‘Suppose an American who’s been living in Paris for a couple of years and is a regular at the track . . .’
‘What sort of American?’
‘Not the sort invited to parties at the embassy. A major-league crook, Bill Larner.’
‘I know him,’ the Baron said calmly.
‘Good. That makes things easier. For certain reasons, Larner had to go into hiding this morning with two of his countrymen, who have just got off the boat and don’t speak a word of French. They know that we have their descriptions, and I doubt they’ve taken a train or plane. I actually doubt they’ve gone very far from Paris. Something seems to be keeping them here. They haven’t got a car, but they’ve got a knack of stealing the first one they come across and dumping it afterwards.’
The Baron was listening attentively, like a specialist who had been called in for a consultation.
‘I’ve often run into Larner with a pretty woman on his arm,’ he said.
‘I know. He and his two friends were actually hiding out with one of them until today. I doubt he’ll make the same play twice, though.’
‘I agree. He’s smart.’
‘I’ve heard, from that girl in fact, that he has friends in the racing world. You see what I’m getting at? He had to make a decision fast, come up with a safe hiding place in minutes. It is more than likely that he asked one of his fellow countrymen. Do you know many Americans in the racing world?’
‘There are some. Not as many as English, of course. Hang on, I’m thinking of a jockey, little Lope, but no, he’ll be racing in Miami at the moment. I’ve also met a trainer, Teddy Brown, who runs one of his countrymen’s stables. There are definitely others.’
‘Hold on, Baron, the guy I am thinking of has to live somewhere secure. I think you need to put yourself in Bill Larner’s shoes and ask yourself where would be a secure place to hide. Apparently he’s spent the odd night at Maisons-Laffitte, or near there.’
‘That’s not such a bad idea.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘There’s quite a few stables round there. Do you need an immediate answer?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘In that case I’d need to nose around some bars I know to refresh my memory. These sorts come and go. If I have an answer tonight, where will you be?’
‘At home.’
He strode self-importantly to the door. After a brief hesitation, Maigret stopped him.
‘One other thing. Be careful. When you get a lead, don’t follow it up yourself. We’re dealing with killers.’
He couldn’t help saying this word in a slightly ironic way, having had it endlessly drummed into him in the last forty-eight hours.
‘Understood. I’ll almost certainly ring you this evening. In any case, I’ll have something tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter if it cost a few rounds of drinks, does it?’
When Maigret got to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, he found Madame Maigret dressed to go out. He had been meaning to go to bed with a hot toddy and some aspirin to bring down the cold, which was starting to get on his nerves, but he remembered it was Friday, which was their day for the cinema.
‘Lognon?’ asked his wife.
He had the latest. The final verdict was that Inspector Hard-Done-By was suffering from full-blown pneumonia, which the doctors hoped to arrest with penicillin. They were more worried about the blow he had received to his head.
‘There’s no fracture, but they are afraid of trauma to the brain. By about four o’clock, he didn’t really know what he was saying.’
‘How is his wife?’
‘She claims that they have no right to separate a couple who have been married thirty years and insists that either he be taken home or that she be allowed to stay in the hospital.’
‘Are they letting her?’
‘No.’
They were in the habit of strolling peacefully arm in arm to Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, and it didn’t take them long to choose a cinema. Maigret wasn’t fussy about films; in fact he always preferred a routine offering to some big studio production. Settling down in his seat, he would watch the images go by without worrying too much about the story. When he was in a down-to-earth cinema, in a thick fug of smoke, surrounded by people laughing at the good bits and eating chocolate ice creams and peanuts, and lovers kissing, he couldn’t be happier.
It was still cold and damp. When they came out of the cinema, they sat on a café terrace by a brazier and had a glass of beer, and it was eleven o’clock when they opened the door of the apartment and heard the telephone ringing.
‘Hello! Baron?’
‘It’s Vacher here, inspector. I came on duty at eight. I’ve been trying to reach you since nine.’
‘Is there any news?’
‘There’s an express letter for you. A woman’s handwriting. It has very urgent written in big letters. Do you want me to open it and read it to you?’
‘Please.’
‘Just a moment. Here we are:
Detective chief inspector,
I have to see you as soon as possible. It is a matter of life or death. I’m afraid I can’t leave my room and I don’t even know how I’ll get this message to you. Can you come and see me at the Hôtel de Bretagne, Rue Richer, almost directly opposite the Folies-Bergère? I am in Room 47. Don’t tell anyone. There’s probably someone watching the hotel.
Come, I beg you.’
The barely legible signature started with an M.
‘Probably Mado,’ said Vacher. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘What time was the letter sent?’
‘At ten past eight.’
‘I’m on my way. Anything else? Any news from Lucas and Torrence?’
‘Lucas is at Pozzo’s restaurant. Apparently Pozzo called him in, saying it was stupid standing on the pavement when it was warmer inside. He’s asking for instructions.’
‘Tell him to go to bed.’
Madame Maigret, who had been listening, merely sighed as Maigret looked for his hat. She was used to it.
‘Do you think you’ll come home tonight? In any case, you’d better take a scarf.’
He had a nip of sloe gin before leaving, then had to walk all the way to République before finding a taxi.
‘Rue Richer, opposite the Folies-Bergère.’
He knew the Hôtel de Bretagne, the first two floors of which were reserved for what the owners called casuals, prostitutes who brought in customers for an hour or less. The other rooms were rented by the week or month.
The theatre had closed its doors, and the street was deserted except for a few persistent women pacing up and down.
‘Want to go somewhere?’
He shrugged, entered a dimly lit hallway and knocked on a glass door to the right. A light came on.
‘Who is it?’ a voice muttered sleepily.
‘Room 47.’
‘Go on up . . .’
Behind the curtain, he could vaguely make out a man lying on a camp bed near the key rack. The man reached for a rubber bulb switch that opened the second door, then his hand froze in mid-air. He had needed a minute to come to; the number 47 hadn’t meant anything to him at first.
‘Nobody’s there,’ he grunted, lying back down.
‘Wait a moment. I need to talk to you.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Police!’
Maigret thought better of trying to understand the mutterings this provoked, which were clearly less than friendly. In his cubbyhole, the man got up from the bed where he had been sleeping fully dressed. Grim-faced, he came towards the glass door and turned the key in the lock. When he finally set eyes on Maigret, he frowned.
‘You’re not from Vice, are you?’
‘How do you know there’s no one in 47?’
‘Because the guy left several days ago, and I saw the woman go out a moment ago.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Maybe around nine thirty.’
‘Is she called Mado
?’
The night porter shrugged.
‘I only work nights and I don’t know people’s names. She gave in her key as she went out. Look, there it is on the board.’
‘Was the lady on her own?’
He didn’t answer immediately.
‘I’m asking you if the lady was on her own.’
‘What do you want from her? All right, no need to lose your temper! Somebody went up to see her a little earlier.’
‘A man?’
The porter was stunned that, in an establishment like that, someone could be naive enough to ask him such a question.
‘How long was he up there?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Did he ask for her room number?’
‘He didn’t ask anything at all. He went straight up without even looking at me. At that time, the doors aren’t locked.’
‘How do you know he went up to 47?’
‘Because he came back down with her.’
‘Have you got their check-in forms?’
‘No. The landlady keeps them in her office, which is locked.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In bed, with the landlord.’
‘Give me the key and go and wake her up. Tell her to come and meet me upstairs.’
The man gave Maigret an odd look, then sighed:
‘You don’t give up, do you? Can you prove you’re a policeman, at least?’
Maigret showed him his badge, then set off up the stairs, room key in hand. Room 47 was on the fifth floor; it was unremarkable: an iron bed, a washstand, a bidet, a rickety armchair and a chest of drawers.
The bed hadn’t been slept in. On the dubious-looking bedspread, a newspaper was opened out with the photographs of Charlie Cinaglia and Cicero on the front page. It was the evening edition, published around six o’clock. Anyone coming across the two men was requested as a matter of urgency to inform Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.
Was this why the woman who appeared to be called Mado had sent him an express letter?
In a corner of the room there were two suitcases: one old and battered, the other brand new. Both bore the labels of a Canadian shipping company. They weren’t locked. Maigret opened them and began spreading out their contents on the bed: women’s underwear and clothing, mainly new, bought in Montreal.
‘Don’t mind me,’ said a voice at the door.
It was the landlady of the hotel, breathless from climbing the stairs. She was small and tough, and her grey hair in metal curlers did nothing for her looks.
‘For a start, who are you?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Crime Squad.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To find out about the woman staying in this room.’
‘Why? What has she done?’
‘I’d give me her form and not argue, if I was you.’
She had brought it just in case but still only handed it over reluctantly.
‘You lot, you’ll never learn manners.’
She headed towards a connecting door, which was half open, clearly intending to shut it.
‘Wait a moment. Who’s staying in the next room?’
‘The lady’s husband. Is that forbidden?’
‘Leave the door alone. I see the couple are signed in under the name of Perkins: Monsieur et Madame Perkins of Montreal, Canada.’
‘So?’
‘Have you looked at their passports?’
‘I wouldn’t have let them stay if they hadn’t been in order.’
‘According to this form they arrived a month ago.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Can you describe John Perkins to me?’
‘A short, brown-haired man, in poor health, with eye trouble.’
‘Why do you say he has eye trouble?’
‘Because he always wore sunglasses, even at night. Has he done something wrong?’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘Brand new clothes from head to toe. It’s pretty common for newlyweds, isn’t it?’
‘Are they newlyweds?’
‘I guess so.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘They almost never left their rooms.’
‘Why did they have two rooms?’
‘That’s none of my business.’
‘Where did they have their meals?’
‘I didn’t ask. Monsieur Perkins must have eaten here because I don’t think I ever saw him go out during the day, especially not recently.’
‘What do you mean by recently?’
‘In the last week. Or the last couple of weeks.’
‘Didn’t he ever go out for some fresh air?’
‘Only in the evening.’
‘Wearing sunglasses?’
‘I’m telling you what I saw. Too bad if you don’t believe me.’
‘Did his wife go out?’
‘She’d go out to buy him something to eat. Once I even went up to check they weren’t cooking, because we don’t allow that here.’
‘So he made do with cold food for weeks.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Didn’t you think that was strange?’
‘Foreigners do stranger things than that.’
‘The night porter told me that Perkins left the hotel a few days ago. Can you remember when you saw him last?’
‘I don’t know. Sunday or Monday.’
‘Did he take any luggage?’
‘No.’
‘Did he say he was going to be gone for a while?’
‘He didn’t say anything at all. He could have told me whatever he wanted, and I wouldn’t have understood, because he didn’t speak a word of French.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘She speaks it like you and me.’
‘Without an accent?’
‘With something like a Belgian accent. Apparently that’s what a Canadian accent sounds like.’
‘Did they have Canadian passports?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know that Perkins had left?’
‘He went for a walk one evening, Sunday or Monday, as I’ve told you, and the following morning Lucile, who does the rooms on this floor, told me he’d gone, and that his wife seemed worried. If you’re going to be asking me questions for much longer, I should have a seat.’
She sat down in a dignified way and looked at him reproachfully.
‘Did the Perkins have visitors?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘Where’s the telephone?’
‘In the office, where I am all day. They never made telephone calls, either of them.’
‘Did they have post?’
‘They didn’t get a single letter.’
‘Did Madame Perkins pick up any from the post office?’
‘I didn’t follow her. Hey, are you sure you’re allowed to search through their belongings?’
While he was talking, Maigret had carried on emptying the two suitcases, the contents of which were now spread out on the bed.
Neither cheap nor expensive, the clothes were relatively good quality. The shoes had exaggeratedly high heels, and the underwear would have been more suited to a nightclub hostess than a newlywed.
‘I’d like to see next door.’
‘You might as well!’
She went in after him, as though to stop him taking anything. Here too there were new suitcases, bought in Montreal, and all the men’s clothes were new and had Canadian labels. It was as though the couple had suddenly decided to reinvent themselves and had snapped up everything they needed for their trip in a matter of hours. On the chest of drawers lay a dozen or so of the sort of American newspapers you can generally only find at a few stands on Place de l’Opéra and Place de la Madeleine.
No photographs. No papers. At the very bottom of one of the suitcases Maigret found a passport in the name of Mr and Mrs John Perkins of Montreal, Canada. According to the visas and stamps, the couple had embarked six we
eks earlier in Halifax, disembarked in Southampton and then entered France via Dieppe.
‘Have you got what you wanted?’
‘Does Lucile, the maid, live in the hotel?’
‘Her room’s on the seventh floor.’
‘Ask her to come down.’
‘Why not? It’s so handy being in the police, isn’t it. You can wake people up at any hour of the night, disturb their sleep . . .’
She carried on talking to herself as she went up the stairs.
Maigret discovered a bottle of blue ink that had been used to write the express letter. He also found some cold meat left on the window ledge to keep it cool.
Lucile was a small, dark woman with a squint, who had a habit of letting one of her limp breasts repeatedly slip out of her sky-blue dressing gown.
‘I don’t need you any more,’ Maigret told the landlady. ‘You can go back to bed.’
‘You’re too kind. Don’t let him intimidate you, Lucile.’
Lucile wasn’t remotely intimidated. The door had barely closed before she said almost ecstatically:
‘Is it true that you’re the famous Inspector Maigret?’
‘Sit down, Lucile. I’d like you to tell me everything you know about the Perkins.’
‘I always thought they were a strange couple.’
She found it in herself to blush.
‘Don’t you find it strange, people having separate bedrooms when they’re married?’
‘Didn’t they ever sleep in the same bed?’
‘Never.’
‘Are you sure they didn’t get together at night?’
‘Us maids, you see, can tell by the state of the bed in the morning if . . .’
She blushed even more deeply, temporarily tucking her breast back into her dressing gown.
‘In other words, you had the impression that they didn’t sleep together?’
‘I am pretty sure they didn’t.’
‘What time do you do the rooms?’
‘That depends what day it is. Sometimes around nine in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. With her room, I waited as far as possible until she went out. But he was always in his.’
‘How did he pass the time?’
‘Reading his big newspapers with their hundreds of pages, doing crosswords or writing letters.’
‘Did you see him write letters?’
Maigret, Lognon and the Gangsters Page 8
