‘No, chief. Just routine.’
‘Ask someone else to do it and wait for me. You too, Lucas.’
Once back in his office with Janvier, he shut the door.
‘I’m going to give you a task, my friend. You won’t have to write a report or liaise with anyone other than me. If you’re careless, you could pay a high price.’
Janvier smiled, glad to be given a delicate mission.
‘The minister of public works has a secretary called Blanche Lamotte who’s around forty-three years old.’
He had taken his black notebook out of his pocket.
‘I don’t know where she lives or what her working hours are. I need to know about her doings, the kind of life she leads outside the ministry, and the people she mixes with. Neither she nor anyone else must know that the Police Judiciaire is taking an interest in her. Perhaps, if you watch the staff exit at midday, you might learn where she has lunch. Find a way. If she notices that you’re looking at her, pretend you’re smitten if you have to.’
Janvier, who was married and had just had his fourth child, pulled a face.
‘Understood, chief. I’ll do my best. Is there anything specific you want me to find out?’
‘No. Bring me anything you discover and I’ll see whether it’s useful or not.’
‘Urgent?’
‘Very. Don’t say a word to anyone, not even to Lapointe or Lucas. Understood?’
He opened the communicating door again.
‘Lapointe! Come here.’
Young Lapointe, as everyone called him because he was the newest recruit to the department and he looked more like a student than a police officer, had already grasped that this was a confidential mission and felt honoured.
‘Do you know the École des Ponts et Chaussées?’
‘Rue des Saints-Pères, yes. For years I ate in a little restaurant almost opposite.’
‘Good. There’s a supervisor there called Piquemal. His first name is Jules, like mine. I don’t know if he has rooms on the premises or not. I know nothing about him and I need as much information as possible.’
He repeated more or less the same thing he had said to Janvier.
‘I don’t know why, but from the description I’ve been given I get the feeling he’s a bachelor. Perhaps he lives in furnished rooms? In which case, rent a room in the same hotel and pretend you’re a student.’
Finally, it was Lucas’ turn, with a similar brief, except that he was tasked with finding out about Jacques Fleury, the minister’s principal private secretary.
Those three rarely had their photographs in the newspapers. The general public didn’t know them. Or rather, they had only heard Lucas’ name.
Of course, if the Sûreté Nationale were on the case, the police officers would be recognized immediately, but that was inevitable. What was more, if they were, as Maigret had suspected earlier, his telephone calls, both at home and at Quai des Orfèvres, were already being tapped by Rue des Saussaies.
The previous night, someone had deliberately shone a bright light on him in the fog and, if that someone knew about Auguste Point’s hideaway, they knew he had been there that evening and had received a visitor, and had most likely been able to identify Maigret at first glance.
Once alone in his office, he went over and opened the window, as if being in charge of this case made him gasp for a breath of fresh air. The newspapers were on his desk. He nearly looked at them but decided instead to deal with routine chores, sign reports and summons, and felt almost fond of the petty thieves, maniacs, swindlers and offenders of all kinds that he usually had to deal with.
He made some phone calls and went back to the inspectors’ office to hand out instructions that had nothing to do with Point or with the wretched Calame Report.
By now, Auguste Point must already have seen the president. Had he told his wife everything beforehand, as Maigret had advised him to do?
It was colder than he had thought and he had to close the window. He sat in his chair and finally opened the newspaper that lay on top of the pile.
They were all still full of the Clairfond tragedy, and all, whatever their stance, were obliged to clamour for an inquiry because of public opinion.
Most of them chiefly attacked Arthur Nicoud. One article had the headline:
The Nicoud-Sauvegrain Monopoly
It listed the public works projects contracted by the government and some local authorities in the past few years to the company based in Avenue de la République. On the opposite page was a column showing the cost of those works, which totalled several billion.
The concluding paragraph read:
It would be interesting to draw up the list of politicians, ministers, deputies, senators and municipal councillors of Paris and elsewhere who have been invited by Arthur Nicoud to his sumptuous estate in Samois.
A close look at Monsieur Nicoud’s cheque stubs might also be revealing.
Only one newspaper, Le Globe, of which the deputy Mascoulin was, if not the owner, at least the driving force, had a banner headline reminiscent of Zola’s famous open letter ‘J’accuse’:
Is it true that …?
This was followed by a series of questions, in larger type than usual, with a frame that drew even more attention to the piece:
Is it true that the idea for the Clairfond sanatorium was the brainchild not of legislators concerned about children’s health but of a concrete merchant?
Is it true that this idea, mooted five years ago, was espoused by several leading figures during the course of sumptuous lunches given by this concrete merchant at his Samois estate?
Is it true that not only did the guests partake of excellent food and wine, but they frequently emerged from the magnate’s private study with a cheque in their pocket?
Is it true that, when the project took shape, all those who were acquainted with the site selected for the wonderful sanatorium were aware of the lunacy and riskiness of the enterprise?
Is it true that the parliamentary committee responsible for making recommendations to parliament and chaired by the brother of the current president of the Council had to call on the wisdom of an expert whose reputation is undisputed?
Is it true that this expert, Julien Calame, professor of applied mechanics and civil engineering at the École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, spent three weeks on site with the drawings …
… that on his return, he delivered to those concerned a report whose contents were catastrophic for the backers of the project …
… but that the government still voted to finance it, and that the construction of Clairfond began a few weeks later?
Is it true that until his death two years ago, Julien Calame, in the view of all those who came into contact with him, gave the impression of a man who had something weighing on his conscience?
Is it true that, in his report, he predicted the Clairfond fiasco almost exactly as it occurred?
Is it true that the Calame Report, of which there must have been several copies, has disappeared from the parliamentary archives, and from those of the various ministries involved?
Is it true that since the tragedy, some thirty consular officials at least have been living in dread of a copy of this report turning up?
Is it true that, despite the precautions taken, a copy did emerge very recently …
… and that the miraculously salvaged copy was handed over to the appropriate authority?
There was a headline splashed across the page:
We Want to Know
The article read:
Is the Calame Report still in the hands of the person it was given to?
Has it been destroyed so as to shield the gang of politicians compromised by it?
If it hasn’t, where is it at the time of writing and why has it not been published yet, when public opinion rightly demands the punishment of the real culprits of a disaster that cost the lives of 128 French children?
Finally, at the bottom of the page, and
in the same typeface as the two previous headlines:
Where is the Calame Report?
Maigret caught himself mopping his brow. It wasn’t hard to imagine how Auguste Point would react on reading this article.
Le Globe did not enjoy a wide circulation. It was a biased paper; it wasn’t the organ of any of the major parties but represented a small faction headed by Joseph Mascoulin.
The other newspapers still intended to launch their own investigations, in order to uncover the truth.
And Maigret also wanted to uncover this truth, as long as it emerged in its entirety.
But he had the impression that people weren’t genuinely seeking the truth. If Mascoulin, for example, was the man who now had the report in his hands, why, instead of asking questions, did he not publish it in print as big as his article?
He would have caused an immediate ministerial crisis, a radical purge of the parliamentary ranks, and would have been seen by the public as the defender of the people’s interests and political integrity.
For him, a man who had always worked behind the scenes, it was a unique opportunity to make headline news and probably play a prestigious part in the years to come.
So, if he was in possession of the document, why did he not publish it?
It was Maigret’s turn to ask questions, as in the article.
If Mascoulin didn’t have it, how did he know the report had come to light?
How had he found out that Piquemal had handed it to an official figure?
And how could he suspect that Point had not in turn handed it over to the highest authorities?
Maigret was not, and did not want to be, au fait with the secret world of politics. Besides, he did not need to know a great deal about the machinations cooked up behind the scenes to note that:
It was in a disreputable if not blackmailing newspaper, La Rumeur, belonging to Hector Tabard, that the Calame Report had been mentioned three times since the Clairfond disaster.
The discovery of this report had come on the heels of these articles in rather strange circumstances.
Piquemal, a lowly supervisor at the École des Ponts et Chaussées, had gone directly to the minister’s office instead of going through his superiors, in this case the dean.
Joseph Mascoulin knew about his handing over of the report.
He seemed to know about the report’s disappearance.
Were Mascoulin and Tabard playing the same game? Were they in league or acting separately?
Maigret went to open the window again and stood for a long time watching the quays of the Seine, puffing on his pipe. He had never handled such a muddled case, with so little evidence to go on.
When it was a burglary or a murder, he was immediately on familiar ground. But here, on the contrary, the case involved individuals whose names he knew only vaguely from reading about them in the press.
He knew, for example, that Mascoulin had lunch every day at the same table in a restaurant on Place des Victoires, the Filet de Sole, where a constant stream of people came to shake hands with him or give him a whispered snippet of news.
Mascoulin claimed to know about the private lives of all the politicians. His own name rarely appeared in the newspapers except on the eve of an important vote. Then you would read:
Deputy Mascoulin forecasts that the draft resolution will be adopted by 342 votes.
Those in the business took such predictions as gospel, because Mascoulin was rarely wrong, and even then, he would only be out by two or three votes.
He was not a member of any special commission, did not chair any committee, and yet he was more feared than the leader of a major party.
Around midday, Maigret felt like going to the Filet de Sole to have lunch, if only to observe more closely the man he had only glimpsed at official ceremonies.
Mascoulin was unmarried, even though he was over forty. He was not known to have had any mistresses, and was not to be found in society salons, or at the theatre or cabaret.
He had a long, bony face and by lunchtime his cheeks were covered in stubble. He dressed badly, or rather was not concerned about his clothes, which were never laundered and made him look somewhat scruffy.
Why did Maigret say to himself that, from Point’s description of Piquemal, this must be a man of the same ilk?
He was suspicious of loners, people who do not have an avowed passion.
In the end, he decided not to go and have lunch at the Filet de Sole, because that would have amounted to a declaration of war, but headed for the Brasserie Dauphine instead. There he found two colleagues with whom he could talk about something other than the Calame Report for an hour.
One of the afternoon newspapers partially echoed the Globe’s theme, much more cautiously, in veiled language, simply asking what the truth was about the Calame Report. A journalist had tried to interview the president of the Council about the matter but had not been allowed to speak to him.
There was no mention of Point, because in actual fact the construction of the sanatorium came under the responsibility of the Ministry of Public Health.
At three o’clock, there was a knock on Maigret’s door, which opened the moment he grunted a reply. It was Lapointe, a worried expression on his face.
‘Have you got any news?’
‘Nothing definite, chief. So far, it could still be a coincidence.’
‘Tell me in detail.’
‘I did my best to carry out your instructions. Tell me if I made any mistakes. First of all, I telephoned the École des Ponts et Chaussées saying I was a cousin of Piquemal’s, that I’d just arrived in Paris and would like to see him but I didn’t have his address.’
‘Did they give it to you?’
‘Without a moment’s hesitation. He lives at the Hôtel du Berry in Rue Jacob. It’s a modest furnished lodging house with only around thirty rooms and the owner’s wife does some of the cleaning herself, while the owner does the admin. I went home to pick up a suitcase and then went to Rue Jacob looking like a student, as you suggested. I was lucky that there was a vacant room and I rented it for a week. It was almost half past ten when I came back down and I popped into the office to chat with the owner.’
‘Did you mention Piquemal?’
‘Yes. I told him I’d met him on holiday and I thought I recalled that this was where he lived.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That he’d gone out. He leaves the hotel every morning at eight o’clock and goes to a little café on the corner of the street where he has his coffee and croissants. He must be at work by half past eight.’
‘Does he return to his lodgings during the day?’
‘No. He comes back regularly at around half past seven and retires to his room. He only goes out on one or two evenings during the week. Apparently, he’s as regular as clockwork – he doesn’t have visitors, doesn’t see any women, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, but spends his evenings and sometimes part of the night reading.’
Maigret could tell that Lapointe had more up his sleeve and waited patiently.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I thought I was doing the right thing. When I found out that his room was on the same floor as mine and I knew which number it was, I thought you’d want to know what was in it. During the day, the hotel is virtually empty. There was only someone on the third floor playing the saxophone, probably a musician practising, and I could hear the maid on the floor above mine. I tried my key on the off-chance. They’re simple keys, an old type. It didn’t work straight away, but by jiggling it, I managed to unlock the door.’
‘I hope Piquemal wasn’t in?’
‘No. If they look for my fingerprints, they’ll find them all over the place, because I didn’t have any gloves. I opened the drawers and the cupboard as well as an unlocked suitcase in a corner. Piquemal has just one spare suit, dark grey, and a pair of black shoes. There are teeth missing from his comb. His toothbrush is the worse for wear. He doesn’t use shaving cream, but he does use a
shaving brush. The hotel owner was quite right when he said that he spends his evenings reading. There are books everywhere, mainly philosophy, political economics and history. Most were bought second-hand from the bouquinistes by the Seine. Three or four had public-library stamps. I copied down some of the authors’ names: Engels, Spinoza, Kierkegaard, St Augustine, Karl Marx, Antonin Sertillanges, Saint-Simon … Do they mean anything to you?’
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘A cardboard box in one of the drawers contains old and recent membership cards, some of them going back twenty years, others only three. The oldest is for the Croix-de-Feu. There’s another, dated 1937, a membership of Action Française. Immediately after the war, Piquemal was a member of a Communist Party cell. The card was renewed for three years.’
Lapointe looked at his notes.
‘He also belonged to the International Theosophical Society, whose headquarters are in Switzerland. Have you heard of it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Two of the books, I forgot to mention, were about yoga and, right next to them, was a judo manual.’
Piquemal, in short, had tried all the different religions and philosophical and social theories. He was one of those people you saw marching with a fixed stare behind a banner at extremist party parades.
‘Is that everything?’
‘As far as his room goes, yes. No letters. When I went downstairs I asked the owner if he ever received any and he replied that he hardly ever saw anything in his mail other than leaflets and notifications. I went to the corner café. Unfortunately, it was aperitif time and there were a lot of people at the bar. I had to wait for ages and have two drinks before being able to talk to the owner without appearing to be making inquiries. I gave him the same spiel, that I’d just arrived from the country and that I was eager to see Piquemal.’
‘ “The teacher?” he asked.
‘Which seems to suggest that in some circles Piquemal passed himself off as a teacher.
‘ “If you’d come at eight o’clock … Now, he’s probably taking a class … I don’t know where he has lunch.”
Maigret and the Minister Page 5
