He looked at her uncomprehendingly, perhaps not even seeing her. Suddenly he choked; he put his head in his hands and started sobbing.
‘Papa! … Papa!’ the child yelped, dashing in to add to the confusion.
Basso didn’t hear anything. He pushed away his wife and son. He was totally crushed, unable to control his tears. He sat bent over in his chair, his shoulders heaving in time with his racking sobs.
The child was crying too. Madame Basso bit her lip, sending Maigret a look of pure hatred.
And old Mathilde, who hadn’t dared to come in, but who had witnessed everything through the open door, also cried, the way old women cry: short, regular sobs, wiping her eyes with the corner of her checked apron.
Yet despite her tears and sniffles, she managed to put her soup pan back on the stove, stoking the flames to life with a poker.
10. Inspector Maigret’s Absence
Scenes like this don’t last long. The nervous system can only take so much. Once the crisis has reached its pitch, a sudden flat calm sets in, a calm as numb as the preceding fever was manic.
We are then supposed to feel shame, shame for the frenzy, the tears, for the things we said, as if such emotion were somehow not human.
Maigret waited, feeling awkward, looking out of the little window at the policeman’s cap silhouetted against the darkening sky. He was conscious nonetheless of what was going on behind him – Madame Basso going up to her husband, grabbing him by the shoulders and pleading in her hoarse voice:
‘Just tell me it isn’t true!’
Basso sniffed, got to his feet, pushed his wife away and looked around him with the glassy-eyed gaze of a drunk. The door of the stove was open. The old woman was feeding it with coal. It threw a large circle of red light on to the ceiling, causing the beams to stand out.
The boy looked at his father and, in copycat fashion, stopped crying also.
‘I’m done now … I’m sorry for all that,’ said Basso, now standing in the centre of the room.
He seemed poleaxed. His voice dwindled away. He didn’t have an ounce of strength left in him.
‘Do you confess?’
‘No, I’ve got nothing to confess. Listen …’
He looked at his family with a wounded expression, his brow furrowed deeply.
‘I didn’t kill Ulrich. The reason I broke down just now was because I … I realized that …’
He was so drained he could hardly find the words.
‘That you couldn’t prove your innocence?’
He nodded. Then he said:
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘You said those same words right after Feinstein was killed. Yet you have just confessed to that.’
‘That’s different …’
‘Did you know Ulrich?’
A bitter smile.
‘Look at the date on the first page of the notebook. Twelve years ago. It was about ten years ago that I saw Ulrich for the last time.’
He had recovered some of his composure, but his voice still displayed the same despair.
‘My father was still alive. Talk to anyone who knew him and you’ll hear what a hard man he was. Strict on himself and on others. I was given a smaller allowance than even the poorest of my friends. So someone took me to see old Ulrich in Rue des Blancs-Manteaux, who had some experience of these matters.’
‘And you didn’t know he was dead?’
Basso said nothing. Maigret repeated his question without drawing breath:
‘You didn’t know he had been killed, driven in a car to the Canal Saint-Martin and thrown into the lock?’
Basso didn’t reply. His shoulders became even more hunched. He looked at his wife, his son and the old woman, who were laying the table despite their tears, simply because it was dinnertime.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m arresting you. Madame Basso and your son can stay here, or go home.’
Maigret opened the front door and said to the policeman:
‘Bring a car round.’
A crowd of onlookers had gathered in the road, but like the prudent peasants they were, they kept their distance. When Maigret turned round, Madame Basso was in her husband’s arms. He was mechanically patting her back, while staring into space.
‘Promise me you’ll take care of yourself,’ she murmured. ‘And don’t do anything stupid.’
‘Yes.’
‘Swear!’
‘Yes.’
‘Think of your son, Marcel!’
‘Yes,’ he repeated with a trace of annoyance in his voice, as he disentangled himself from her embrace.
Was he afraid of being overcome by emotion again? He waited impatiently for the car he had heard Maigret order. He didn’t want to say anything, listen to anything, look at anything. His fingers trembled constantly.
‘You didn’t kill this man, did you? Listen to me, Marcel. You have to listen to me. They won’t condemn you for … for the other business. You didn’t mean to do it. And we can prove that this man was a wicked person. I’ll find a good lawyer straight away. The best …’
She was speaking vehemently. She wanted to make sure she was heard.
‘Everyone knows you’re a good man. We can probably get you out on bail. Just don’t let it get on top of you. Just remember … that other crime wasn’t anything to do with you.’
She looked at Maigret defiantly.
‘I’ll see a lawyer tomorrow. I’ll get my father up from Nancy, to give me some advice. Come on, we can get through this …’
She didn’t realize that she was hurting him, by threatening to remove the last shred of composure he possessed. He was trying to ignore her, straining to hear the sounds from outside. He was aching for the car to arrive.
‘I’ll come and see you. I’ll bring the boy.’
Finally there was the sound of the car pulling up. Maigret brought the scene to a conclusion.
‘Let’s go.’
‘You promised, Marcel!’
She couldn’t let him go. She pushed their son towards him, to melt his heart further. Basso was already walking down the three steps outside the house.
Then she grabbed Maigret’s arm so firmly she pinched it.
‘Watch him!’ she panted. ‘Watch him carefully. Make sure he doesn’t kill himself. I know what sort of man he is.’
She noticed the group of onlookers but gave them a bold, unrepentant look.
‘Wait! Your scarf!’
She ran back inside the house to fetch it, and handed it through the window of the car as it was pulling away.
In the car, Basso, now he was in the company of men, seemed to relax slightly. He sat there with Maigret for a good ten minutes without either of them saying a word. It was only when they reached the main road that Maigret spoke, his words seeming to bear no relation to the drama that had just taken place.
‘You have an admirable wife.’
‘Yes, she understood. Perhaps it is because she is a mother. I don’t know that I’d be able to explain why I got involved with … with that woman.’
There was a pause. Then he continued in a confidential tone:
‘At the time, you don’t think. It’s a game, and you don’t quite have the courage to break it off. You’re afraid there’ll be a scene, you’re scared of the recriminations. And so this is where you end up.’
There was nothing to see out of the window except the trees flashing past, illuminated by the car’s headlights. Maigret filled his pipe and offered Basso his tobacco pouch.
‘No, thank you. I only smoke cigarettes.’
It helped somehow to have some ordinary conversation.
‘I noticed you had a dozen or so pipes in your drawer at home.’
‘Yes. At one time I used to be a keen p
ipe-smoker. My wife asked me to stop …’
His voice faltered. Maigret noticed his eyes filling with tears. He hastily changed the subject:
‘Your secretary seems very loyal too.’
‘She’s a good girl. She looks after me really well. She must be devastated.’
‘I’d say she was fairly optimistic. She was asking when you would be coming back. All in all, you seem to be well liked.’
They fell silent again. They were now passing through Juvisy. At Orly, they saw the airfield searchlights raking the sky.
‘Was it you who gave Feinstein Ulrich’s address?’
But Basso refused to answer.
‘Feinstein had lots of dealings with him. His name crops up in the accounts, along with the sums involved. At the time that Ulrich was murdered, Feinstein owed him at least 30,000 francs.’
No, Basso wouldn’t reply. He sat there in obstinate silence.
‘What is your father-in-law’s profession?’
‘He is a teacher in a school in Nancy. My wife trained as a teacher also.’
And so the conversation proceeded, drifting close to the trauma of recent events, then receding to the safety of small talk. At times Basso spoke quite normally, as if he had forgotten his situation. Then came tense silences, pregnant with unspoken thoughts.
‘Your wife is right. In the Feinstein case you have a good chance of being acquitted. At worst you may get a year in prison. As for the Ulrich case, however …’
Then, abruptly, he went on:
‘I’m going to put you in the cell at police headquarters tonight. Tomorrow we can get you transferred to a remand prison.’
Maigret tapped out his pipe and wound down the glass screen to speak to the driver:
‘Quai des Orfèvres! Go straight into the courtyard.’
Then without further ado, the inspector led Basso to the cell where Victor had been locked up.
‘Goodnight,’ said Maigret, after checking that he had everything he needed in the cell. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a think. Are you sure that you have nothing to say to me?’
Basso was perhaps too full of emotion to speak. He merely shook his head.
Confirm will arrive Thursday, stop. Will stay a few days, stop. Love.
It was Wednesday morning when Maigret wrote the telegram to his wife. He was in his office at the Quai des Orfèvres and he gave it to Jean to take to the post office.
A short while later, the examining magistrate in charge of the Feinstein case phoned him. Maigret told him:
‘I hope to be able to give you my completed case report by this evening … Yes, of course, the guilty party too … No, no, not at all. Just a standard, open-and-shut case … Yes! Talk to you this evening. Goodbye.’
He got up and went into the operations room, where he found Lucas typing up a report.
‘How’s our vagrant?’
‘I’ve handed over to Dubois. Nothing much to report. You know Victor started doing some work at the Salvation Army hostel. He seemed to get well into it. He’d told them about his lung, of course, so they were especially keen to help him out. I think they’d started to regard him as a potential recruit. Who knows, we could have been seeing him in his uniform in a month or so.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s quite amusing. Yesterday evening a Salvation Army lieutenant asked him to do something or other. He refused and started kicking up a fuss about how he was being made to work like a dog despite all his afflictions. They asked him to leave, and it ended up in fisticuffs. He had to be thrown out by force. He spent the night kipping under the Pont Marie. Now he’s hanging about down by the river. Dubois will be ringing in soon to bring you up to date.’
‘I won’t be here, so tell him to bring him in and lock him in the cell with the other person who’s in there.’
‘OK.’
Maigret went home and spent the rest of the morning packing. He had lunch in a brasserie near Place de la République, checked the railway timetable and found that there was a handy train to Alsace at 10.40 in the evening.
These leisurely activities kept him occupied until four o’clock in the afternoon, when he set off for the Taverne Royale. He had barely taken his place on the terrace when James turned up. They shook hands, and James looked round for a waiter as he asked Maigret:
‘Pernod?’
‘Why not?’
‘Waiter, two Pernods!’
James crossed his legs, sighed and looked straight ahead like a man with nothing to say and nothing on his mind. It had clouded over. Unexpected gusts of wind swept the street, raising plumes of dust.
‘There’s going to be a storm,’ James sighed. Then abruptly: ‘Is it true what I read in the papers? You’ve arrested Basso?’
‘Yes. Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Cheers. It’s stupid.’
‘What’s stupid?’
‘What he did. A solid, respectable man like him losing his head like that. He’d have been better advised to turn himself in at the start and defend himself. What did he really have to lose?’
Maigret had already heard Madame Basso give the same speech and he smiled to himself.
‘Your good health. Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re wrong.’
‘What do you mean? It wasn’t premeditated murder, was it? You can hardly even call it a crime.’
‘Quite. If Basso had only the death of Feinstein to answer for, then we could say he simply lost his head in a moment of weakness.’
Then, with a suddenness that made James jump, he called out:
‘Waiter! What do I owe you?’
‘Six-fifty.’
‘You’re leaving?’
‘I have to go and see Basso.’
‘Ah.’
‘Would you like to see him? You can come too.’
In the taxi they made small talk.
‘How’s Madame Basso bearing up?’
‘She’s a very brave woman. And very cultured too. I wouldn’t have thought that, seeing her that Sunday at Morsang in her sailing clothes.’
And Maigret asked him:
‘How is your wife?’
‘Fine, as usual.’
‘Not too upset by recent events?’
‘Why would she be? She’s not the worrying sort. She takes care of the housework, she sews, she does her embroidery, she goes shopping, likes looking for bargains.’
‘We’re here. This way.’
Maigret steered his companion across the courtyard. He asked the officer guarding the cell:
‘Are they here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything peaceful?’
‘Apart from the new one Dubois brought in this morning. Says he’s going to appeal to the League of Human Rights.’
Maigret barely smiled. He opened the door of the cell and let James go in first.
There was only one bunk, and Victor was occupying it. He had taken off his jacket and sandals.
Basso was walking up and down with his hands behind his back when they came in. He looked at them both, questioningly, then fixed his eyes on Maigret.
Victor stood up grumpily, then sat down again, muttering inaudibly to himself.
‘I bumped into James and I thought you’d like to see him.’
‘Hello, James,’ said Basso, shaking his hand.
But there was something missing. It was difficult to pinpoint. There was a certain reserve, a certain chill in the atmosphere. Maigret realized he would have to force the pace.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘please take a seat, for we may be some time. You, make some room on the bunk. And please try to refrain from coughing for the next quarter of an hour. It cuts no ice in here.’
Victor merely sneered, like a man who was happy to bide his time.
>
‘Take a seat, James. You too, Monsieur Basso. Excellent. Now, if you’re sitting comfortably, I would like to take a few moments to recap the story so far.
‘Some time ago, a man named Lenoir was sentenced to death. Before his execution he made an accusation against a certain individual whom he refused to name. It concerned an old case whose perpetrator no doubt felt was now safely gathering dust. Briefly, around six years ago a car drove away from an address in Paris and headed towards the Canal Saint-Martin. There, the driver lifted a body from the car and dropped it into the water.
‘No one would have known a thing about it but for the fact that the whole scene was witnessed by two young villains by the name of Lenoir and Victor Gaillard. It didn’t cross their minds to inform the police. They preferred to profit from their discovery, and so they traced the murderer and extorted various sums of money from him over a period of time.
‘However, being still novices, they failed to take adequate precautions. One fine day they discovered that their cash cow had upped and left.
‘And there we have it. The victim was called Ulrich. He was a Jewish second-hand dealer who lived on his own and consequently was missed by no one.’
Maigret slowly lit his pipe without looking at his audience. Nor did he look at them when he started talking again, but rather stared at his feet the whole time.
‘Six years later, Lenoir came across the murderer again quite by chance, but he was unable to resume his lucrative business because he was caught for a crime of his own and sentenced to death.
‘Now, listen carefully. Before he died, as I mentioned, he said a few things that narrowed down the field to a very select group of people. He also wrote to his former colleague to inform him of the discovery, and he hot-footed it to the Two-Penny Bar.
‘And so we come, as it were, to the second act. Don’t interrupt, James! Same goes for you, Victor. We come to the Sunday when Feinstein was killed. Ulrich’s murderer was at the Two-Penny Bar that day. It could have been you, Basso, or me, or you, James, or Feinstein, or someone else. Only one person can tell us for certain, and that’s Victor Gaillard, here present.’
Victor opened his mouth to speak, and Maigret literally shouted:
The Two-Penny Bar Page 11
