Maigret was perhaps mistaken, but he was convinced that Ginette Meurant had gone to Rue Monsieur-le-Prince to obtain money rather than to ask for an opinion.
Lamblin’s reputation being what it was, he must have given her money, but in dribs and drabs. He had probably also advised her not to leave Paris but to lie low until further instructions.
Montparnasse had not been chosen by coincidence. Neither Meurant nor Ginette had lived in the neighbourhood, nor was it one of their haunts, so there was little chance that Meurant would go looking for his wife there.
Maigret was now back in the calm atmosphere of his home, having lunch with Madame Maigret. When he got back to his office, at two o’clock, a telephone message from Janvier informed him that Meurant had not left his apartment, where all was quiet.
He had to go and confer with the commissioner about an unpleasant case involving politics and it was four o’clock when Janvier called him again.
‘Things are moving, chief. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but there’s bound to be a development. He went out at two forty-five, carrying some bulky packages. Although they looked heavy, he didn’t call a taxi. True, he didn’t go far. A little later he went into a second-hand shop on Boulevard de Ménilmontant, and stayed there talking to the owner for a long time.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘Probably. It was hard to hide, because the area was almost deserted. He sold his watch, the gramophone, the records and a pile of books. Then he went home, came out again, this time with a huge bundle tied up in a bed sheet.
‘He returned to the same shop, where he sold clothes, linen, cutlery and brass candlesticks.
‘Now, he’s back home, but I don’t think he’ll stay there for long.’
Janvier was right, and fifty minutes later, he called back.
‘He went out once to go to Faubourg Saint-Antoine, to a picture-framer’s. After a fairly long conversation, the two of them got into his van and drove to Rue de la Roquette, parking opposite Meurant’s shop.
‘They inspected the frames one by one. The man from Faubourg Saint-Antoine loaded a number of them into his van and gave Meurant some banknotes.
‘I forgot to tell you that he’s clean-shaven now. I don’t know what he’s doing in his workshop, but I’ve got the car just around the corner in case …’
At six o’clock in the evening, Maigret received the latest call from Janvier, who was phoning from Gare de Lyon.
‘He’s leaving in twelve minutes, chief. He bought a second-class ticket to Toulon. He’s only carrying a small case. Right now, he’s drinking a brandy at the bar; I can see him through the phone-booth window.’
‘Is he looking at you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How does he seem?’
‘He seems like a man hell-bent on one thing.’
‘Make sure that he really does get on that train and then come back here.’
The train only stopped at Dijon, Lyon, Avignon and Marseille. Maigret telephoned the railway-station police in each of those towns, gave a description of the picture-framer and told them which carriage he was in. Then he called the Toulon Flying Squad.
The superintendent, whose name was Blanc, was around the same age as Maigret. They knew each other well because, before joining the Sûreté, Blanc had been at Quai des Orfèvres.
‘Maigret here. I hope you’re not too busy? I’m going to arrange for the prosecutor’s office to send you a letter of request tomorrow, but it’s best I put you in the picture right away. What time does the 6.17 p.m. train from Paris arrive in Toulon?’
‘At 8.32 a.m.’
‘Right. In carriage 10, unless he changes seats during the journey, you’ll find a certain Meurant.’
‘I’ve read the papers.’
‘I’d like him tailed from the minute he gets off.’
‘That’s easy. Does he know the town?’
‘I don’t think he’s ever been to the south, but I could be wrong. Meurant has a brother, Alfred.’
‘I know him. I’ve had several dealings with him.’
‘Is he in Toulon at present?’
‘I’ll be able to tell you in an hour or two. Would you like me to call you back?’
‘At my home.’
He gave the number of Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.
‘What do you know about Alfred Meurant’s recent activities?’
‘He generally lives in a guesthouse called Les Eucalyptus, outside the town, quite a way, actually, in the hills between Mont Faron and La Valette.’
‘What kind of guesthouse?’
‘The kind we keep an eye on. There are a number of them on the coast, between Marseille and Menton. The owner, Lisca, known as Freddo, was a barman for many years in Montmartre, Rue de Douai. Freddo married a pretty little minx, a former striptease artist, and they bought Les Eucalyptus.
‘Freddo’s the one who does the cooking, and people say he loves it. The place is set back from the road, at the end of a path that’s a dead-end. In the summer, guests eat outdoors, under the trees.
‘Highly respectable people from Toulon – doctors, officials, magistrates – go there for a meal from time to time.
‘But the real clientele are the Riviera mafia who regularly go up to Paris.
‘Girls too, in need of a change of scene.
‘You see the type?’
‘I see.’
‘Two of the most loyal customers, almost year-round boarders, are Falconi and Scapucci.
‘Both have long criminal records and are spotted from time to time around Pigalle.
‘They’re good friends of Alfred Meurant’s. Openly, all three install slot machines in the region’s bars. They also supply docile barmaids, whom they bring in from all around the country.
‘They have several cars and often change them. For a while now, I’ve suspected them of handling cars stolen in Paris or the suburbs, falsifying the number plates and selling them off in Italy.
‘I don’t have any evidence yet. My men are on the case.’
‘I have every reason to believe that Gaston Meurant is going to try to contact his brother.’
‘If he goes to the right place, he’ll have no trouble finding him, unless Alfred has given instructions for people to keep their mouths shut.’
‘Should my Meurant buy a gun or try to obtain one, I’d like to be informed straight away.’
‘Understood, Maigret. We’ll do our best. What’s the weather like up there?’
‘Grey and cold.’
‘Here it’s beautifully sunny. By the way, I nearly forgot someone. Among Freddo’s current clients, there’s the man they call Kubik.’
Maigret had arrested him twelve years earlier following a raid on a jeweller’s on Boulevard Saint-Martin.
‘There’s every chance that he was involved in the jewellery heist last month at Cours Albert-Premier, in Nice.’
Maigret knew that milieu well too, and he was slightly envious of Blanc. Like his colleagues, he preferred to deal with professionals because, with them, you knew at once what territory you were on and there were clear rules.
What was Gaston Meurant, alone in his compartment, going to do among those people?
Maigret had a long chat with Lucas, whom he put in charge of staking out Rue Delambre and choosing the inspectors who would take turns to keep watch.
Ginette Meurant had spent the afternoon in her hotel room, most likely sleeping. There was a telephone in every room as advertised outside, but all calls went through the operator.
According to the owner, who was from Auvergne, she had not made any calls and he was certain that the hotel had not requested any calls to be put through to the south of France. All the same, an expert was busy connecting the line to a wiretap.
Ginette had held firm for a long time. Either she was exceptionally wily or, since the murders in Rue Manuel, she had not tried even once to contact the man she had accompanied to Rue Victor-Massé for months, up until 26 February.
/> It was as if, suddenly, from one day to the next, that man had ceased to exist. And he did not appear to have tried to contact her either.
The police had thought of the possibility of prearranged signals. They had watched the windows of the apartment on Boulevard de Charonne, studied the position of the curtains, which could be significant, the lights, and the comings and goings across the street.
Nor had the man shown up at the court, or in the vicinity of the Palais de Justice.
It was so exceptional that Maigret was filled with admiration.
Now she finally came out, in search of a cheap restaurant in this unfamiliar neighbourhood. She ate alone at a table, reading a magazine. Then she went and bought some more on the corner of Boulevard Montparnasse, together with a few trashy novels, and returned to her room where the light stayed on until after midnight.
Meanwhile, Gaston Meurant was still in the train. At Dijon, then Lyon, an inspector walked through the corridors, checked that he hadn’t moved from his corner, and the intelligence reached Boulevard Richard-Lenoir where Maigret reached out in the dark to pick up the telephone.
Another day dawned. After Montélimar, Meurant encountered the atmosphere of Provence and it would probably not be long before, his face pressed to the window, he would be watching a landscape that was new to him flash past in the sunlight.
Marseille … Maigret was shaving when he received the call from Gare Saint-Charles.
Meurant was still in the train as it continued on its way. He hadn’t bluffed: he was indeed going to Toulon.
In Paris, the weather continued to be grey and the faces in the bus were glum or scowling. On the desk, a pile of administrative documents awaited him.
An inspector – Maigret couldn’t remember which one – telephoned from the bar in Rue Delambre.
‘She’s asleep. In any case, the curtains are drawn and she hasn’t asked for her breakfast.’
The train pulled into Toulon. Gaston Meurant, clutching his little case, wandered around the square, disoriented, a police officer on his heels. Eventually he walked into the Hôtel des Voyageurs, where he chose the cheapest room.
A little later, it became clear that he didn’t know the town because he immediately lost his way walking through the streets and had difficulty finding Boulevard de Strasbourg where he went into a big brasserie. He ordered, not a brandy but a coffee, and questioned at length the waiter, who seemed unable to provide him with the information he required.
By midday, he hadn’t found what he was looking for and, comically, it was Superintendent Blanc who was growing impatient.
‘I wanted to see your fellow for myself,’ he said to Maigret over the phone. ‘I found him in a bar on Quai Cronstadt. He can’t have slept much on the train. He looks like a poor, exhausted wretch who’s pursuing an obsession. He’s going about it the wrong way. So far, he’s been into around fifteen cafés and bars. Each time, he orders a mineral water. People assume he’s a beggar and give him dirty looks. His question is always the same:
‘ “Do you know Alfred Meurant?”
‘Barmen and waiters are wary, especially of course those who do know him. They reply with a vague shrug. Others ask:
‘ “What’s he done?”
‘ “I don’t know. He lives in Toulon.”
‘The inspector who’s on his tail is beginning to feel sorry for him and is almost tempted to tip him off.
‘At the rate Meurant’s going, this could carry on for ages and he’s going to end up broke from buying all that mineral water.’
Maigret was familiar enough with Toulon to know at least three places where Meurant could have got news of his brother. The picture-framer would reach the right area in the end. If he went further into the backstreets around Quai Cronstadt, or if fate took him to the Mourillon district, he would eventually find the information he was so doggedly seeking.
In Rue Delambre, Ginette Meurant had opened her curtains, ordered coffee and croissants and gone back to bed to read.
She did not telephone Maître Lamblin, or anyone else. Nor did she try to find out what had become of her husband or whether the police were still following her.
Wouldn’t she eventually crack?
The lawyer, meanwhile, was taking no steps and was going about his usual business.
An idea occurred to Maigret, who went into the inspectors’ office and walked over to Lucas.
‘What time did she go and see her lawyer yesterday?’
‘Around eleven, if my memory’s correct. I can check the report.’
‘No need. In any case, there was still time to place an ad in the evening papers. Get hold of yesterday’s papers, and this morning’s, and later, this evening’s. Go through the classified ads.’
Lamblin was known to be a man of few scruples. If Ginette Meurant were to ask him to place an ad, would he have any qualms? It was unlikely.
If Maigret’s hunch was right, it would suggest that she didn’t know her former lover’s whereabouts.
If on the other hand she did, and if he hadn’t moved since March, could Lamblin have made a telephone call for her? Could she not have made it herself during the twenty minutes she had spent at the lawyer’s?
One detail had struck Maigret from the start of the investigation in the spring. The liaison between the young woman and the man described by Nicolas Cajou had lasted for many months. Throughout the winter they’d met several times a week, which seemed to suggest that the lover lived in Paris.
But all the same, they met in a lodging house.
Did that mean that, for one reason or another, the man could not entertain his mistress at home?
Was he married? Did he not live alone?
Maigret had not discovered the answer.
‘Just in case,’ he said to Lucas, ‘try to find out whether there was a phone call to Toulon yesterday from Lamblin’s number.’
There was nothing else he could do but wait. In Toulon, Gaston Meurant was still looking for his brother, and it was half past four when, in a little café where men were playing boules outside, he finally obtained the information he wanted.
The waiter pointed out the hill to him and launched into a complicated explanation.
By that time Maigret already knew that the brother, Alfred, was in Toulon and that he hadn’t left Les Eucalyptus for over a week.
He gave instructions to Superintendent Blanc.
‘Do you have a youngster among your men who isn’t known to those people?’
‘My men don’t remain anonymous for long, but I have one who arrived three days ago from Brest. His job is chiefly to look after the dockyard and he certainly won’t have been noticed yet.’
‘Send him to Les Eucalyptus.’
‘Understood. He’ll be there before Meurant, because the poor boy has set out on foot, either to save money or because he has no idea of the distance. And most likely he’ll lose his way a few times on the paths in the hills …’
It pained Maigret not to be on the spot. Despite their speed and precision, the reports he received were still second-hand intelligence.
Two or three times that day he was tempted to go to Rue Delambre and renew contact with Ginette Meurant. He had the impression, for no particular reason, that he was beginning to know her a little better. Perhaps, now, he would be able to ask the specific questions that she would end up answering?
It was still too soon. If Meurant had gone straight to Toulon, he must have his reasons.
During the investigation, the police had got nothing out of the brother, but that didn’t mean there was nothing to be got out of him.
Gaston Meurant was unarmed, that was now a fact, and as for the rest, the only thing to do was to wait.
Maigret went home in a grumpy mood. Madame Maigret refrained from questioning him and he ate dinner in his slippers, became engrossed in reading the newspapers, then turned on the wireless, looked for a station that wasn’t too chatty and, unable to find one, switched it off with a sigh of re
lief.
At ten o’clock, he had a call from Toulon. It wasn’t Blanc, who was attending a dinner, but the young inspector from Brest, a certain Le Goënec, whom the Flying Squad superintendent had sent to Les Eucalyptus.
‘I’m calling you from the railway station.’
‘Where’s Gaston Meurant?’
‘In the waiting room. He’s taking the night train in an hour and a half. He paid his hotel bill.’
‘Did he go to Les Eucalyptus?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he see his brother?’
‘Yes. When he arrived, at around six, three men and the landlady were playing cards in the bar. There was Kubik, Falconi and Alfred Meurant, all three relaxed. I got there before him and asked if I could have dinner and a room for the night. The owner came out of his kitchen to size me up and eventually said yes. I was carrying a haversack and said I was hitching around the Riviera looking for a job.’
‘Did they believe you?’
‘I don’t know. While waiting for dinner time, I sat in a corner, ordered some white wine, and read. They glanced in my direction every now and then, but they didn’t seem too suspicious. Gaston Meurant turned up fifteen minutes after me. It was already dark. The glass garden door opened and he stood there on the threshold, looking around goggle-eyed.’
‘How did the brother react?’
‘He stared hard at the newcomer, stood up, flung his cards on to the table and went over to him.
‘ “What are you doing here? Who squealed?”
‘The others pretended not to be listening.
‘ “I need to talk to you,” said Gaston Meurant, adding hurriedly: “Don’t be scared. It’s not you I’m angry with.”
‘ “Come!” ordered his brother, heading upstairs to the bedrooms.
‘I couldn’t follow them straight away. The others stopped talking, worried, and began to look at me differently. They were probably beginning to make a connection between my arrival and Meurant’s.
‘So I just carried on drinking my wine and reading.
‘Although the dump’s freshly painted, it’s fairly old and shoddily built, and you can hear every sound.
Maigret in Court Page 9
