‘ “Was he here this morning?”
‘ “He stood at the bar next to the croissant basket, as usual. He always eats three. And this morning someone I don’t know, who’d arrived before him, went over and spoke to him.
‘ “As a rule, Monsieur Piquemal isn’t sociable. He must have too many things on his mind to waste his time on conversations of no importance. Polite but cold, you know what I mean? Good morning! How much? Good evening! … It doesn’t bother me, because I’ve got other customers, like him, who work with their brains, and I can imagine what it’s like.
‘ “What surprised me the most was to see Monsieur Piquemal go off with the stranger and, instead of turning left as he normally does, they turned right.” ’
‘Did he describe the customer?’
‘Vaguely. A man of around forty, who looked like a clerk or a travelling salesman. He came in without a word just before eight o’clock, stood at the end of the bar and ordered a coffee with Calvados. No beard or moustache. On the plump side.’
Maigret couldn’t help thinking that the description fitted several dozen inspectors at the Sûreté Nationale.
‘You didn’t find out anything else?’
‘Yes I did. After lunch, I telephoned the École des Ponts et Chaussées again and asked to speak to Piquemal. This time I didn’t say who I was and I wasn’t asked. I was simply told he hadn’t been seen all day.’
‘Is he on leave?’
‘No. He simply didn’t turn up. What’s even more surprising is that he didn’t telephone to say he wouldn’t be coming in. It’s the first time that’s ever happened.
‘I returned to the Hôtel du Berry and went up to my room. Then I knocked on Piquemal’s door. I opened it. There was no one there. Nothing had been moved since my earlier visit.
‘You asked me for all the details. I went to the École and pretended I was an old friend from home. I found out where he has his lunch, a hundred metres away in the Rue des Saints-Pères, in a restaurant owned by a couple from Normandy.
‘So I went there, but Piquemal didn’t show up today. I saw his napkin in a numbered ring and an opened bottle of mineral water on his usual table.
‘That’s all, chief.
‘Did I make any mistakes?’
The reason he anxiously asked that last question was that Maigret’s forehead had clouded over and he had a worried frown.
Was this case going to be like the other political case Maigret had been obliged to handle and which had ended with him being sent to Luçon in disgrace?
The first time too it had all happened because of the rivalry between Rue des Saussaies and Quai des Orfèvres, each of the two police departments receiving different orders, at that time protecting opposing interests willy-nilly, because of the struggle between senior political figures.
At midnight, the president of the Council had learned that Point had called in Maigret …
At eight o’clock in the morning, Piquemal, the man who had found the Calame Report, was accosted by a stranger in the little café where he was quietly drinking his coffee, and he followed him without protest, without the slightest argument …
‘You’ve done a good job, my boy.’
‘No spelling mistakes?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What now?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you’d do best to stay at the Hôtel du Berry, in case Piquemal reappears.’
‘If he does, should I phone you?’
‘Yes. Here, or at home.’
One of the two men to have read the Calame Report had vanished …
There was still Point, who had also read it, but he was a minister, and so harder to eliminate.
Thinking about it brought back the aftertaste of the previous night’s brandy and Maigret fancied a glass of beer in a place where he could rub shoulders with ordinary people going about their everyday business.
4. Lucas is Not Pleased
Maigret was on his way back from the Brasserie Dauphine, where he had gone for a beer, when he saw Janvier striding purposefully towards the Police Judiciaire.
The mid-afternoon weather was almost warm. The sun had lost its pallor and for the first time that year Maigret had left his overcoat at the office. He shouted ‘Hey!’ two or three times. Janvier froze, spotted him and veered towards him.
‘Do you feel like a drink?’
For no specific reason, Maigret didn’t feel like going back to Quai des Orfèvres straight away. It must have had something to do with the arrival of spring, and also the troubled mood he had been in since the previous evening.
Janvier had a strange look on his face, thought Maigret, that of a man who doesn’t know whether he’s going to be reprimanded or praised. Instead of standing at the bar, they went and sat at the back of the room, which was deserted at that hour.
‘Beer?’
‘If you like.’
They waited in silence until they had been served.
‘We’re not the only ones taking an interest in the lady, chief,’ said Janvier. ‘In fact, I have the impression there are lots of people watching her.’
‘Go on.’
‘My first job this morning was to go and sniff around the ministry, on Boulevard Saint-Germain. I was about a hundred metres away when on the other side of the road I caught sight of Rougier, who appeared to be watching the sparrows.’
They both knew Gaston Rougier, an inspector from the Sûreté Nationale with whom they were in fact on the best of terms. He was a decent man who lived in the suburbs and always had his pockets full of photographs of his six or seven children.
‘Did he see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘Boulevard Saint-Germain was almost empty. I couldn’t turn on my heel. When I drew level with him, he asked me:
‘ “You too?”
‘I acted the innocent.
‘ “Me too, what?”
‘Then he winked at me.
‘ “Nothing. No need to let the cat out of the bag. It seems to be raining familiar faces around here this morning. The annoying thing is that there isn’t a single café opposite this wretched ministry.”
‘From where we were, we could see the interior courtyard and I recognized Ramiré, from Intelligence, who seemed well in with the concierge.
‘Playing my part to the hilt, I continued on my way. It was only when I reached Rue de Solférino that I stopped in a café and looked up Blanche Lamotte in the telephone directory on the off-chance. I found her name and address, 63, Rue Vaneau.
‘I was just around the corner.’
‘Did you bump into the Sûreté again?’
‘Not exactly. You know Rue Vaneau: it’s quiet, almost provincial, with even a few trees in the gardens. Number 63 consists of rented apartments, modest but comfortable. The concierge was in her lodge peeling potatoes.
‘ “Mademoiselle Lamotte isn’t at home by any chance?” I asked.
‘I instantly felt her contempt. But I went on anyway:
‘ “I’m an assessor for an insurance company. Mademoiselle Lamotte has applied for life insurance and I’m conducting the usual check.”
‘She didn’t burst out laughing but almost. She retorted: “How many different police forces are there in Paris?”
‘ “I don’t know what you mean.”
‘ “Firstly, I’ve seen you before, I have, with a fat detective chief inspector whose name escapes me, when the little lady at number 57 overdosed on sleeping pills two years ago. And then your colleagues didn’t exactly beat about the bush.”
‘ “Were there a lot of them?” I asked.
‘ “First of all, there was the one who came yesterday morning.”
‘ “Did he show you his badge?”
‘ “I didn’t ask. I’m not asking to see yours either. I’m capable of recognizing a policeman when I see one.”
‘ “Did he ask you a lot of questions?”
‘ “A few: whet
her she lives alone, whether from time to time she has visits from a man in his fifties, on the portly side … I said no.”
‘ “Is that the truth?”
‘ “Yes. And then whether she generally comes home carrying a briefcase. I told him sometimes, and that she has a typewriter in her apartment and she often brings work home from the office. I presume you know as well as I do that she’s the secretary to a minister?”
‘ “I do know that, yes.”
‘ “He also wanted to know whether she had her briefcase the previous evening. I had to admit I hadn’t paid attention. Then he pretended to leave. I went up to the first floor where I clean for an elderly lady every morning and I heard him a little later on the staircase. I didn’t show myself, but I know he stopped on the third floor, where Mademoiselle Blanche lives, and that he went into her apartment.”
‘ “You didn’t try and stop him?”
‘ “I’ve been a concierge long enough to have learned not to get on the wrong side of the police.”
‘ “Did he stay long?”
‘ “Around ten minutes.”
‘ “Have you seen him again since?”
‘ “Not that one.”
‘ “Did you mention any of this to Mademoiselle Blanche?” ’
Maigret listened, staring insistently at his glass, trying to square this incident with the events he had been told about.
Janvier went on:
‘She hesitated. She must’ve felt herself blushing because she decided to tell me the truth.
‘ “I told her someone had come asking questions about her and had gone up to her floor. I didn’t say anything about the police.”
‘ “Did she seem surprised?”
‘ “At first, yes. Then she said: ‘I think I know what it’s about.’
‘ “As for the ones that came this morning, who turned up a few minutes after she’d left for work, there were two of them. They told me they were from the police. The shorter one wanted to show me his badge, but I didn’t look at it.”
‘ “Did they also go up?”
‘ “No. They asked me all the same questions, and more.”
‘ “What sort of questions?”
‘ “Whether she goes out often, who with, who her men and women friends are, whether she makes a lot of phone calls, whether—” ’
Maigret interrupted Janvier.
‘What did the concierge say about her?’
‘She gave me the name of one of her friends, a certain Lucile Cristin, who lives locally and probably works in an office, and has a squint. Mademoiselle Blanche has her lunch in a restaurant called Aux Trois Ministères on Boulevard Saint-Germain. In the evening, she cooks for herself. This Lucile Cristin often comes and has dinner with her. I didn’t manage to find out her address.
‘The concierge told me about another friend, who visits Rue Vaneau less frequently, but Mademoiselle Blanche has dinner at her house every Sunday. She’s married to a trader at Les Halles called Hariel and lives in Rue de Courcelles. The concierge thinks she’s from La Roche-sur-Yon, like Mademoiselle Blanche.’
‘Did you go to Rue de Courcelles?’
‘You told me not to leave any stone unturned. Seeing as I don’t even know what all this is about …’
‘Go on.’
‘The information was correct. I went up to Madame Hariel’s apartment. She leads a comfortable life and has three children, the youngest of whom is eight. I said I was the insurance assessor. She didn’t bat an eyelid, from which I conclude that I was the first to go and see her. She met Blanche Lamotte in La Roche, where they were at school together. They lost touch and ran into one another by chance in Paris, three years ago. Madame Hariel invited her friend to her place, and she’s got into the habit of having dinner with them every Sunday. As for the rest, nothing special. Blanche Lamotte has a routine existence, devotes herself fully to her work and speaks warmly of her boss, for whom she would throw herself under a train.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No. About a year ago, Blanche asked Madame Hariel’s husband whether he knew of a position available for someone she knew who was going through a difficult patch. That was Fleury. Hariel, who sounds like a decent man, gave him a job in his office. Fleury had to be there at six o’clock every morning.’
‘What happened?’
‘He worked for three days, after which he never showed his face again, nor did he ever apologize. Mademoiselle Blanche was embarrassed. She’s the one who was contrite.
‘I went back to Boulevard Saint-Germain, intent on going into the Trois Ministères. But from a distance I spotted not only Gaston Rougier, but also one of his colleagues whose name I’ve forgotten, staking the place out.’
Maigret attempted to put some order into all of this. On Monday evening, Auguste Point had gone to his apartment on Boulevard Pasteur and had left the Calame Report in his study, thinking it was safer there than anywhere else.
But, on Tuesday morning, someone claiming to be from the police had turned up at Mademoiselle Blanche’s place in Rue Vaneau and, after asking the concierge a few trivial questions, entered her lodgings.
Was that person really from the police?
If so, the case stank even more than Maigret had feared. But he had a hunch that this first visit had nothing to do with the Sûreté Nationale.
Was it the same man who, finding nothing in the secretary’s apartment, had then gone to Boulevard Pasteur and stolen the Calame Report?
‘She didn’t describe him?’
‘Vaguely. A fairly stout, middle-aged fellow who is sufficiently in the habit of questioning people for them to assume he’s a policeman.’
It was very similar to the description the owner of the bar in Rue Jacob had given of the man who had accosted Piquemal and left the establishment with him.
But the men of that morning, who had not gone up to the secretary’s apartment, sounded very much as if they were from the Sûreté.
‘What do I do now?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I almost forgot: when I went back to Boulevard Saint-Germain, I thought I saw Lucas in a bar.’
‘It probably was him.’
‘Is he on the same case?’
‘More or less.’
‘Shall I carry on inquiring about the lady?’
‘We’ll discuss it when I’ve seen Lucas. Wait here for a moment.’
Maigret went over to the telephone and called the Police Judiciaire.
‘Is Lucas back?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Is that you, Torrence? As soon as he comes in, will you send him over to me in the Brasserie Dauphine?’
Outside, a boy went past selling the latest edition of the afternoon paper, which had a large headline, and Maigret headed for the door, rummaging in his pocket for change.
When he came back and sat down again next to Janvier, he spread the paper in front of them. The headline, splurged across the entire width of the page, said:
Arthur Nicoud on the Run?
The news was sensational enough to have forced the paper to change its front page.
The Clairfond affair has just taken an unforeseen twist, but one which is not altogether surprising.
We know that following the tragedy, the public was deeply disturbed and demanded that the causes be scrupulously investigated.
The firm Nicoud & Sauvegrain, which built the now infamous sanatorium five years ago, should, according to insiders, have been subjected to a thorough and immediate inquiry.
Why did that not happen? We will probably know the answer in the coming days. The fact remains that Arthur Nicoud, terrified to show himself in public, thought it wise to take cover in a hunting lodge he owns in Sologne.
The police, apparently, know of his whereabouts. Some people even contend that they advised the entrepreneur to disappear for a while to avoid any trouble.
It was only this morning, four weeks after the disaster, that the authorities decided to summon Arthur
Nicoud in order to ask him the questions that are on everyone’s lips.
In the early hours, two inspectors from the Sûreté arrived at the lodge, where they found only a gamekeeper.
He informed the investigators that his master had left the previous evening for an unknown destination.
It did not remain a secret for long. Two hours ago, our special correspondent in Brussels telephoned us to say that Arthur Nicoud had arrived there mid-morning and was occupying a luxurious apartment at the Hôtel Métropole.
Our correspondent managed to meet the entrepreneur and ask him a few questions which we reproduce in full, along with the answers.
‘Is it true that you left your hunting lodge in Sologne abruptly because you had been warned that the police were on their way?’
‘That is utterly false. I was, and still am, unaware of the intentions of the police, who have known my whereabouts for the past month.’
‘Did you leave France in anticipation of new developments?’
‘I came to Brussels on construction business.’
‘What business?’
‘The building of an aerodrome which I have tendered for.’
‘Do you intend to go back to France and make yourself available to the authorities?’
‘I have no intention of changing my plans in any way.’
‘Do you mean that you will stay in Brussels until the Clairfond affair has been forgotten?’
‘I repeat that I will stay here for as long as my business keeps me here.’
‘Even if an arrest warrant were put out for you?’
‘The police had ample opportunity to question me over the past month. Too bad if they didn’t!’
‘Have you heard of the Calame Report?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
With these parting words, Arthur Nicoud put an end to the interview, which our correspondent telephoned through to us at once.
It seems, but we have not been able to obtain confirmation, that an elegant young blonde woman, as yet unidentified, arrived an hour after Nicoud and was shown directly up to his apartment, where reportedly she is still at the time of writing.
The Sûreté Nationale has confirmed that two inspectors had travelled to Sologne to ask the businessman some questions. When we spoke of an arrest warrant, they replied that it was not on the cards for the time being.
Maigret and the Minister Page 6
