Or is it possible that the man really is a saint?
‘I swear, inspector …’
‘That’s enough! Carry on like this and you’ll make me really angry! Listen, I haven’t arrested you yet. I hope that you will reflect, that you will see that your best course would be to tell me everything … Lucas! … Lucas! …’
Lucas steps into the office, notes that his chief is sweating profusely and that he is barely containing his anger.
‘Bring Madame Le Cloaguen here …’
The old man’s hands begin to shake, his forehead again breaks out in that same ugly sweat of fear. Could it be that they do actually beat him?
‘Come in, madame! … Be quiet! … I would ask you not to speak … I realize that you feel angry about having been kept waiting for hours, but you only have yourself to blame … Be quiet! … It was your husband I sent for, not you. He’s quite old enough to be able to come to Quai des Orfèvres by himself, and if it happens again you will not be allowed into the building … I return him to you. I don’t know yet if I shall need to take further action against him. But it is at least likely that he will be examined by doctors, who will be able to tell us if he really is mad or not … You may go … I am asking you to leave, is that clear? … As you wish! You can complain to whoever you like … Goodbye, madame …’
Phew! … At last the door has closed. Lucas, greatly impressed, eyes his chief, who wipes his face, calms down slowly and even raises a smile.
‘Well?’
‘Nothing, Lucas … Absolutely zero … It’s just that I can’t stand the sight of that woman … I’d give anything for it to be her, instead of her husband, who was found in the kitchen of the flat in Rue Coulaincourt …’
Lucas smiles. Never before has he seen Maigret get so riled.
‘Makes you think …’ continues the inspector, suddenly pensive.
He stands as if suspended in time, his eyes fixed on the light-filled river scene and the variegated bustle on the Pont Saint-Michel.
‘Makes you think of what? …’
‘Oh, nothing … We need to know where that woman was on Friday afternoon. And know beyond doubt … You can look after that …’
‘Why didn’t you question her about what she did on Sunday?’
‘Never you mind!’
Because he is convinced that she was expecting him to ask, that she had her answer all ready and that what ruffles her feathers, worries her and makes her see red is the fact that she wasn’t asked any questions at all. Even now, in the taxi taking her home, she must be tormented by all kinds of fears.
‘So you think …’
‘I don’t think anything … Who knows? … I might just take a trip down to Saint-Raphaël … And what about our other freak, the idiot Mascouvin? … Did you phone the Hôtel-Dieu?’
‘His condition is satisfactory. His sister went to visit him, and he didn’t recognize her. Give it another couple of days …’
‘What about the man in the green convertible?’
‘Nothing … He’s probably changed his car … We are on to the twentieth green convertible, and the girl from the dairy hasn’t recognized any of them …’
There is a knock at the door. It’s the clerk.
‘The commissioner wants to see you, sir.’
Maigret and Lucas exchange looks. It’s never a good sign in the middle of an investigation. It means that there’s something wrong, a hitch, complaints, God knows what. Maigret is in no mood to accept a reprimand or even advice. Even the way he clamps the stem of his pipe between his teeth says a great deal about his intentions.
He opens the baize door.
‘You sent for me?’
Without saying a word, the commissioner holds out a letter sent by pneumatic post which has just come. His attitude is neither one thing nor another, perhaps not best pleased or maybe just ironic. Maigret reads:
Dear commissioner.
I have the honour and advantage of bringing to your attention certain facts which, if they cannot be explained by any of your officers, would provide me with ample grounds to lodge a formal complaint.
On my return on Sunday last from my regular visit to Morsang-sur-Seine, I was told by my concierge that an individual, describing himself as a police inspector, had walked into her lodge a little earlier and had spent a considerable time asking questions about me, my means and my habits.
My concierge omitted to require this person to show any credentials. I have every reason to believe that he was a bogus policeman.
Indeed, by looking out at my surroundings through my window, I was able to catch sight of him watching me from a small café in Place Saint-Georges called the Vieux Pouilly.
I assume that, knowing I live alone and take all my meals in restaurants, he was only waiting for me to go out so that he could make a profitable visit to my apartment
I will not hide the fact that I play the stock market, an activity which is open to all French citizens, nor that I am in the habit of keeping large amounts of cash as well as share certificates at home.
I reported the facts enumerated above to my local police station and requested the protection of their officers. Shortly after this, I did observe a uniformed sergeant arrive in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.
The man who had been watching me spoke to him. They shook hands, and the sergeant walked off shrugging his shoulders.
The following morning, the watching man was still there. He was approached by a man of middle years, heavy-set with badly cut clothes, with whom he had a drink in the Vieux Pouilly …
The commissioner cannot resist smiling at Maigret’s grim face, for it is patently obvious that the man referred to in the letter is the detective chief inspector himself.
I cannot help thinking that there is an organized gang which has designs on my money. The whole of Monday I was followed by men who seemed to operate in relays and were all fairly conspicuous.
Eventually when, as I do each week, I called in at Proud and Drouin, the agency which looks after all my investments, I discovered that the man with the heavy features and the pipe had been there inquiring if I was a client.
I would be most grateful if you would use every means at your disposal to throw light on these facts and put an end to a state of affairs which I regard as worrying.
Yours very sincerely,
Émile Blaise,
Registered Trader
‘Well, Maigret?’
Already ready to explode when he walked into the commissioner’s office, Maigret snorts menacingly, like a bear maddened beyond endurance.
‘Yes, what do you make of this? Either this Monsieur Blaise is …’
At this, Maigret thunders:
‘Monsieur Blaise? … Monsieur Blaise? … Monsieur Blaise is taking you for a ride, sir!’
‘You too, I think …’
‘Me too, yes …’
‘Is it true you went to see Proud and Drouin?’
‘Quite true. And I was damn well right! It would take too long to explain the ins and outs … You remember Mascouvin? The man who brought us the famous blotter? … Well, Mascouvin worked as a clerk at Proud and Drouin …’
‘But who is this Monsieur Blaise?’
‘Wait! Who discovered the body? A certain Madame Roy, landlady of the Beau Pigeon, at Morsang …’
‘I still don’t see …’
‘Mademoiselle Jeanne used to go to Morsang often … Monsieur Blaise goes there every week and he catches pike which have already been caught once before …’
‘Listen, Maigret. I’m starting to think …’
‘And I think I’m beginning to understand … Mascouvin warns us about the murder before it’s committed. Mademoiselle Jeanne is killed at the stated time. Madame Roy discovers her body a few minutes later. Monsieur Blaise is a client of Proud and Drouin and a client of Madame Roy. There’s only Le Cloaguen …’
Maigret pauses for a moment to think.
‘That’s two connections already … Proud
and Drouin and Morsang … I think that this evening I shall go for a bridge lesson …’
‘Bridge lesson?’
‘At the countess’s club … A most distinguished lady, apparently, who has come down in the world and now pays her way by issuing invitations to people who are lonely in Paris to come and play bridge in her rooms in Rue des Pyramides … For a consideration, of course … Now, suppose Monsieur Blaise is one of her clients …’
‘Well?’
‘Nothing, I realize that … It wouldn’t prove a thing … But you’d have to admit it is a curious coincidence given the fact that Mascouvin, a clerk at Proud and Drouin, played bridge every evening at the countess’s … If only that blasted Le Cloaguen …’
The commissioner shrugs his shoulders discreetly as if telling himself: ‘This is no time to cross him …’
He holds out his hand.
‘Good luck, Maigret … By the bye, about this Monsieur Blaise … Perhaps it might be an idea to go a little easier on him? … The man seems very prickly and very determined to make trouble for us … If the papers get hold of it or he manages to interest a member of parliament in his complaint …’
Naturally! Of course! We’ll be careful, commissioner, but it’s obvious you haven’t just spent three hours alone with the captivating Le Cloaguen!
6. Maigret Discovers Picpus
Experts had pored over the enigma that was Picpus. The first thing millions of people opening their newspapers looked for in the large print of the headlines was that name. It caught on, it was on everyone’s lips.
‘Have you seen Picpus?’
‘How is Picpus? How’s Picpus getting on?’
Taxi-drivers had finally found a word for their cack-handed colleagues.
‘Watch where you’re going, Picpus!’
In the end, it was a fly, a common house-fly, which would ultimately lead to the elusive Picpus.
That morning, Maigret had got up later than usual, because he had stayed in the countess’s club until two in the morning. The air still retained a little of the delicious coolness of night while the sun, gilding the houses, contained the promise of warm hours to come.
Maigret, who liked nothing better than not hurrying when Paris is waking up, had not gone straight from Boulevard Richard Lenoir to Quai des Orfèvres but had proceeded at a leisurely, gentlemanly pace along a roundabout route which took in Place de la République.
The previous evening, he had played a clownish role in the club rooms in Rue des Pyramides. The moment he arrived, the countess, wearing a flowing gauzy gown and behaving more theatrically than a leading lady from the Comédie Française, had pounced.
‘Not a word! … Come with me, dear inspector … If you only knew how thrilled I am to welcome such a famous man into my home …’
She dragged him into her sanctum. She talked and talked. She begged Maigret not to do anything that would cause a scandal in her club. She only admitted persons of good breeding, persons who occupied prominent positions in society …
‘Only just now I was saying to the prince …’
Her hand, heavy with fake diamond rings, kept landing on the knee of the inspector, who looked glaucous-eyed at this frothing creature.
‘So you would really like to spend an evening with us? … No, I do not know a Monsieur Blaise. The description you give of him does not put me in mind of any of our friends … For we are among friends here, are we not? … If everyone contributes to the expenses, as is only natural in times as difficult as these …’
Five minutes later, she was introducing Maigret – though his picture appeared frequently in the newspapers – as a retired colonel, and sat him down at her bridge table, the one reserved for beginners, where she could give him a lesson. She nevertheless found time to pass among the tables, whispering a warning to everyone present.
‘He’s the famous Detective Chief Inspector Maigret! Do try to appear as if you’re not staring at him. He’s come here incognito. He wants to ask my advice …’
Now, in the street, Maigret looked at the passers-by, telling himself that Paris was full of thousands, millions of bizarre exhibits of that sort, of people living mysterious or amazing lives which are rarely uncovered and then only through some traumatic event.
He was approaching the Café des Sports in Place de la République. He went in, hesitating a moment between standing at the counter and finding a table inside, but then he thought he would sit where Joseph Mascouvin always sat. His mind was working mechanically. Picpus! Why Picpus, the name of a densely populated street in a poor part of Paris, a good distance away, near the Père-Lachaise cemetery?
‘Waiter! … A beer …’
‘Coming up, inspector … Just getting this cask on …’
Nestor, sleeves rolled up over his hairy forearms, wiped the counter and the pump, making them sparkle. The only other person in the bar was sitting in a corner, a girl up from the provinces. She had a suitcase and was most likely waiting for someone while she nursed a milky coffee.
‘Well now, inspector, how’s poor Monsieur Mascouvin getting on?’
Nestor leaned forward to set the glass of beer on the table. The inspector stared at his bald head, or more accurately watched the progress of a fly which settled on it without the waiter appearing to notice.
From the fly and the polished scalp, his eye travelled further, and suddenly Maigret grunted and almost shot to his feet like a shell from a cannon, much to the surprise of the waiter, who turned round quickly and, seeing no one, was even more baffled by the startling reflex of a policeman renowned for his placidity.
Maigret had just found Picpus! Picpus was there, on the wall, just opposite the table occupied each day by Joseph Mascouvin, the same table where the letter predicting the death of the clairvoyant had certainly been written.
Readers would have plenty to laugh about if the papers ever printed a picture of the famous Picpus!
Above the slot-machine hung a large publicity calendar, the kind some businesses still give away free to their customers.
Moving house?
For removals without tears,
Send for …
A print in brash, basic colours showed the cartoonish figure of a strong man in a striped sweater, with a flaming-red bushy beard, a crimson nose and Olympian muscles. This colossus was winking at the observer while juggling with a mirror-fronted wardrobe:
Send for Picpus!
The name, in bold type, caught the eye while underneath, in smaller letters could be read:
United Removals
101, Rue Picpus, Paris.
So there was no such person as Picpus. He was a grotesque caricature, an advertising slogan. One evening, a man had sat at this table to write a note. Then he had paused. How should he sign it? His eye had wandered around him and had come to rest on the calendar: Picpus!
Looking no further, the man – or woman – had written, perhaps with a crafty smile: Signed, Picpus.
Only one thing was certain: Maigret was not mistaken. He knew!
‘Waiter! What do I owe you?’
Maigret wanted to take the calendar with him to hang in his own museum of crime, but decided to come back for it another day, when the investigation was over.
And why not, since it was only a few minutes’ walk from Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, take the opportunity to call in at Proud and Drouin? On his first visit, he had not been able to meet the owners.
There were numerous offices in the building. The staircase needed sweeping. On the first-floor windows, half covered by green glass, were written the names of both associates.
‘Monsieur Proud, please.’
‘Are you wanting to speak to him personally?’
‘Yes. It’s personal.’
‘Monsieur Proud died three years ago …’
Feeling thwarted, Maigret asked the man at the desk with the smug smile if he could see Monsieur Drouin. A few moments later, he was shown into the office of Monsieur Drouin, a man of fifty with suspici
ous eyes.
‘Sit down, inspector. I found your card on my desk and I must admit …’
‘I quite understand, Monsieur Drouin … But because there are some questions I have to ask you …’
‘If this is about a client, I must warn you that we are bound by a duty of absolute confidentiality and, further, that we consider our hands to be tied by the requirements of professional discretion …’
‘Will you tell me, Monsieur Drouin, if you thought Joseph Mascouvin was an honest employee?’
‘If I hadn’t, I would not have gone on employing him …’
‘Did he have an important position in your organization?’
Monsieur Drouin rises, crosses to the door and opens it to make sure no one could hear them.
‘Given the circumstances and the mystery surrounding the poor man’s actions, I can tell you that I kept him on mainly out of charity …’
‘Did he not give satisfaction?’
‘Try to understand. I had no complaints from the point of view of his professional competence … On the contrary! He was always first to arrive and last to leave. He would never have read a newspaper or hid a novel behind his blotter nor gone to the WC for a smoke. Nor did he ever make up stories about some family crisis to wangle a day off. Never a dead grandmother nor a sick wife … Actually he was too conscientious …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was obsessed with having a clear conscience. Perhaps he got it from his early years, because I am aware that he was raised in a municipal orphanage. He constantly felt that he was being watched, that people weren’t pleased with him and even suspected him. It made him touchy, and I could never quite bring myself to reprimand him because he was so sensitive … He was not liked by his colleagues. He lived in his little corner, did his work but never got on with the rest of the staff.’
‘Tell me, Monsieur Drouin, had you already noticed that there was money missing from his drawer?’
The man of business looks startled.
‘Money? … From his drawer? … No, that is quite impossible, inspector. Our practice rules out any possibility that anyone, not even our most senior employees, not even my chief clerk himself … We are not a shop with a till into which anyone can dip a hand when no one’s looking. I can almost guarantee that actual money, cash, never passes through these offices. We sell buildings, chateaux, houses, building land. All our transactions run to hundreds of thousands of francs and, more often than not, millions. It is hardly necessary for me to add that payments of this kind are always made by cheque and almost invariably in the presence of a notary. As for buildings which we manage, the arrangements are more or less the same, and when due date settlements are not paid by cheque, then it is the job of our own cashier to …’
Signed, Picpus Page 7
