man?’
Maigret held out a photo of Marcel Basso, which the man scrutinized intently.
‘He’s not an Israelite either!’ he said.
‘And this one?’
This time it was a picture of Feinstein.
‘Yes!’
‘You know him?’
‘No, but he is one of us.’
‘You’ve never seen him before?’
‘Never. We don’t go out much.’
His wife kept glancing at them through the door. She lifted another child out of a cradle, which began to howl when she started washing it.
The shopkeeper seemed quite sure of himself. He slowly rubbed his hands together as he awaited the inspector’s next question and he looked round his shop with the satisfied expression of an honest tradesman with nothing to hide.
‘How long have you owned this shop?’
‘A little over five years. In that time I’ve established a reputation for fair dealing.’
‘Who was here before you?’ Maigret asked.
‘You don’t know? It was old Ulrich, the one who disappeared.’
The inspector gave a sigh of satisfaction. Finally he was on to something.
‘Was Ulrich a second-hand dealer?’
‘You should know better than I. Don’t the police have records? I can’t tell you anything definite. But I have heard people say that he didn’t just buy and sell, he was also in the moneylending business.’
‘He was a loan shark?’
‘I don’t know what his rate of interest was. He lived alone. He didn’t have an assistant. He opened and closed up his shop himself. One day he disappeared, and the shop stayed closed for six months. I took it over. And I gave it a much better reputation altogether.’
‘So you didn’t know old Ulrich?’
‘I didn’t live in Paris at that time. I moved here from Alsace when I took over the shop.’
The baby was still crying in the other room; his brother had opened the door and was looking at Maigret and gravely sucking his finger.
‘That’s all I can tell you. Believe me, if I knew any more …’
‘All right. That’s fine.’
And Maigret went out after one last look around. He found Victor sitting in the doorway.
‘Is this where you wanted to lead me?’
Victor feigned innocence:
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean this business with old Ulrich?’
‘Old Ulrich?’
‘Stop messing about.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, honest.’
‘Is he the one who took the plunge into the Canal Saint-Martin?’
‘Dunno.’
Maigret shrugged his shoulders and walked away. As he passed Lucas, he said:
‘Carry on keeping an eye on him, just in case.’
Half an hour later, he was searching through the old files. Finally he found what he was looking for. He summarized the details on a piece of paper:
Jacob Ephraïm Lévy, known as Ulrich, sixty-two years old, originally from Haute-Silésie, second-hand dealer in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, suspected of usury.
Disappeared 20 March, though his neighbours did not alert the police until the 22nd.
No clues found at his house. Nothing was missing. A sum of 14,000 francs was discovered under his mattress.
As far as can be ascertained, he left home on the evening of the 19th. Nothing unusual in that.
No information on his private life. Inquiries in Paris and the provinces unsuccessful. The authorities in Haute-Silésie are informed, and one month later the sister of the missing man turns up in Paris to claim ownership of the property. She has to wait six months before he is officially declared missing presumed dead.
At midday Maigret, his head now aching, finally found some information in the heavy old registers of the police station at La Villette, the third he had visited that morning.
He transcribed the relevant passage:
On 1 July a body was pulled out of the Canal Saint-Martin, near the lock, by some bargees. The corpse was in an advanced state of decomposition.
The body was taken to the Forensic Institute, but it was not possible to make an identification.
Height: 1.55 m. Probable age: sixty to sixty-five.
Most of the clothing had been torn away on the canal bed and by boat propellers. Nothing found in the pockets.
Maigret heaved a sigh. He was finally emerging from the clouds of obfuscation that James seemed able to summon up at will to obscure the case.
Now he had something solid to work on. It was old Ulrich who was murdered six years ago and thrown into the Canal Saint-Martin.
Why? And by whom?
That was what he was going to find out. He filled his pipe and lit it slowly, with pleasure. He took his leave of his colleagues at La Villette and stepped out into the street, smiling, sure of himself, feeling solid on his sturdy legs.
8. James’s Mistress
The chartered accountant came into Maigret’s office rubbing his hands and looking pleased with himself.
‘Got it!’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve quickly gone through the haberdasher’s books for the last seven years. It was easy. Feinstein didn’t keep the books himself, but had a bank clerk come round two or three times a week to do them. Nothing out of the ordinary: just the usual tricks to minimize tax. But it’s as plain as the nose on your face what was going on: the business would have been no worse than any other but for the lack of underlying capital. Suppliers paid on the 4th and 10th of every month, debts rescheduled two or three times, frequent sales to get some money in the tills at whatever cost. Finally, Ulrich!’
Maigret didn’t react. He knew it would be better to let the voluble little man carry on talking, as he paced up and down the room.
‘The classic story! Ulrich’s name first appears in the books seven years ago. A loan of 2,000 francs to pay bills that had become due. Repaid a week later. The next billing date, a further loan of 5,000 francs. You see? He had found a way to get hold of cash when he needed it. He got into the habit. From that initial loan of 2,000, within six months he was borrowing 18,000. And this 18,000 cost him 25,000 to repay – old Ulrich liked to exact a price! I should say that Feinstein always honoured his debts, he always paid up on time. But he was paying off his debts by getting further into debt. For example, he repaid 15,000 francs on the 15th and borrowed another 17,000 on the 20th. He repaid this the following month, only to borrow 25,000 straight afterwards. By March, Feinstein owed Ulrich 32,000 francs.’
‘Did he repay it?’
‘I beg your pardon? From that date on Ulrich is never mentioned in the books again.’
And there was a very good reason for that: the old Jew from Rue des Blancs-Manteaux was dead, a death that left Feinstein the richer by 32,000 francs.
‘Who took over from Ulrich?’
‘No one, for a time. A year later, Feinstein was in trouble again and asked a small bank for credit, which he received. But the bank soon lost patience with him.’
‘And Basso?’
‘His name crops up in the later books – not under loans this time, but bills of exchange.’
‘What was his situation like at the time of his death?’
‘No better or worse than usual. He needed twenty grand to bale him out – at least until the next payment date! There are thousands of small traders in Paris in exactly the same situation – constantly chasing the exact sum they need to stop themselves tipping over the brink into bankruptcy.’
Maigret stood up and reached for his hat.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Fleuret.’
‘Do you wan
t me to do a more in-depth analysis?’
‘Not just yet.’
It was all going well. The inquiry was now running like clockwork. Paradoxically, Maigret was feeling down, as if he thought it was all falling into place rather too easily.
‘Any news from Lucas?’ he asked the clerk.
‘He’s just phoned. He said your man had gone to a Salvation Army hostel to ask for a bed. He’s now sleeping.’
Of course Victor didn’t have a single sou on him. Was he still hoping to receive 30,000 francs in return for the name of old Ulrich’s murderer?
Maigret walked along the river. He hesitated in front of a post office, then went in and wrote a telegram:
Will probably arrive Thursday, stop. Love.
It was Monday. He hadn’t been able to go and join his wife since the start of the holiday. He stuffed his pipe as he re-emerged on the street. He seemed to hesitate again, then he hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Boulevard des Batignolles.
He had handled hundreds of cases in his time, and he knew that they nearly always fell into two distinct phases. Firstly, coming into contact with a new environment, with people he had never even heard of the day before, with a little world which some event had shaken up.
He would enter this world as a stranger, an enemy; the people he encountered would be hostile, cunning or would give nothing away.
This, for Maigret, was the most exciting part. He would sniff around for clues, feel his way in the dark with nothing to go on. He would observe people’s reactions – any one of them could be guilty, or complicit in the crime.
Suddenly he would get a lead, and then the second period would begin. The inquiry would be underway. The gears would start to turn. Each step in the inquiry would bring a fresh revelation, and nearly always the pace would quicken, so the final revelation, when it came, would feel sudden.
The Two-Penny Bar Page 8
