A Man's Head (14 page)

Maigret stared in amazement at Radek, who crossed his legs, lit a cigarette and continued:

‘Now, those words were pronounced by the chief of police in person. And that was a year ago today exactly. I have not forgotten one syllable of it. And it goes without saying,
Taylor's murderer has never been
arrested
 …'

With a show of indifference, Maigret leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk and waited with the detached air of one who has all the time in the world but is not particularly interested in the conversation.

‘So have you finally decided to make inquiries about William Crosby, then? At the time of the murder, the police never thought of it … or maybe they didn't dare …'

‘Did you come here with information for me?' said Maigret, gritting his teeth.

‘Yes, if that's what you want! But anyone in Montparnasse could put you straight about him. First, when his aunt died, he had debts amounting to 600,000 francs, and even Bob at the Coupole was lending him money. It's something
that happens regularly with these grand families. He might have been Henderson's nephew but he was never very well off. Another of his uncles is a multi-millionaire. He has a cousin who is director of America's biggest bank. But his father was ruined ten years ago. Have you got the
picture? In a word, he was the poor relation.

‘And to make it worse, all his uncles and aunts had children – all except the Hendersons.

‘So he spent his time waiting for the old man to die and then after him Mrs Henderson. Both of them were in their seventies.

‘So, what do you reckon to that?'

‘Nothing.'

Maigret's silence clearly exasperated the Czech.

‘You know as well as I do that in Paris a man who has a name which carries a certain cachet can get by perfectly well without money. Crosby was also a man of great charm. He'd never done a day's work in his life. Actually, he was
just like a great big kid, happy to be alive and sample everything …

‘Especially women! … He was nice to them … You've seen Madame Crosby. He was very much in love with her.

‘Even so … Fortunately, those who are in the know about these sorts of things stick together closer than freemasons … I'd see the two of them having an aperitif at the Coupole and a girl hanging around who'd
make a sign to William …

‘“Do you mind, darling? … There's something I must do. It's just round the corner …”

‘And everybody there knew that he was going to spend half an hour in the first hotel you come to in Rue Delambre.

‘And that happened not once but many times. It also goes without saying that Edna Reichberg was his mistress, while all the time spending every day with Madame Crosby and being nice to her … And there were lots more of
them! …

‘He could never say no to women. I really believe he loved them all.'

Maigret yawned and stretched.

‘Or again there were times when he didn't have his taxi fare home yet he would buy rounds of fifteen cocktails for people he hardly knew. And he was always laughing. I never saw him worried about anything … You have to imagine
a man who was born with a sunny temperament, someone whom everybody loves, who loves everybody, who is forgiven everything, even those things for which no one should ever be forgiven … And with it a man who succeeds at everything! … Are you a gambler? Then you won't
know what it's like to see your opponent draw a seven and you turn your cards over and you have drawn an eight? And in the next hand, he draws eight and you get nine! Time after time! As if it was happening, not in the realm of tawdry real life, but in the land of dreams!

‘Well, that was Crosby!

‘When he inherited fifteen, sixteen million, he was sailing close to the wind because I think he forged the signatures of several illustrious members of his family to pay off debts.'

‘But he killed himself,' barked Maigret.

The Czech laughed to himself. It could have meant anything. He stood up so that he could drop his cigarette end into the coal-scuttle then returned to his seat.

‘But it was
only yesterday
that he killed himself,' he said enigmatically.

‘Hold it there!'

All at once Maigret's tone was peremptory. He was now on his feet and staring at Radek, looking him up and down.

There was a moment of almost painful silence before Maigret said:

‘Why the hell did you come here?'

‘For a chat. Or if you prefer, to give you a helping hand. You must admit that you'd have taken some time to get the information about Crosby that I've just handed to you … Would you like more of the same, equally
genuine?

‘You've seen the little Reichberg girl. She's twenty. Well, she's been William's mistress for a year and during that time she was spending every day with Madame Crosby, with whom she's been very
lovey-dovey …

‘And all the time she and her lover-boy have had an understanding that Crosby will get a divorce and marry her …

‘But if William was going to marry the daughter of the rich industrialist Reichberg, he would need money, lots of money …

‘What else do you want? Information about Bob, the barman at the Coupole? You've seen him in his white jacket with a serviette over his arm …

‘Well, he earns four or five hundred thousand francs a year and owns a magnificent villa at Versailles and a luxury car … God, that amounts to a lot of tips!'

Radek was starting to get excited. There was something strange, something edgy in his voice.

‘And during all that time, Joseph Heurtin was earning 600 francs a month pushing his three-wheeled carrier around Paris for ten or twelve hours a day!'

‘And what were you doing?'

The words came out bluntly while Maigret looked directly into the Czech's eyes.

‘Me? I …'

The two men fell silent. Maigret started striding up and down his office, pausing only to put more coal in the stove. Radek meanwhile lit another cigarette.

The situation was bizarre. It was difficult to see quite what the visitor had come for. He showed no sign of wanting to leave. On the contrary, he seemed to be waiting for something.

Maigret was in no hurry to satisfy his curiosity by asking questions. Besides, what would he have asked him?

It was Radek who spoke first, or rather muttered:

‘The perfect crime! … I mean the murder of Desmond Taylor, the film director. He was alone in his hotel bedroom. A young starlet pays him a visit. And after that, he is never seen again alive. Are you following? On the other hand,
the starlet in question is observed leaving his room without being shown out by him. But she wasn't the one who killed him!'

He was sitting on the chair which Maigret normally kept for visitors. It was directly under the lamp, which gave a harsh light, almost like the light in a hospital ward.

The Czech's face had never been so intriguing. His forehead was high, battered, much furrowed but not in a way that made him look older.

The mop of red hair struck a note of international bohemian nonconformity, which was reinforced by a shirt with a very low one-piece collar, dark in colour and worn with no tie.

Radek was by no means thin, yet he looked sickly, maybe because his flesh seemed soft, flabby. There was also something unhealthy about those plump lips.

He was beginning to get worked up in a very odd way which a psychologist would have found revealing. No muscle of his face moved but the amperage of his pupils seemed to have been given a sudden boost, which lent his eyes a piercing intensity.

‘What will they do with Heurtin?' he asked after full five minutes of silence.

‘Guillotine him!' grunted Maigret, with his hands in his trouser pockets.

The amperage was powered up to maximum. Radek gave a short, grating laugh.

‘Of course they will! A man who earns 600 francs a month! … While we're on that, let's have a bet. I say that when Crosby is buried, both women will turn up in full mourning and they'll weep on each other's
necks. I mean Madame Crosby and Edna. What do you say, inspector? … Can you even be sure he killed himself?'

He laughed. It was unexpected. Everything about him was unexpected, not least this visit.

‘It's so easy to dress up a murder to make it look like suicide. So easy that if at the time it happened I had not been with that nice Inspector Janvier I would have turned myself in, confessed to the crime, just to see what would
happen … Are you married?'

‘And if I am?'

‘Nothing … But you're a lucky man! A wife. A run-of-the-mill job. The satisfaction of duty done. I expect you go fishing on Sundays. Unless you're a billiard player … Speaking personally, I find that quite
admirable …

‘But you've got to start early. You must have a father who has principles and is also fond of billiards.'

‘Where did you first come across Joseph Heurtin?'

Maigret had put the question, thinking that he was being very subtle. He'd hardly finished speaking before he was regretting it.

‘Where did I come across him? In the papers, like everybody else. Unless … God, isn't life complicated! When I think that you're sitting there, listening to me, feeling uncomfortable, watching without being able to make
up your mind about me and thinking your job, your fishing afternoons, your billiard sessions are all on the line! At your age! Twenty years of unstinting service. Except that you've been unfortunate enough, for once in your life, to have had an idea and stuck to it. It's what you
might call a mild attack of genius. As if you had not been touched by genius when you were a baby. I mean, it doesn't suddenly come over you when you're forty-five! … That must be near enough your age, no?

‘You should have allowed Heurtin to die. You'd have got promotion. Ah yes, what does a chief inspector of the Police Judiciaire earn these days? A couple of thousand? Three? Half of what Crosby spent on drinks? … And when I
say half … Another thing, how are they going to explain Crosby's suicide? Woman trouble? Tongues will wag and they'll link the fact that he shot himself with Heurtin's escape. And all the Crosbys and the Hendersons and the cousins and second cousins who are all big
noises in America will be sending wires calling for discretion …

‘Now, if I were in your place …'

He in turn stood up and stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe.

‘If I were you, inspector, I'd look around for a diversionary tactic. Got it! I would, for example, arrest a man about whom no one will need to tread carefully. Someone like Radek, whose mother was a servant in a small town in
Czechoslovakia … Do Parisians actually know where Czechoslovakia is?'

His voice shook involuntarily. It was rare that his foreign accent was so pronounced.

‘But it will all end up like the Taylor case! … If I had the time … In the Taylor case, for instance, there were no fingerprints or any other such evidence … Whereas here … Heurtin left traces
everywhere and even showed his face in Saint-Cloud! Crosby, who needed money whatever the cost, and then shot himself just as the investigation was being re-opened! … Finally, there's me. What am I supposed to have done? I never spoke a word to Crosby. He didn't even know
my name. He had never met me. And just you ask Heurtin if he ever heard of Radek! Ask around Saint-Cloud if anybody there ever laid eyes on anyone who looked like me! … And yet here I am, in the nerve centre of the Police Judiciaire! … There's an inspector waiting for
me downstairs to follow me wherever I go … Incidentally, will that still be Janvier? … I'd like that. He's young. He's a decent sort. He has no head for drink … Three cocktails and he's floating on air …

‘But tell me, inspector, who should a person apply to to make a donation of several thousand francs to the home for superannuated policemen?'

With a careless gesture, he produced a bundle of banknotes from one pocket, put it back, took a second bundle from another pocket, then began his little game again with his waistcoat pocket.

He continued like this until he had displayed a minimum of 100,000 francs.

‘Is that all you've got to say?'

It was Radek who spoke the words to Maigret in a tone of vexation which he was unable to disguise.

‘That's all.'

‘Inspector, would you like me to tell you something?'

No reply.

‘In that case, you'll never understand anything!'

He reached for his black fedora, walked stiffly to the door clearly in the foulest of tempers, while Maigret muttered under his breath:

‘Sing away, birdie! Sing away! …'

‘How much do you earn selling papers?'

The scene was a terrace outside a Montparnasse café. Radek, tilted back on his chair and with that smile, which was more sinister than ever, was smoking a Havana.