Maigret Enjoys Himself
Page 15
‘Is Monsieur Gilles in his office?’
The receptionist nodded. The porter went and knocked at a door in the left-hand corner.
‘Excuse me, Monsieur Gilles. I just had René go up to the colonel’s suite. Apparently, he’s dead in his bath …’
Monsieur Gilles was wearing striped trousers and a black cheviot jacket. He turned to his secretary.
‘Call Dr Frère immediately. He must be busy doing his rounds. See if he can be reached …’
Monsieur Gilles knew things of which the police were as yet unaware. So did the porter, Monsieur Albert.
‘What do you think, Albert?’
‘The same as you, I guess.’
‘You heard about the countess?’
A nod of the head sufficed.
‘I’m going up.’
But, as he had no desire to go alone, he chose one of the young men in morning coat and slicked-back hair from reception to accompany him. Passing the porter, who had resumed his usual place, he said to him:
‘Ask the nurse to come down to 347 immediately.’
The lobby was not empty, as it had been during the night. The three Americans were still discussing which plane to take. A couple who had just arrived were filling in their form at reception. The florist was at her post, as were the newspaper seller and the employee who handled theatre tickets. A few people sat waiting in armchairs, among them the senior sales assistant from a well-known dress shop with a box full of dresses.
Upstairs, standing by the bathroom door in suite 347, the manager did not dare look at the colonel’s obese body, which lay curiously in the bath, the head underwater, only the belly emerging.
‘Get me the—’
He changed his mind when he heard the telephone ringing in the next room. He rushed to it.
‘Monsieur Gilles?’
It was the switchboard operator’s voice.
‘I reached Dr Frère as he was visiting a patient in Rue François-Ier. He’ll be here in a few minutes.’
‘Who am I supposed to be calling?’ the young man from reception asked.
The police, obviously. There was no getting away from them in situations like this. But although Monsieur Gilles knew the local chief inspector, the two men didn’t get on well. Plus, the local police sometimes behaved with a tactlessness that ill suited a hotel like the George-V.
‘Get me the Police Judiciaire.’
‘Who shall I ask for?’
‘The commissioner.’
They had met several times at dinners, and although they had only exchanged a few words, that was enough of an introduction.
‘Hello? Is that the commissioner? … I’m sorry to disturb you, Monsieur Benoit. Gilles here, manager of the George-V. Something has just … I mean, I’ve just discovered …’
He no longer knew how to come out with it.
‘Unfortunately, this is a very important figure we’re talking about, someone known around the world … Colonel Ward … That’s right, David Ward … One of the members of my staff just found him dead in his bath … No, that’s all I know. I thought it best to call you immediately … I’m expecting the doctor any moment now … I don’t need to tell you that this requires …’
Discretion, of course. He had no desire to see reporters and photographers besieging the hotel.
‘No … No, of course not. I promise we won’t touch a thing. I’ll stay in the suite in person … Ah, here’s Dr Frère. Would you like to speak to him?’
The doctor, who as yet knew nothing, took the receiver that was held out to him.
‘Dr Frère speaking … Yes … I was with a patient and have only just arrived … What’s that? … I can’t say he’s a patient of mine, but I know him … I did once treat him for a mild bout of flu … What? Oh, no, very robust, in spite of the life he leads – led, I should say … I’m sorry, I haven’t yet seen the body … Of course … Yes … Yes … I understand … Good day, commissioner … Would you like to speak to him again? … No?’
He hung up.
‘Where is he?’
‘In the bath.’
‘The commissioner asks that nothing be touched until he’s sent someone.’
Monsieur Gilles turned to the young receptionist.
‘You can go down now. Keep an eye open for the people from the police and make sure they come up discreetly. And no chatting about this in the lobby, please … Have you got that?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
The telephone rang in Maigret’s office.
‘Could you come and see me for a moment?’
It was the third time Maigret had been disturbed since he had started his report on the armed robbery. He relit the pipe he had let go out, walked down the corridor and knocked at the commissioner’s door.
‘Come in, Maigret. Sit down.’
Rays of sunlight were starting to mingle with the rain, and there were some on the commissioner’s brass ashtray.
‘Do you know Colonel Ward?’
‘I’ve read his name in the papers. He’s the one who’s been married three or four times, isn’t he?’
‘He’s just been found dead in his bath at the George-V.’
Absorbed as he was by the case of the armed robbery, Maigret did not react.
‘I think it best if you go there yourself. The doctor, who’s more or less attached to the hotel, has just told me that the colonel was still in excellent health yesterday and that as far as he knows he never suffered from heart problems … The press are bound to get hold of it, not just the French press, the foreign papers, too.’
Maigret hated these cases involving well-known people, cases that needed to be handled with kid gloves.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
Once again, his report would have to wait. Grouchily, he opened the door to the inspectors’ room, wondering who to take with him. Janvier was there, but he, too, was busy with the armed robbery.
‘Go to my office and try to carry on with my report … Lapointe!’
Young Lapointe looked up, clearly pleased.
‘Get your hat. You’re coming with me.’
Then, to Lucas:
‘If anyone asks for me, I’ll be at the George-V.’
‘Is it about the attempted suicide?’
Having blurted it out without thinking, Lucas turned red.
‘What attempted suicide?’
‘The countess …’ Lucas stammered.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘There was something in this morning’s reports about a countess with an Italian name who tried to kill herself at George-V. The only reason I didn’t tell you—’
‘Where’s the report?’
Lucas searched through the papers heaped on his desk and pulled out an official sheet.
‘She isn’t dead. That’s why …’
Maigret skimmed through a few lines.
‘Has anyone questioned her?’
‘I don’t know. Someone from the eighth arrondissement went to the hospital in Neuilly. I don’t yet know if she’s in a fit state to speak.’
What Maigret didn’t know was that, the night before, just before two in the morning, Countess Palmieri and Colonel David Ward had got out of a taxi outside the George-V, and the porter hadn’t been surprised to see them coming to collect their keys together.
Nor had Jules, the floor waiter, been surprised when, called to the countess’s suite, number 332, he had found the colonel there.
‘The usual, Jules!’ the colonel had said.
That meant a bottle of Krug 1947 and an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker: the colonel didn’t trust whisky he hadn’t opened himself.
Lucas, who had been expecting a reprimand, was even more mortified when Maigret looked at him with a surprised air, as if such a lack of judgement, coming from his longest-standing colleague, was impossible to believe.
‘Come with me, Lapointe!’
They passed a petty crook Maigret had summoned.
‘Come b
ack this afternoon.’
‘What time, chief?’
‘Whenever you like.’
‘Shall I take a car?’ Lapointe asked.
They chose a car, and Lapointe took the wheel. At the George-V, the doorman had his instructions.
‘Leave it. I’ll park it.’
Everyone had instructions. As the two police officers advanced, the door opened, and in the twinkling of an eye they found themselves at the door of suite 347. The manager, informed of their arrival, was waiting for them.
Maigret hadn’t often had occasion to work at the George-V, but he had nevertheless been called there two or three times and he knew Monsieur Gilles, whose hand he shook. Doctor Frère was in the sitting room, waiting by the pedestal table, on which he had placed his instrument case. He was a calm, pleasant man with a long list of patients, a man who knew almost as many secrets as Maigret himself. Only, he moved in a different world, one the police rarely had occasion to enter.
‘Dead?’
He nodded.
‘About what time?’
‘We’ll only know for certain after the post mortem, if, as I assume, a post mortem is ordered.’
‘Couldn’t it have been an accident?’
‘Come and see …’
Maigret was no happier than Monsieur Gilles at the sight of the naked body in the bath.
‘I haven’t moved him. There was no point, medically speaking. At first sight, it could have been one of those accidents that happen more often in baths than you might think. Someone slips, his head hits the edge …’
‘I know. Only, that doesn’t leave any marks on the shoulders. Is that what you meant?’
Like the doctor, Maigret had noticed two darker patches, similar to bruises, on the dead man’s shoulders.
‘You think he was helped, is that it?’
‘I don’t know. I’d rather the pathologist pronounced on that.’
‘When did you last see him alive?’
‘About a week ago, when I came to give the countess an injection.’
Monsieur Gilles’ face clouded over. Had he been hoping to avoid the matter of the countess coming up?
‘A countess with an Italian name?’
‘Countess Palmieri.’
‘The one who tried to commit suicide last night?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure it was a serious attempt. It’s true she took barbiturates. In fact, I knew she used them regularly at night. She took a larger than usual dose, but I doubt she ingested enough of them to cause death.’
‘A fake suicide, in other words?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering.’
They were both accustomed to women – almost always pretty women! – who, after a quarrel, a disappointment, a love affair, take just enough sleeping pills to present the symptoms of poisoning, but without putting their lives in danger.
‘You say the colonel was present when you gave the countess an injection?’
‘Whenever she was in Paris, I’d give her two a week. Vitamins B and C. It wasn’t anything serious. Over-exertion … if you know what I mean.’
‘And the colonel?’
Monsieur Gilles preferred to answer this question himself.
‘The colonel and the countess were very close. They each had their own suite, I always wondered why, because—’
‘Was he her lover?’
‘It was an open secret, you might almost say it was official. About two years ago, unless I’m mistaken, the colonel asked his wife for a divorce and, in their set, it was expected that once he was free he would marry the countess.’
Maigret almost asked, with false naivety:
‘What set is that?’
But what was the point? The telephone rang, and Lapointe looked at his chief to know what to do. It was obvious that he was overawed by the surroundings.
‘Answer it.’
‘Hello? … What? … Yes, he’s here … That’s right, it’s me.’
‘Who is it?’ Maigret asked.
‘Lucas would like a word.’
‘Hello, Lucas.’
To make up for the morning’s blunder, Lucas had got in touch with the American Hospital in Neuilly.
‘I’m sorry, chief. I’ll never forgive myself. Has she come back to the hotel?’
Having been left alone in her room, Countess Palmieri had got up and walked out of the hospital without anyone thinking of stopping her.
THE BEGINNING
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First published in French as Maigret s’amuse by Presses de la Cité 1957
This translation first published 2017
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1957
Translation copyright © David Watson, 2017
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert/Magnum Photos
Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-141-98588-6