Maigret and the Dead Girl

by Georges Simenon

  ‘No. She’d never even heard of it.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘To borrow money, of course. She told me she was broke, that her landlady had thrown her out and she implied that the last option open to her was to kill herself. Not as clearly as that. With Louise, nothing is ever clear.’

  ‘Did you give her any money?’

  ‘Three or four thousand-franc notes. I didn’t count them.’

  ‘Did you tell her about the letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What exactly did you tell her?’

  ‘I told her what was in it.’

  ‘You mean you’d read it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Believe me, it wasn’t out of curiosity. I wasn’t even the one who opened it. Marco found it in my bag. I told him the story, and he didn’t believe me. I told him:

  ‘ “Open it. You’ll see.” ’

  In a low voice, she spoke to her husband, who was still in the booth. ‘Be quiet,’ she said. ‘It’s best to tell the truth. They’ll find out anyway.’

  ‘Do you remember the contents?’

  ‘Not word for word. It was badly written, in not very good French, full of spelling mistakes. It basically said: “I have a very important message for you and I need to see you urgently. Ask for Fred at Pickwick’s Bar in Rue de l’Étoile. That’s me. If I’m not there, the barman will tell you where to find me.” Are you still there, inspector?’

  Maigret was taking notes.

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘The letter continued: “I may not be able to stay in France much longer. If I have to go, I’ll leave the document with the barman. He’ll ask you to prove your identity. You’ll understand why.” ’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you told all this to Louise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she seem to understand?’

  ‘Not immediately. Then she seemed to think of something and she said thank you and left.’

  ‘You didn’t hear from her again that night?’

  ‘No. How could I have? It was only two days later, going through the newspaper by chance, that I found out she was dead.’

  ‘Do you think she went to Pickwick’s Bar?’

  ‘It’s quite likely, don’t you think? What would you have done?’

  ‘Did anybody know about this apart from you and your husband?’

  ‘I don’t know. The letter was in my bag for two or three days.’

  ‘This is when you were living at the Hôtel Washington?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you get any visitors there?’

  ‘Only Marco.’

  ‘Where’s the letter now?’

  ‘I must have put it away with some other papers.’

  ‘Are your things still in the hotel?’

  ‘Certainly not. I took them to Marco’s the day before the wedding, except for my toiletries and a few clothes that the manservant went to fetch the same day. Do you think it’s because of that message that she died?’

  ‘It’s possible. Did she say anything about it?’

  ‘No, nothing at all.’

  ‘Did she ever talk to you about her father?’

  ‘I asked her one day who the photograph was of that she kept in her wallet, and she told me it was a picture of her father.

  ‘ “Is he still alive?” I pressed her.

  ‘She looked at me like someone who doesn’t feel like talking and prefers to keep things quiet, so I didn’t ask anything more. Another time, when we were talking about our parents, I asked her:

  ‘ “What does your father do?”

  ‘She looked at me the same way, without saying a word, that’s the way she was. She’s dead now, and I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but …’

  Her husband must have silenced her.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  ‘I’m very grateful. When are you planning to be back in Paris?’

  ‘In a week.’

  Janvier had followed the conversation on a second receiver.

  ‘Seems to me we’ve just discovered Lognon’s lead,’ he said with a thin smile.

  ‘Do you know Pickwick’s Bar?’

  ‘I’ve passed it, but I’ve never gone in.’

  ‘Neither have I. Are you hungry?’

  ‘More curious than hungry.’

  Maigret opened the door to the next office.

  ‘Any news of Lognon?’ he asked Lucas.

  ‘Nothing, chief.’

  ‘If he calls you, you can reach me at Pickwick’s Bar in Rue de l’Étoile.’

  ‘I just had a visitor, chief, the manageress of a rooming house in Rue d’Aboukir. It took her a while to make her mind up. Apparently she’s been so busy the last few days she didn’t read the newspaper. To cut a long story short, she came to tell us that Louise Laboine lived in her establishment for four months.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Recently. She left it two months ago.’

  ‘In other words, when she moved to Rue de Clichy.’

  ‘Yes. She was working as a sales assistant in a store on Boulevard Magenta. It’s one of those stores that have a bargain section outside on the pavement. The girl spent part of the winter there, ended up catching bronchitis and had to stay in her room for a week.’

  ‘Who looked after her?’

  ‘Nobody. Her room was on the top floor, a kind of attic. The house is a pretty low-class place, mainly used by North Africans.’

  Most of the blanks had been filled in now. It was becoming possible to reconstruct the girl’s whole story from the day she had left her mother in Nice to the night she had gone to see Jeanine at the Roméo.

  ‘Are you coming, Janvier?’

  All they still had to do was reconstruct her whereabouts for about two hours on the last night.

  The taxi-driver had seen her on Place Saint-Augustin, then on the corner of Boulevard Haussmann and Faubourg Saint-Honoré, still walking in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.

  That was the route to take if you wanted to get to Rue de l’Étoile.

  Louise, who had never been good at organizing her own life, who had placed all her hopes in a girl she had met by chance on a train, had been walking quickly, all alone in the light rain, as if in a hurry to meet her fate.

  8.

  In which everything happens between people who know what it means to talk and in which Inspector Hard-Done-By once again features

  The front of the bar, between a cobbler’s shop and a laundry where women could be seen ironing, was so narrow that most people probably passed it without suspecting there was a bar there at all. It was impossible to see inside, because the windows were made out of the bottoms of green bottles, and the door, concealed by a dark red curtain, had an old-fashioned lantern over it, on which the words Pickwick’s Bar were painted in something resembling Gothic lettering.

  Once through the door, a transformation took place in Maigret, who seemed to grow harder, more impersonal, and Janvier unconsciously adopted the same manner.

  Inside, the bar was deserted. The room was long and narrow, and because of the green bottles in the windows and the narrowness of the entrance, it was dark, with just the occasional gleam of light on the woodwork.

  A man in shirt-sleeves had stood up when they came in and seemed to be putting something down, probably a sandwich he had been eating out of sight behind the bar when the door had opened.

  His mouth still full, he watched them advance without saying a word, his face completely inscrutable. He had very black, almost blue hair, thick eyebrows that gave him a stubborn air and a dimple in his chin as deep as a scar.

  Maigret seemed to barely look at him, but it was obvious they had recognized each other. This wasn’t the first time they had faced one another. He walked slowly to one of the high stools and sat down on it, unbuttoning his coat and pushing his hat back on his head. Janvier di
d the same.

  After a silence, the barman asked:

  ‘What can I get you?’

  Maigret looked hesitantly at Janvier. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’

  ‘Two Pernods, if you have them.’

  Albert served them, put a carafe of iced water down on the counter and waited. For a while, it looked as if they were going to play the game of seeing who could keep silent the longest.

  It was Maigret who broke the silence. ‘What time did Lognon come here?’

  ‘I didn’t know his name was Lognon. I always heard him called Inspector Hard-Done-By.’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘Eleven maybe? I didn’t look at the clock.’

  ‘Where did you send him?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I answered his questions.’

  Maigret speared some olives from a tray on the counter and ate them one by one, looking as if he was thinking about something else.

  As soon as he’d entered and the barman had stood up behind his counter, he had recognized him as a Corsican named Albert Falconi, whom he had sent to prison at least twice on the charge of illegal gambling and once for smuggling gold across the Belgian border. Another time, Falconi had been suspected of killing a member of the Marseille gang in Montmartre, but there had been no evidence against him and he had been released.

  He must have been about thirty-five.

  On both sides, they avoided pointless words. They were professionals, so to speak, and the sentences they uttered had their full weight of meaning.

  ‘When you read the paper on Tuesday, did you recognize the girl?’

  Albert didn’t deny it, didn’t admit anything, continued to look at Maigret impassively.

  ‘How many customers were here when she came in on Monday night?’

  Maigret looked down the row of stools in the narrow room. There are a number of bars like this in Paris, and a passer-by dropping in when they are empty might wonder how they make a living. They get by thanks to a hard core of regular customers, all from more or less the same circles, who are in the habit of meeting there at the same time every day.

  In the morning, Albert probably didn’t bother to open. Most likely, he had only just arrived and hadn’t finished arranging the bottles. In the evening, on the other hand, all the stools were doubtless occupied, leaving just enough room to squeeze past. At the far end was the top of a steep staircase leading to the basement.

  The barman, too, seemed to be counting the stools. ‘It was pretty much full,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Was it between midnight and one o’clock?’

  ‘Much closer to one than midnight.’

  ‘Had you seen her before?’

  ‘That was the first time.’

  Everyone must have turned to Louise and looked her up and down with a degree of curiosity. The few women who frequented the bar were prostitutes, and they were quite different from this girl. Her faded evening gown and the velvet cape that hadn’t been made for her must surely have caused something of a sensation.

  ‘What did she do?’

  Albert frowned, like a man trying to remember. ‘She sat down.’

  ‘Where?’

  He looked again at the stools. ‘About where you are now. It was the only free seat near the door.’

  ‘What did she have to drink?’

  ‘A Martini.’

  ‘Did she immediately order a Martini?’

  ‘When I asked her what she was having.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘She sat there for a while without saying anything.’

  ‘Did she have a handbag?’

  ‘She’d put it down on the bar. A silver bag.’

  ‘Did Lognon ask you these questions?’

  ‘Not in the same order.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I prefer to answer questions.’

  ‘Did she ask you if you had a letter for her?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Where was the letter?’

  He turned, as if in slow motion, and pointed to a gap between two bottles that probably didn’t see much service, where there were two or three envelopes addressed to customers. ‘Here.’

  ‘Did you give it to her?’

  ‘I asked her for her identity card.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s what I’d been told to do.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘The guy.’

  He never said more than was absolutely necessary, and during the silences he was clearly trying to predict the next question.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know his surname?’

  ‘No. In bars, people don’t usually give their surnames.’

  ‘That depends on the kind of bar.’

  Albert shrugged as if to say he wasn’t offended.

  ‘Did he speak French?’

  ‘Quite well for an American.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘You know as well as I do, don’t you?’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘I had the impression he’d spent a good few years behind bars.’

  ‘A short man, thin, ill-looking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he here on Monday?’

  ‘He’d left Paris five or six days earlier.’

  ‘Before that, did he come every day?’

  Albert nodded patiently. As the glasses were empty, he grabbed the bottle of Pernod. ‘He spent most of his time here.’

  ‘Do you know where he lived?’

  ‘Probably in a hotel in the area, I don’t know which one.’

  ‘Had he already given you the envelope?’

  ‘No. He’d only told me that if the girl came asking for it, I should tell her what time she could find him here.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  ‘The afternoon from four, then almost all evening until late.’

  ‘What time do you close?’

  ‘Two or three in the morning, it all depends.’

  ‘Did he talk to you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘About himself?’

  ‘About this and that.’

  ‘Did he tell you he was just out of prison?’

  ‘That’s the impression he gave.’

  ‘Sing Sing?’

  ‘I think so. If Sing Sing is in New York State, on the banks of the Hudson, that’s the one.’

  ‘Did he tell you what was in the envelope?’

  ‘No. Only that it was important. He was in a hurry to get away.’

  ‘Because of the police?’

  ‘Because of his daughter. She’s getting married next week in Baltimore. That’s why he had to leave and couldn’t wait any more.’

  ‘Did he describe the girl who’d be coming?’

  ‘No. He only told me to make sure it was her. That’s why I asked her for her identity card.’

  ‘Did she read the letter in the bar?’

  ‘She went downstairs.’

  ‘What’s downstairs?’

  ‘The toilets and the telephones.’

  ‘You think she went downstairs to read her letter?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Did she take her handbag down with her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did she look when she came back up?’

  ‘Less depressed than before.’

  ‘Had she been drinking before she got here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘What did she do next?’

  ‘She sat down again at the bar.’

  ‘Did she order another Martini?’

  ‘She didn’t. The other American did.’

  ‘What other American?’

  ‘A big guy with a scar and cauliflower ears.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t even know his first name.’

 
‘When did he start coming to your bar?’

  ‘Round about the same time as Jimmy.’

  ‘Did they know each other?’

  ‘Jimmy definitely didn’t know him.’

  ‘Did he know Jimmy?’

  ‘I got the idea he was following him.’

  ‘Did he always come at the same time?’

  ‘Pretty much, in a big grey car he parked outside the door.’

  ‘Did Jimmy talk to you about him?’

  ‘He asked me if I knew him.’

  ‘And you told him you didn’t?’

  ‘That’s right. He seemed worried about it. Then he told me it was probably the FBI wondering what he was doing in France and keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘Do you think that was it?’

  ‘I stopped thinking about anything a long time ago.’

  ‘When Jimmy left for the United States, did this other man keep coming?’

  ‘Yes, regularly.’

  ‘Was there a name on the envelope?’

  ‘Louise Laboine. And the word Paris.’

  ‘Could the other customers see that from where they were sitting?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Do you ever leave the bar for a moment?’

  ‘Not when it’s full of people. I don’t trust anyone.’

  ‘Did he say anything to the girl?’

  ‘He asked her if he could buy her a drink.’

  ‘Did she accept?’

  ‘She looked at me as if she wanted my advice. It was obvious she wasn’t used to it.’

  ‘Did you make a sign to her to accept?’

  ‘I didn’t make any signs. I just served two Martinis. Then I was called to the other end of the counter and didn’t pay any more attention to them.’

  ‘Did the girl and the American leave together?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘In his car?’

  ‘I heard the sound of an engine.’

  ‘Is this all you told Lognon?’

  ‘No. He asked me more questions.’

  ‘What questions?’

  ‘For example, if the guy had made any phone calls. I told him he hadn’t. Then if I knew where he lived. I told him I didn’t know that either. Finally, if I had any idea where he might have gone.’

  Albert gave Maigret a significant look and waited.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Now you’ll know as much as Inspector Hard-Done-By. The day before, the American had asked me the best way to drive to Brussels. I told him to go via Saint-Denis, Compiègne, then—’

  ‘Is that all?’