‘Pietr wasn’t on his own. He’d linked up with several international gangs … He travelled abroad a lot and he used me less and less. Only occasionally, for forgeries, because I’d got very good at that …
‘He gave me small amounts of money. He always said: “You’ll never do more than drink, you filthy Russian!” …
‘One day he told me he was going to America for a huge deal which would make him super-rich. He ordered me to go live in the country because I’d already been picked up several times in Paris by the immigration authorities. “All I’m asking is for you to lie low! … Not too much to ask, is it?” But he also asked me to supply him with a set of false passports, which I did.’
‘And that’s how you met the woman who became Madame Swaan …’
‘Her name was Berthe …’
A pause. The man’s Adam’s apple was bouncing up and down. Then he blurted it all out:
‘You can’t imagine how much I wanted to be something! She was the cashier at the hotel where I was staying … She saw me coming back drunk every night … She would scold me …
‘She was very young, but a serious person. She made me think of having a house and children …
‘One evening she was lecturing me when I wasn’t too drunk. I wept in her arms and I think I promised I would start over and become a new man.
‘I think I would have kept my word. I was sick of everything! I’d had enough of the low life! …
‘It lasted almost a month … Look! It was stupid … On Sundays we went to the bandstand together … It was autumn … We would walk back by way of the harbour and look at the boats …
‘We didn’t talk about love … She said she was my chum … But I knew that one day …
‘That’s right! One day my brother did come back. He needed me right away … He had a whole suitcase of cheques that needed doctoring … It was hard to imagine how he’d got hold of so many! … They were drawn on all the major banks in the world …
‘He’d become a merchant seaman for the time being under the alias of Olaf Swaan … He stayed at my hotel … While I sweated over the cheques for weeks on end – doctoring cheques is tricky work! – he toured the Channel ports looking for boats to buy …
‘His new business was booming. He told me he’d done a deal with a leading American financier, who would obviously be kept at arm’s length from the scam.
‘The aim was to get all the main international gangs to pull together.
‘The bootleggers had already agreed to cooperate. Now they needed small boats to smuggle the alcohol …
‘Do I need to tell you the rest? Pietr had cut off supplies of drink, to make me work harder … I lived alone in my little room with weaver’s glasses, acids, pens and inks of every kind. I even had a portable printing press …
‘One day I went into my brother’s room without knocking. He had Berthe in his arms …’
He grabbed the almost empty bottle and poured the last dregs down his throat.
‘I walked out,’ he concluded in a peculiar tone. ‘I had no option. I walked out … I got on a train … I tottered round every bar in Paris for days on end … and washed up in Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, dead drunk and sick as a dog!’
18. Hans at Home
‘I suppose I can only make women feel sorry for me. When I woke up there was a Jewish girl taking care of me … She got the idea she should stop me drinking, just like the last one! … And she treated me like I was a child, as well! …’
He laughed. His eyes were misty. His restless fidgeting and twitching was exhausting to watch.
‘Only this girl stuck it out. As for Pietr … I guess our being twins isn’t insignificant, and we do have things in common …
‘I told you he could have married a German society figure … Well, he didn’t! He married Berthe, some while later, when she’d changed job and was working in Fécamp … He never told her the truth … I can see why not! … He needed a quiet, neat little place of his own … He had children with her! …’
That seemed to be more than he could bear. His voice broke. Real tears came to his eyes but they dried up straight away: maybe his eyelids were so hot they just evaporated.
‘Right up to this morning she really believed she’d married the master of an ocean-going vessel … He would turn up now and again and spend a weekend or a month with her and the kids … Meanwhile, I was stuck with the other woman … with Anna … It’s a mystery why she loved me … But she did love me, no doubt about that … So I treated her the way my brother had always treated me … I threw insults at her … I was constantly humiliating her …
‘When I got drunk, she would weep … So I drank on purpose … I even took opium and other kinds of crap … On purpose … Then I would get ill, and she would look after me for weeks on end … I was turning into a wreck …’
He waved at his own body with an expression of disgust. Then he wheedled:
‘Could you get me something to drink?’
Maigret hesitated only briefly, then went to the landing:
‘Patron, send up some rum!’ he shouted.
The man from Pskov didn’t say thank you.
‘I used to run away now and again, to Fécamp, where I prowled around the villa where Berthe lived … I remember her walking her first baby in the pram … Pietr had had to tell her I was his brother, because we looked so similar … Then I got an idea. When we were kids I’d learned to imitate Pietr, out of admiration … Anyway, one day, with all those dark thoughts in my mind, I went down to Fécamp dressed in clothes like his …
‘The maid fell for it … As I went into the house the kid came up to me and cried “Papa!” … What a fool I was! I ran away! But all the same it stuck in my mind …
‘From time to time Pietr made appointments to see me … He needed me to forge things for him … And I said yes! Why? I hated him, but I was under his thumb … He was swimming in money, swanning around in five-star hotels and high society …
‘He was caught twice, but he got off both times …
‘I was never involved in what he was up to, but you must have seen through it as I did. When he’d been working on his own or with just a handful of accomplices, he only did things on a modest scale … But then Mortimer, whom I met only recently, got him in his sights … My brother had skills, cheek and maybe a touch of genius. Mortimer had scope and a rock-solid reputation the world over … Pietr’s job was to get the top crooks to work in cahoots on Mortimer’s behalf and to set up the scams. Mortimer was the banker …
‘I didn’t give a damn … As my brother had told me when I was a student at Tartu, I was a nobody … As I was a nobody, I drank, and alternated between moods of depression and periods of high spirits … Meanwhile there was one lifebuoy on these stormy seas – I still don’t know why, maybe because it was the only time I’d ever glimpsed a prospect of happiness – and that was Berthe …
‘I was stupid enough to come down to Fécamp last month … Berthe gave me some advice … Then she added: “Why aren’t you more like your brother?”
‘Something suddenly occurred to me. I didn’t understand why I hadn’t thought of it before … I could be Pietr, whenever I liked!
‘A few days later I got a message from him saying he was coming to France and would have need of me.
‘I went to Brussels to wait for him. I crossed the tracks and boarded his train from the wrong side. I hid behind the luggage until I saw him get up from his seat to go to the toilet. I got there before he did.
‘I killed him! I’d just drunk a litre of Belgian gin. The hardest part was to get his clothes off and then dress him up in mine.’
• • •
He was drinking greedily, with an appetite Maigret had never imagined possible.
‘At your first meeting in the Majestic, did Mortimer suspect anything?’
‘I think he did. But only vaguely. I had only one thing in my mind at that time: to see Berthe again … I wanted to tell her the truth … I had
no real feelings of remorse, yet I felt unable to take advantage of the crime I’d committed … There were all sorts of clothes in Pietr’s trunk … I dressed up as a tramp, the way I’m used to dressing … I went out by the back door … I sensed that Mortimer was on my tail, and it took me two hours to throw him off the scent …
‘Then I got a car to drive me to Fécamp …
‘Berthe was bewildered when I got there … And once I was standing in front of her, with her asking me to explain, I didn’t have the heart to tell her what I’d done!
‘Then you turned up … I saw you through the window … I told Berthe I was wanted for theft and I asked her to save me. When you’d gone, she said: “Be off with you now! You are bringing dishonour on your brother’s house … ”
‘That’s right! That’s exactly what she said! And I did go off! That’s when you and I went back to Paris together …
‘I went back to Anna … We had a row, obviously … Screaming and crying … Mortimer turned up at midnight, since he’d now seen through the whole thing, and he threatened to kill me unless I took over Pietr’s place completely …
‘It was a huge issue for him … Pietr had been his only channel of communication with the gangs … Without him, Mortimer would lose his hold over them.
‘Back to the Majestic … with you right behind me! Someone said something about a dead policeman … I could see you’d got a bandage under your jacket …
‘You’ll never know how much life itself disgusted me … And the idea that I was condemned to acting the part of my brother for ever more …
‘Do you remember when you dropped a photograph on the counter of a bar?
‘When Mortimer came to the Roi de Sicile, Anna was up in arms … She saw it would put paid to her plan … She realized my new role would take me away from her … Next evening, when I got back to my room at the Majestic, I found a package and a letter …’
‘A grey off-the-peg suit, and a note from Anna saying she was going to kill Mortimer,’ Maigret said. ‘And also making an appointment to see you somewhere …’
The air was now thick with smoke, which made the room feel warmer. Things looked less clear-cut in the haze. But Maigret spelled it out:
‘You came here to kill Berthe …’
Hans was having another drink. He finished his glass, gripped the mantelpiece, and said:
‘So as to be rid of everybody! Myself included! … I’d had enough! … All I had in my mind was what my brother would call a Russian idea – to die with Berthe, in each other’s arms …’
He switched to a different tone of voice.
‘That’s stupid! You only get that kind of idea from the bottom of a bottle of spirits … There was a cop outside the gate … I’d sobered up … I scouted around … That morning I gave a note to the maid, asking my sister-in-law to meet me on the outer pier, saying that if she didn’t come in person with some money, I’d be done for … That was base of me, wasn’t it? But she came …’
• • •
All of a sudden he put his elbows on the marble mantelpiece and burst into tears, not like a man, but like a child. But, despite his sobs, he went on with his story.
‘I wasn’t up to it! We were in a dark spot … The roar of the sea … She was looking worried … I told her everything. All of it! Including the murder … Yes, changing clothes in the cramped train toilet … Then, because she looked like she was going mad with grief, I swore to her that it wasn’t true! … Wait a moment! I didn’t deny the murder! … What I retracted was that Pietr was a piece of scum … I yelled that I’d made that up to get my own back on him … I suppose she believed me … People always believe things like that … She dropped the bag she’d brought with the money in it. Then she said … No! She had nothing else to say …’
He raised his head and looked at Maigret. His face was contorted, he tried to take a step but couldn’t keep his balance and had to steady himself on the mantelpiece.
‘Hand me the bottle, pal! …’
‘Pal’ was said with a kind of grumpy affection.
‘Hang on! … Let me see that photo again … The one …’
Maigret got out the snapshot of Berthe. That was the only mistake he had made in the whole case: believing that at that moment Hans’s mind was on the woman.
‘No, not that one. The other one …’
The picture of the two boys in their embroidered sailor collar shirts!
The Latvian gazed on it like a man possessed. Inspector Maigret could only see it upside down, but even so the fairer boy’s hero-worship of his brother stood out.
‘They took my gun away with my clothes!’ Hans blurted out in a blank and steady voice as he looked around the room.
Maigret had gone crimson. He nodded awkwardly towards the bed, where his own service revolver lay.
The native of Pskov let go of the mantelpiece. He wasn’t swaying now. He must have summoned up his last scrap of energy.
He went right past the inspector, less than a metre from him. They were both in dressing gowns. They’d drunk rum together.
Their two chairs were still facing each other, on opposite sides of the charcoal heater.
Their eyes met. Maigret couldn’t bring himself to look away. He was expecting Hans to stop.
But Hans went on past him as stiff as a pike and sat on the bed, making its springs creak.
There was still a drop left in the second bottle. Maigret took it, clinking its neck against the glass.
He sipped it slowly. Or was he just pretending to drink? He was holding his breath.
Then the bang. He gulped his drink down.
• • •
Administratively speaking, the events were as follows:
On … 19 November … at 10 p.m. verified, an individual by the name of Hans Johannson, born Pskov, Russian Empire, of Estonian nationality, unemployed, residing at Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, Paris, after confessing to the murder of his brother, Pietr Johannson, on … November of the same year in the train Étoile du Nord, took his own life by shooting himself in the mouth shortly after his arrest in Fécamp by Detective Chief Inspector Maigret of the Flying Squad.
The 6 mm bullet traversed the palate and lodged in the brain. Death was instantaneous.
As a precaution the body has been taken to the morgue. Receipt of corpse has been acknowledged.
19. The Injured Man
The male nurses left, but not before Madame Maigret had treated them to a glass of plum liqueur, which she made herself every year on her summer holiday back home in the country in Alsace.
When she’d closed the door behind them and heard them going down the stairs, she went back into the bedroom with the rose-pattern wallpaper.
Maigret was lying in the double bed under an impressive red silk eiderdown. He looked rather tired; there were little bags under his eyes.
‘Did they hurt you?’ his wife inquired as she went around, tidying things up in the room.
‘Not a lot …’
‘Can you eat?’
‘A bit …’
‘It’s amazing you had the same surgeon as crowned heads and people like Clemenceau and Courteline …’
She opened a window to shake out a rug on which a nurse had left the mark of his shoe. Then she went to the kitchen, moved a pot from one ring to another and put the lid at a slant.
‘I say, Maigret …’ she said as she came back into the bedroom.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Do you really believe that it was a crime of passion?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘About the Jewish woman, Anna Gorskin, who’s on trial today. A woman from Rue du Roi-de-Sicile who claims she was in love with Mortimer and killed him in a fit of jealousy …’
‘Ah, that starts today, does it?’
‘The story doesn’t hold water.’
‘Mmm … You know, life is a complicated thing … You’d better raise my pillow.’
‘Might she get an acquittal?�
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‘Lots of other people have been acquitted.’
‘That’s what I mean … Wasn’t she connected to your case?’
‘Vaguely …’ he sighed.
Madame Maigret shrugged.
‘A fat lot of use it is being married to an inspector!’ she grumbled. With a smile, all the same. ‘When there’s something going on, I get my news from the door-lady … One of her nephews is a journalist, so there!’
Maigret smiled too.
Before having his operation he’d been to see Anna twice, at the Saint-Lazare prison.
The first time she had clawed his face.
The second time she had given him information that led to the immediate arrest at his lodgings in Bagnolet of Pepito Moretto, the murderer of Torrence and José Latourie.
• • •
Day after day, and no news! A telephone call now and again, from God knows where, then one fine morning Maigret turns up like a man at the end of his rope, slumps into an armchair and mumbles:
‘Get me a doctor …’
Now she was happy to be bustling around the flat, pretending to be grumpy just for show, stirring the crackling Swiss fries in the pan, hauling buckets of water around, opening and closing windows and asking now and again:
‘Time for a pipe?’
Last time she asked she got no answer.
Maigret was asleep. Half of him was buried under the red eiderdown, and his head was sunk deep in a feather pillow, while all these sounds fluttered over his resting face.
In the central criminal court Anna Gorskin was fighting for her life.
In the prison, in a top-security cell, Pepito Moretto knew what fate awaited him. He walked in circles around his cell under the glum gaze of the guard, whose face could only be seen through the grid pattern on the wire screen over the hatch.
In Pskov, an old lady in a folk hat that came down over both cheeks must have been on her way to church in a sled behind a drunken coachman whipping a pony trotting across the snow like a mechanical toy.
Read on for an exclusive extract from the next Inspector Maigret novel
Pietr the Latvian Page 13
