‘Hello? The captain of the Sancerre gendarmerie? … Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Police Judiciaire … I’m sorry to bother you just for a piece of information, but it’s information that may be very important. You have in your town a vineyard owner named Michou.’
‘We have two. The funny thing is, they’re not related.’
‘One of them has probably had living with him, for about the last five years, his mother, who was a concierge in Paris for a long time.’
‘Yes, Clémentine Michou.’
‘Is she still living with her son?’
‘She died last year.’
It was always the same thing: one step forwards, one step back.
‘Would you like to talk to her son?’
‘No. Only she could have answered my questions. It’s a case that goes back twenty years.’
‘Let me guess. The Vivien case, right? How’s it going?’
‘Not very well. Especially now. I was rather counting on old Madame Michou, and now it turns out she died a year ago. Anyway, many thanks, captain. What’s the wine going to be like this year?’
‘If this weather continues, it’ll be an exceptional year.’
‘I hope so. Thank you.’
He went and sat down at his desk. He had taken the call standing up, looking through the window, fascinated by a black-and-red tug pulling four barges.
‘I’ve just come from upstairs, chief.’
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing on her in Records, and the boys in Vice have never heard of her.’
The telephone rang.
‘Someone who won’t give me their name, sir.’
‘Put them through anyway.’
The voice at the other end of the line sounded muffled. Whoever it was must have been speaking through a handkerchief to disguise his voice.
‘Do you want a good tip, Monsieur Maigret?’
‘About what?’
‘About the case you’re dealing with at the moment. Make a note of the name I’m going to give you: Mahossier. That’s all. It’s up to you now.’
And the man hung up.
5.
‘Torrence! Bring me the telephone directory that’s in the inspectors’ room.’
Maigret looked for the name Mahossier. He never imagined he would find eleven people of that name in Paris alone. Which of them had the anonymous caller meant?
Maigret began making telephone calls, having warned the switchboard operator that he would be asking to make a number of calls.
The first call he made, to a Mahossier whose name was not followed by his profession, went unanswered. As did the second.
Next, he ended up with a florist in Passy.
‘Is your husband there?’
‘I don’t have a husband any more. I’ve been divorced for five years.’
Next came another unresponsive number. Most Parisians were clearly on holiday.
He was next in touch with a school of shorthand and typing on Boulevard Voltaire.
Another unanswered call. That made four already. There were seven in all, and Torrence, standing by the window, was amazed at Maigret’s patience.
He didn’t call the next number – a doctor in Place des Vosges – but then came to a painting and decorating business in Avenue Trudaine.
‘Hello. Who do you want to speak to?’
‘Monsieur Mahossier, please.’
‘Monsieur Mahossier left for La Baule yesterday.’
‘Will he be away for a long time?’
‘At least three weeks. Maybe four. Who’s calling?’
‘Is this his home number?’
‘No. These are the office and workshops. Monsieur and Madame Mahossier have an apartment in Rue de Turbigo.’
‘Do they have a villa in La Baule?’
‘Yes. Les Pins Parasols. They’ve been going there for about twelve years.’
Avenue Trudaine brought him back to Montmartre. And Rue de Turbigo was not far from Les Halles.
He began pacing up and down. Even in front of Torrence, he was a little afraid of looking ridiculous. Wouldn’t it be giving too much credence to an anonymous telephone call?
‘Would you call Air Inter for me? Ask them if there’s a flight for La Baule tomorrow morning and if it’s possible to get there and back on the same day.’
Torrence went to phone from the next office. He returned a few minutes later.
‘There’s a plane at 10.10 and for the return journey a plane leaves La Baule at 18.30. Should I book it for you?’
‘Please.’
Mahossier … Mahossier … Maigret kept repeating the name, making an almost painful effort to remember. He knew it from somewhere. He had heard it anyway, or read it on a shop front.
He went up to the examining magistrate’s office.
‘Something new, Monsieur Maigret?’ young Cassure asked amiably.
‘Not much, except that I now know the name and former address of the young woman Vivien left his wife and daughter for.’
‘What became of her?’
‘The concierge of the building where she lived is new. The previous concierge retired to Sancerre and died there. The current tenants are all under forty.’
He hesitated for a moment, then took his courage in both hands.
‘I’ve just received an anonymous telephone call.’
‘A madman?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a chance we have to take. The caller mentioned someone named Mahossier. There are eleven of them in the phone book. Seven are on holiday. Among the other four, the only one who seems like a possible suspect is a man who runs a painting and decorating business.’
‘Are you going to see him?’
‘With your permission. In fact, he and his wife left yesterday for La Baule, where he owns a villa. He won’t be back for another three weeks. I have no proof he’s involved in the case but – I don’t know why – my mind won’t be at rest until I’ve seen him and talked to him.’
‘You want to go to La Baule?’
‘I have an Air Inter flight in the morning, returning to Paris late in the afternoon.’
‘You’re in charge of the investigation.’
‘Thank you. It might be a good idea if I took a letter rogatory with me, in case he turns out to be an awkward customer.’
Examining Magistrate Cassure issued it immediately.
‘Good luck, Maigret.’
He went home early, had a dinner of cold meats, cheese and salad, then spent the evening watching television. From time to time he muttered in a low voice, like an incantation:
‘Mahossier … Mahossier …’
But no specific memory came back to him.
‘By the way,’ he told his wife, ‘I won’t be home for lunch tomorrow.’
‘Do you have a lot of work?’
‘Not particularly, but I have to go to La Baule.’
‘La Baule?’
‘Yes. There’s someone there I think I need to see. I’m going by plane and coming back the same way. I’ll be back about eight thirty.’
He knew from experience that many criminals are only arrested thanks to an anonymous phone call or a tip-off from an informer.
When he woke up, the sun was already high, still as bright, and there wasn’t a breath of air. He was pleased: he didn’t particularly like travelling by plane, which always gave him a feeling of confinement.
‘See you this evening.’
‘You may have time to bathe in the sea,’ she joked.
She was referring to the fact that Maigret couldn’t swim. It was one of the reasons they never took their holidays by the sea but always in the country.
The plane was a small two-propeller craft that looked like a toy next to the huge transatlantic machines. It could only carry eight passengers. Maigret looked at them vaguely. There were two children who couldn’t keep still and wouldn’t stop talking.
He tried to nap but couldn’t. At last, after a two-hour flight, the plane touched dow
n in the airfield at La Baule. For some time now, the sea had been visible, sparkling down below, and, in the distance, a ship that seemed to be following the horizon.
He found a taxi.
‘Do you know a villa called Les Pins Parasols?’
‘Do you have the address?’
‘No.’
‘What about the name of the people who live there?’
‘Yes. Mahossier. Louis Mahossier.’
‘Hold on a minute.’
The driver walked over to a little bar, where he looked through the local telephone directory.
‘Got it!’ he announced, coming back.
‘Is it far?’
‘Behind the Hôtel Hermitage.’
The sense of disorientation was total. Here, the men were in shorts, with shirts open on their chests. All along the beach, which stretched for several kilometres, there were rows of parasols, and thousands of holidaymakers were baking in the sun while others bathed in the sea.
The villa was a large one, located down a well-shaded drive, quite far from the road.
Maigret looked for a bell but couldn’t see one. The white-painted door was ajar. There was a garden table and chairs on the terrace.
He opened the door by a few centimetres and called out:
‘Is anyone at home?’
There was no response at first. It was only when he called out for the third time that a very young maid in a white apron emerged from the gloom of the corridor.
‘What is it?’
‘I’d like a word with Monsieur Mahossier.’
‘At this time, monsieur and madame are on the beach. If you’d like to come back this afternoon …’
‘I’d rather see them now on the beach.’
‘Do you know them?’
‘No.’
‘At the end of the first street on the left, there are stone steps going down to the beach. Their hut’s the fourth one. It has the number twenty-four printed on the canvas.’
‘Could you come and point out your employers to me?’
‘I can’t leave the villa unattended.’
‘How old is Monsieur Mahossier?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I only work for them during the holidays. Fifty, maybe?’
‘What does he look like?’
‘He’s still a handsome man, very tall, very thin, with grey hair around the ears.’
‘And Madame Mahossier?’
‘She’s much younger. Probably no more than forty, I’d say.’
‘What number hut did you say?’
‘Twenty-four.’
Families were passing, already in their bathing costumes, some with skin peeled by the sun.
He found the steps down to the beach and made his way between the bodies lying on the sand. He had no difficulty in finding the orange canvas hut that bore the number twenty-four.
Outside it, a woman whose face could not be seen was lying on her stomach. Her back, coated with tanning lotion, was glossy in the sun.
He looked around him in search of a man likely to be Louis Mahossier. Not far from the place where the sea lazily licked the beach, some twenty men, in a row, were doing physical exercises, led by an instructor. One of them was taller and thinner than the others. Was he Mahossier?
Maigret couldn’t interrupt the lesson. He stood there, one metre from the woman outside hut twenty-four. Would she eventually become aware of his presence? She readjusted the top of her two-piece bathing costume, not much less skimpy than a bikini, and turned on her side.
She seemed surprised to see a man in a suit standing near her. Maigret must have been the only person dressed like that on the whole beach.
‘Are you looking for something?’ she asked.
Her face was coated with oil or ointment. She was quite plump and seemed to be of a cheerful disposition.
‘Madame Mahossier?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘Your maid gave me the number of your hut. I’d like a word with your husband.’
‘You’ll have to wait. What time is it?’
‘Nearly twelve thirty.’
‘In a few minutes, he’ll have finished his workout.’
‘He’s the tallest one, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. The third on the right. He may be thin, with not a gramme of fat on him, but when we’re in La Baule he never misses his exercises.’
She was looking at him curiously and didn’t dare ask him questions that were too direct.
‘Did you get here this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘By car?’
‘By plane.’
‘We’d take the plane, too, if we didn’t need the car here. Are you staying at the Hermitage?’
‘I’m not staying in a hotel. I’m leaving again this afternoon.’
The workout was over, and the tall, thin man came walking towards the canvas hut. He frowned when he saw Maigret in conversation with his wife.
‘This is someone who’s come from Paris to see you. He flew here this morning and is leaving again this afternoon.’
Mahossier clearly didn’t like this.
‘Monsieur …?’
‘Maigret, Police Judiciaire.’
‘And I’m the person you want to speak to?’
‘Yes, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
He answered the description he had been given of the man who had left Pharamond’s, had stood watching Vivien unloading vegetables and was later seen in Impasse du Vieux-Four, entering the dilapidated building where the tramp had sought refuge.
‘You own a painting and decorating business, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
This interview he was initiating was quite strange, because of the setting, the commotion of the beach, the cries of children and, last but not least, the fact that the man he was interviewing was in bathing trunks.
‘How long have you had it?’
‘About fifteen years.’
‘And before?’
‘I worked for an employer.’
‘Also in Montmartre?’
‘What’s the point of these questions, inspector? I’m here on holiday. I don’t see what right you have to come bothering me.’
Maigret showed him the letter rogatory, which he read carefully.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘A few days ago, you had dinner at Pharamond’s in Les Halles.’
He looked at his wife as if asking her to refresh his memory.
‘That was the evening my mother came over to have dinner with me. As you can’t stand her, you decided to have dinner out.’
‘What did you do after that?’
‘I went for a walk and then I went home.’
Maigret saw Madame Mahossier’s cheeks flush slightly. She opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind.
‘Yes, you did in fact go home for a while.’
And looking the man straight in the eyes, Maigret asked point-blank:
‘What calibre is your gun?’
‘I don’t own a gun.’
‘Be careful, Monsieur Mahossier. I warn you not to tell a lie that might come back to harm you. If you don’t give me an honest answer, I’ll ask for a warrant to search your workshop as well as your apartment in Rue de Turbigo.’
The woman was looking at her husband in amazement. As for Mahossier himself, a hard look had come into his eyes, and it seemed as if he might throw himself on Maigret.
‘Yes, I do have an old automatic, but it must be rusty, and I don’t even know where I put it.’
‘.32 calibre?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t know much about guns.’
‘It’s a pity you don’t know where you put it. You could have asked one of your staff to hand it over to me.’
‘Once again, do you mind telling me what this is all about?’
‘It’s about something very serious, Monsieur Mahossier, a murder in fact. When I find your gun, I’ll know in a few hours, thanks to our ballistic
s department, whether or not you’re involved.’
‘Do whatever you like. I’m not even going to answer any more of your ridiculous questions.’
He shook hands with a fat man in a bathing suit who passed by and went and lay down three huts further on.
‘Twenty years ago, you made the acquaintance of a young woman named Nina Lassave, didn’t you? Then, through her, you met Marcel Vivien.’
‘The tramp from Les Halles?’
‘He wasn’t a tramp in those days. He had a cabinetmaking workshop in Rue Lepic.’
‘Am I supposed to know that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t know these people.’
‘What about Boulevard Rochechouart?’
This was definitely the first time Maigret had ever interrogated anyone on a beach. Mahossier’s wife had lifted herself on to one elbow and was following the interview with obvious interest.
‘Like all Parisians, I know Boulevard Rochechouart, of course.’
‘Where were you living in 1946?’
‘It’s a long time ago. I moved about a lot in those days. I mainly lived in small hotels.’
‘In Montmartre.’
‘Yes. My employer had his business in the neighbourhood.’
‘The Hôtel du Morvan?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘The Hôtel Jonard on Place des Abbesses?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Was there a time during that summer when you had your meals at La Bonne Fourchette in Rue Dancourt? Old man Boutant is still alive and could identify you. He has an excellent memory.’
‘I don’t know about any of this.’
‘You don’t know that restaurant?’
‘It’s possible I had lunch or dinner there once or twice. Do you have many more questions to ask me?’
‘Not many. Especially if they get evasive answers. I assume you can tell me what year you got married?’
‘1955.’
‘Had you broken up with Nina by then?’
‘You’re out of your mind, inspector.’
‘Haven’t you remembered about the gun yet? Do you still not know where you put it?’
‘I don’t even know if I still have it.’
‘When did you buy it?’
‘I didn’t buy it. One of my workers gave it to me. He has two children and he didn’t like having a weapon at home.’
‘Do you still have this worker?’
Maigret and the Loner Page 9
