He talked a lot. He gave the impression of an actor on stage. But Maigret soon discerned a certain anxiety beneath his façade. Audiat also had a nervous twitch. As soon as his smile left his lips, he automatically struggled to recompose it.
‘No one here yet?’
The café was empty. There were only two customers standing at the bar.
‘Eugène’s been in.’
The owner re-enacted the scene he had played earlier, pointing out Maigret to Audiat who, less diplomatic than Eugène, swung round, looked Maigret in the eye and spat on the floor.
‘Anything else?’ he said.
‘Nothing. Did you win?’
‘No. Zilch! I was given a tip that backfired. I was in with a chance for the third race, but the horse missed the start. Give me a packet of Gauloises, sweetheart.’
He could not keep still; he kept shifting from one foot to the other, gesticulating and waggling his head.
‘Can I make a phone call?’
Louis looked daggers at Maigret.
‘No you can’t. The gentleman over there wrecked the phone.’
It was open war. Audiat was ill at ease. He was afraid of making a blunder, for he had no idea what had happened before his arrival.
‘Are we seeing each other this evening?’
‘As usual!’
Audiat downed his Pernod and left. Meanwhile, Louis came and sat down at the table next to Maigret, where the waiter brought him a hot meal which he had cooked on the gas ring in the back.
‘Waiter!’ Maigret called out.
‘Here! Nine francs seventy-five—’
‘Bring me two ham sandwiches and a beer.’
Louis was eating some reheated sauerkraut with two appetizing-looking sausages.
‘Is there any ham left, Monsieur Louis?’
‘There must be an old piece in the icebox.’
He chewed noisily, crudely exaggerating his movements. The waiter brought Maigret two dry, shrivelled sandwiches, but he pretended not to notice.
‘Waiter! Some mustard—’
‘There isn’t any.’
The two hours that followed went faster, for the bar was invaded by passers-by dropping in for an aperitif. The owner condescended to serve them himself. The door kept opening and closing, sending a blast of cold air in Maigret’s direction each time.
Now the temperature had dropped to freezing. For a while, the passing omnibuses were crammed full, and there were passengers standing on the platform at the rear. Then, gradually, the street grew empty. The seven o’clock flurry gave way to an unexpected quiet, a prelude to the very different bustle of the evening.
The toughest hour was between eight and nine. The place was deserted. The blonde girl behind the till had been replaced by a woman in her forties, who began sorting all the coins from the cash register into piles. Louis had gone up to his room, and when he came back down, he was wearing a jacket and tie.
Joseph Audiat was the first to put in an appearance, a few minutes after nine. He looked around for Maigret and strolled over to Louis.
‘Everything OK?’
‘Everything OK. There’s no reason why it wouldn’t be, is there?’
But Louis did not have the same energy as earlier. He was tired, and did not look at Maigret with the same cockiness. And Maigret himself seemed to exhibit a certain weariness. He must have drunk a little of everything – beer, coffee, calvados, mineral water. Seven or eight saucers were piled up on the table in front of him, and he had to order another drink.
‘Look! Here come Eugène and his friend.’
The pale-blue limousine had drawn up alongside the kerb again, and two men came into the bar, Eugène first of all, dressed as he had been that afternoon, then a younger, timid-looking man who smiled at everyone.
‘What about Oscar?’
‘He’s bound to come.’
Eugène winked, jerking his head in Maigret’s direction, moved two tables together and went over to fetch the red mat and the chips from a drawer.
‘Shall we begin?’
They were all putting on an act. But it was Eugène and the owner who were calling the tune. Especially Eugène, who was freshly arrived on the scene. He had brilliant white teeth and a genuine cheerfulness, and women must have gone crazy over him.
‘At least we’ll be able to see clearly tonight!’ he said.
‘Why?’ asked Audiat, who was always a bit slow on the uptake.
‘Because we have a luminary among us!’
That luminary was Maigret, who was smoking his pipe less than a metre away from the players.
Louis picked up the slate and the chalk with a ritual gesture. He was the one who usually kept score. He drew the columns headed with the players’ initials.
‘What are you drinking?’ asked the waiter.
Eugène narrowed his eyes, glanced over at Maigret’s calvados and replied:
‘The same as the gentleman over there!’
‘A strawberry cordial,’ said Audiat, on edge.
The fourth man had a strong Marseille accent and could not have been in Paris long. He took his cue from Eugène, for whom he appeared to have a profound admiration.
‘The hunting season’s not over yet, is it, Louis?’
This time it was Louis who was bemused.
‘How do I know? Why are you asking?’
‘Because I was thinking about going after rabbits.’
Again, it was Maigret who was the butt of his comment. The explanation followed, as the cards were dealt and each player arranged them in a fan in his left hand.
‘I went to see the man, earlier.’
Which translated as: ‘I went to warn Cageot’.
Audiat abruptly looked up.
‘What did he say?’
Louis frowned, probably thinking that they were going too far.
‘He’s laughing! Apparently he’s on home ground and he’s planning a little party.’
‘Diamonds trumps … Tierce haute … OK?’
‘Four of a kind.’
Eugène was all keyed up and it was clear he was not concentrating on the game but on coming up with fresh witticisms.
‘The Parisians,’ he stated, ‘go and spend their holidays in the country – in the Loire, for example. The funny thing is, that the people from the Loire come and spend their holidays in Paris.’
At last! He hadn’t been able to resist the urge to let Maigret know that he knew all about him. And Maigret sat there, puffing away on his pipe and warming his calvados in the hollow of his hand before taking a sip.
‘Keep your eyes on the game,’ retorted Louis, who kept darting anxious glances in the direction of the door.
‘Trumps … and double trumps. A twenty-point bonus, plus ten for the last trick …’
An individual who looked like a modest Montmartre shopkeeper walked in and went over to wedge himself between Eugène and his friend from Marseille, without saying a word. He shook both their hands and sat slightly back, still without opening his mouth.
‘All right?’ asked Louis.
The newcomer’s lips parted, and a thin, reedy sound came out. He had lost his voice.
‘All right!’
‘You got it?’ Eugène bawled in his ear, revealing that the man was deaf as well.
‘Twigged what?’ replied the reedy voice.
They must have kicked him under the table. Finally the deaf man’s gaze lighted on Maigret and rested on him for a long moment. He gave a faint smile.
‘I get it.’
‘Clubs trumps … Pass …’
‘Pass …’
Rue Fontaine was coming back to life. The neon signs were lit and the doormen were at their posts on the pavement. The Floria’s doorman came in to buy cigarettes, but no one took any notice of him.
‘Hearts trumps …’
Maigret was hot. He felt stiff all over but he gave no sign of it and his expression remained the same as when he had begun his long vigil.
‘I say!’ said Eugè
ne suddenly to his hard-of-hearing neighbour, whom Maigret had recognized as the owner of a brothel in Rue de Provence. ‘What do you call a locksmith who doesn’t make locks any more?’
The comical aspect of this conversation came from the fact that Eugène had to shout, while the other man answered in an angelic voice:
‘A locksmith who—? I don’t know.’
‘Well, I’d call him a nobody.’
He played a card, picked up and played again.
‘And a cop who’s no longer a cop?’
The penny had dropped. His neighbour’s face lit up and his voice was reedier than ever as he said:
‘A nobody!’
Then they all burst out laughing, even Audiat, who gave a snigger. Something was stopping him from joining wholeheartedly in the general mirth. He was visibly anxious, despite the presence of his friends. And it was not solely on account of Maigret.
‘Léon!’ he shouted to the night waiter. ‘Bring me a brandy and water.’
‘You’re drinking brandy now?’
Eugène had noticed that Audiat was losing his nerve and he was keeping a close eye on him.
‘You’d better go easy.’
‘Go easy on what?’
‘How many Pernods did you have before dinner?’
‘Damn you!’ replied Audiat stubbornly.
‘Calm down, boys,’ broke in Louis. ‘Spades trumps!’
By midnight, their cheerfulness was more forced. Maigret was still sitting immobile in his overcoat, his pipe in his mouth. He looked like part of the furniture. Or even better, he blended in with the walls. Only his eyes were alive, roving slowly from one player to the other.
Audiat had been the first to display signs of unease, and then the deaf man soon began to show some impatience. At length, he stood up:
‘I have to go to a funeral tomorrow. I should go to bed.’
‘Oh, drop dead!’ said Eugène under his breath, certain he wouldn’t be heard.
He said that the way he would have said anything else, to keep his spirits up.
‘Rebelote … and trumps … and trumps again … Give me your cards …’
Despite the disapproving looks he was getting, Audiat had drunk three brandies and his face was furrowed. He had turned pale and his forehead was clammy.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m off too,’ he said, rising.
He clearly felt sick. He had drunk his third brandy to perk himself up, but it had finished him off. Louis and Eugène exchanged glances.
‘You look like a wet rag,’ Eugène said after a moment.
It was just after one o’clock in the morning. Maigret took out his money and put it on the table. Eugène drew Audiat into a corner and spoke to him in hushed but urgent tones. Audiat was reluctant, but eventually allowed himself to be persuaded.
‘See you tomorrow!’ he said, his hand on the door handle.
‘Waiter! How much?’
The saucers rattled. Maigret buttoned up his overcoat, filled a fresh pipe and lit it with the gas lighter by the bar.
‘Good night, gentlemen.’
He left the café and identified the sound of Audiat’s retreating footsteps. Meanwhile, Eugène slipped behind the bar, as if to have a word with the owner. Louis immediately understood and discreetly opened a drawer. Eugène plunged his hand inside then put it in his pocket and headed for the door with the man from Marseille in tow.
‘See you later,’ he said, stepping out into the night.
6.
In the glow from the nightclubs’ neon signs, Rue Fontaine was busy with doormen on the pavement and drivers manoeuvring to park their cars. It was only after Place Blanche, when Maigret and his quarry turned right on to Boulevard Rochechouart, that the situation became clearer.
Joseph Audiat walked ahead with a feverish, irregular step, never once turning round.
Twenty metres behind him came Maigret’s burly form taking great, calm strides, his hands thrust in his pockets.
Audiat and Maigret’s footsteps echoed each other in the silence of the night, Audiat’s more rapid, Maigret’s tread heavier and more solemn.
Behind them, the purring of Eugène’s engine could be heard – for Eugène and the man from Marseille had jumped into the car. They drove at a crawl, hugging the kerb and trying to keep a distance from the two men. Sometimes they had to change gear to maintain their speed. Sometimes too they would put on a sudden spurt and then slow down to allow Audiat and Maigret to get ahead.
Maigret had no need to look over his shoulder. He knew what was going on. He was aware that the big blue limousine was behind him. He could picture the faces behind the windscreen.
It was classic. He was following Audiat because he had the feeling that Audiat would allow himself to be intimidated more easily than the others. Meanwhile, the others, who knew this, were following him in turn.
At first, this made Maigret smile inwardly.
Then, he was no longer smiling, but frowning. Audiat was not heading towards Rue Lepic, where he had a room, nor towards the centre of Paris. He continued along the boulevard beneath the overground section of the métro in the direction of La Chapelle, without stopping at the Barbès intersection.
It was highly unlikely that he had any business in this neighbourhood at such an hour. There could only be one explanation. Audiat had been instructed by the two men in the car to lure Maigret into the deserted back streets.
Already, the only signs of life were the occasional girl hidden in the shadows, or the hesitant form of a North African going from one to the other before making up his mind.
Maigret did not feel frightened straight away. He remained calm, puffing away on his pipe and listening to his footsteps, as regular as a pendulum.
The boulevard passed over the railway lines coming out of the Gare du Nord, which loomed in the distance with its illuminated clock and empty platforms. The time was 2.30. The car was still purring behind them, when, for no reason, it gave a little hoot of its horn. Then Audiat began walking faster, so fast that he seemed to be trying not to run.
For no apparent reason either, he crossed the road. Maigret crossed too. For a second, he was sideways on. He saw the car out of the corner of his eye, and that was when it dawned on him what they were up to.
The overground métro made the boulevard darker than any other part of Paris. A police cycle patrol rode past and one of the officers turned round to look at the car, saw nothing untoward and vanished with his colleagues.
The pace was hotting up. After a hundred metres, Audiat crossed the road again, but this time he lost his cool and ran the last few steps. Maigret stopped and he could hear the car revving up. The situation was perfectly clear. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, for it was pure chance that he had avoided being run over.
So that was it! Audiat’s job was to entice him through the empty streets. And then, when Maigret was halfway across the road, the car would mow him down.
As if in a nightmare, Maigret was conscious of the sleek limousine gliding through the streets and its two occupants, especially Eugène, with his brilliant white teeth and angelic smile, sitting with his hands on the wheel waiting for the right moment.
Could this be called a crime? Maigret was in danger of dying a stupid and horrible death any moment now: lying in the dirt, severely wounded, and howling with pain for hours before anyone would come to his aid.
It was too late to turn back. In any case, he didn’t want to. He was no longer counting on Audiat, he had abandoned his plan of catching up with him and getting him to talk, but he was determined to continue following him. It was a question of self-respect.
His only precaution was to take his gun out of his trouser pocket and to cock it.
Then he walked a little faster. Instead of staying twenty metres behind Audiat, he was so close on his heels that Audiat thought Maigret was going to arrest him, and he too hastened his step. For a few seconds, it was comical, and the two men in the
car must have realized what was going on because they came much closer.
The trees on the boulevard and the pillars supporting the overhead métro filed past. Audiat was afraid, afraid of Maigret and perhaps too of his accomplices. When the car hooted once more to prompt him to cross the road, he stopped, breathless, on the kerb.
Close on his heels, Maigret saw the car’s headlamps, Audiat’s soft hat and anxious eyes.
He was about to step off the pavement close behind his companion when a sixth sense held him back. Perhaps Audiat had the same intuition, but for him it was too late. He was already in the road, advancing one metre, two metres …
Maigret opened his mouth to shout a warning. He could see that the two men in the car, tired of this fruitless chase, had suddenly decided to put their foot down, even if it meant hitting their comrade at the same time as Maigret.
There was no scream. A rush of air, the sound of an engine going at full throttle. A dull thud too, and perhaps a vague shout.
The car’s red rear lights were already receding, and then it vanished down a side street. On the ground, the little man in black was struggling to raise himself up on his hands, gazing wild-eyed at Maigret.
He looked like a madman or a child. His face was covered in dust and blood. His nose had changed shape, which distorted his entire face.
He managed to sit up and raise a hand to his forehead, limply, as in a dream, grimacing.
Maigret gathered him up and sat him down on the kerb, and, without thinking, went to pick up the hat that was sitting in the middle of the road. Then it took him a few moments to recover his own equilibrium, even though he had not been hit.
There were no passers-by. A taxi could be heard, but it was a long way off, probably near Barbès.
‘You had a narrow escape!’ grunted Maigret, leaning over the injured man.
He probed Audiat’s head with his thumbs, slowly, to check whether his skull was fractured. He flexed his legs one after the other, for his trousers were torn, or rather ripped off below the right knee, and Maigret glimpsed an ugly wound.
Audiat seemed to have lost not only the power of speech, but also his mind. His jaw worked up and down, as if to get rid of a nasty taste in his mouth.
Maigret looked up. He had heard the sound of an engine. He was convinced it was Eugène’s car driving down a back street. Then the noise drew closer and the blue limousine shot across the boulevard barely a hundred metres from the two men.
Maigret Page 6
