In the suite, the shutters were closed, and a lamp was still lit on a table in the sitting room. The lights were also on in the bedroom, the bed made up for the night, the pyjamas laid out.
‘Colonel Ward?’
There were dark clothes on a chair, socks on the carpet, and a pair of shoes, one of them upside down, showing the heel.
‘Colonel Ward!’
The bathroom door was ajar. The porter’s assistant first knocked, then opened the door and simply said:
‘Monsieur!’
He almost telephoned from the room, but was so reluctant to stay there that he preferred to leave the suite, closing the door behind him. Neglecting the lift, he ran down the stairs.
Three or four guests were standing around the porter, who was looking through a transatlantic plane schedule for them. His assistant whispered in his ear:
‘He’s dead.’
‘One moment …’ Then, only now grasping the words he had just heard: ‘What do you mean?’
‘Dead … In his bath …’
The porter asked the guests, in English, to wait a minute. He crossed the lobby and leaned across the reception desk.
‘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-Premier. 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 … a member 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 previous night, 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 back 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 black 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.
2.
In which further reference is made to people who constantly have their names in the papers, although not in the local news
It was about then that the incident happened, something apparently insignificant that was nevertheless to influence Maigret’s mood throughout the investigation. Was Lapointe aware of it, or did the chief inspector see a reaction in him that he hadn’t had?
Earlier, when Monsieur Gilles had spoken of the set to which Countess Palmieri and Colonel Ward belonged, Maigret had already refrained from asking:
‘What set is that?’
If he had done so, wouldn’t everyone have sensed a hint of irritation, irony, even aggressiveness in his voice?
He was reminded of an impression he’d had when he was just starting out in the police. He was more or less the same age as Lapointe and had been sent to carry out a simple check in the very same neighbourhood he was in now, between Place de l’Étoile and the Seine – he couldn’t remember the name of the street.
Those were still the days of private mansions, and young Maigret had had the sensation that he was entering a new universe. What had struck him most was the quality of the silence, far from the crowds and the din of public transport. The only sounds were the singing of birds and the rhythmical noise of horses’ hooves as women and men in light-coloured bowler hats rode by on their way to the Bois de Boulogne.
Even the apartment buildings had an almost secretive look about them. In the courtyards, you saw chauffeurs polishing cars, and sometimes, in a doorway or at a window, a valet in a striped waistcoat or a butler in a white tie.
Of the lives of the masters, almost all of them familiar names you saw in the morning’s Figaro or Gaulois, the inspector, as he then was, knew almost nothing, and there was a tightness in his throat as he rang at those majestic gates.
Of course, today, in suite 347, he was no longer the beginner he had been then. Most of the mansions had disappeared, and many streets that had once been silent had become shopping streets.
Nevertheless, he now found himself in what had replaced the old aristocratic neighbourhoods, and there the George-V stood at the centre of a private world with which he was not especially familiar.
The names of those who were still asleep or having their breakfast in the neighbouring suites were often in the newspapers. Avenue George-V, Rue François-Ier and Avenue Montaigne constituted a world apart whe
re the plates on the buildings bore the names of great fashion houses and where you saw things in the shop windows, even that of a mere shirt-maker, that were unknown anywhere else.
Was Lapointe, who lived in a modest furnished room on the Left Bank, disorientated? Was he feeling, as Maigret had once done, a grudging respect for this luxury he had suddenly discovered?
‘A policeman, the ideal policeman, should feel at ease in all kinds of surroundings.’
Maigret himself had said that once, and all his life he had done his best to forget the surface differences between people, to scratch away at the veneer in order to discover the naked human being beneath a variety of appearances.
And yet this morning, despite himself, he was irritated by something in the atmosphere around him. Monsieur Gilles, the manager, was a fine man, in spite of his striped trousers, his professional smoothness and his fear of scandal, as was the doctor, who was used to treating celebrities.
It was rather as if he had sensed a kind of complicity between them. They uttered the same words as everyone else, and yet they were speaking another language. Whenever they said ‘the countess’ or ‘the colonel’, it had a meaning that was lost on ordinary mortals.
What it boiled down to was that they were in on the secret. They belonged, even if only in minor roles, to a world apart, a world that Maigret scrupulously insisted on approaching with an open mind.
All these ideas were vague, something he sensed rather than thought as he put down the receiver, turned to the doctor and asked:
‘Do you think that if the countess had really swallowed a dose of barbiturates capable of killing her, it would have been possible, after you had treated her, for her to get up without help half an hour ago and leave the hospital?’
‘You mean she’s gone?’
The shutters in the bedroom were still lowered, but the ones in the sitting room had been opened, and a little sunlight, more of a reflected glow, was filtering in. The doctor was standing by the pedestal table on which he had put his instrument case. As for the manager of the hotel, he was near the door to the sitting room, and Lapointe to Maigret’s right, standing back a little.
The dead man was still in the bath, and the bathroom, the door to which remained open, was the most brightly lit room.
Maigret 51 Maigret Travels Page 2
