One of the faces was that of a plump, flabby, placid girl who had probably been soliciting on the other side of the avenue and been drawn over by the commotion. He had seen her two or three times that afternoon, at her station, and she probably hadn’t had much luck if she was still looking for custom at that hour. The two revellers were also there, and one of them, leaning over him, was stubbornly questioning him, most likely still drunk:
‘Feeling better, my friend? Tell me, are you feeling better now?’
Why was there a basket and why was there a smell of violets? He tried to raise himself up on one elbow. The reveller helped him. Then he spotted an elderly flower-seller who was complaining:
‘Those thugs again! If this carries on …’
And a hotel bellboy in a red uniform rushed over, saying:
‘I’ll go and fetch the police!’
‘I’m fine, thank you!’
Maigret asked as if in a trance:
‘What time is it?’
‘Five past midnight.’
‘I have to make a telephone call.’
‘Of course, my friend! In a minute. Someone’s bringing you a telephone. They’re just getting it.’
He had lost his hat and his hair was plastered to the top of his head. That thug Albert must have delivered his punch with a knuckleduster. If it hadn’t been for the two night owls, he would most likely have finished him off, and if Maigret hadn’t ducked …
Again, he said:
‘I have to make a telephone call.’
He managed to raise himself on to all fours, and blood dripped from his head on to the pavement, while one of the revellers exclaimed:
‘He’s drunk. It’s priceless! He’s still drunk!’
‘I assure you I have to—’
‘… make a telephone call … Yes, my friend … Do you hear, Armand? … Go and get him a telephone.’
And the girl, becoming indignant:
‘Can’t you see he’s delirious. You’d do better to call a doctor.’
‘Do you know of one around here?’
‘There’s one in Rue de l’Étoile.’
But the bellboy was already back, all excited, showing two police officers on bicycles the way. The others stood aside. The officers leaned over.
‘I have to make a telephone call …’ repeated Maigret.
It was funny. He hadn’t felt drunk all evening, but now his words were slurred and his thoughts muddled. Only one remained clear, imperative.
He stuttered, annoyed at being there, on the ground, in that ludicrous position, unable to stand up:
‘Police … Look in my wallet … Saint-Georges district … Telephone Gare du Nord immediately … The Brussels train … in a few minutes … They have a car …’
One of the officers had gone over to stand beneath the gas lamp to examine the contents of Maigret’s wallet.
‘It’s true, Germain.’
‘Listen … Hurry … They’ve got their tickets … A woman in black, with a scar on her cheek … One of the men is wearing a check suit … The other one has a broken nose.’
‘Will you go, Germain?’
The police station was in Rue de l’Étoile, not far away. One of the officers jumped on to his bicycle. The bellboy, who hadn’t heard much of what they’d said, asked:
‘Is he a cop?’
Maigret lost consciousness again, while one of the revellers struggled to form the words:
‘I tell you he’s drunk as a skunk!’
7.
Madame Maigret’s Laughter
He was still trying to push them away, but his hand was limp, with no strength. He wished they would just leave him alone. Had he asked them to? He couldn’t remember. There were so many things in his head that it hurt a little.
Above all he was certain of one thing: he absolutely must be allowed to see this thing through to the end. The end of what? Good Lord! How difficult people found it to understand him! To the end!
But they were treating him like a child, or an invalid. No one asked his opinion. The most annoying thing was that they were talking about his case in front of him, as if he were incapable of understanding. Because he was still lying on the ground like a giant crushed insect? There had been legs around him, then the ambulance. He had been perfectly aware that it was an ambulance and he had struggled. Can’t a person receive a blow to the head without being carted off to hospital?
He had also recognized the dark gates of Beaujon Hospital, the arch with a very powerful electric light that hurt his eyes; people were calmly coming and going, a tall young man in a white coat seemed to be laughing at everyone.
Maigret knew that he was the junior doctor, didn’t he? A nurse was cutting the hair on the top of his head, and the doctor was whispering sweet nothings. She was very pretty in her uniform. From the way they were looking at each other, they must have been making love just before Maigret’s arrival.
He didn’t want to vomit, but he did, because of the ether.
‘That’ll teach him,’ he said to himself.
What were they giving him to drink? He refused to drink. He needed to think. Hadn’t the officer on a bicycle told them that he was a policeman in charge of an important case, a confidential case?
No one believed him. It was the chief inspector’s fault. He didn’t want to be carried. And why did Madame Maigret burst out laughing as she yanked back the sheets?
He was sure she had laughed, with a nervous laugh that he’d never heard before, then for a long time he heard her coming in and out of the bedroom making as little noise as possible.
Could he have acted differently? If only they would let him think. If only they’d give him a pencil and paper. Any old scrap of paper, yes. Good.
Now, if this line is Rue Chaptal … It’s very short … Good … It’s just after one o’clock in the morning, and there’s no one in the street …
Wrong, there is someone. There’s Dédé, at the wheel of his car. And Dédé has kept the engine running. There could be two reasons for that. The first, that he has only stopped for a few minutes. The second, that he’s expecting to have to make a quick getaway. And it’s difficult to start cars up again, especially when it’s chilly − and April nights are chilly.
No one must interrupt him! A line, then. A little square for the Balthazars’ house. He called it the Balthazars’ residence, because it rang truer than the Gendreaus’. Ultimately, it’s all the Balthazar family, Balthazar money, the Balthazar saga.
If Dédé’s car is there, there’s a reason. And that reason is that it has probably dropped the count off and is waiting to pick him up when he leaves.
This is very serious. Don’t interrupt … There’s no need to put things on his head or boil water in the kitchen. He can hear water being boiled. People are always boiling water and it’s very annoying, it stops you thinking.
On other occasions when the count had visited Lise, had Dédé driven him there? It’s crucial to find out. Otherwise, that nocturnal visit was a one-off call with a specific purpose.
Why had Madame Maigret burst out laughing? What was so funny about him? Did she also think that he’d been larking around with girls?
Justin Minard was the one who’d slept with Germaine. She certainly didn’t intend to let go of him and would probably make his life a misery for a long time. What about Carmen? He’d never met her. There were lots of people he’d never met.
It wasn’t fair. When you’re conducting a confidential investigati
on, you should be allowed to see everyone, to see them from inside.
They must give him back his pencil. This square was a bedroom. Lise’s bedroom, of course. The furniture wasn’t important. There’s no point drawing furniture. It would only confuse things. Only the bedside table, because there was a pistol either on top of it or in the drawer.
Now, the crucial question: was Lise in bed or wasn’t she? Was she expecting the count or not? If she was in bed, she must have taken the pistol out of the drawer.
If only they’d stop squeezing his head, damn it! You can’t think when someone’s pressing down on your head with some heavy object.
How come it was broad daylight? Who’s this? There’s a man in the room, a short, bald man, someone he knows but whose name eludes him. Madame Maigret whispers. A cold object is slipped into his mouth.
For pity’s sake, gentlemen! … In a while he’s going to have to go into the witness box and, if he babbles incoherently, Lise Gendreau will burst out laughing saying that he can’t possibly understand because he’s not a member of the Hoche club.
He must concentrate on the square. The little circle is Lise. Remember it’s only the women in the family who have inherited the character of old Balthazar, the recluse who lived in Avenue du Bois. He’s the one who said it, and he should know.
So why does she rush over to the window, draw back the curtains and cry for help?
Hold on, inspector … Don’t forget Minard, the flautist, because he has just changed everything …
There wasn’t time for anyone to leave the house when Minard rang the doorbell, and while he was arguing with Louis, a man’s voice on the stairs shouted:
‘Hurry up, Louis!’
And Dédé’s car drove off. But hold on! It didn’t disappear altogether. It drove around the block. So Dédé was definitely waiting for someone.
When he came back, was he content to just cruise down the street to have a look? Or did he stop? Did the person he was waiting for get into the car?
Hell and damnation, why couldn’t they leave him alone! He doesn’t want to drink any more. He’s had enough. He’s working. Do you hear! I’m work-ing!
I’m re-con-struct-ing!
He feels hot. He struggles. He will not allow anyone to laugh at him, no one, not even his wife. It’s enough to make you cry. He really feels like crying. It’s pointless humiliating him like this. Just because he’s sitting on the pavement, that’s no reason to treat him with disdain and laugh at everything he says.
He won’t be put in charge of any more cases. Already they were uncertain about this one. Is it his fault if you sometimes have to drink with people to find out what makes them tick?
‘Jules …’
He shakes his head.
‘Jules! Wake up …’
He’ll punish them by refusing to open his eyes. He clenches his jaw. He must look fierce.
‘Jules, it’s …’
And another voice says:
‘Well, Maigret, my boy?’
He has forgotten his vow. He sits up abruptly and feels as if he has banged his head on the ceiling. He automatically raises his hand to his head and finds that it is encased in a thick bandage.
‘I’m sorry, sir …’
‘I’m sorry I woke you.’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’
His wife is there, smiling at him, and is making unintelligible signs behind Monsieur Le Bret’s back.
‘What time is it?’
‘Half past ten. I heard what had happened when I arrived at the office.’
‘Have they written a report?’
A report on him! How humiliating. Usually he’s the one who writes reports, and he knows the formula:
Last night, at 11.45 pm, while on patrol in Avenue de Wagram, we were hailed by …
Something along the lines of:
… an individual lying on the ground stating that his name was Maigret, Jules, Amédée, François …
As for the chief inspector, he was looking dapper in pearl grey from head to toe, a flower in his buttonhole. His breath smelled of his early-morning tipple of port.
‘The Gare du Nord police arrested them in the nick of time.’
Goodness! He had almost forgotten that lot! He was tempted to say, like the flautist: ‘It doesn’t matter.’
And it was true. It wasn’t Dédé who mattered, or Lucile, or even less the boxer who’d hit him over the head, with ‘a blunt instrument’ as the report probably said.
It was the embarrassment of being in bed in front of his boss. He poked a leg out.
‘Don’t get out of bed.’
‘I’m fine, I assure you.’
‘That’s what the doctor said too. All the same, you need a few days’ rest.’
‘Never!’
He knew they wanted to take his case away from him. But he wasn’t going to let them trample all over him.
‘Calm down, Maigret.’
‘I am calm, perfectly calm. And I know what I’m saying. There’s no reason why I can’t walk or go outside.’
‘There’s no rush. I understand your hurry, but as far as your case is concerned, we’ll do whatever you feel is necessary.’
He had said ‘your case’, because he was a man of the world. Without thinking he lit a cigarette then glanced at Madame Maigret in embarrassment.
‘Don’t worry. My husband smokes a pipe all day long and even in bed.’
‘That’s a good idea, give me a pipe.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Did the doctor say I mustn’t smoke?’
‘He didn’t mention it.’
‘So?’
She had put everything she’d found in his pockets on top of the dressing table, and she began to fill a pipe for him. She held it out to him along with a match.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, making her exit and retreating to the kitchen.
Maigret tried to recall everything he had thought of during the night. He only had a vague recollection and yet he had the feeling he’d been close to the truth. Maxime Le Bret sat down on a chair; he was clearly worried. He became even more so when his secretary announced slowly, between two puffs:
‘Count d’Anseval is dead.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘I don’t have any evidence, but I’d swear to it.’
‘Dead … how?’
‘He’s the one who got shot.’
‘Rue Chaptal?’
Maigret nodded.
‘Do you think that it’s Richard Gendreau who …’
The question is too specific. Maigret hasn’t reached that point yet. He remembers his square, with the little crosses.
‘There was a pistol on the bedside table, or in the drawer. Lise Gendreau cried for help from the window. Then she was dragged backwards. And then a shot was heard.’
‘What’s Dédé doing mixed up in all this?’
‘He was in the street, at the wheel of the De Dion-Bouton.’
‘Has he admitted it?’
‘There’s no need for him to admit it.’
‘What about the woman?’
‘She’s the mistress of the count, who’s generally known as Bob. Anyway, you know that as well as I do.’
Maigret would have liked to be rid of the ridiculous turban that was making his head feel heavy.
‘What’s been done with them?’ he asked.
‘They’ve been taken to headquarters for the time being
.’
‘Until when?’
‘For the moment they’ve simply been charged with carrying out an armed attack on a public thoroughfare. They could probably be charged with robbery too.’
‘Why?’
‘This Dédé had forty-nine one-thousand franc notes in his pockets.’
‘He didn’t steal them.’
The inspector must have read his thoughts, for he became increasingly glum.
‘Do you mean they were given to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘To keep him quiet?’
‘Yes. Dédé disappeared for the whole of yesterday afternoon. When he resurfaced, so to speak, he was jubilant, impatient to spend some of the money swelling his pockets. While Lucile was crying over the death of her lover, he was celebrating his new-found fortune. I was with them.’
Poor Le Bret! He could not get used to Maigret’s transformation. He was like those parents who treat their child like a baby and then suddenly see before them a man reasoning like an adult.
Who knew? Watching him, Maigret had a vague suspicion. Gradually, this suspicion turned into a conviction.
If Le Bret had entrusted him with the case, it was in the certainty − the hope − that he would find nothing.
This is what had happened. Monsieur Le Bret-Courcelles, the socialite, had absolutely no desire to see one of his circle, a friend from his club, being inconvenienced, even less a close friend of his wife’s, a Balthazar Coffee heiress.
That damned flautist who’d come poking his nose into something that was none of his business!
Were the goings-on in an upstairs bedroom in a private house in Rue Chaptal of any interest to the papers, the public, or even juries made up chiefly of small shopkeepers and bank clerks?
But on the other hand, Chief Inspector Le Bret couldn’t very well tear up a statement in front of his secretary.
‘… you understand, Maigret, my boy …’
Discretion. No scandal. Extreme caution. The best way to ensure that Maigret found out nothing. Then, after a few days, he would have been greeted with smiling condescension.
Maigret's First Case Page 11
