Had Jeanne Debul pushed him too hard? Maigret had a different view on that.
‘Did your father stop saying he was going to change your standard of living?’
Despite the strawberry tart, Alain’s head went up in sudden alarm.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you said that in the past he would periodically announce that everything was going to change. Then there came a time when his faith in his star seemed to waver.’
‘He went on hoping, though.’
‘But less than before?’
‘Yes.’
‘And recently?’
‘He once or twice talked about going to live in the south.’
Maigret did not press the point. It was his own affair now. It would serve nothing to explain to the son what he deduced.
François Lagrange, who had been running errands for the Debul woman for two years but was being rewarded only with crumbs, had perhaps devised the idea of working on his own account.
So, supposing that Jeanne Debul had ordered him to demand 100,000 francs from Delteil, who was thought to be very wealthy . . . and supposing the Baron had asked him for a million? Or more? Lagrange was the kind of man who talked in terms of large sums, having spent his life juggling imaginary fortunes.
And Delteil had decided he wasn’t going to pay up.
‘Where were you, on Tuesday night?’
‘I went to the cinema.’
‘Your father had suggested you go out?’
Alain appeared to concentrate. This idea seemed to be striking him for the first time.
‘Yes, I think so. He said, well I think he said, there was a new film showing on the Champs-Élysées. And—’
‘And when you got back, he was in bed?’
‘Yes, I went in to kiss him goodnight, like every night. He was unwell. He promised he’d call the doctor.’
‘And you thought that normal?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I felt anxious. I found it hard to get to sleep. There was an unusual smell in the flat. American cigarettes. In the morning I woke at dawn, and walked round all the rooms. My father was still asleep. I noticed that the box room, which had been my bedroom when I was younger, was locked and that the key wasn’t in the lock. I opened it.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘With a hook. A trick I learned at school. You bend some wire a certain way and—’
‘Yes, I know, I’ve done the same thing.’
‘Well, I still had one of those old wire hooks in my drawer. Then I saw the trunk in the middle of the room, and I lifted the lid.’
It was best to move quickly on now.
‘Did you say anything to your father?’
‘I just couldn’t.’
‘You went straight out?’
‘Yes. I walked the streets. I wanted to go to that woman’s place . . .’
There must have been a scene, the details of which would never be known unless the Baron one day stopped claiming to be insane: the scene in the apartment between François Lagrange and André Delteil. It didn’t concern Alain, and it was pointless to destroy the image he still had of his father.
It was unlikely that the politician had gone to see Lagrange with the intention of killing him. More probably, he wanted to regain possession of the compromising documents which had led to the blackmail, using threats if he had to.
And surely it would look like an unequal contest? Delteil was full of sarcasm. He was a man used to the cut and thrust of political life, and he was faced only by a fat coward, trembling for his survival.
The papers were not in the apartment. Even if Lagrange had agreed to hand them over, he would not have been able to.
What had he done? He had no doubt burst into tears, begged for forgiveness. He had promised . . .
And all the time, he would have been hypnotized by the revolver which was levelled at him.
Yet he was the one, who through his very weakness, had finally gained the upper hand. How had he managed to get hold of the gun? By what trick had he managed to distract the politician’s attention?
And now he wasn’t trembling any more. It was his turn to speak firmly and issue threats.
He had probably not meant to pull the trigger. He was too cowardly, too used to shrinking away and receiving kicks up his backside, ever since his schooldays.
‘Then in the end I went to your apartment.’
Alain turned to look at Jeanne Debul, who was attempting in vain to catch some of their conversation. The sounds in the restaurant, the clatter of crockery, knives and forks, the murmur of conversations, laughter and the music coming from the large dining room, prevented her being able to hear them.
‘We might as well get going . . .’
Alain’s expression registered a mute protest:
‘And you’re going to leave her here?’
The woman too was surprised to see Maigret walk past her without a word. It all seemed too easy to her. Perhaps she had been hoping for a scene, in which she would have played a starring role.
In the front hall, where he could at last take his pipe out of his pocket and victoriously crush out his cigar in a huge sand-filled ashtray, Maigret murmured:
‘Can you wait a moment?’
He went over to the porter.
‘When is the next plane for Paris?’
‘There’s one in ten minutes, but of course you can’t catch that. The next one’s at half past six in the morning. Do you wish me to book a ticket?’
‘Two.’
‘Names?’
He gave them to him. Alain had not moved, and was staring at the bright lights of the Strand.
‘Just a moment. I’ve got a phone call to make.’
He need no longer call from the reception desk. He could go into one of the cabins.
‘Pyke, is that you? I’m very sorry not to have been able to have lunch or dinner with you. And I won’t see you tomorrow either. I’m leaving tonight.’
‘The six-thirty plane? I’ll give you a lift.’
‘But—’
‘See you soon.’
It was best to let him do it: otherwise he would feel frustrated. Curiously enough, Maigret was no longer sleepy.
‘Shall we take a little stroll outside?’
‘If you like.’
‘Otherwise, I won’t have set foot on the pavements of London in my whole trip!’
It was true. Was it because he was conscious of being abroad? It seemed to him that the streetlamps shone differently from the Parisian ones, the night was a different colour, and that even the air tasted different.
They walked along unhurriedly, looking at the entrances to the cinemas and bars. After Charing Cross, they came to a huge square with a column in the centre.
‘Did you come this way this morning?’
‘I think so, this looks familiar.’
‘It’s Trafalgar Square.’
Maigret took pleasure in recognizing several sights with which he was familiar, before they left London, and he took Alain along as far as Piccadilly Circus.
‘Now all we have to do is to go to bed.’
Alain could very well have run away. Maigret would not have lifted a finger to stop him. But he knew the young man would not do that.
‘I’d just like a glass of beer. Do you mind?’
It wasn’t so much the beer as the atmosphere inside a London pub that Maigret was after. Alain did not drink anything, and waited in silence.
‘Do you like London?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You might be able to come back here in a few months. Because a few months is all you’ll get.’
‘Will I be able to see my father?’
‘Yes.’
A little further on, Alain sniffed, which Maigret affected not to notice.
As they returned to the hotel, the inspector slipped the master key and some money into an envelope, which he addressed to the
Gilmore Hotel.
‘I nearly took it back to France with me!’
And then to Alain, who looked lost:
‘Are you coming?’
They took the lift. There was a light under Jeanne Debul’s door, and she was no doubt expecting Maigret to call on her. She would have a long wait.
‘Go on in. There are twin beds.’
And then as his companion looked awkward:
‘You can just lie down in your clothes if you prefer.’
He ordered a morning call for half past five, and fell into a deep sleep. As for Alain, the ringing of the telephone did not wake him up.
‘Come on, son, up you get!’
Did François Lagrange usually wake him up?
Right to the end, this was not a case like any other.
‘I must say I’m feeling very pleased.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you didn’t shoot. Let’s drop the subject now.’
Pyke was waiting for them downstairs, looking just the same as yesterday, and it was another glorious morning.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
‘Splendid!’
The car was at the door. Maigret realized that he had not introduced his companion.
‘Alain Lagrange, Mr Pyke of Scotland Yard.’
Pyke indicated that he had understood, and did not ask any questions. Throughout the drive, he talked about the flowers in his garden, in particular an extraordinary shade of hydrangea that he had managed to grow, after years of experimenting.
The plane took off into a cloudless sky, with just a little early morning mist.
‘What are these?’ the young man asked, pointing to the stiff paper bags placed for the passengers’ convenience.
‘In case anyone feels sick.’
Was that why, a few minutes later, Alain turned first white, then green, and with a desperate glance, leaned over the bag? He would have given anything not to be sick, especially in front of Detective Chief Inspector Maigret!
9.
In which Maigret discovers the dish tête de veau en tortue, and describes London to Madame Maigret
It had been just the same as usual, except that this time a month had not passed since their last dinner, far from it. Pardon’s voice had come down the line:
‘Are you free tomorrow evening?’
‘Yes, probably.’
‘With your wife, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like tête de veau en tortue?’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Well, do you like calf’s head?’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Well, you’re going to love it in this special sauce. It’s a dish I discovered when I was in Belgium. You’ll see. But I’m not sure what wine to serve with it. Beer perhaps?’
At the last moment, Pardon had opted, as he explained, almost scientifically, for a light Beaujolais.
Maigret and his wife had come on foot, and avoided looking at Rue Popincourt as they went past. Their fellow-guest was Jussieu from the forensic lab – according to Madame Maigret a confirmed bachelor.
‘I did want Professor Journe to join us. But he said he never goes out to dinner. For the last twenty years, he’s always eaten at home.’
The French windows were open, the curved shapes of the wrought-iron balcony outlined against the blue of the evening.
‘Beautiful night, isn’t it?’
Maigret gave a little smile that no one else would have been able to understand. He took two helpings of the Belgian dish. When they were drinking their coffee, Pardon, who was passing round the cigars, absent-mindedly offered the box to Maigret.
‘No thank you! Only at the Savoy!’
‘You smoked a cigar at the Savoy?’ his wife said in surprise.
‘Had to! They came and whispered that my pipe wasn’t allowed.’
Pardon had arranged this dinner party with the sole aim of talking about the Lagrange affair, and everyone was taking care not to broach the subject. They chatted in a desultory way about everything else, except the matter they were all thinking about.
‘So you went to visit Scotland Yard?’
‘No, I didn’t have time.’
‘How do you get on with them?’
‘Excellently. They really are the most tactful of people.’
And he genuinely thought that, feeling a certain affection for Mr Pyke, who had waved them goodbye as the plane took off and who had perhaps been secretly moved by the circumstances.
‘Are you busy at Quai des Orfèvres these days?’
‘Just the usual. Are your patients keeping you busy?’
‘Just the usual.’
Then they talked a little about medical matters. So it was ten o’clock when Pardon decided to whisper:
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Yes. Have you?’
‘I’ve been round twice.’
The women were discreetly pretending not to listen. As for Jussieu, the case did not concern him any more, so he had gone to look out of the window.
‘Has he been confronted with the son?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did he say anything?’
Maigret shook his head.
Because François Lagrange had stuck to his first attitude, shrinking into himself like a frightened animal. When anyone approached him, he cowered against the wall, his arm raised across his face to ward off blows.
‘Don’t hit me, please don’t hit me!’
And his teeth were actually chattering.
‘What does Journe think about him?’
This time it was Maigret asking the question.
‘Journe is an expert, perhaps one of our best psychiatrists. But he is also petrified by the burden of responsibility.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘And, as well as that, he has always been against the death penalty.’
Maigret made no comment, puffing gently on his pipe.
‘One day, when I was talking to him about fishing, he looked horrified. He won’t even kill a fish.’
‘So . . .?’
‘Well, if François Lagrange carries on like this for another month—’
‘And will he?’
‘He’s frightened enough to do it. Unless anyone pushes him to the limit.’
Pardon looked intently at Maigret. This was the sole reason for the dinner party, and the question he had long been waiting to ask, and which he conveyed only by his expression.
‘Well, as far as I’m concerned,’ Maigret said quietly, ‘it’s out of my hands. I’ve put in my report. Rateau, the examining magistrate, will abide by the decision of the experts.’
Why did Pardon look at him with what seemed to be gratitude? It was embarrassing. Maigret felt a little annoyed with him for his indiscretion. It was true that it was out of his hands. But he could obviously have—
‘I’ve got other fish to fry,’ he said, standing up. ‘Among various things, a certain Jeanne Debul. She came back to Paris yesterday. She still means to brazen it out. But I hope to have her in my office within a couple of months, and then we’ll have a proper tête-à-tête, just the two of us.’
‘Anyone would think she’d wronged you personally,’ remarked Madame Maigret, who had nevertheless appeared not to be listening.
They dropped the subject. A quarter of an hour later, on the dark street, Madame Maigret slipped her hand through her husband’s arm.
‘Funny thing,’ he said. ‘In London, the streetlamps, although they’re almost the same . . .’
And as they walked, he described to her the Strand, Charing Cross and Trafalgar Square.
‘I thought you hardly had time even to eat anything while you were there.’
‘I went out for a stroll, for a few minutes after dinner.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. With him.’
She didn’t ask who he meant. As they approached Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, he must have remembered the London pub where he h
ad drunk a glass of beer before going to bed. It made him feel thirsty.
‘Would you mind if . . .?’
‘No, of course not. Go and have your drink, I’ll wait.’
Because it was a little bar where she would have felt out of place. When he emerged, wiping his mouth, she took his arm again.
‘Lovely night.’
‘Yes.’
‘Lots of stars.’
Why was it that, seeing a cat slinking into a cellar window as they approached, his face clouded over for a moment?
1. The Yellow Shoes
For Maigret the date was easy to remember, as it was his sister-in-law’s birthday: 19 October. It was a Monday, which also made it memorable, as it is common knowledge at Quai des Orfèvres that murders rarely take place on Mondays. And as well as this, it was the first investigation of the year that had a feel of winter about it.
It had rained all day Sunday, a fine, cold drizzle; the rooftops and the pavements were black and glistening, and a yellowish mist seemed to creep in through the gaps in the windows, leading Madame Maigret to say:
‘I should think about getting some draught excluders put in.’
Every autumn for the last five years at least Maigret had promised to fit them himself the following Sunday.
‘You should wear your thick overcoat.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I’ll go and look for it.’
It was 8.30. All the apartments still had their lights on, and Maigret’s overcoat smelled of mothballs.
It didn’t rain that day. At least, not a rain that you could see, but the pavements remained damp and became progressively more slippery as the crowds walked over them. Then, around four in the afternoon, a short while before it got dark, that same yellowish mist of the morning returned, blurring the lights of the streetlamps and the shop windows.
When the telephone rang, neither Lucas nor Janvier nor young Lapointe were in the room. It was answered by Santoni, a Corsican who was new to the brigade, having worked ten years in the Gambling Squad and then Vice.
‘It’s Inspector Neveu from the third arrondissement, chief. He wants to speak to you in person. It seems it’s urgent.’
Maigret grabbed the receiver.
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