Madame Maigret's Friend

by Georges Simenon

He took a taxi to the Champs-Élysées, got out opposite the hotel and headed straight for the porter’s office. The night porter, a man he’d known for years, was already on duty, which was an advantage, because night porters usually know more about the guests than day ones.

  His arrival in a place like this always had the same effect. He could see the receptionists, the assistant manager and even the lift operator frowning and wondering what was wrong. Nobody in a luxury hotel likes a scandal, and the presence of an inspector from the Police Judiciaire is rarely a good omen.

  ‘How are you, Benoît?’

  ‘Not bad, Monsieur Maigret. The Americans are starting to tip.’

  ‘Is the Countess Panetti still staying here?’

  ‘She left at least a month ago. Would you like me to check the exact date?’

  ‘Was her family with her?’

  ‘What family?’

  It was a quiet hour. Most of the guests were out, at the theatre or at dinner. In the gilded light, the page boys stood by the marble columns, their arms dangling, watching Maigret from a distance: they all knew him by sight.

  ‘I never knew she had a family. She’s been coming here for years and—’

  ‘Tell me something. Have you ever seen the countess in a white hat?’

  ‘Definitely. She got one a few days before she left.’

  ‘Did she also wear a blue tailored suit?’

  ‘No. You’re getting mixed up, Monsieur Maigret. The one in the blue suit was her maid, or lady’s companion or whatever, anyway the young lady who travels with her.’

  ‘You’ve never seen the Countess Panetti in a blue suit?’

  ‘If you knew her, you wouldn’t ask me that.’

  On the off-chance, Maigret showed him the women’s photographs selected by Moers. ‘Do any of these look like her?’

  Benoît looked at Maigret in astonishment. ‘Are you sure you’re not making a mistake? You’re showing me pictures of women who aren’t even thirty, but the countess can’t be far off seventy. You should ask your colleagues in the vice squad, they must know her.

  ‘We see all kinds here. Well, the countess is one of our most eccentric guests.’

  ‘First of all, do you know who she is?’

  ‘She’s the widow of Count Panetti, an Italian industrialist, big in munitions.

  ‘She lives all over the place, in Paris, Cannes, Egypt. I think she also spends a season in Vichy every year.’

  ‘Does she drink?’

  ‘She drinks champagne like water, I wouldn’t be surprised if she cleans her teeth with Pommery brut! She dresses like a young girl, makes up like a doll, and spends most of her nights in cabarets.’

  ‘What about her maid?’

  ‘I don’t know her very well. She changes them a lot. I only saw this one this year. Last year, she had a tall redhead, a masseuse by profession, because she has a massage every day.’

  ‘Do you know the latest one’s name?’

  ‘Gloria something. I don’t have her form any more, but they’ll tell you at the office. I don’t know if she’s Italian or just from the south. Toulouse, maybe?’

  ‘Short, with brown hair?’

  ‘Yes, elegant, pleasant, pretty. I didn’t see that much of her. She didn’t have a servant’s room, but lived in the suite and had her meals with her mistress.’

  ‘No men?’

  ‘Just the son-in-law, who came to see them from time to time.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not long before they left. You’ll have to ask reception for the dates. He didn’t live in the hotel.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Krynker, I think. He’s Czech or Hungarian.’

  ‘Brown hair, quite fat, about forty?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Much younger, with very fair hair. Only just thirty, I’d say.’

  They were interrupted by a group of Americans in evening dress who were handing in their keys and asking for a taxi.

  ‘As for whether he really was her son-in-law …’

  ‘Did she have affairs?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t say yes or no.’

  ‘Did the son-in-law ever spend the night here?’

  ‘No. But they went out together several times.’

  ‘With the maid?’

  ‘She never went out in the evening with the countess. I never even saw her dressed up.’

  ‘Do you know where they went after they left here?’

  ‘To London, if my memory serves me well. Hold on, though. I’ve just remembered something. Ernest! Come here. Don’t be afraid. Didn’t the Countess Panetti leave her big luggage?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When our guests have to be away for a while,’ Benoît explained, ‘they sometimes leave some of their luggage here. We have a special store room for it. The countess left her trunks there.’

  ‘Did she say when she’d be back?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Did she leave alone?’

  ‘With her maid.’

  ‘In a taxi?’

  ‘For that you’d have to ask the day porter. He’ll be here tomorrow from eight o’clock.’

  Maigret took the photograph of Moss from his pocket.

  The porter merely glanced at it and grimaced. ‘You won’t find him here.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Paterson. I knew him by the name Mosselaer when I was working in Milan about fifteen years ago. He’s on file in all the big hotels and doesn’t dare show up in them any more. He knows he wouldn’t be given a room, wouldn’t even be allowed to cross the lobby.’

  ‘Have you seen him lately?’

  ‘No. If I met him, I’d start by asking him to give me back the hundred lire he borrowed from me once and never gave back.’

  ‘Does your day colleague have a phone?’

  ‘You can always try to call him at his home in Saint-Cloud, but he doesn’t often answer. He doesn’t like to be disturbed in the evening and usually takes the phone off the hook.’

  But he did answer. Music could be heard from the radio in the background.

  ‘The head porter might tell you more. I don’t remember calling her a taxi. Usually, when she leaves the hotel, I’m the one who gets the coach or plane tickets.’

  ‘You didn’t do that this time?’

  ‘Now that I come to think of it, no. Maybe she left in a private car.’

  ‘You don’t know if her son-in-law, Krynker, had a car?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A big chocolate-brown American car.’

  ‘Many thanks. I’ll probably see you tomorrow morning.’

  He went over to reception, where the assistant manager, in a black jacket and striped trousers, insisted on personally looking through the records.

  ‘She left the hotel on the evening of February 16th. I have her bill right here.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘I see two lunches that day. She must have eaten with her maid.’

  ‘Can you let me have that bill?’

  The bill would show the daily expenses the countess had incurred while at the hotel, and Maigret wanted to study it at his leisure.

  ‘Provided you give it back to me! Otherwise we’ll have problems with the tax people. By the way, why are the police investigating someone like the Countess Panetti?’

  Preoccupied, Maigret almost replied: because of my wife!

  He caught himself in ti
me and grunted, ‘I don’t know yet. Something to do with a hat.’

  6.

  The Vert-Galant Laundry Boat

  Maigret walked through the revolving door and saw the garlands of lights on the Champs-Élysées. In the rain, they had always made him think of tear-stained eyes. He was getting ready to walk towards the Rond-Point when he frowned. There against the trunk of a tree, beside a flower seller sheltering from the rain, Janvier stood looking at him with a pitiful, comical air, as if trying to tell him something.

  Maigret walked over to him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Janvier pointed to a figure silhouetted against one of the few lighted shop windows. It was Alfonsi, who seemed to be taking a great interest in a display of trunks.

  ‘He’s been following you. Which means I’ve been following you too.’

  ‘Did he see Liotard after his visit to Rue de Turenne?’

  ‘No. He phoned him.’

  ‘Call it a day. Can I give you a lift home?’

  Janvier lived in Rue Réaumur, almost on Maigret’s route.

  Alfonsi watched them both leaving. He looked surprised and disconcerted. Then, as Maigret hailed a taxi, he made up his mind, turned and walked away in the direction of the Étoile.

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Lots. Almost too much.’

  ‘Do you want me to keep tailing Alfonsi tomorrow morning?’

  ‘No. Drop by the office. There’ll probably be work for everyone.’

  Once Janvier had got out, Maigret said to the driver, ‘Go via Rue de Turenne.’

  It wasn’t late. He was vaguely hoping the lights would be on at the bookbinder’s. This would have been the ideal moment to have a long talk with Fernande, as he’d been wanting to do for a long time.

  Seeing a reflection on the window, he got out of the taxi, but then he noticed that everything was dark inside, hesitated to knock, and set off again for the Quai des Orfèvres, where he found Torrence on duty and gave him some instructions.

  Madame Maigret had just got into bed when he tiptoed into the room. As he undressed in the dark, in order not to wake her, she asked, ‘What about the hat?’

  ‘It was definitely bought by the Countess Panetti.’

  ‘Did you see her?’

  ‘No. But she’s about seventy-five.’

  He went to bed in a bad mood, preoccupied, and not only was it still raining when he woke up, he then cut himself shaving.

  ‘Are you continuing with your investigation?’ he asked his wife as she served him his breakfast with her hair in curlers.

  ‘Do I have anything else to do?’ she said, straight-faced.

  ‘I don’t know. Now that you’ve started …’

  He bought a newspaper at the corner of Boulevard Voltaire. There was no new statement from Philippe Liotard, no new challenge. The night porter at Claridge’s had been discreet, because there was no mention of the countess either.

  At the Quai, Lucas had received his instructions when relieving Torrence, and the machine was already in full swing. Now they were looking for the Italian countess on the Riviera and in foreign capitals, while simultaneously taking an interest in Krynker and the maid.

  On the platform of the bus in the drizzle, a traveller opposite Maigret was reading a newspaper, with a headline that gave the inspector food for thought.

  The investigation is getting nowhere

  How many people were dealing with it at this very hour? They were still watching the stations, the ports, the airports. They were still searching hotels and rooming houses, they were trying to track down Alfred Moss not only in Paris, not only in France, but in London, Brussels, Amsterdam and Rome.

  Maigret walked along Rue de Turenne, went into the Tabac des Vosges to buy a packet of shag and took the opportunity to have a glass of white wine. There were no reporters, but only local people who were starting to become disenchanted.

  The bookbinder’s door was closed. He knocked, soon saw Fernande emerge from the basement by the spiral staircase – in curlers, like Madame Maigret. She hesitated when she recognized him through the window, but then came and opened the door.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you for a moment.’

  It was cold on the staircase, because the stove hadn’t been lit.

  ‘Do you prefer to go downstairs?’

  He followed her into the kitchen, which she had been busy cleaning when he had disturbed her.

  She seemed tired too, with a kind of discouragement in her eyes.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? I have some made.’

  He accepted and sat down at the table. She eventually sat down opposite him, pulling the edges of her dressing gown together across her bare legs.

  ‘Alfonsi came to see you again yesterday. What does he want?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s mainly interested in the questions you ask me. He says I shouldn’t trust you.’

  ‘Did you tell him about the attempted poisoning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me to keep quiet. I can’t remember how it came into the conversation. He’s working for Liotard, so it’s natural he should know these things.’

  ‘Have you had any other visitors?’

  He had the impression she hesitated, but it may have been the effect of the exhaustion afflicting her. She had poured herself a full bowl of coffee. She must have been drinking a lot of black coffee to keep going.

  ‘No. None at all.’

  ‘Did you tell your husband why you weren’t bringing him his meals any more?’

  ‘I had a chance to warn him. Thanks for that.’

  ‘Has anybody phoned you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I sometimes hear the phone ring. But by the time I get upstairs, there’s nobody on the line.’

  He took the photograph of Alfred Moss from his pocket. ‘Do you know this man?’

  She looked at the photograph, then at Maigret, and said quite naturally, ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Alfred, my husband’s brother.’

  ‘Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘I almost never see him. Sometimes, more than a year goes by without his coming here. He lives abroad most of the time.’

  ‘Do you know what he does?’

  ‘Not exactly. Frans says he’s a loser, a failure, someone who’s never had any luck.’

  ‘Has he ever talked to you about his profession?’

  ‘I know he used to work in a circus, that he was an acrobat, and that he fell and broke his spine.’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘Isn’t he some kind of impresario?’

  ‘You know he doesn’t call himself Steuvels like his brother, but Moss? Do you have any idea why?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She seemed reluctant to continue. She looked at the photograph Maigret had left on the kitchen table, near the coffee bowls, then stood up to switch off the gas under the pan of water.

  ‘I suppose I guessed most of it. Maybe if you asked Frans about it he’d tell you more. You know his parents were very poor, but that’s not the whole truth. In fact, his mother did the same work I used to, in Ghent, or rather in some dubious suburb of the town.

  ‘On top of that, she drank. I suspect she may have been half mad. She had seven or eight children, but in most cases didn’t know who their fathers were.

  ‘It was Frans who chose the name Steuvels late
r. His mother’s name was Mosselaer.’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘I think so. He doesn’t like to talk about her.’

  ‘Has he kept in touch with his brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Alfred is the only one who comes to see him from time to time, but not very often. He must have his highs and lows. Sometimes he seems prosperous, he’s well dressed, comes here in a taxi, brings gifts. At other times he’s quite shabby.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Let me see now. It must have been at least two months ago.’

  ‘Did he stay for dinner?’

  ‘Yes, as usual.’

  ‘Tell me, during these visits, did your husband ever try to send you out of the house for any reason?’

  ‘No. Why should he? They sometimes stayed alone in the workshop, but from downstairs, where I was cooking, it was easy to hear what they were saying.’

  ‘What did they talk about?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. Moss liked to reminisce about the time when he was an acrobat and the countries where he’s lived. He was almost always the one who referred to their childhood and their mother, that’s how I know about it.’

  ‘Alfred is the younger of the two, I assume?’

  ‘By three or four years. Afterwards, Frans would sometimes walk him to the corner of the street. That’s the only time I wasn’t with them.’

  ‘Did they ever talk business?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Did Alfred ever come with friends, women friends for example?’

  ‘I always saw him alone. I think he was married once. I’m not sure. I have a feeling he mentioned it. He was in love with a woman, but it didn’t work out well.’

  It was quiet and warm in this little kitchen, from where you could see nothing of the outside world and where it was necessary to keep the light on all day. Maigret would have liked to have Frans Steuvels there in front of him and talk to him as he was talking to his wife.

  ‘You told me when I was last here that he almost never went out without you. But he did go to the bank from time to time.’

  ‘I don’t call that going out. It’s just round the corner. All he had to do was cross Place des Vosges.’