Maigret at Picratt's

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Third floor.’

  He had drunk two more glasses of beer on the way, so his headache had gone. It was a narrow spiral staircase, and he counted the floors under his breath. He rang at a brown door. A stout woman with white hair opened it and looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘Madame Moncœur?’

  ‘What do you want with her?’

  ‘To talk to her.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  She was watching her stoves while a dark-skinned young girl was running an aromatic mixture through a food mill.

  ‘You worked for the Count and Countess von Farnheim, if I am not mistaken?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Police Judiciaire.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me you’re digging up that old story?’

  ‘Not exactly. Have you heard that the countess is dead?’

  ‘Happens to everyone. But no, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It was in the papers this morning.’

  ‘Do you think I read the papers? With bosses who give dinners for fifteen to twenty people almost every day?’

  ‘She was murdered.’

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘Why do you think it’s funny?’

  She did not offer him a chair and carried on working, talking to him as she would a supplier. She was obviously a woman who had been through hard times, not easily impressed.

  ‘I don’t know why I said that. Who killed her?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, that’s what I’m trying to establish. You continued working for her after her husband’s death?’

  ‘Only for two weeks. We did not get along.’

  ‘Why?’

  While keeping an eye on what the girl was doing, she opened the oven to baste a piece of chicken.

  ‘Because it wasn’t the job for me.’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t a respectable household?’

  ‘If you like. I am fond of my work and want people to sit down to eat on time and know roughly what they’re eating. That’s enough, Irma. Get the hardboiled eggs out of the fridge and separate the yolks from the whites.’

  She opened a bottle of Madeira and poured a long slug into a sauce, which she stirred slowly with a wooden spoon.

  ‘Do you remember Oscar Bonvoisin?’

  She gave him a look, as if to say, ‘So that’s what you were driving at!’

  But she didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did you hear my question?’

  ‘I’m not deaf.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘A valet.’

  He was surprised by her tone, and she added:

  ‘I don’t like valets. They’re all layabouts. Especially if they’re chauffeurs too. They think no one in the house exists except for them and carry on worse than the bosses.’

  ‘Was that the case with Bonvoisin?’

  ‘I don’t remember his last name. We always called him Oscar.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Good-looking, and he knew it. Well, there are some people who like that sort. I’m not one of them, and I told him so straight to his face.’

  ‘Did he run after you?’

  ‘In his way.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Why are you asking me all this?’

  ‘Because I need to know.’

  ‘You think he might have killed the countess?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Of the three of them, Irma was the most transfixed by their conversation. She was so alarmed to be at one remove from a real crime that she did not know what she was doing any more.

  ‘Well? Have you forgotten you’ve got to mash the yolks?’

  ‘Can you describe him physically to me?’

  ‘As he was then, yes. But I don’t know what he’s like now.’

  As she said that there was a glint in her eye, which Maigret noticed.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he insisted. ‘You’ve never seen him since?’

  ‘That’s just what I’m thinking. I’m not certain. A few weeks ago, I went to see my brother who runs a little café and I saw a man in the street who I thought I recognized. He was looking at me closely too, as if he was trying to remember something. Then I suddenly had the feeling he started walking very fast and looking the other way.’

  ‘You thought it was Oscar?’

  ‘Not immediately. It vaguely occurred to me afterwards, and now I would almost swear it was him.’

  ‘Where is your brother’s café?’

  ‘Rue Caulaincourt.’

  ‘You thought you recognized the former valet on a street in Montmartre?’

  ‘Just around the corner from Place Clichy.’

  ‘Now, try to tell me what sort of man he was.’

  ‘I don’t like snitching.’

  ‘You’d rather let a murderer go free?’

  ‘If he’s only killed the countess, he hasn’t done any great harm.’

  ‘If he killed her, he’s killed at least one other woman, and there’s nothing to say he’ll stop there.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘It’s his bad luck then, isn’t it? He wasn’t tall. Short, if anything. And that annoyed him so much he’d wear high heels like a woman to make himself taller. I used to tease him about it, and he’d give me a filthy look, without saying a word.’

  ‘Did he talk much?’

  ‘He was very taciturn, never said what he was doing or what he was thinking. He was very dark-skinned, with thick, wiry hair and a low forehead, and he had thick black eyebrows. Some women thought they made his eyes irresistible. I didn’t. He’d stare at you in a self-satisfied way, as if he thought he was the only person in the world and you were just a piece of shit. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Go on.’

  Now she had started, she didn’t hold back. She was on the move constantly in that kitchen full of delicious smells, juggling pots and utensils, occasionally darting the odd glance at the electric clock.

  ‘He had his way with Antoinette, and she was crazy about him. Maria too.’

  ‘You mean the maid and the kitchen maid?’

  ‘Yes. And there were others, who passed through the house before them. It was the sort of place where the servants didn’t stay long. You never knew if the old man or the countess was in charge. You know what I mean? Oscar didn’t run after them, to use your expression just now. As soon as he clapped eyes on a new servant, he just looked at her as if he was taking possession of her. Then, the first night, he’d go upstairs and march into her room as if everything had been agreed. You get other men like him, who think we can’t resist them. Antoinette shed her share of tears.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was really in love with him and for a while she hoped he would marry her. But once he’d had his way with a girl, he’d leave without saying anything. Next day, he wouldn’t take any notice of them. Never a kind word. Never a nice gesture. Until he’d get the urge again and he’d be back upstairs knocking on their door. It didn’t stop him getting whatever he wanted, though, and not just with the servants.’

  ‘You think he slept with the lady of the house?’

  ‘Not more than two days after the count died.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I saw him coming out of her room at six in the morning. That’s one of the reasons I left. When the servants start sharing their bosses’ beds, it’s all over.’

  ‘Did he act like the master of the house?’

  ‘He did whatever he wanted. It was as though no one could give him orders any more.’

  ‘It never occurred to you that the count might have been murdered?’

  ‘It was none of my business.’

  ‘But did you think it?’

  ‘Didn’t the police too? Why else would they have questioned us?’

  ‘Could it have been Oscar?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. She was probably just as capable of it as he was.’

  ‘You continued working in
Nice?’

  ‘In Nice and Monte-Carlo. I like the climate in the south, and it’s only by chance that I followed my bosses to Paris and I’m here now.’

  ‘You haven’t heard of the countess since?’

  ‘I’ve seen her round and about once or twice, but we don’t go to the same places.’

  ‘And Oscar?’

  ‘I never saw him in the south again. I don’t think he stayed on the Côte.’

  ‘But you think you spotted him a few weeks ago. Describe him to me.’

  ‘You can tell you’re in the police. You think that when you meet someone in the street, you’ve got nothing better to do than make a note of their description.’

  ‘Has he aged?’

  ‘As much as I have. He’s fifteen years older.’

  ‘Which makes him in his fifties.’

  ‘I’m almost ten years older than him. Another three or four years working for other people and I’m retiring to a small house that I’ve bought in Cagnes, where the only cooking I’ll do is what I’m going to eat. Fried eggs and chops.’

  ‘Do you remember how he was dressed?’

  ‘On Place Clichy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was in pretty dark clothes. I wouldn’t say black, but dark, definitely. He was wearing a big overcoat and gloves. I noticed the gloves. He was very smart.’

  ‘His hair?’

  ‘He wasn’t walking around in winter with his hat in his hand.’

  ‘Was he greying at the temples?’

  ‘I think so. But that’s not what struck me.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘That he’d put on weight. He was broad-shouldered as he was before. He used to make a point of walking around bare-chested because he was incredibly muscular, and that impressed the women. You wouldn’t have thought he was that strong, if you saw him when he was dressed. Nowadays, if he’s who I ran into, he looks a bit like a bull. His neck has thickened, and he seems even shorter.’

  ‘Have you heard from Antoinette?’

  ‘She died. Not long afterwards.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘A miscarriage. At least that’s what I was told.’

  ‘And Maria Pinaco?’

  ‘I don’t know if she’s still going: the last time I saw her, she was on the game, working on Cours Albert-Premier, in Nice.’

  ‘Was that long ago?’

  ‘Two years. Maybe a bit more.’

  She was curious enough to ask:

  ‘How was the countess killed?’

  ‘Strangled.’

  She didn’t say anything, but seemed not to think that was too out of keeping with Oscar’s character.

  ‘And who’s the other one?’

  ‘A girl you won’t have known; she was only twenty.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me that I’m an old woman.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. She’s from Lisieux, and there’s nothing to suggest that she ever lived in the south. All I know is that she went to La Bourboule.’

  ‘Near Le Mont-Dore?’

  ‘In the Auvergne, yes.’

  She suddenly looked at Maigret with a thoughtful expression.

  ‘I’ve started snitching, so I guess …’ she muttered. ‘Oscar was from the Auvergne. I don’t know exactly where, but he had a bit of an accent, and when I wanted to rile him, I’d call him a charcoal-seller. He’d go deathly pale. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you made yourself scarce, because my people are sitting down to eat in half an hour, and I need my kitchen to myself.’

  ‘I may come back and see you again.’

  ‘As long as you’re only as unpleasant as you were today! What’s your name?’

  ‘Maigret.’

  He saw the girl, who must read the papers, give a start, but the cook had clearly never heard of him.

  ‘Easy name to remember. Especially because you’re on the fat side. Actually, to finish off about Oscar, he’s roughly as big as you nowadays, but shorter by a head. Can you picture that?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. One thing, though: if you do arrest him, I’d just as soon not be called as a witness. Bosses never like it. And lawyers ask you loads of questions to try to make you look stupid. I did it once and I swore I’d never fall for that trick again. So don’t count on me.’

  She closed the door quietly behind him, and Maigret had to walk the length of the avenue before he found a taxi. Instead of getting it to take him to Quai des Orfèvres, he went home for lunch. He got to the Police Judiciaire around 2.30, by which point the snow had stopped completely and the streets were covered with a thin layer of slippery, blackish mud.

  When he opened the door of the box room, it was blue with smoke, and there were twenty or so cigarettes in the ashtray. Torrence had smoked them all because Philippe was not a smoker. There was a tray with the remains of some sandwiches and five empty beer glasses.

  ‘Will you come here for a moment?’

  Once they were in the next-door office, Torrence mopped his brow and relaxed, sighing:

  ‘He’s exhausting, that guy. He’s as limp as a rag doll, there’s nothing to get hold of. Twice I thought he’s going to talk. I’m sure he’s got something to say. His resistance seemed shot. His eyes begged for mercy. Then at the last second, he changes his mind and swears he doesn’t know anything. It makes me sick. Just now, he drove me so crazy I smacked him full in the face. Do you know what he did?’

  Maigret didn’t say anything.

  ‘He held his cheek and started whining as if he was talking to another fairy like him, “You’re mean!” I mustn’t do it again, I bet it excites him.’

  Maigret could not help smiling.

  ‘Shall I keep at it?’

  ‘Have another go. Maybe we’ll try something else in a minute. Has he had anything to eat?’

  ‘He picked half-heartedly at a sandwich with his pinkie in the air. You can tell he’s missing the morphine. If I promised to give him some maybe he’d talk. The Drug Squad must have some, don’t they?’

  ‘I’ll talk to the chief. But don’t say anything for now. Just keep hammering away at him.’

  Torrence looked around at the familiar setting, took a deep breath and then plunged back into the depressing atmosphere of the box room.

  ‘Any news, Lapointe?’

  Lapointe had been on the telephone virtually all morning, making do with a sandwich and a glass of beer like Torrence.

  ‘A dozen Bonvoisins, but no Oscar Bonvoisin.’

  ‘Try to get La Bourboule on the telephone. You might have more luck there.’

  ‘Have you had a tip-off?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘The cook?’

  ‘She thinks she ran into him in Paris recently and, more interestingly, she says it was in Montmartre.’

  ‘Why La Bourboule?’

  ‘First because he is from the Auvergne, and secondly because Arlette apparently had a significant encounter there five years ago.’

  Maigret wasn’t too convinced.

  ‘No news from Lognon?’

  He telephoned the station on Rue de La Rochefoucauld himself, but Inspector Lognon had only dropped by for a second.

  ‘He said he was working for you and would be out all day.’

  Maigret spent a quarter of an hour pacing up and down his office, smoking his pipe. Then he seemed to come to a decision and headed for the commissioner’s office.

  ‘What’s the latest, Maigret? You weren’t at the briefing this morning.’

  ‘I was asleep,’ he admitted right out.

  ‘Have you seen the afternoon papers?’

  He made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘They’re wondering if there’s going to be other women strangled.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the countess and Arlette weren’t killed by a maniac. Anything but: it was a man who knew exactly what he was doing.’

  ‘Have you discovered his identity?’<
br />
  ‘Perhaps. Probably.’

  ‘Do you expect to arrest him today?’

  ‘We’d need to know where he sleeps at night, and I haven’t the slightest idea. It’s most likely somewhere in Montmartre. There is only one scenario where there could be another victim.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘If Arlette talked to anyone else. If she confided in one of her girlfriends at Picratt’s, Betty or Tania, for instance.’

  ‘You’ve questioned them?’

  ‘They’re not saying anything. The owner, Fred, isn’t saying anything. The Grasshopper isn’t saying anything. And that nasty little worm Philippe isn’t saying anything either, despite being under interrogation since this morning. He knows something, that fellow, I’d swear to it. He saw the countess regularly. She kept him supplied with morphine.’

  ‘Where did she get it?’

  ‘From her doctor.’

  ‘Have you arrested him?’

  ‘Not yet. That’s the Drug Squad’s affair. I’ve been wondering for the last hour whether I should risk something or not.’

  ‘What’s at stake?’

  ‘Us having another dead body on our hands. That’s what I want to ask your advice about. I’m sure that by going about things in the ordinary way, we’ll end up getting our hands on this Bonvoisin character, who is most likely the two women’s murderer. But it could take days or weeks. It’ll be luck more than anything else. And, unless I am very mistaken, he’s a sly one. Until we have him in handcuffs, he could kill someone, or a number of people, who know too much.’

  ‘What’s the risk you want to take?’

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted to.’

  The commissioner smiled.

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘If Philippe knows something, as I’m convinced he does, Oscar must be worried at the moment. I just have to tell the newspapers that Philippe was interrogated for several hours to no effect and then release him.’

  ‘I’m beginning to understand.’

  ‘One possibility is that Philippe will rush to Oscar’s house, but I’m not banking on that. Unless it’s the only way for him to get the drugs he is starting to need desperately badly.’

  ‘The other possibility?’

  The chief had already guessed.

  ‘Exactly. You can’t trust an addict. Philippe hasn’t talked, but that does not mean he’ll hold his tongue for ever, Oscar knows that.’