Maigret and the Dead Girl

by Georges Simenon

  The widow Crêmieux had certainly not been enchanted to see the police invade her home. Moreover, Maigret had a way of asking questions that prevented people from answering the way they would have liked. She had been forced to admit certain things that were not very pleasant.

  But at least, for nearly an hour, she had been the centre of attention. The slightest thing she said had even been written down in a notebook!

  But a moment later, the same inspector went and rang the doorbell opposite and paid the same attention to a common little maid.

  ‘How about a drink?’

  It was after eleven. They went into a bar on the corner of the street and drank their aperitifs without saying a word, as if both pondering what they had just learned.

  Louise Laboine was like one of those photographic plates dipped in developer. Two days earlier, they had not even known of her existence. Then she had been a blue shape, a profile on the wet pavement of Place Vintimille, a white body on the marble of the Forensic Institute. Now she had a name, and an image was beginning to form, even though it still lacked detail.

  Rose’s employer had also been a little annoyed when Maigret had said to her:

  ‘Would you mind looking after the children while we ask your maid a few questions?’

  Rose was not even sixteen and still had down on her cheeks.

  ‘It was you who phoned me this morning, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Did you know Louise Laboine?’

  ‘I didn’t know her name.’

  ‘Did you see her on the stairs?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Did she talk to you?’

  ‘She never spoke to me, but she always smiled at me. I always thought she was sad. She looked like a film actress.’

  ‘Did you ever see her anywhere apart from on the stairs?’

  ‘Yes, a few times.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the park bench on Place de la Trinité, where I go almost every afternoon with the children.’

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Was she waiting for someone?’

  ‘I never saw her with anyone.’

  ‘Was she reading?’

  ‘No. She was eating a sandwich once. Do you think she knew she was going to die?’

  That was all that Rose had told them. It was an indication that, for some time anyway, the girl hadn’t had a regular job. She didn’t bother to go far. She would walk down Rue de Clichy and, without leaving the area, sit down facing the Trinité church.

  It had occurred to Maigret to ask:

  ‘Did you ever see her go into the church?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  Maigret paid, wiped his mouth and got back in the little car, followed by Janvier. Back at headquarters, he immediately spotted a solemn figure in the waiting room and recognized Lognon, whose nose was redder than ever.

  ‘Have you been waiting for me, Lognon?’

  ‘Yes, for an hour.’

  ‘You look as if you never even went to bed.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Come into my office.’

  The people who had seen Lognon waiting must have taken him, not for a policeman, but, because he looked so glum and sombre, for someone who had come to make a confession. This time, he really did have a cold, his voice was hoarse, and he had to keep taking his handkerchief out of his pocket. But he didn’t complain, merely assumed a resigned air, the air of a man who has suffered his whole life and will suffer for the rest of his days.

  Maigret sat down and filled his pipe, while Lognon perched on the edge of a chair and didn’t dare utter a word.

  ‘I assume you have some news?’

  ‘I came to make my report.’

  ‘I’m listening, my friend.’

  Cordiality had no effect on Inspector Hard-Done-By, who probably saw it as some kind of irony.

  ‘Last night, I did the same round as the night before, but took more care over it. Up until around three in the morning, four minutes past three to be precise, it didn’t get me anywhere.’ As he spoke, he took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘But then, at four minutes past three, outside a nightclub called the Grelot, I questioned a taxi-driver named Léon Zirkt. He’s fifty-three years old and lives in Levallois-Perret.’

  These details were probably pointless, but Lognon was determined to dot every i and cross every t. It was his way of emphasizing that he was merely a subordinate whose job was not to judge what was important and what wasn’t. He spoke in a monotonous voice, without looking at Maigret, who couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘I showed him the photograph, or rather the photographs, and he recognized the one in the evening gown.’

  He paused, just like an actor. He didn’t yet know that Maigret had already discovered the dead girl’s identity, as well as her last known address.

  ‘On the night of Monday to Tuesday, just before midnight, Léon Zirkt was parked outside the Roméo, a new club in Rue Caumartin.’

  He had prepared everything in advance. He took another piece of paper from his pocket, a press cutting this time.

  ‘That night, unusually, the Roméo wasn’t open to its regular customers, because the room had been booked for a wedding reception.’

  Like a lawyer in court placing a document in front of the judge, he placed the press cutting in front of Maigret and went and sat down again.

  ‘As you can see, it was the wedding of a certain Marco Santoni, the representative in France of a leading brand of Italian vermouth, and a young woman named Jeanine Armenieu, resident in Paris, unemployed. There were a lot of guests, because Marco Santoni is apparently well known in the kind of circles where people like to enjoy themselves.’

  ‘Was it the driver who provided you with all these details?’

  ‘No. I went to the Roméo myself. Anyway, Zirkt was waiting outside with a number of his colleagues. It was raining, though not heavily. At about a quarter past midnight, a girl in a blue evening gown and a velvet cape came out of the club and started walking along the street. Zirkt called to her and asked her, as is traditional, if she needed a taxi. She just shook her head and continued on her way.’

  ‘Is he sure it was her?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a neon sign over the entrance to the Roméo. He’s used to working nights and he noticed that the gown was fairly shabby. Plus, Gaston Rouget, the Roméo’s tout, also recognized the photograph.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the driver knows where she went?’

  Lognon had to blow his nose. He didn’t seem triumphant. On the contrary, he was being exaggeratedly humble, as if apologizing for the little he had brought.

  ‘A couple came out just then, I mean, a few minutes later, and asked to be driven to the Étoile. As Zirkt drove through Place Saint-Augustin, he saw the girl again, crossing the square on foot. She was walking quickly in the direction of Boulevard Haussmann, as if she was on her way to the Champs-Élysées.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘He dropped the couple and was surprised to see her again later on the corner of Boulevard Haussmann and Faubourg Saint-Honoré. She was still walking. He looked at the time, because he was curious to see how long it had taken her to go all that way. It wasn’t far off an hour.’

  It had been about two o’clock when Louise Laboine had been killed, and at three o’clock she was found dead on Place Vintimille.

  Lognon had done a good job. And he hadn’t finished yet, as Maigret realized when he saw him remain in his seat and take a third piece of paper from his pocket.

  ‘Marco Santoni has an apartment in Rue de Berri.’

  ‘Did you see him, too?’

  ‘No. After the reception at the Roméo, the newlyweds flew to Florence, where they’re supposed to be spending a few days. I talked to his manservant, Joseph Ruchon.’

  Lognon didn’t have a car at his disposal. He certainly hadn’t taken taxis, knowing that they would go through his
expenses with a fine-tooth comb. During the night, he had had to go everywhere on foot, and in the morning he had probably taken the Métro or the bus.

  ‘I also questioned the barman of Fouquet’s on the Champs-Élysées, and the barmen of two other establishments. I wasn’t able to see the barman of Maxim’s: he lives in the suburbs and hadn’t arrived yet.’

  His pocket seemed inexhaustible. As he went on, he fished out more pieces of paper, each corresponding to a different phase of his investigation.

  ‘Santoni is forty-five. He’s a handsome man, somewhat on the big side, very well cared for. He spends a lot of time in nightclubs and bars and the best restaurants. He’s had lots of girlfriends, most of them models or dancers. Four or five months ago, as far as I’ve been able to find out, he met Jeanine Armenieu.’

  ‘Was she a model?’

  ‘No. She didn’t move in the same circles. He’s never said where he discovered her.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty-two. Soon after making Santoni’s acquaintance, she moved into the Hôtel Washington in Rue Washington. Santoni often visited her there and Jeanine sometimes spent the night in his apartment.’

  ‘Is it his first marriage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has the manservant seen the photograph of the dead girl?’

  ‘I showed it to him. He claims he doesn’t know her. I also showed it to the three barmen, who all gave me the same reply.’

  ‘Was the manservant in the apartment on the night of Monday to Tuesday?’

  ‘He was finishing getting the luggage ready for the couple’s departure. Nobody came there. Santoni and his new wife arrived at five in the morning, in a very good mood, changed and rushed to Orly.’

  There was another silence. Each time Lognon made it seem as if he had come to the end of the road, but from the quality of his silence and the humility of his attitude, Maigret guessed that such was not the case.

  ‘Do you know if the girl stayed at the Roméo for a long time?’

  ‘I told you, I questioned the tout.’

  ‘Did they ask people to show their invitations on the way in?’

  ‘No. Some people showed them, others didn’t. The tout remembers seeing the girl come in just before midnight, when the dancing had started. It was because she didn’t look like a regular customer that he let her in, thinking she was a friend of the bride’s.’

  ‘So she stayed for about a quarter of an hour?’

  ‘Yes. I questioned the barman.’

  ‘Was he at the Roméo this morning?’

  To which Lognon simply replied, ‘No. I went to see him at home, at the Porte des Ternes. He was asleep.’

  Putting all these comings and goings end to end, they represented an impressive number of kilometres. In spite of himself, Maigret imagined Lognon doing them all on foot, through the night, then through the early morning, like an ant carrying a weight that’s too heavy for it but that nothing can divert from its route.

  There was probably no other inspector who could have carried out a task like that, neglecting no details, leaving nothing to chance, and yet poor Lognon, whose sole ambition for the past twenty years had been to work at Quai des Orfèvres, would never get there.

  That was partly to do with his manner. It was also to do with the fact that he didn’t have the basic training considered essential and that he failed all his exams.

  ‘What does the barman say?’

  Another piece of paper, with a name, an address, a few notes. Lognon didn’t need to consult these papers, he knew it all by heart.

  ‘He first noticed her standing near the door. The head waiter approached her and said a few words to her in a low voice. She shook her head. He was probably asking her what table she was expected at. Then she made her way through the crowd. A lot of people were on their feet. They were dancing not only on the dance-floor but between the tables.’

  ‘Did she talk to the bride?’

  ‘It took her a while, because the bride was also dancing. The girl finally managed to approach her, and they had a fairly long conversation. Santoni interrupted them twice. He seemed to be losing patience.’

  ‘Did the bride give her anything?’

  ‘I asked that question. The barman couldn’t answer it.’

  ‘Did they look as if they were arguing?’

  ‘Madame Santoni apparently looked reserved, even cold. She shook her head several times. After that, the barman lost sight of the girl in blue.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you questioned the head waiter?’

  It was becoming like a game.

  ‘He lives in Rue Caulaincourt, right at the top. He was also asleep.’

  Of course Lognon had gone there, too!

  ‘He confirmed what the barman had told me. He approached the girl and asked her who she was looking for, and she told him she was a friend of the bride’s and wanted to have a quick word with her.’

  This time, Lognon stood up, which meant that he had at last said all he had to say.

  ‘You’ve done an amazing job, my friend.’

  ‘I did what I had to do.’

  ‘Now go to bed. You need to look after yourself.’

  ‘It’s only a cold.’

  ‘If you’re not careful, it might turn into bronchitis.’

  ‘I have an attack of bronchitis every winter and I’ve never taken to my bed because of it.’

  That was the trouble with Lognon. He had, by the sweat of his brow, it had to be admitted, gathered a certain amount of information that was probably valuable. If this information had been brought by one of his inspectors, Maigret would have immediately put a few others on the trail in order to get the most out of it. One man can’t do everything.

  But if Maigret did that, Lognon would be convinced that they were stealing the case from him.

  He was dead tired, his voice was hoarse, and his cold was getting the better of him. He hadn’t slept more than seven or eight hours in three nights. Maigret, though, had no choice but to let him continue. Not that that would stop him considering himself a victim, like a poor man who is left the most thankless tasks and who, at the last moment, is denied the credit for his success.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Unless you intend to assign someone else …’

  ‘No, of course not! I was only thinking about you, and how you ought to get some rest.’

  ‘I’ll have plenty of time to rest when they retire me. I didn’t have a chance to get to the town hall of the eighth arrondissement, where the wedding took place, or to the Hôtel Washington, where the new Madame Santoni lived before she got married. When I do, I should be able to find out where she lived before and, through that, it’s possible I can get hold of the dead girl’s address.’

  ‘For the past two months, the dead girl lived in Rue de Clichy, with a woman named Madame Crêmieux, a widow who sub-let her a room in her apartment.’

  Lognon pursed his lips.

  ‘We don’t know what she was doing before that. She told the widow Crêmieux her name was Louise Laboine. Her landlady didn’t see her identity card.’

  ‘May I continue my investigation?’

  What was the point in objecting?

  ‘Of course, my friend, if you want. But please don’t overdo it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Maigret remained alone in his office for a while, staring at the chair on which Lognon had just been sitting, but without seeing it.

  Still as if on a photographic plate, new features of Louise Laboine were appearing, but the overall picture remained blurred.

  During the last two months, when she didn’t have a regular job, had she been searching for Jeanine Armenieu?

  It was possible, for example, that she had suddenly read in the newspaper that Jeanine was marrying Marco Santoni and that a big reception was being held at the Roméo to mark the occasion.

  In that case, she had read the newspaper late in the afternoon, since it was after nine o’cloc
k when she had rushed to Mademoiselle Irène’s to get hold of an evening gown. She had left the shop in Rue de Douai at about ten.

  What had she done outdoors from ten to midnight? It doesn’t take much more than twenty minutes to walk from Rue de Douai to Rue Caumartin.

  Could she have spent all that time out in the street, unsure what to do?

  Dr Paul’s report was still on the desk. Maigret glanced through it. It specified that the dead girl’s stomach contained a certain quantity of alcohol.

  But if the head waiter was to be believed, the girl hadn’t had a chance to drink anything during the fairly brief time she had spent at the Roméo.

  Either she had drunk something earlier, to pluck up courage, or she had drunk something between the time she had left the wedding and the time she was found dead on Place de Vintimille.

  He went and opened the door to the inspectors’ office and called Janvier.

  ‘I have a job for you. I want you to go to Rue de Douai. From there, go on foot as far as Rue Caumartin, stop in all the bars and cafés and show the photograph.’

  ‘The one where she’s in evening dress?’

  ‘Yes. Try to find out if anybody saw the girl between ten and midnight on Monday night.’

  Maigret called him back just as Janvier was about to close the door behind him.

  ‘If you run into Lognon, don’t tell him what you’re up to.’

  ‘Got it, chief!’

  The blue suitcase was in a corner of the office. It didn’t seem to have anything more to tell them. It was a cheap suitcase, the kind sold in all the general stores and in the areas around railway stations, and it was worn.

  Maigret left his office and headed for that of his Vice Squad colleague Priollet at the end of the corridor. Priollet was signing his mail, and Maigret calmly smoked his pipe and watched him.

  ‘Do you need me?’

  ‘I need some information. Do you know a man named Santoni?’

  ‘Marco?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He just got married.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘He makes lots of money and spends it as quickly as he earns it. A handsome fellow who loves women, good food and luxury cars.’