Maigret and the Loner

by Georges Simenon

  ‘There are four of them, no more than that.’

  ‘Can you get them to ask questions for me? My men wouldn’t know who to talk to, or how to go about it.’

  ‘That’s easy. Do you have photographs? Especially the ones with the moustache and beard.’

  ‘I have a set here, but I’ll call my office to have more sent to you.’

  ‘I’m not sure my men will get anywhere, but they’ll do their best. What exactly do you want to know?’

  ‘How long Vivien has been living as a tramp. It might have been a few months, it might have been nearly twenty years. Tramps know each other, at least by sight, and take an interest in any newcomers, even if they avoid asking questions.’

  ‘Yes. The ones from Les Halles aren’t the only ones who need questioning, though, there are also those who live by the river.’

  ‘That’s what I’m planning to do. Do you mind if I use your phone?’

  Once he had got through to the Police Judiciaire, he asked to speak to Moers.

  ‘Maigret here. Is Mestral there? … Yes? I’d like him to print four or five sets of photographs for me urgently, especially the ones with the goatee and the moustache. They need to be taken to the police station in Rue des Prouvaires before the day is out and handed over to Chief Inspector Ascan … Thanks, Moers. Goodbye.’

  And to Ascan:

  ‘You’ll have them in an hour.’

  ‘I’ll put my men on the job tonight.’

  By the time Maigret left, the rain was pouring down, and a few hailstones were bouncing off the cobbles. The sky had darkened completely, and Maigret was lucky to hail a free taxi.

  ‘Police Judiciaire,’ he said.

  He was tired of constantly asking himself the same questions and not knowing the answers.

  In the inspectors’ room, he asked:

  ‘Who’s free tomorrow morning?’

  They looked at each other and three of them raised their hands.

  ‘You’ll need to get photographs from Criminal Records. Go to Montmartre, especially around Boulevard Rochechouart, and do the rounds of all the little hotels and rooming houses. There’s a good chance Marcel Vivien and his girlfriend lived in one of those places for about six months. I’m particularly interested in the girl. You can talk to the local shopkeepers, too, especially those selling food. Good luck, boys.’

  He went back into his office, where Torrence came and joined him.

  ‘Anything new, chief?’

  He didn’t feel up to telling his story again.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Janvier can call back his six men.’

  He dozed for a good half-hour in his armchair while the rain came in through the open window, soaking the wooden floor.

  4.

  The next morning, he was in the office bright and early, and by the time the inspectors arrived, he had already gone through his mail. He always said that the more quickly a case is dealt with, the greater the chance of solving it.

  The men of the first arrondissement must have been working for him during the night, but he avoided calling Chief Inspector Ascan: he didn’t want him to feel he was being put under pressure. Janvier was handling the day-to-day cases with the few inspectors available. The offices were almost empty.

  It had stopped raining. The sky was blue, with just a few small white clouds edged in pink by the sun.

  ‘Let’s go, Torrence.’

  He wasn’t following a well-defined plan, but trusting rather to his instinct. What plan could he have come up with in a case like this anyway, where there was nothing solid to hold on to, no material clues?

  ‘Let’s go to Rue Lepic. I think I saw a branch of Crédit Lyonnais just across the street from Vivien’s workshop.’

  They got there quickly, there being little traffic, especially at this hour.

  ‘Try to park somewhere and wait for me.’

  He went to one of the counters.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the manager.’

  ‘Who shall I say?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘You’re in luck. He got back from holiday yesterday.’

  He didn’t have to wait. He was shown into an office where a man in his forties with an open, sunburned face invited him to sit down.

  ‘What can I do for you, inspector?’

  ‘If you’ve been reading the newspapers lately, you’ll know about the Vivien case. Marcel Vivien had his workshop just opposite this bank. That was twenty years ago. I’d like to know if you still have his statements.’

  ‘After twenty years, no. When an account is closed, that is, when a customer withdraws the whole of his balance, we keep his file for a few months, then send it to our head office on Boulevard des Italiens.’

  ‘And do they keep these papers for a long time?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly how long, but certainly no more than ten years. If that wasn’t the case, imagine the premises we’d need to file everything away.’

  ‘I saw an older man behind one of the counters.’

  ‘That’s Frochot, our oldest employee. He’s been working here for forty years. He’s retiring at the end of the month.’

  ‘Could I have a word with him?’

  The manager pushed a button. A young man half opened the door.

  ‘Send Monsieur Frochot in here.’

  The man had a mischievous face and eyes that sparkled behind his thick glasses.

  ‘Please take a seat, Monsieur Frochot. This is Detective Chief Inspector Maigret. He’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘It’s an honour.’

  ‘Do you have a good memory, Monsieur Frochot?’

  ‘That’s the reputation I have here.’

  ‘The customer I’m going to talk to you about left the neighbourhood twenty years ago and I have every reason to believe that he closed his account.’

  ‘Marcel Vivien?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I read the papers, and for you to come all this way …’

  ‘You’re right. Do you know approximately how much Vivien had in the bank?’

  ‘His account was fairly small and fluctuated quite a bit depending on his income. Let’s say on average he had between ten and fifteen thousand in credit. At the end of every month, he’d withdraw what he needed to live on, about two thousand francs.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘One morning, just when I’d opened my counter. He told me he was leaving and wanted to withdraw the balance of his account. I asked him where he was going to live and he told me he was moving to Montparnasse.’

  ‘How much did you hand over to him?’

  ‘About twelve thousand five hundred francs.’

  ‘Did he strike you as nervous?’

  ‘No. He was a cheerful man, and he was really good at his trade. Even major antique dealers entrusted him with furniture to repair.’

  ‘How long did he have his workshop in Rue Lepic?’

  ‘Just under ten years. Eight or nine. He was a quiet man. His home address was in Rue Caulaincourt.’

  ‘Many thanks, Monsieur Frochot … Wait, just one more question. Did you ever bump into him in the street after he left?’

  ‘Once he’d gone, I never saw him again. I don’t understand how he could have become a tramp. He always struck me as such a well-balanced man.’

  Maigret walked back to the police car, in which Torrence was waiting.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for, chief?’

  ‘Yes and no. The little I found out doesn’t get me very far anyway.’

  ‘Where shall I drive you?’

  The little barrows full of fruit and vegetables were under attack from the local housewives, and their voices formed a continuous rumble.

  ‘Back to headquarters.’

  At that very moment, three inspectors were doing the rounds of the local hotels, looking for traces of Vivien. It might take many days, given how many small hotels there were in the neigh
bourhood. Or they could just as easily be lucky and knock on the right door immediately.

  In part, that was what happened. Maigret had only just sat down at his desk when one of the three men, Inspector Dupeu, was put through to him.

  ‘Where are you phoning from, Dupeu?’

  ‘The Hôtel du Morvan in Rue de Clignancourt. Vivien used to live here, and the owner remembers him well. I think you should talk to him.’

  ‘Let’s go, Torrence.’

  Torrence liked nothing better than to be outside, and he enjoyed driving the chief around.

  ‘Rue de Clignancourt. Hôtel du Morvan.’

  They found Dupeu smoking a cigarette in the street. Next to the door of the hotel, a terrazzo plaque announced: ‘Rooms by the month, week and day’.

  All three of them went in. The owner was a man with a large belly and flat feet clad in carpet slippers. He was unshaven. He looked as if he hadn’t even washed, and his shirt was open, showing his hairy chest. He seemed perpetually tired, and his eyes were watery.

  ‘So you’re Maigret,’ he said, holding out a hand of dubious cleanliness.

  ‘I’m told you were here in 1946.’

  ‘I was here well before that.’

  ‘So you found the name Marcel Vivien in your registers?’

  ‘I don’t keep registers for twenty years.’

  ‘But you do remember him?’

  ‘I remember him very well. He was a good-looking man, quite friendly.’

  ‘How long did he stay here?’

  ‘From January to June.’

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t stay till August?’

  ‘I’m sure of it, because his room was immediately taken over by a bitch who put on airs and who I had to show the door.’

  ‘Vivien wasn’t alone. Do you know the name of his girlfriend? I assume you filled out a form for her, too.’

  ‘There was no need for a form because she didn’t sleep here.’

  ‘You mean they weren’t living together?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Maigret was astonished. This was the last thing he would have expected.

  ‘Did she ever come to the hotel?’

  ‘She sometimes came for him when it was nearly midday. He was a late riser, because he didn’t usually get in until two or three in the morning.’

  ‘And are you sure he was alone?’

  ‘If he wasn’t I’d have been forced to register his girlfriend. The Hotel Agency don’t joke about things like that.’

  ‘Did she ever go up to his room?’

  ‘Quite often, but during the day. I can’t stop that.’

  ‘And you don’t know her name?’

  ‘I heard Vivien call her by her first name: Nina.’

  ‘Did she have any distinguishing marks?’

  ‘She had a birthmark on her cheek.’

  ‘How did she dress?’

  ‘Always in black. Whenever I saw her anyway.’

  ‘Did Vivien have a lot of luggage?’

  ‘Just one suitcase, a new one, quite cheap, which he probably bought just before he got here.’

  The three men looked at each other. They had learned only one thing: that Vivien had left the Hôtel du Morvan in June, which meant that he had spent July and part of August somewhere else.

  As for the girl, they still didn’t know anything about her, not even her surname. Had she been living in another hotel, or with relatives, or had she rented a little apartment?

  It was a morning of comings and goings. The previous day’s rain hadn’t cooled the air. On the contrary, it was hotter than the previous two days, and a lot of men were carrying their jackets over their arms.

  Maigret had only been back at the Police Judiciaire for a quarter of an hour when the telephone rang. This time it was Lourtie, also calling from Montmartre. They had both been dealt a lucky hand.

  ‘I’m on Place des Abbesses, chief. I’m phoning from a bistro opposite the Hôtel Jonard. The owner doesn’t seem to know much, but I thought you’d rather question him yourself.’

  ‘Let’s go, Torrence.’

  ‘What’s the address this time?’

  ‘Hôtel Jonard, Place des Abbesses.’

  The façade was covered in white ceramics, and garlicky cooking smells filled the entrance hall.

  ‘I told your inspector all I know.’

  The man wasn’t talkative. He wasn’t cheerful either.

  ‘Do you remember him well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say well. I remember him because he had a cute girlfriend.’

  ‘Was she a guest?’

  ‘No. She never spent the night here. She sometimes went up to his room during the day.’

  ‘When did he move in here?’

  ‘In June, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘And when did he leave?’

  ‘Sometime in August. Closer to the end of the month than the beginning. He was very proper, very polite, which isn’t the case with all our guests.’

  It was discouraging not to have the slightest information about the girl, apart from the birthmark on her left cheek.

  ‘You can go back to headquarters,’ Maigret said to Lourtie.

  As for himself, he asked Torrence to drive him to the police station in the first arrondissement. Chief Inspector Ascan, whose door was open, came out to greet him.

  ‘Did they tell you about my phone call?’

  ‘No. I’ve just come from Montmartre.’

  ‘I called you to say that we have a few results. Nothing amazing yet, but I think it may help you. Take a seat.’

  Maigret slowly filled his pipe and mopped his brow before lighting it.

  ‘My inspectors have laid their hands on the oldest tramp in Les Halles. Everyone calls him Toto. Mind you, he only moved to the area fifteen years ago. I kept him for you just in case, because these people aren’t always easy to find.’

  An officer went to fetch this Toto. He was a middle-aged man who smelled of wine but wasn’t drunk.

  ‘Am I going to be caged up for much longer? I’m a free man, aren’t I? Don’t even have a police record.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret has a few questions to ask you.’

  ‘Where were you living before you came to Les Halles?’

  ‘Toulouse.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Pretty much the same as here. Except that, in the provinces, you get hassled a lot more.’

  ‘Have you ever had a regular job?’

  He seemed to give this a great deal of thought.

  ‘I’ve always lugged crates and baskets.’

  ‘What about when you were young?’

  ‘I left home when I was fourteen. I was taken back three times and each time I ran away again. They should have tied me up.’

  ‘How long have you been in Paris?’

  ‘Fifteen years. I’ve known all the tramps. I’ve seen the old ones die, seen new ones arrive …’

  ‘Did you know Marcel Vivien?’

  ‘I didn’t know his name until this gentleman told me it. He was here before me. He wasn’t chatty. He was always on his own and whenever you said anything to him he’d give you a one-word answer or sometimes not answer at all.’

  ‘Where did he sleep?’

  ‘At that time, I don’t know. I sometimes ran into him at the Salvation Army. Then I heard he’d moved into some dump that was due to be knocked down.’

  ‘Did you ever see him with a woman?’

  He started to laugh, as if the question were really funny.

  ‘No, inspector. You don’t get much of that here. Especially for a man like him who I bet used to be someone respectable. Mind you, we did have an ex-doctor once, but he drank, and he didn’t last long …’

  ‘Did you ever see Vivien with someone you didn’t know?’

  ‘No. Not that I had any reason to take any notice of him.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  Toto turned to Ascan.

 
‘Can I go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bring the woman in!’ Ascan said to his officer.

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked more like a monster. She was so huge, she could barely sit on a chair. Her legs were swollen, and so were her wrists. She was at least half drunk and looked at those around her as if challenging them.

  ‘What are you going to blame Nana for this time?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ascan replied. ‘We just have a few questions to ask you.’

  ‘Will you give me something to buy a litre with?’

  ‘All right.’

  She stood up and held out her hand. She preferred to be paid in advance, and Ascan put five francs in her filth-encrusted hand.

  ‘Hurry up, I’m thirsty.’

  ‘You told the inspector who questioned you last night that you saw someone go into the house in Impasse du Vieux-Four.’

  ‘That’s the honest truth.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Three or four days ago. I never know which day it is. They’re all much of a muchness to me. What I can tell you is, it was the night before they found the body of a tramp there.’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘About three in the morning.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘Middle-aged but not old. He was very upright. You could tell he wasn’t from round here.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘I don’t know. You can feel it right away.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘That same night, about ten. He came out of Pharamond’s, the restaurant, and stood there watching the fruit, vegetables and fish being unloaded. You could see he wasn’t used to it. He looked as if he was interested in everything.’

  ‘Was Marcel Vivien there?’

  ‘The one who had his picture in the papers? I think he was helping with the unloading.’

  ‘And did the man you saw again at three in the morning speak to him?’

  ‘No … Actually I don’t know. With all these questions of yours, you’re mixing me up, and I’m getting really thirsty.’