Maigret spoke, in a calm and neutral voice:
‘How long?’
‘A few days.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I didn’t want to let him down.’
‘Let him down?’
Maigret gave Lucas a look, and the latter followed him into the next-door office. They closed the door behind them, leaving the two lovers alone.
‘As soon as I mentioned seeing a doctor I could tell there was something fishy going on. She protested. It was only when I threatened to arrest her and Albert . . .’
Maigret wasn’t listening. He knew all this already. Torrence was back at his desk.
‘Did you do what I asked you?’
‘They’re drawing up the list now. It’ll be a long one. Inspector Antoine’s team have been working themselves into the ground on these cases for the last two years. It seems that . . .’
Maigret went up to the communicating door and put his ear to it.
‘What are they doing?’ asked Lucas.
‘Nothing.’
‘They aren’t talking?’
‘Not a word.’
He went to the chief’s office and brought him up to date. They chatted about this and that. For the next hour Maigret popped into various offices to consult with colleagues.
When he returned to his own office, it was as if Albert and Monique hadn’t moved a muscle. They were both sitting in the same chairs with three metres’ distance between them. The young girl was stony-faced, her jaw set firm, making her look like her mother and her aunts.
When her eyes happened to fall on the young man, it was hard to tell the exact proportion of contempt and hatred in her gaze.
As for Jorisse, he was dejected. His eyes were red, either from lack of sleep or from crying.
‘You’re free to go,’ Maigret said simply as he headed for his chair.
It was Monique who asked the question:
‘Will this be in the papers?’
‘There’s no reason why the papers need to talk about it.’
‘Will my mother hear about it?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘And my employers?’
When he shook his head, she sprang to her feet and headed for the door without a single glance at Jorisse. With her hand on the doorknob she turned to Maigret and said:
‘Admit that you did it deliberately.’
He said ‘yes’. Then he sighed:
‘You’re free to go too.’
Then, as the young man didn’t move:
‘Aren’t you going to run after her?’
She was already heading down the stairs.
‘Do you think I should?’
‘What did she say to you?’
‘She called me an idiot.’
‘Is that all?’
‘She said that I was never to speak to her again.’
‘Then?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know.’
‘You can go.’
‘What will I tell my parents?’
‘Whatever you like. They will be overjoyed to see you safe.’
‘Do you think so?’
He almost pushed him out. He still seemed to have something he wanted to get off his chest.
‘Go, you idiot!’
‘Do you still think I’m a hooligan?’
‘No, an idiot! She got it right.’
He turned his head away to sniffle and murmured:
‘Thank you.’
After which, alone in his office, Maigret could finally pour himself that glass of brandy.
9. Coméliau Grows Impatient
‘Is that you, Maigret?’
‘Yes, Monsieur Coméliau.’
It was their daily telephone conversation, and if Maigret had had one of his colleagues in the office he would have given him a wink. He always put on his blandest voice when he was talking to the examining magistrate.
‘The Thouret business?’
‘Getting there! Getting there!’
‘Don’t you think this one is dragging on a bit?’
‘Well, you know these sorts of crime always take an age.’
‘And you are convinced this is a violent mugging?’
‘You said it yourself at the start: “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”’
‘Do you believe what Schrameck told you?’
‘I’m sure he was telling the truth.’
‘In that case, who killed Louis Thouret?’
‘Someone who wanted his money.’
‘Well, just try to speed things up a bit, would you?’
‘You have my word, sir.’
But he did nothing more about it. Instead, he turned his attention to two other cases, which occupied most of his time. Three of his men, among them Janvier and young Lapointe, were taking it in turns to keep an eye on the house in Rue d’Angoulême, round the clock. The telephone was still being tapped.
Nor did he pay any further attention to Madame Thouret, or her daughter, or young Jorisse who was once again working full days at the bookshop in Boulevard Saint-Michel. It was as if he had never known them.
As for the robbery, he had passed the file over to his colleague Antoine, who was questioning Jef Schrameck, known as the Acrobat, on an almost daily basis. Maigret frequently bumped into him in the corridor.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Good, inspector.’
It was cold, but it wasn’t raining any more. The landlady in Rue d’Angoulême hadn’t found any new tenants so she still had two empty rooms. As for the three girls who lived there, knowing that the building was under surveillance, they didn’t dare practise their normal profession. They hardly ever went out, except to have a meal in a local restaurant or to buy some food at the nearby delicatessen; occasionally one of them might go to the cinema.
‘What do they do all day?’ Maigret asked Janvier one time.
‘They sleep, play cards with each other or patience on their own. One of them, called Arlette, always sticks her tongue out at me when she sees me through the curtains. Yesterday she rang the changes: she turned round, hitched up her dressing gown and showed me her behind.’
The Flying Squad in Marseille were looking into the knife. The search had extended beyond the town itself into the surrounding areas. They were also investigating various known criminals who had ‘gone up’ to Paris in recent months.
So everything was proceeding in a methodical fashion, but there had been no obvious breakthrough. However, Maigret hadn’t forgotten about Monsieur Louis. Once, when he had to go to Rue de Clignancourt on another matter, he stopped the car outside Léone’s shop. He had had the foresight to buy a cream cake for the old lady.
‘Have you found anything out yet?’
‘We will, one day soon.’
He didn’t speak to the former typist about what Monsieur Louis had been up to.
‘Do you know why he was killed?’
‘For his money.’
‘Did he earn that much?’
‘He was making a good living.’
‘Poor man! To be killed just as life was starting to go well for him!’
He didn’t visit Monsieur Saimbron in his rooms but bumped into him at the flower market, and they greeted each other.
Finally, one morning, he was told there was a call from Marseille. He had a long conversation on the phone, after which he went upstairs to Records, where he spent an hour reading through forms. He then went downstairs to Archives, where he spent a similar amount of time.
It was around eleven o’clock when he got into the car.
‘Rue d’Angoulême.’
Young Lapointe was on duty outside the house.
‘Is everyone at home?’
‘One of them has gone out. She’s doing her shopping.’
‘Which one?’
‘Olga. The dark-haired one.’
He rang the bell. A curtain twitched. Mariette Gibon, the landlady, came to the door in her slippers.
‘Well, if it isn’t the big chief in person! Aren’t your men tired of pounding the pavement outside my door all day and night?’
‘Is Arlette in?’
‘Do you want me to call her?’
‘No, thank you. I’d rather just go up.’
She stood in the hallway, looking perturbed, as he climbed the stairs and knocked on the door on the first floor.
‘Come in.’
She was wearing a dressing gown, as usual, and was lying on her unmade bed, reading a cheap romance.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ he said, placing his hat on the sideboard and sitting down on a chair.
She seemed both surprised and amused.
‘So it’s not sorted out yet, this business?’
‘It won’t be sorted out until we find the killer.’
‘You haven’t found him yet? And I thought you were so cunning. It doesn’t bother you, does it, me lying here in my dressing gown?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You must be used to it by now.’
She shuffled on the bed and her dressing gown fell open. As Maigret appeared not to notice, she said sharply:
‘That’s all the effect it has on you?’
‘What?’
‘Seeing this.’
He still didn’t react, and she grew impatient. She made a shameless gesture and said:
‘How about it?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yes, thank you?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well I never . . .’
‘Does it amuse you to be vulgar?’
‘Are you going to give me a hard time, on top of everything else?’
Nevertheless, she pulled her dressing gown together again and sat up on the edge of the bed.
‘What do you want from me exactly?’
‘Do your parents still think that you are working in Avenue Matignon?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You worked for Hélène and Hélène’s, the milliner in Avenue Matignon, for a year.’
‘So what?’
‘I am just wondering whether your father knows you have changed profession.’
‘Is that any of your business?’
‘He’s a good man, your father.’
‘He’s all right, for an old fogey, yes.’
‘If he found out what you actually do . . .’
‘Are you intending to tell him?’
‘Maybe.’
This time, she couldn’t disguise her agitation.
‘Have you been to Clermont-Ferrand? Have you seen my parents?’
‘Not yet . . .’
She got up and dashed to the door, which she tugged open, to reveal Mariette Gibon, who must have been standing with her ear to the door panel.
‘Don’t mind me!’
‘Can I come in?’
‘No, you can’t. Now clear off. And if I ever catch you spying on me again . . .’
Maigret had not moved from his chair.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Well what? What is it that you want?’
‘You know full well.’
‘No. I prefer to have it spelled out for me.’
‘You’ve lived in this house for six months.’
‘And . . .?’
‘You’re here most of the day and you know what goes on.’
‘Carry on.’
‘There is a person who used to come here regularly but who hasn’t set foot here since the death of Monsieur Louis.’
Her pupils seemed to contract. Again, she got up and went to the door, but there was no one there this time.
‘Well, it wasn’t me this person came to see.’
‘Who, then?’
‘I’m sure you know already. I think I’d better get dressed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because once we’ve had this conversation, I really shouldn’t hang around here any more.’
She slipped off her dressing gown, this time without any ulterior motive, picked up some underwear and opened the wardrobe.
‘I should have known it would end like this.’
She was talking to herself.
‘You’re a clever one, aren’t you?’
‘It’s my job to catch criminals.’
‘Have you arrested him?’
She had picked out a black dress and was now applying some red lipstick.
‘Not yet.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘You’re going to tell me.’
‘You seem very sure of that.’
He took his wallet out his pocket and extracted a photo of a man in his thirties with a scar on his left temple. She glanced at it and said nothing.
‘Is that him?’
‘You seem to think so.’
‘Am I wrong?’
‘Where will I go while you are arresting him?’
‘Somewhere one of my officers can take care of you.’
‘Which one?’
‘Which one would you prefer?’
‘The dark one with all the hair.’
‘Inspector Lapointe.’
Returning to the photo, Maigret asked:
‘What do you know about Marco?’
‘He’s the landlady’s boyfriend. Do we have to talk about this here?’
‘Where is he?’
She didn’t reply, but instead started stuffing her dresses and personal possessions willy-nilly into a large suitcase, seemingly in a hurry to leave the house.
‘We’ll continue this conversation outside.’
And as he leaned over to take her bag:
‘Well, at least you’re a gentleman.’
The door to the little living room downstairs was open. Mariette Gibon was standing in the doorway, motionless, her face drawn, an anxious look in her eyes.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Wherever the inspector is taking me.’
‘Are you arresting her?’
She didn’t dare say another word. She watched them leave, then went to the window and raised the curtain. Maigret put her suitcase inside the car and said to Lapointe:
‘I’m going to send someone to relieve you. As soon as he arrives, come and join us at the Brasserie de la République.’
‘All right, chief.’
He gave instructions to the driver but didn’t get in the car.
‘Come.’
‘To the Brasserie de la République?’
‘For the time being, yes.’
It was a short distance away. They installed themselves at a table at the back.
‘I have to make a telephone call. It would be better for you not to try to get away.’
‘Understood.’
He called headquarters and gave some instructions to Torrence. When he came back to the table, he ordered two aperitifs.
‘Where is Marco?’
‘I don’t know. When you came, the landlady made me telephone him to tell him not to call or come round until further notice.’
‘At what point did you make the call?’
‘Half an hour after you left, from a restaurant in Boulevard Voltaire.’
‘Did you speak to him in person?’
‘No. I phoned a waiter in the bar in Rue de Douai.’
‘His name?’
‘Félix.’
‘The bar?’
‘The Poker d’As.’
‘Has she had any news of him since?’
‘No. She’s suffering. She is very aware that she is twenty years older than him and she is always imagining him hanging out with girls.’
‘Does he have the money?’
‘I don’t know. He came that day.’
‘Which day?’
‘The Monday that Monsieur Louis was killed.’
‘What time was it when he came to Rue d’Angoulême?’
‘Around five o’clock. They shut themselves away in the landlady’s bedroom.’
‘Did sh
e go into Monsieur Louis’ room?’
‘She may have done. I didn’t notice. He left after an hour or so. I heard the door close.’
‘Did she try to communicate with him through one of you?’
‘She thought that we would be followed.’
‘Did she suspect that the telephone was tapped?’
‘She wasn’t fooled by your trick with the pipe. She is a sly one. I’m not that keen on her, but I feel sorry for her. She’s crazy about him. It’s like a sickness.’
Lapointe arrived to find them sitting peacefully together at the table.
‘What’ll you have?’
The girl was eyeing him up with a smile, but he was too shy to return her gaze.
‘What you’re having.’
‘I want you to take her to a quiet hotel with two adjoining rooms. Don’t leave her until I give you the signal. As soon as you book in, telephone me to let me know where you are. You don’t have to go very far. You’ll probably find the Hôtel Moderne across the street has suitable rooms. She should see no one and get all her meals through room service.’
As she walked off with Lapointe it looked more like she was taking him into custody than vice versa.
It was another two days before this played itself out. Someone – they never found out who – must have alerted Félix, the barman in Rue de Douai. He had hidden himself at a friend’s house and wasn’t discovered until the following evening.
It took most of the night to get him to admit that he knew Marco and to cough up his address.
Marco had left Paris and checked into an anglers’ inn up the Seine, where, at this time of year, he was the only guest.
Before he was overpowered he managed to fire off two shots, which didn’t hit anyone. He was carrying the money stolen from Monsieur Louis in a belt that Mariette Gibon must have made for him.
‘Is that you, Maigret?’
‘Yes, Monsieur Coméliau.’
‘The Thouret case?’
‘It’s over. I’ll be sending you the killer and his accomplice in due course.’
‘Who is it? Was it some low-life mugging as we thought?’
‘The lowest of the low. The landlady of a bawdy house and her lover, some thug from Marseille. Monsieur Louis was so naive that he hid his money on top of his wardrobe and . . .’
‘What are you saying?’
‘He couldn’t be allowed to find out that the money wasn’t there any more. Marco took care of that. We found where he bought the knife. You will have my report by this evening . . .’
Maigret and the Man on the Bench Page 14
