‘Another time I saw him even more furious. He had noticed some suspicious characters among the Train Bleu’s customers. When you’re used to the clientele you can immediately spot anyone who’s there for different reasons, you understand …
‘The police didn’t need to step in on that occasion. Monsieur Émile found out before they did that a musician he had recently hired was dealing drugs, on quite a small scale, actually …’
‘And then threw him out?’
‘That evening.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Before the business with the barman, almost three years ago now.’
‘What happened to the musician?’
‘He left France a few weeks later and now works in Italy.’
None of this explained the 500,000 francs, let alone the death of Boulay, whose body had been kept heaven knew where for two days and three nights, then left in a deserted street by Père-Lachaise.
‘Can you get to the club from these offices?’
‘Through here.’
He opened a door, which Maigret had presumed was the door of a cupboard, and had to turn on a light, because it was almost pitch black. Maigret saw a steep spiral staircase.
‘Do you want to go down?’
Why not? He followed Monsieur Raison down the stairs, which led to a room where a selection of women’s clothes, some shiny with sequins or fake pearls, were hung along the walls. There was a dressing table painted grey and cluttered with jars of cream, make-up, eyeliner. The room had a stale, faintly sickly smell.
This was where the performers swapped their everyday clothes for their professional gear before stepping out into the spotlights, out to where men bought champagne at five or six times the going rate for the privilege of admiring them.
First, though, as Monsieur Raison and Maigret did, they had to go through a sort of kitchen, which lay between the dressing room and the club.
Two or three strokes of sunlight filtered through the shutters. The walls were purple, the floor strewn with streamers and multicoloured cotton balls. There was a lingering smell of champagne and tobacco and a broken glass was still lying in one corner, near the band’s instruments in their covers.
‘The cleaning ladies only come in the afternoon. They clean at the Train Bleu as well in the morning and then go to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette at five, so that by nine everything is ready for the first customers.’
It was as depressing as a beach resort in winter, with its shuttered holiday houses and casino. Maigret looked around as though the décor would give him an idea, a starting point.
‘Can I go straight out on to the street?’
‘The key to the gate is upstairs, but if you’d like …’
‘Don’t put yourself out.’
He climbed the stairs again and moments later, after shaking Monsieur Raison’s clammy hand, was walking back down the stairs that gave on to the courtyard.
It was a pleasure after that to be bumped into by a boy running along the pavement, to breathe the wholesome smell of a vegetable stall as he walked past.
He was well acquainted with the bar belonging to Jo, whom everyone called Jo the Wrestler. He had known it for at least twenty years, if not more, and it had had no shortage of owners. No doubt its popularity had something to do with its strategic position just round the corner from Pigalle, from Place Blanche and the pavements patrolled tirelessly throughout the night by a crowd of women.
Shut down ten times by the police, local villains had invariably reclaimed the bar as a meeting place, and Mazotti wasn’t the first to be killed there.
It was peaceful enough, though, at least at that time of day. It was done up like a traditional Parisian bistro, with its zinc bar, mirrored walls and wall seats; four men were playing belote in a corner, while two plasterers in overalls, their faces flecked with white, were drinking wine at the bar.
Lucas was already there, and, as Maigret came in, the owner, a giant of a man with rolled-up sleeves, called out:
‘Here’s your boss! What can I get you, Monsieur Maigret?’
He was always sarcastic, even under intense questioning. He had experienced his share of that in his career, not that it had resulted in any convictions.
‘A glass of white wine.’
Maigret could tell from Lucas’s face that he hadn’t found out anything significant. He wasn’t too disappointed. The investigation was just starting; they were still dipping their toes in the water, as he put it.
The four card players occasionally gave them sardonic, rather than anxious looks. Jo’s voice had a similarly sardonic note when he asked:
‘Found him then?’
‘Who?’
‘Honestly, detective chief inspector … You’re forgetting that you’re in Montmartre, where news travels fast. Émile’s been missing for three days, you’re roaming around the neighbourhood …’
‘What do you know about Émile?’
‘Who, me?’
Jo liked clowning around.
‘What am I supposed to know? Do you think an upstanding businessman like that is going to patronize my establishment?’
This was met with smiles in the card players’ corner, but Maigret took a drag of his pipe and drank his wine without letting himself be put out. Then he said gravely:
‘He’s been found.’
‘In the Seine?’
‘Actually, no. It wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration to say that he’s been found in the cemetery …’
‘Did he want to save himself the cost of a funeral? I wouldn’t be surprised, knowing him … Seriously, though, is Émile dead?’
‘Has been for three days.’
This time Jo frowned, as Maigret had done that morning.
‘You mean he died three days ago, and they only found him this morning?’
‘Lying on the pavement in Rue des Rondeaux.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Like I said … A cul-de-sac running alongside Père-Lachaise.’
The card players pricked up their ears. They were obviously as surprised as the landlord.
‘He hadn’t been there for three days though, had he?’
‘He was put there last night.’
‘Well, if you’re asking my opinion, I think something’s not right about this … We’re having a pretty hot spell, aren’t we? It’s not going to be very pleasant having a dead body under your roof in weather like this. Quite apart from the fact that that’s a strange place to drop off that sort of parcel. Unless a maniac did it.’
‘Come on, Jo, it won’t hurt you to be serious for a minute.’
‘I’m being deadly serious, Monsieur Maigret!’
‘Mazotti was shot as he was leaving here …’
‘Just my luck! I sometimes wonder if they didn’t do it on purpose to get my licence taken away.’
‘We didn’t give you a hard time, you’ll have noticed.’
‘Except for the three mornings I was in with your inspector,’ rejoined Jo, indicating Lucas.
‘I’m not asking if you know who did it.’
‘I didn’t see anything. I’d gone down to fetch up some bottles from the cellar.’
‘I don’t care whether that’s true or not. I just want to know: in your opinion, could Émile Boulay have done it?’
Jo grew serious. To give himself time to think, he poured himself a glass of wine, filling Maigret’s and Lucas’ glasses as he did so. He also looked over at the card players’ table, as if he wanted to ask their advice or convey the position he was in.
‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘Because you know more about what goes on in Montmartre than pretty much anyone.’
‘People say that.’
He was flattered all the same.
‘Émile was an amateur,’ he muttered almost regretfully after a while.
‘Didn’t you like him?’
‘That’s another story. I didn’t have anything against him personally.’
‘What others?’
‘His competitors. I’m told he was planning to buy more clubs.’
‘So?’
Maigret returned to his starting point.
‘Would Boulay have been capable of doing away with Mazotti?’
‘I told you he was an amateur. The Mazotti business wasn’t the work of amateurs, you know that as well as I do. His dockers wouldn’t have gone about it that way either.’
‘Second question …’
‘How many are there?’
‘This may be the last.’
The plasterers were listening, exchanging winks.
‘Go on then! I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You’ve just admitted that Émile’s success didn’t please everybody.’
‘Nobody’s ever pleased by another person’s success.’
‘Except that this is a world where everyone plays a tight game, and openings are few and far between.’
‘Granted. So?’
‘Do you think Émile could have been killed by someone he worked with?’
‘I’ve already answered that.’
‘How?’
‘Didn’t I tell you it’s not pleasant having a dead body under your roof for two or three days, particularly in this weather? Let’s say the people you’re talking about are sensitive souls. Or that they’re too closely watched to take risks. How was he killed?’
The story would be in the afternoon papers anyway.
‘Strangled.’
‘Well, the answer is even more cut and dried then, and you know why. Mazotti was a clean job. If the people from around here had wanted to do away with Émile, they would have done the same. Have you found the people who took care of Mazotti? No, you haven’t. And you’re not going to, even with your informers. Meanwhile this story of someone being strangled, kept somewhere for three days, then dumped by a cemetery wall, well, that stinks, literally. That’s it for your second question …’
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. Another?’
He held the bottle poised over the glass.
‘Not for the moment.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re planning to come back. I’ve got nothing against you personally but a little of you goes a long way in this business.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘The second round’s on me. When he questioned me for three hours your inspector gave me a sandwich and a beer …’
When they were outside Maigret and Lucas didn’t say anything for a long time. Eventually Maigret raised his arm to hail a taxi and the inspector had to remind him that they had come in one of the Police Judiciaire’s cars. They found it and got in.
‘My place,’ muttered Maigret.
He had no good reason to have lunch anywhere else. To tell the truth, he still didn’t know where to start with this case. Jo the Wrestler, who he knew was being sincere, had merely confirmed what he’d been thinking since that morning.
It was true that Émile Boulay was an amateur who had nonetheless set himself up right in the heart of Montmartre.
And, strangely enough, he seemed to have been killed by another amateur.
‘What about you?’ he asked Lucas.
Lucas understood the question.
‘The local shopkeepers all know the three women. They call them ‘the Italians’. They make fun of the old woman and the way she garbles French a bit. They don’t know Ada as well because she doesn’t go into the shops much, but they used to see her going past with her brother-in-law.
‘No one I talked to knew yet. The family seems to be very partial to their food: it’s incredible what they can get through, if the butcher is to be believed, and they always insist on the best cuts. In the afternoon, Marina goes for a walk on Square d’Anvers, pushing the pram with one hand and holding the boy with the other.’
‘Don’t they have a maid?’
‘Only a cleaner who comes in three times a week.’
‘Have you got her name and address?’
Lucas blushed.
‘I can do by this afternoon.’
‘What else do people say?’
‘The fishmonger’s wife told me, “He’s a sly old devil.”
‘She was talking about Émile, naturally.
‘ “He married the older sister when she was nineteen. When he saw she was starting to put on weight, he sent for the younger one. I bet he’ll find another sister or cousin in Italy when it’s Ada’s turn to fill out …” ’
Maigret had thought the same. It wouldn’t be the first husband he’d seen in love with his sister-in-law.
‘Try to find out more about Ada … Particularly whether she’s got a boyfriend or lover.’
‘Is that your impression, chief?’
‘No. But we can’t leave anything to chance. I’d like to know more about Antonio too. Why don’t you take a walk along Rue de Ponthieu this afternoon …’
‘All right.’
Lucas stopped the car in front of his chief’s apartment building. As Maigret looked up, he saw his wife leaning on her elbows at the window. She gave him a discreet wave. He waved back, then set off up the stairs.
4.
When the telephone rang Maigret, who had his mouth full, gestured to his wife to answer it.
‘Hello? Who’s speaking? Yes, he’s eating … I’ll call him …’
He looked at her glumly, frowning.
‘It’s Lecoin.’
He stood up, still chewing, napkin in hand to wipe his mouth. He had just been thinking about his colleague Lecoin, the head of the Vice Squad, in fact, and had resolved to pay him a visit that afternoon. Maigret’s contacts with the Montmartre underworld – Pigalle’s in particular – were out of date, and Lecoin knew all the latest developments.
‘Hello! Yes, go ahead … No, don’t mention it. It’s fine. I was planning to drop by and see you later.’
The head of Vice, who was Maigret’s junior by about ten years, lived not far from Boulevard Richard-Lenoir on Boulevard Voltaire in an apartment that, thanks to his six or seven children, was in a permanent state of uproar.
‘I’ve got someone I’m sure you know here,’ he explained. ‘He’s been one of my informers for a long time. He doesn’t like showing his face at headquarters so if he has something to tell me, he comes to see me at home. Today’s tip happens to be more up your street than mine. Of course, I don’t know if it amounts to anything, but, apart from his tendency to embellish, because he’s a bit of an artist in his own way, he’s someone you can trust.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Louis Boubée, known as Mickey, a nightclub doorman in …’
‘Send him over.’
‘Do you mind if he sees you at home?’
Maigret quickly finished his lunch and, by the time the bell rang, his wife had made coffee, which he took into the living room.
He hadn’t seen Mickey, as he was nicknamed, for years, but he recognized him immediately. Not that he could have failed to, really, as Boubée was quite an extraordinary creature. How old must he be now? Maigret tried to work it out. He was still a young inspector when his visitor was starting out as an errand boy in Montmartre.
Boubée hadn’t grown a centimetre. He was still the size of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old, and the most extraordinary thing was that he still looked like one too. A skinny little lad, with big, sticking-out ears, a large, pointed nose and a cheeky mouth that looked as if it was made of India rubber.
It was only when you looked closer that you realized that his face was covered in fine lines.
‘It’s been a while …’ Mickey exclaimed, looking around, holding his cap in his hand. ‘Remember the Tripoli and La Tétoune?’
The two men must have been the same age, give or take a couple of years.
‘Those were the days, eh!’
He was referring to a brasserie that used to be on Rue Duperré, a stone’s throw from the Lotus. Like its owne
r, it had had its hour of fame before the war.
La Tétoune was a statuesque woman from Marseilles, reputedly the queen of southern cooking in Paris, who used to greet her customers with a big kiss and call them by their first names.
It was a tradition when you arrived to go and see her in the kitchen, and her clientele would always throw up surprises.
‘Do you remember Fat Louis, who owned three brothels in Rue de Provence? And One-Eyed Eugène? And Fine Fernand, who ended up in the movies?’
Maigret knew it was futile to ask Mickey to come to the point. It was a coquettish dance of his: he was willing to pass on information to the police, but only after his own fashion, without appearing to do so.
The men he was talking about were the big underworld bosses of the time, the owners of brothels, which were still in existence, who would meet up at La Tétoune’s. They would rub shoulders there with their lawyers, leading barristers for the most part, and actresses, as the place became fashionable, and even government ministers.
‘I used to take bets on the boxing in those days.’
Another peculiar thing about Mickey was that he had no eyelashes or eyebrows, which made it strange when he looked at you.
‘We hardly ever see you in Montmartre now you’re the big chief at the Crime Squad. Monsieur Lecoin passes by from time to time … Sometimes I do him a little favour, like I used to with you … You know how it is, you hear so many things …’
What he failed to say was that he urgently needed the police to turn a blind eye to certain activities of his. As they tipped Mickey when they were leaving the club, the customers of the Lotus had no idea that he had his own thing going on the side.
He’d sometimes whisper into their ears:
‘Living statues, monsieur?’
He could say this in a dozen languages, with an explanatory wink. Then he’d slip the address of a nearby apartment into the man’s hand.
It wasn’t that bad, as a matter of fact. What you were presented with there, dressed up as a great mystery, was a dustier, sleazier version of the show you’d find in almost any club in Pigalle. The only difference being that the women were no longer twenty, but often double that, if not more.
‘Your inspector, the little fat one …’
‘Lucas …’
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