‘Was she sent down?’
‘Released through lack of evidence.’
‘And since then?’
‘Wait. I’ll need to look in another file.’
She cropped up again in later files, though these were still more than a decade old.
‘Before the war she worked as a madam’s assistant in a massage parlour in Rue des Martyrs. At that time she was living with a certain Philippe Natali, known as Philippi, who was imprisoned for ten years for murder. I remember the case. There were three or four of them and they killed a guy from a rival gang in a tobacconist’s in Rue Fontaine. It was never established who fired the shot, so they were all collared for the murder.’
‘Is he out now?’
‘He died in Fontevrault.’
That wasn’t leading anywhere.
‘And now?’
‘Dunno. Unless she’s dead too . . .’
‘She’s not dead.’
‘She must have turned over a new leaf. Maybe a grand lady back in her home town?’
‘She runs a lodging house in Rue d’Angoulême. It’s not registered with the Hotel Agency. She mainly has girls there, but I don’t think they ply their trade on the premises.’
‘I see.’
‘I’d like the place put under surveillance and some information on the tenants.’
‘No problem.’
‘I’d rather it was someone from Vice. My officers might not recognize certain people.’
‘Understood.’
Finally, Maigret got to sit – slump, rather – in the chair in his office. Immediately, Lucas walked in through the door.
‘Anything new?’
‘Not as far as phone calls are concerned. There have been no calls on that number. But a curious thing happened this morning. One Madame Thévenard, who lives with her nephew in Rue Gay-Lussac, left her home to go to a funeral.’
‘Her too?’
‘Not the same one. This one was local. While she was away, her apartment was empty. When she got back she opened the larder to put away the shopping she had done while she was out and she noticed that a sausage that had been there two hours earlier had disappeared.’
‘And she is sure that . . .’
‘Absolutely certain! Besides, when she had a look round the apartment . . .’
‘Wasn’t she afraid?’
‘She was holding an old service revolver that belonged to her husband. He had fought in the First War. She’s quite a woman, by all accounts; she’s small and dumpy and always laughing. Under her nephew’s bed she found a handkerchief that didn’t belong to him as well as some breadcrumbs.’
‘What does the nephew do?’
‘His first name is Hubert and he’s a student. As the Thévenards aren’t very well off, he works during the day as a bookshop assistant on Boulevard Saint-Michel. Do you see where I’m going with this?’
‘I do. Did the aunt alert the police?’
‘She went downstairs to the concierge’s lodge to ring the local station. The inspector there got straight away in touch with me. I sent Leroy to question Hubert at the bookshop. The young man started shaking all over, then he burst out sobbing.’
‘Is Albert Jorisse his friend?’
‘Yes. Jorisse begged him to hide him in his bedroom for a few days.’
‘What reason did he give?’
‘That he’d had a row with his parents and that his father was furious and quite capable of killing him.’
‘So he’s spent two days and nights under the bed?’
‘Only one day and one night. The first night he walked the streets. At least that’s what he told his friend. I’ve alerted all the stations. The boy must be wandering the streets again.’
‘Does he have any money?’
‘Hubert Thévenard didn’t know.’
‘Have you alerted the railway stations?’
‘It’s all covered, chief. I’d be surprised if we don’t bring him in between now and tomorrow morning.’
What were they doing in Juvisy? No doubt the widow, her sisters, their husbands and the daughters had all dined together, a good dinner, of course, as is the way after funerals. They would have discussed Madame Thouret’s future, and Monique’s.
Maigret could just see the men relaxing in their armchairs having been served brandy, lighting up their special cigars.
‘Have a drink too, Émilie. You need cheering up.’
What would they be saying about the dead man? No doubt someone would mention that there had been a good turnout at the funeral, despite the bad weather.
Maigret almost felt a desire to go there. In particular, he wanted to see Monique and have a serious talk with her. But not at her house. Nor did he want to issue her with an official summons.
Mechanically he rang the number of her employers.
‘Geber and Bachelier’s?’
‘Gaston Bachelier speaking.’
‘Can you tell me if Mademoiselle Thouret is due in the office tomorrow morning?’
‘Certainly. She had to be off today for family reasons, but there’s no reason why . . . Who is this?’
Maigret hung up.
‘Is Santoni here?’
‘I haven’t seen him since this morning.’
‘Write a note telling him to keep watch outside the entrance to Geber and Bachelier’s tomorrow morning. When Mademoiselle Thouret arrives, tell him to bring her to me, and treat her gently.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, I’ll be in my office.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, nothing! Now let me get some work done.’
He had enough of Louis Thouret and his family and his mistress for one day. If it wasn’t for his sense of professional duty, he would have called it a day and gone to the cinema instead.
Until seven that evening he threw himself into his paperwork as if the fate of the world depended on it, not only working his way through his ‘pending’ file but also clearing up matters that had been awaiting his attention for weeks, months in some cases, and which were of no importance whatsoever.
When he finally left, his eyes blurry from having stared at printed papers for so long, he felt that something was different. It took a while to dawn on him that it had stopped raining. It felt like a void.
6. The Beggars
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Nothing. She’s sitting bolt upright, chin up, staring straight ahead of her.’
She hadn’t even chosen an armchair to sit on, but one of the hard wooden chairs in the waiting room. Maigret was deliberately letting her stew, as he liked to put it. When Santoni had come at around 9.20 to announce that Monique was there, he had growled:
‘Put her in the cage.’
That was his name for the glass-walled waiting room with its green velour armchairs, where many others before Monique Thouret had lost their nerve.
‘How is she?’
‘In mourning.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘It was almost as if she was expecting to see me there. I was standing two or three metres from the entrance to the building on Rue de Rivoli. When she arrived, I stepped forwards.
‘“Excuse me, mademoiselle . . .”
‘She screwed up her eyes to look at me. She must be short-sighted. Then she said:
‘“Oh! It’s you.”
‘“The detective chief inspector would like to have a word with you . . .”
‘She made no protest. I hailed a taxi, and all the way here she didn’t say a single word.’
Not only had the rain stopped, but the sun had come out. The light even seemed denser than normal, because of the humidity in the air.
Maigret had seen her on his way to the morning briefing, from afar, sitting in her corner. He found her in exactly the same place, half an hour later, on his way back to his office. Later still, he had sent Lucas to take a peek.
‘Is she reading?’
‘No. She isn’t doing anything.’
/>
From where she was sitting she had a view of the Police Judiciaire similar to the one you would get of a restaurant coming through the door. She could see the inspectors walking up and down the corridor with its multiple doors, carrying files in their hands, going into each other’s offices, setting off on assignments or returning from them. Sometimes they paused to exchange a few words on a case in progress; occasionally one would bring in a prisoner in handcuffs or propel in front of him a woman in tears. Other people who had arrived after her had been shown into offices, yet she displayed no sign of impatience.
The telephone in Rue d’Angoulême remained silent. Did Mariette Gibon suspect something? Had the ruse with the pipe rung her alarm bells?
Neveu, who had now been relieved from surveillance duty at the house by a local officer, had nothing unusual to report.
As for Albert Jorisse, they were almost certain that, at six o’clock the previous evening, he was still in Paris. Officer Dambois, who, like everyone else, had received a description of him, had spotted him around that time at the corner of Place Clichy and Boulevard des Batignolles. The young man was coming out of a bar. Did the officer move too quickly to try to apprehend him? Whatever it was that spooked him, Jorisse had run off through the crowd, which was particularly dense. The officer had whistled to alert his colleagues.
But it was all to no avail; there was little chance of catching him. Nor was there any point in combing the neighbourhood afterwards. As for the owner of the bar, he stated that his customer hadn’t made a telephone call but had devoured five hard-boiled eggs with rolls and had drunk three cups of coffee.
‘He seemed to be famished.’
Coméliau, the examining magistrate, had rung Maigret.
‘Still nothing?’
‘I hope to be able to arrest the killer within forty-eight hours.’
‘Is it as we thought? A violent mugging?’
He had said ‘yes’.
There was also the matter of the knife. In the morning mail there was a letter from the firm that manufactured them. Right at the start of the investigation, Janvier had gone in person to see one of the directors of the company, who had told him that there was no way of determining whether the knife had been bought in one particular hardware shop rather than another. With a great deal of pride, he had told him the enormous number of knives they produced.
Now, however, someone with the title of ‘Deputy Managing Director’ was informing the commissioner of the Police Judiciaire that, from the serial number on the knife’s handle, they could confirm that the knife used in Boulevard Saint-Martin had been part of a delivery sent four months earlier to a wholesaler in Marseille.
So the five inspectors who had spent the last three days questioning the shopkeepers in Paris had all been wasting their time. Janvier was furious.
‘What should I do, chief?’
‘Alert Marseille. Then find Moers or someone else from forensics and go to Rue d’Angoulême. Get Moers to lift all the fingerprints he can find in the room. Make sure he doesn’t forget the top of the mirrored wardrobe.’
All this time Monique continued to wait. Every now and again Maigret sent someone to take a look in the cage.
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Nothing.’
Stronger types than her had reached the end of their tether after an hour in that glass-walled cell. At 10.45 he finally sighed:
‘Show her in.’
He stood up to greet her and apologized.
‘As I wished to have a long chat with you I had to take care of other urgent matters first.’
‘I understand.’
‘Would you care to take a seat?’
She did so, tidied her hair to each side of her face and placed her handbag on her lap. He sat down in his chair, placed a pipe in his mouth and, before scraping the match along the box, murmured:
‘Do you mind?’
‘My father smoked. My uncles smoke as well.’
She was less nervous, less anxious than the first time she had come to his office. It was so mild this morning that the inspector had left the window open, and they could hear muffled sounds from the street.
‘I would like to talk to you about your father, naturally.’
She nodded.
‘And about you, and certain other persons.’
She didn’t help him out; nor did she avert her gaze, as if she knew what he was going to ask.
‘Are you very close to your mother, Mademoiselle Monique?’
He had planned to subject her to a full grilling by adopting a softly-softly approach, gradually drawing her to the point where she would have to blurt out the truth. But he was thrown off course by her very first reply.
Quite calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she said:
‘No.’
‘Are you saying you don’t get along with her?’
‘I hate her.’
‘May I ask why?’
She merely gave a little shrug.
‘You’ve been to our house. You’ve seen what she’s like.’
‘Could you be more precise?’
‘My mother thinks of nobody but herself, her so-called social standing and providing for her old age. It annoys her that she didn’t marry as well as her sisters, and she tries to convince herself that she is on the same level as them.’
She said this in a deeply serious tone, but Maigret could hardly resist smiling.
‘Did you love your father?’
She remained silent. He had to repeat the question.
‘I’m thinking about it. I ask myself that same question. It’s embarrassing to admit that, now that he is dead.’
‘So you weren’t that fond of him?’
‘He was a loser.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He made no effort to change it.’
‘Change what?’
‘Everything.’
Then, with a sudden passion:
‘This life we led – if you could call it a life. I gave up on it ages ago. Now I have only one thought in my head: to get out.’
‘Get married?’
‘Get married or some other way. As long as I get out.’
‘Were you thinking of leaving imminently?’
‘One day soon.’
‘Did you discuss it with your parents?’
‘What would have been the point?’
‘You would have left without saying a word?’
‘Why not? What difference would it have made to them?’
He watched her with growing interest and sometimes forgot to inhale on his pipe. He had to relight it two or three times.
‘When did you learn that your father was no longer working in Rue de Bondy?’ he asked her point-blank.
He was expecting a reaction. He didn’t get one. She must have foreseen all these questions and prepared her answers. This was the only way to explain her composure.
‘Nearly three years ago. I can’t remember the precise date. It was around January. January or February. It was freezing.’
Kaplan’s had closed down at the end of October. In January and February, Monsieur Louis was still looking for a job. It was around this time that he had reached the end of his resources and reluctantly decided to borrow money from Mademoiselle Léone and the old book-keeper.
‘Did your father tell you about it?’
‘No. It was simpler than that. One afternoon, I was doing my rounds . . .’
‘You were working in Rue de Rivoli then?’
‘I joined the company at eighteen. As chance would have it, I had to visit a client, a ladies’ hairdresser, in the building where my father worked. I had a look in the courtyard. It was after four. It was completely dark. There were no lights on at the back. I was surprised and asked the concierge about it. She told me that Kaplan’s had gone out of business.’
‘Did you talk to your mother about it when you got home?’
‘No.’
‘
Or your father?’
‘He wouldn’t have told me the truth.’
‘Was he in the habit of telling lies?’
‘It’s hard to explain. He always avoided making a scene at home and always told my mother exactly what she wanted to hear.’
‘He was afraid of her?’
‘He wanted a peaceful life.’
There was a hint of contempt in her voice as she said this.
‘Did you follow him?’
‘Yes. Not the next day, because I didn’t have the opportunity, but two or three days later. I caught an earlier train, making out I had some urgent work to catch up on at the office, and I waited near the station.’
‘What did he do that day?’
‘He visited various offices, as if he was looking for a job. At midday he ate some croissants in a small bar, then he dashed off to a newspaper office to read the classified ads. I understood.’
‘How did you react?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t ask yourself why he hadn’t mentioned anything at home?’
‘No. He wouldn’t have dared. He would have created a scene. My uncles and aunts would have weighed in with their advice and criticized him for his lack of initiative. I’ve been hearing that word “initiative” ever since I was born.’
‘Yet your father brought home a salary at the end of each month, didn’t he?’
‘That’s what surprised me. I expected him to come home empty-handed. Instead, one fine day, he told my mother that he had “demanded” a pay-rise and had been given one.’
‘When was this?’
‘Quite a bit later. Around August.’
‘Did you assume that your father had found another position?’
‘Yes. I wanted to know, so I followed him again. But he still wasn’t working. He was walking around, sitting on benches. Thinking that it was maybe his day off, I followed him again a week or two later, on a different day of the week. This time he spotted me, on the Grands Boulevards, where he had just sat down on a bench. He turned pale, wasn’t sure what to do, but then came towards me.’
‘Did he know that you had followed him?’
‘I don’t think so. He probably thought I’d just bumped into him by chance. He offered to buy me a coffee on the terrace of a café and opened up to me then. It was a hot day.’
Maigret and the Man on the Bench Page 9
