‘He says he does, because he only drank mineral water, whereas the girl with him would order a Cointreau. It was his first job as a café waiter. Before that, he was a room-service waiter in a big hotel on the Boulevards.’
‘Did he ever see them anywhere else?’
‘No. Julien – that’s the waiter’s name – lived quite far away, on Boulevard de la Chapelle.’
‘When was the last time he saw them?’
‘About two months later.’
‘And he’s never seen Vivien since?’
‘No.’
‘Or the young woman?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever hear the man call her by her first name?’
‘No. Apparently that’s all he knows.’
What emerged from this story, if Julien wasn’t mistaken about the dates, was that Vivien hadn’t left his family and his workshop to become a tramp.
He had left because of a woman. He had presumably planned to start a new life.
How come he hadn’t avoided the neighbourhood? Cyrano’s was a few hundred metres from his workshop, and less than a kilometre from the apartment where his wife and daughter were still living.
Wasn’t he afraid of being recognized? Didn’t he care? Had he told his wife that he was going to live with another woman? Was that the reason for Madame Vivien’s mistrustful attitude?
‘Go back to the neighbourhood this afternoon and keep questioning people. It’s possible there are other waiters of a certain age at Cyrano’s. Even the owner.’
‘The owner’s still in his twenties. He’s the son of the former owner, who’s moved to the country.’
‘Find out where.’
‘All right, chief.’
‘There are lots of little hotels in the neighbourhood. They’ll have to be checked too. In those days it was almost impossible to find an apartment.’
Maigret knew that in the end he would go to Cyrano’s himself and roam about the Rochechouart neighbourhood.
He went home for lunch but first had an aperitif at the Brasserie Dauphine and then took a taxi.
As he had foreseen, Maigret found himself, at about 2.30, in front of the terrace of Cyrano’s. Place Blanche was bustling, thanks to the coaches and the tourists moving about in groups, as if in clusters, cameras around their necks. All of them, or almost all of them, were photographing the Moulin Rouge, which was right next door to the brasserie.
The terrace was full, and there wasn’t a single chair free. The waiters insinuating themselves between the tables – there were three of them – were quite young, but, in the gloom of the interior, Maigret saw one who couldn’t have been far off sixty.
He went in and sat down on a banquette.
‘A draught beer.’
He hadn’t brought Torrence with him because he was slightly embarrassed by his growing interest in Marcel Vivien.
‘Is your name Julien?’ he asked when he was served. ‘Did one of my men talk to you this morning?’
‘Are you Inspector Maigret?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s an honour to meet you. I think I told your inspector all I know.’
‘These memories of yours definitely go back to 1945?’
‘Yes. The reason I’m so sure, like I said this morning, is because it was my first job working in a place like this.’
‘End of December, beginning of January?’
‘There I’m less sure. At the end of December, because of the holidays, it’s a madhouse here, and we don’t really have time to look at the customers closely.’
Someone called him from a table in the second row, and he went and took the order and returned with two glasses of beer.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m alone inside. The others are dealing with the terrace. What was I saying? January, yes … Probably February, too, because I got used to them, and that must have taken a while.’
‘You have no doubt about identifying Vivien?’
‘I didn’t know his name, but he was definitely the man who came almost every evening in the company of a pretty girl.’
‘Almost always at the time when the cinemas close?’
‘Yes. That struck me, I don’t know why.’
‘Would you recognize the young woman?’
‘You know, with women, it’s harder to recognize them after twenty years.’
An idea occurred to him.
‘But I’d recognize that one.’
‘Why?’
‘She had a little birthmark on her cheek.’
‘Left or right?’
‘Let me think. They almost always sat at that table. So it would have been the left cheek I saw when I served them.’
He had to move away again to attend to another customer, who ordered a brandy with water.
‘Did you ever see this young woman with anyone else?’
‘No. I don’t remember. I think it would have struck me because I’d got used to her face and the way she dressed.’
‘How did she dress?’
‘Always in black. A little black evening dress and a black coat with a fur collar.’
‘Did the couple have a car?’
‘No. They came on foot, as if they lived nearby.’
‘Did they ever take a taxi?’
There was a taxi rank just opposite the brasserie.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘And when they left, did they ever head for the Métro station?’
‘No. I assumed they were local. After midnight, it’s another matter, because the nightclubs fill up with customers from all over the world. But here, it’s like being on the other bank of the river. There’s a big difference between the two sides of the boulevard.’
He struck his forehead.
‘What did I tell you before? Did I say 1945? But now, after answering all these questions … It was 1946, of course. In 1945, I was still working as a room-service waiter at the Grand Hôtel.’
This time, he had to go to yet another table to take a payment.
When he came back, he said:
‘I love this neighbourhood. It’s different from the rest of Paris. There are still lots of artisans who have their workshops in the courtyards of buildings. A lot of office workers, too, civil servants, shop assistants. Plus pensioners who are too fond of Montmartre to retire to the country … Is there anything else I can do to help?’
‘I don’t think so. If you should happen to remember anything interesting, don’t hesitate to phone Quai des Orfèvres.’
‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ he called out to four new customers who were getting impatient.
Clouds were starting to gather in the west even though half the sky was still more or less clear. Every now and again, there was a slight gust of cold air.
Maigret drank his beer slowly, vowing that there wouldn’t be any more today. He was getting ready to pay for his drink when his neighbour leaned over in his direction.
‘Did I hear correctly? Are you Inspector Maigret? I hope you don’t mind me speaking to you like this.’
He was very fat and very red, with three chins and a huge belly.
‘I was born in Montmartre and I’ve lived here all my life. I used to have a picture framer’s shop on Boulevard Rochechouart. I sold the business three years ago, but I’ve kept my old habits.’
Maigret looked at him curiously, not sure where he was going with this.
‘I didn’t intend to, but I overheard part of your conversation with the waiter. You were talking about the tramp who was murdered in a run-down building in Les Halles, weren’t you? I had a good look at his photographs in the newspapers and I’m sure I’m not wrong.’
‘So you know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘No. This goes back nearly twenty years. I recognized him best in the photographs where he didn’t have a moustache.’
‘Did you ever go to his workshop in Rue Lepic?’
‘No. If I’m to bel
ieve what the papers say, he wasn’t there any more. Like Julien, I met him in 1946.’
‘At what time of year?’
‘Starting in February, unless I’m mistaken. I saw him regularly for about six months.’
‘Did he live near you?’
‘I don’t know where he and his girlfriend lived but they always had lunch in the same restaurant as me, La Bonne Fourchette in Rue Dancourt. It’s a little restaurant where everyone’s a regular and there are only half a dozen tables, so you all end up knowing each other.’
‘Are you sure this went on for six months?’
‘I saw them in August, just before I went off to spend three weeks on the Riviera.’
‘And when you got back?’
‘I assumed I’d see them, but they weren’t there any more. I asked Boutant, the owner, about them, and he told me that one day they’d suddenly stopped coming.’
‘Maybe they were also on holiday.’
‘No. They would have come back in the autumn. I never saw them on the boulevard or in any of the streets either.’
Maigret was quite troubled by what he was hearing. The man was clearly genuine and seemed to have an excellent memory. Adding his memories to those of the waiter, the only conclusion was that as soon as Marcel Vivien had left the family home in Rue Caulaincourt and abandoned his workshop in Rue Lepic, he had more or less lived with a very young woman, not much more than a girl, without taking the trouble to change neighbourhoods.
For two months, they had gone to Cyrano’s quite regularly, after leaving the cinema. Subsequently, up until mid-August, they had frequented a little restaurant in Rue Dancourt, a few blocks away.
What did they live on? Did Vivien have savings? Could he really have taken them without leaving anything for his wife and daughter?
That was another question he would have to ask Madame Vivien, because her daughter wouldn’t necessarily know. But would she answer him?
He sighed, paid for his beer, thanked Julien, then his neighbour the picture framer.
‘Could what I’ve told you be useful?’
‘Definitely.’
As he walked along the boulevard, he filled a pipe. In Rue Dancourt, he immediately found the restaurant called La Bonne Fourchette. The main room was small and the door had been left open to let in a little air. A middle-aged man in a chef’s uniform was leaning on the counter, reading a newspaper.
It was an old-style restaurant that still had pigeon-holes in the wall for the regulars’ napkins. You just had to walk through a glazed door and you would find yourself in the kitchen.
At this hour, of course, there were no customers.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
Maigret walked over to the tin counter.
‘I’m not thirsty but I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘What are you?’
‘I’m a detective chief inspector from the Police Judiciaire.’
‘I thought the police would show up sooner or later.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Vivien, that weird tramp, came here over several months.’
‘What year was that?’
‘1946.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘No. He was always with a pretty girl who never missed the opportunity to cuddle up to him.’
‘How come you remember them?’
‘Because the waiter and the customers automatically smiled when they saw them come in. They looked so much in love. They’d even stop eating to kiss on the lips, in front of everyone.’
‘Didn’t that surprise you?’
‘You know, in this business, we see all sorts, it takes a lot to surprise us. True, he looked about fifteen years older than her, but there are lots of couples like that.’
‘Do you know where they lived?’
‘No. In the neighbourhood, probably, because they came on foot, arm in arm, like people who have all the time in the world.’
‘Did they ever leave in a taxi?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Did they sometimes come for dinner?’
‘No. But I didn’t think anything of that. At lunchtime we get people who work locally, and they go home at the end of the day, so in the evening we have a different set of customers.’
‘When did they stop coming?’
‘Around the 15th of August. I closed for two weeks to take my wife to the country and go fishing. When I got back, I didn’t see them again. I guess they found another restaurant.’
Maigret thanked him and found himself back on Boulevard Rochechouart, where he walked idly, just like the locals. He didn’t understand. There was something grating about this story.
Marcel Vivien had left home two days before Christmas. Even though he seemed to have loved his eight-year-old daughter, he hadn’t waited another three days before vanishing.
Had he only just met the young woman – the girl – he was going to join?
There was a phone booth nearby, and he shut himself up in it. He found Madame Vivien’s number and heard her curt voice.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s me again. Detective Chief Inspector Maigret. This time, I have just one question to ask you, but it’s extremely important for how the investigation continues. When your husband disappeared, did he leave you any money?’
‘No!’
‘Did he have a bank account, a savings book?’
‘He had a bank account, because customers paid by cheque.’
‘So he took everything he had in credit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you expecting him to leave?’
‘How could I have expected it?’
‘Did you know he was having an affair?’
‘No. And I have no desire to hear about it.’
And with that she hung up.
In August 1946, Marcel Vivien was still living in Montmartre with his girlfriend. But then all trace of him had been lost. Had he moved to the provinces, or gone abroad, or was it then that he had opted for the life of a tramp?
What had become of his girlfriend, who made the regulars at La Bonne Fourchette smile tenderly with her displays of affection?
Maigret was lucky to catch a bus with an open platform. It was one of the last, and soon there wouldn’t be any more of them at all.
He calmly smoked his pipe and gazed out at the ever-changing spectacle of Paris.
What conclusion could be drawn from the little he knew? Basically, he knew how it had started, when Marcel Vivien, a man with a good trade, a wife and a daughter, had overnight decided to abandon them all and go off with a young woman.
How long would his savings have lasted? And what would he have done when they were exhausted?
It was like an abrupt break in his life. There he was in August 1946, in Montmartre, a regular of Cyrano’s and La Bonne Fourchette.
After that, a huge gap, another disappearance. Had he tired of his girlfriend or had she tired of him?
He was nowhere to be found until, nineteen years later, he was discovered dead in a dilapidated building. He had been living alone. He didn’t spend time with anyone. Two or three times a week, he went to the hairdressing school and put himself in the hands of a pupil.
Whoever had killed him hadn’t done so at random – you don’t generally walk around with a .32 calibre pistol in your pocket.
Was the reason for the murder to be found in the past, in those last months in Montmartre, or else in whatever Vivien had done in the subsequent years?
They didn’t even know how long he had been living in the neighbourhood of Les Halles.
What had become of his girlfriend? What was her name? Without thinking, he walked to Impasse du Vieux-Four. There was an officer at the door of the house where Vivien had lived.
He must have lived there quite a long time to have accumulated the bric-à-brac cluttering the room. Had he become a fanatic? Was he still in his right mind? Monsieur Joseph, the owner of the hairdressing school, didn’t
seem to have noticed anything abnormal. Admittedly, he was more used to seeing alcoholics and eccentrics than normal people.
Maigret went upstairs. It was the first time he had come alone to this dark, damp building with its unexpected creaks and squeaks. He wasn’t searching for anything in particular. He just wanted another look at the setting in which Vivien had lived.
In the room, no prints had been found apart from his, which suggested that his killer had been wearing gloves.
There was even a dismantled oil ceiling light on the floor. What had he been planning to do with it? Unmatched shoes of different sizes. A ripped suitcase that had once been elegant.
Had he by any chance occupied other rooms in the building, only abandoning them when they were full? Maigret climbed the stairs, which weren’t very solid and had several steps missing. On the fourth floor, there were no more windows, no more doors, and the only things on the floor were old crates and old cardboard boxes.
He walked back down, still rummaging, trying not to get covered in dust. He imagined Vivien coming back alone in the evening, striking a match and setting off up the dark staircase. The question now was no longer who he was, or what he had done in the distant past. Now it was: how long had he been leading this life?
He nodded to the officer on duty, walked to Rue des Prouvaires and entered the police station. Ascan didn’t make him wait for long. Maigret sat down in his office.
‘I think I’m going to need you.’
‘Do you know anything more apart from what the papers have said?’
‘Yes. But I don’t want it to be talked about just yet. When he left his home on the 23rd of December, Vivien didn’t move out of the neighbourhood. I don’t know where he went, but in January he was seen in the company of a pretty girl in a brasserie in Place Blanche, Cyrano’s.’
‘Not far from his workshop.’
‘Yes. He didn’t seem to be hiding. I don’t know if it was thoughtlessness. One month later, still with the same girl, he starts to have lunch in a little local restaurant in Rue Dancourt. He doesn’t leave the neighbourhood. He’s taken out everything he had in the bank. I may be able to find out how much. He left his wife and daughter with nothing. He frequented the same restaurant until mid-August. After that we lose track of him until we find him living alone as a tramp in Les Halles. This is where you come in. Les Halles is within your jurisdiction. There are lots of tramps there, just as there are lots of ex-convicts and former prostitutes. Among your officers, there must be some who are very familiar with such people.’
Maigret and the Loner Page 6
