Lapointe, who was walking silently alongside him, was hardly more than twenty-five himself. Maigret made a mental comparison of the two men.
‘I think that must be it, chief, across the boulevard by the overhead Métro.’
And indeed they could see a doorway flanked by two wine-press screws made of worm-eaten wood: curtained windows filtered the rosy glow of the lamps lit inside.
It wasn’t yet time for aperitifs, let alone dinner, and there were only two people inside the restaurant, a woman perched on a bar stool and sipping a yellowish drink through a straw, and the owner, on the other side of the counter, intent on his newspaper.
The lamps were pink, the bar was supported by wooden screws from a winepress, the massive tables were laid with checked cloths and the walls were clad in dark wooden panelling up to two thirds of their height.
Maigret, who was ahead of Lapointe, frowned when he saw the man reading the newspaper, as if searching his memory.
The owner looked up, but he needed no more than a moment to recognize the inspector.
‘What a coincidence,’ he said, tapping his newspaper, which was hot off the press. ‘I’ve just read that you’re leading the investigation …’
And turning to the girl at the counter, he said:
‘Fernande, let me introduce you to Detective Chief Inspector Maigret in person. Take a seat, inspector. What can I offer you?’
‘I didn’t know you’d gone into the catering business.’
‘Ah, when you’re getting on in years …’
And it was true that Bob Mandille must have been about the same age as Maigret. He had been well known, back in the old days, when almost every month he would invent a new trick, whether wing-walking, parachuting into Place de la Concorde and landing a few metres away from the obelisk, or jumping from a galloping horse into a racing car.
He had become one of cinema’s most famous stuntmen, having failed to become a leading actor. After countless accidents, his body must have been covered with scars.
His figure was still slim and elegant. Only now and then did his movements betray a certain stiffness reminiscent of an automaton. As for his face, it was a little too smooth, and his features too regular, no doubt as a result of plastic surgery.
‘A Scotch?’
‘A beer.’
‘Same for you, young man?’
Lapointe was not at all pleased to be greeted thus.
‘As you see, Monsieur Maigret, I called it a day. The insurance companies said I was too old for them to take the risk, they didn’t want me any more in films. So I married Rose, and here I am behind a bar. You’re looking at my hair? Remember what I looked like when I was scalped by a helicopter rotor, bald as an egg? This is just a wig.’
And he gallantly pulled it off, waving it like a hat.
‘You remember Rose, don’t you? She sang for years at the Trianon-Lyrique. Rose Delval, she was. Her real name is Rose Vatan, but that didn’t work on the posters. So what do you want me to tell you?’
Maigret glanced at the girl who had been addressed as Fernande.
‘Don’t worry about her, she’s part of the furniture. In a couple of hours, she’ll be so sozzled she won’t be able to walk straight and I’ll put her in a taxi.’
‘Well, you know Ricain, of course …’
‘Of course. Cheers! … I drink nothing but water, you’ll have to excuse me … Ricain comes in here for dinner once or twice a week.’
‘With his wife?’
‘With Sophie, yes, of course. You don’t often see Francis without Sophie.’
‘When did you last see them together?’
‘Let me see … What day is it today? … Friday … They were in on Wednesday night.’
‘With friends?’
‘There wasn’t anyone from their gang in here that night. Except Maki, if I remember correctly … I think Maki was eating in his corner.’
‘Did they sit at his table with him?’
‘No. Francis just pushed open the door, asked me if I’d seen Carus, and I said no, I hadn’t seen him for two or three days.’
‘What time did they leave?’
‘They didn’t even come in, they must have eaten somewhere else … So what’s happening to Francis at the moment? I hope you haven’t clapped him in jail.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just read in the paper that his wife has been shot dead and he’s disappeared.’
Maigret smiled. The police in the fifteenth arrondissement, who were not in the know, had misinformed the reporters.
‘Who told you about my restaurant?’
‘Ricain.’
‘So he’s not run away?’
‘No.’
‘Arrested?’
‘Not that either. Do you think he would have been capable of killing Sophie?’
‘He couldn’t kill a fly. If he was ever to kill somebody, it’d be himself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there are times when his confidence disappears and he hates himself. Times when he starts drinking. After a few glasses, he’s in the depths of despair, sure of being a failure and letting down his wife.’
‘Does he pay regularly?’
‘He’s got quite a lot on the slate. If I was to listen to Rose, I’d have stopped letting him have credit a while back. For Rose, business is business. It’s true her work’s harder than mine, toiling over the stove all day. That’s what she’s doing now and will be doing at ten o’clock tonight.’
‘Did Ricain come back that evening?’
‘Let me think … I was busy with a table later on. I felt a draught and turned to the door. It was half-open, and I thought I saw him peering in, looking for someone.’
‘Did he find them?’
‘No.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About eleven. You’re right to press me on this. Because he did come back that night, a third time, a lot later … Sometimes when dinner’s all over, we stay around to chat with the regulars. It was past midnight on Wednesday when he came in. He stayed near the door, and beckoned me over.’
‘Did he know the customers you were with?’
‘No, they were old friends of Rose’s, theatre people, and Rose had come to join us in her apron. Francis is scared stiff of my wife.
‘He asked me if Carus had been in. I told him no. What about Gérard? That’s Dramin, now that’s a young man who’s going to make a name in the cinema. No, he hadn’t been in either. Then he blurted out that he needed two thousand francs. I just shook my head. A few dinners on the slate, OK. Perhaps the odd fifty- or hundred-franc note, without Rose seeing, I can do that. But two thousand francs …’
‘And he didn’t tell you why he needed them so urgently?’
‘Because he was going to be kicked out of his apartment, and his belongings were going to be auctioned.’
‘Was this the first time?’
‘No, to tell you the truth. Rose isn’t wrong, really: he does touch people for money. But he’s not the cynical kind, if you see what I mean. He’s in good faith, always sure that something will turn up, that this week or next he’ll be signing a big contract. He’s so ashamed of asking that you feel ashamed to refuse him.’
‘Did he look nervous?’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Would you call him nervous or calm?’
‘A bundle of nerves.’
‘I’ve never seen him in any other state. Sometimes it’s exhausting just to look at him. His hands are clenched, his face is contorted, he takes fright at anything, or else he gets bitter, or up on his high horse. But believe me, inspector, he’s a good kid, and I’d be surprised if he didn’t amount to something special one day …’
‘What do you think of Sophie?’
‘Well, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead … There are plenty of Sophies around, if you know what I mean.’
And with a glance, he nodded over at the gir
l by the counter who was lost in contemplation of the bottles.
‘I wonder what he saw in her. They’re all the same, thousands of them, they dress the same way, they all put on the same kind of make-up, they have dirty feet and down-at-heel shoes, they drift about in the morning in trousers that are too tight, and eat salad. Because they want to be models or film stars … I ask you!’
‘She did get a part once.’
‘That would be through Walter, I dare say …’
‘Walter?’
‘Carus. If we knew how many girls have managed to get a part in a film …’
‘What kind of man is he?’
‘If you eat here, you’ll probably see him. He’s at the same table every other night, and there are always a few spongers taking advantage of his hospitality. He’s a film producer. I expect you know how it goes. A man who finds enough money to get a film started; then some more to carry on with it, and after a few months or years, enough to finish it. He’s half-English and half-Turkish, odd combination. Good fellow, though, built like a tank, deep voice, always ready to buy a round and after five minutes he’s talking to you as if he’s known you for ever.’
‘Was he the same with Sophie?’
‘He’s the same with all women, calls them babe, sweetheart, my beauty, depending on the time of day.’
‘Do you think he ever slept with her?’
‘I’d be surprised if he didn’t.’
‘And Ricain wasn’t jealous?’
‘I thought you’d get round to that … But in the first place, Carus wasn’t the only one. I’d lay a bet the others all did as well. Even me, if I’d wanted to, and I could almost be her granddad. Well, never mind that … Rose and me, we had a few words over it …
‘If you ask Rose, she’ll tell you terrible things about him, he’s a lazy so-and-so, makes out he’s a genius, claims nobody understands him, but he’s just a nasty little pimp. That’s my wife’s view …
‘It’s true that since she spends most of her time in the kitchen, she doesn’t know him like I do.
‘I tried to make her see Francis didn’t know about it …’
‘Is that what you think?’
The former stuntman had very light blue eyes, like those of a child. In spite of his age and the long experience one could guess at, he had retained a boyish enthusiasm and charm.
‘Maybe I’m naive, but I trust that kid … There’ve been days when I’ve had my doubts, though, days when I’ve been on the point of agreeing with Rose.
‘But I’ll stick to my guns on this. He really does love that girl. He loves her enough that she could make him believe anything.
‘If you want evidence, look at how she treated him. Some nights, when she’d had a drop too much, she’d say cynically, in front of other people, that he was a failure, a waste of space, with no fire in his belly or anywhere else, for that matter, if you excuse me saying so, and she wondered why she was spending her time with a loser like him.’
‘And he took it all?’
‘He’d shrink into himself, and you could see sweat on his forehead. But he’d force out a smile and say:
‘“Come on, Sophie … Bedtime … You’re tired …”’
A door opened at the back of the room. A small, very plump woman emerged, wiping her hands on a large apron.
‘Well I never! It’s the detective chief inspector!’
And as Maigret was trying to remember where he had met her before, since he had never set foot in the Trianon-Lyrique, she reminded him:
‘Twenty-two years ago. In your office. You arrested the man who stole my jewels from my dressing room. I’ve put on a bit of weight since then, eh? But it was thanks to the jewellery I was able to buy this place. Isn’t that so, Bob? So what are you doing here?’
Her husband pointed automatically to the newspaper.
‘Sophie’s dead.’
‘What, our Sophie, Ricain’s little wife?’
‘Yes.’
‘An accident, was it? I’ll bet he was driving and—’
‘She was murdered.’
‘What’s this he’s saying, Monsieur Maigret?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Wednesday night.’
‘They didn’t eat here.’
And Rose’s face had lost not only its cheerfulness, which was a kind of trademark, but all cordiality.
‘What have you been telling him?’
‘I just answered his questions.’
‘I bet you told him she was no good. Listen, inspector. Bob’s not a bad sort and we rub along pretty well. But when it comes to women, you don’t want to listen to him. He thinks they’re all sluts, and men are their victims. That poor girl, for instance …
‘Look at me, Bob. Who was right? Was it him or her that got killed?’
She fell silent, staring at them suspiciously, hands on hips.
‘Same again, Bob,’ whispered Fernande in a weary voice.
And Mandille, to cut things short with her, poured out a double.
‘Did you like Sophie, then, madame?’
‘What do you want me to say? She came from the provinces, Concarneau if you please, where her father’s a watchmaker. I bet you her mother goes to mass every morning.
‘Then she comes to Paris and falls in with this gang of men who all think they’re geniuses, whether they work in films or TV. I’ve been on the stage myself, and that’s a lot more difficult. I’ve sung every song in the repertoire, and I don’t give myself airs because of that. But those little idiots …’
‘Who do you mean exactly?’
‘Ricain, for a start, because he thought he was the best of the bunch. If he managed to get an article in a magazine read by two hundred imbeciles, he thought he was going to shake the whole cinema industry to its foundations.
‘He took that little girl over. Apparently they really were married. Well then, he could have made enough money to feed her, couldn’t he? I don’t know what they’d have eaten if friends hadn’t paid for them, and if my soft husband hadn’t given them credit. How much does he owe you, Bob?’
‘Never mind.’
‘You see! And me slaving away in the kitchen the whole time.’
She was grumbling now for grumbling’s sake, but still eyed her husband with tenderness.
‘Do you think she was Carus’ mistress?’
‘As if he needed her. He had his hands full with Nora.’
‘And she’s his wife?’
‘No, he’d be willing to marry her, but he’s already married in London and his wife won’t hear of a divorce. As for Nora …’
‘What’s she like?’
‘You haven’t met her? Well, I’m not going to defend that one. You see, I’m not prejudiced either way … But what men see in her, I do not know.
‘She’s at least thirty, and if you saw her without her make-up, it might be nearer forty. She’s thin, that’s for sure, so skinny you can see her bones sticking through.
‘She wears this green and black make-up round her eyes, to give herself a mysterious air supposedly, but it just makes her look like a witch. You can’t see her mouth because she puts white greasepaint on her lips, and some greenish-white powder on her cheeks. So that’s Nora.
‘As for the way she dresses … The other day, she turned up in some kind of silver lamé pyjamas so tight she had to come into the kitchen for me to sew up a split in her trousers.’
‘And is she in films?’
‘You must be joking. She leaves that to the ten-a-penny girls. What she wants is to be the wife of a big international producer, to be Madame Big-Shot one day.’
‘You’re exaggerating,’ Mandille sighed.
‘Not as much as you, just now.’
‘Nora is intelligent, she’s educated, much more educated than Carus, and without her, he probably wouldn’t have been so successful.’
Now and then, Maigret would turn towards Lapointe, who was listening in s
ilence, standing still beside the bar and no doubt astonished by what he was hearing and by the atmosphere in the Vieux-Pressoir.
‘Will you stay for dinner, Monsieur Maigret? If I have time, if we’re not too busy, I’ll come over for a chat now and then. I’ve got some mussels in, so there’ll be mouclade this evening. I haven’t forgotten I was born in La Rochelle, my mother was a fishmonger, so I know all the good recipes. Have you ever eaten a chaudrée fourassienne?’
Maigret recited:
‘A soup made with eels, baby soles and squid.’
‘Been down that way often?’
‘To La Rochelle, yes, and Fouras.’
‘Shall I make you a chaudrée?’
‘Yes, please.’
When she had vanished, Maigret grunted:
‘Your wife doesn’t think the same way as you about these people. If I listened to her, I’d be rushing to arrest François Ricain.’
‘I think you’d be making a mistake.’
‘Well, who else do you see as a possibility?’
‘As the killer? No one. Where was Francis when it happened?’
‘Here. And there. He says he was combing the whole of Paris trying to find Carus or someone else who could lend him money. Ah, and he mentioned a nightclub.’
‘That’ll be the Club Zéro, I’ll bet you.’
‘Yes, that’s right, near Rue Jacob.’
‘Carus is often there. Some of my other customers too. One of the latest fashionable clubs. They change every two or three years. Or even in a shorter time, a few months. It’s not the first time Francis has been short of cash and gone hunting for someone who’ll slip him a couple of thousand in cash.’
‘He didn’t find Carus anywhere.’
‘Did he try the hotel?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Well, it must mean he was at Enghien. Nora’s quite the gambler. Last year, in Cannes, he left her alone in the casino, and when he came back she’d sold her jewels and lost all she got for them. Another beer? You wouldn’t prefer some vintage port?’
‘No, beer for me. What about you, Lapointe?’
‘A port, please,’ said the young policeman, blushing.
‘Can I use your phone?’
‘Back there on the left. Wait, I’ll give you some tokens.’
Maigret's Pickpocket Page 6
