Lock No. 1 (13 page)

‘Which suit are you
wearing?'

For half an hour, it was a mad rush.

Maigret could be heard shaving and
getting dressed in the bedroom. Madame Maigret cooked some eggs and questioned
Philippe.

‘Have you heard from your
mother?'

‘She's well. She was
planning to come to Paris for Easter.'

The driver was invited in, but he
refused to remove his heavy brown overcoat. Droplets of water trembled in his
moustache. He sat down in a corner and stayed put.

‘My braces?' shouted Maigret
from upstairs.

‘In the top drawer.'

Maigret came down wearing his coat with
a velvet collar and his bowler hat. He pushed away the eggs waiting for him on the
table and, defying his wife, drank a fourth glass of brandy.

It was 5.30 when the door opened and the
three men stepped outside and got into the taxi. It took a while for the engine to
start. Madame Maigret stood shivering in the doorway while the oil lamp made the
reddish reflections dance on the little window panes.

The sky was so light, it felt like
daybreak. But this was February and it was the night itself that was
silver-coloured. Each blade of grass was rimed with frost. The apple trees in the
neighbouring orchard were iced so white that they looked as fragile as spun
glass.

‘See you in two or three
days!' yelled Maigret.

Philippe, embarrassed, shouted:

‘Goodbye, Aunt!'

The driver slammed the car door again
and crunched the gears for a moment.

‘Please forgive me, Uncle
—'

‘What for?'

What for? Philippe didn't dare
say. He was asking forgiveness because there was something dramatic about this
departure. He recalled his uncle's silhouette earlier, by the fireplace, with
his nightshirt, his old clothes, his slippers.

And now, he barely dared look at him. It
was indeed Maigret who was beside him, smoking his pipe, his velvet collar upturned,
his hat perched on his head. But it wasn't an enthusiastic Maigret. It
wasn't even a Maigret who was sure of himself. Twice he turned round and
watched his little house receding.

‘Did you say that Amadieu will
arrive at Rue Fontaine at eight?' he asked.

‘Yes, at eight
o'clock.'

They had time. The taxi was going quite
fast. They drove through Orléans, where the first trams were setting out. Less than
an hour later, they reached the market in Arpajon.

‘What do you think,
Uncle?'

It was draughty in the back of the car.
The sky was clear. There was a golden glow in the east.

‘How could Pepito have been
killed?' sighed Philippe, who received no reply.

They stopped after Arpajon to warm up in
a café and almost at once it was daylight, with a pale sun slowly rising where the
fields met the horizon.

‘There was no one but him and me
in—'

‘Be quiet!' said Maigret
wearily.

His nephew huddled in his corner with
the look of a child caught misbehaving, not daring to take his eyes off the
door.

They entered Paris as the early-morning
bustle was beginning. Past the Lion de Belfort, Boulevard Raspail, the Pont-Neuf
…

The city looked as if it had been washed
in clean water, so bright were the colours. A train of barges was gliding slowly up
the Seine and the tugboat whistled, puffing out clouds of immaculate steam to
announce its flotilla.

‘How many passers-by were there in
Rue Fontaine when you came out?'

‘I only saw the man I ran
into.'

Maigret sighed and emptied his pipe,
tapping it against his heel.

The driver pulled down the glass
partition and inquired: ‘Where to?'

They stopped for a moment at a hotel on
the embankment to drop off Maigret's suitcase, then they got back into the
taxi and made their way to Rue Fontaine.

‘It's not so much what
happened at the Floria that worries me. It's the man who bumped into
you.'

‘What are you thinking?'

‘I'm not thinking
anything!'

He came out with this favourite
expression from the past as he turned round to glimpse the outline, once so
familiar, of the Palais de Justice.

‘At one point I thought of going
to the big chief and telling him the whole story,' muttered Philippe.

Maigret did not answer and, until they
reached Rue Fontaine, he kept his gaze fixed on the view of the Seine as it flowed
through a fine blue and gold mist.

They pulled up a hundred metres from
number 53. Philippe turned up the collar of his overcoat to conceal his
dinner-jacket, but at the sight of his patent-leather shoes, people turned round to
stare all the same.

It was only 6.50. A window-cleaner was
washing the windows of the corner café, the Tabac Fontaine, which stayed open all
night. People on their way to work stopped off for a quick
café crème
with
a croissant. There was only a waiter serving since the owner
did not get to
bed before five or six in the morning and rose at midday. He was a swarthy young
southern-looking fellow with black hair. There were cigar ends and cigarette butts
lying on a table next to a slate used for keeping score for card games.

Maigret bought a packet of shag and
ordered a sandwich, while Philippe grew impatient.

‘What happened last night?'
asked Maigret, his mouth full of bread and ham.

And, gathering up the change, the waiter
answered bluntly:

‘People are saying the owner of
the Floria was killed.'

‘Palestrino?'

‘I don't know. I'm on
the day shift. And during the day, we don't have anything to do with the
nightclubs.'

They left. Philippe did not dare say
anything.

‘You see?' grumbled
Maigret.

Standing on the kerb, he added:

‘That's the work of the man
you bumped into, you realize. Theoretically, no one should know anything before
eight o'clock.'

They walked towards the Floria, but they
stopped fifty metres short. They spotted the peaked cap of a Paris police sergeant
standing in front of the door. On the opposite pavement, a knot of people had
gathered.

‘What shall I do?'

‘Your chief is bound to be at the
scene. Go up to him and tell him—'

‘What about you, Uncle?'

Maigret shrugged and went on:

‘—Tell him the truth.'

‘Supposing he asks where I went
next?'

‘Tell him you came to fetch
me.'

There was resignation in his voice. They
had got off on the wrong foot, and that was all! It was a stupid business and
Maigret felt like gnashing his teeth.

‘I'm sorry,
Uncle!'

‘No emotional scenes in the
street! If they let you go free, meet me in the Chope du Pont-Neuf. If I'm not
there, I'll leave you a note.'

They did not even shake hands. Philippe
headed straight for the Floria. The sergeant did not know him and tried to bar him
from entering. Philippe had to show his badge, then he vanished inside.

Maigret remained at a distance, his
hands in his pockets, like the other onlookers. He waited. He waited for almost half
an hour, without the least idea of what was going on inside the club.

Detective Chief Inspector Amadieu came
out first, followed by a short, nondescript man who looked like a waiter.

And Maigret needed no explanations. He
knew that this was the man who had bumped into Philippe. He could guess
Amadieu's question.

‘Was it right here that you bumped
into him?'

The man nodded. Inspector Amadieu
beckoned Philippe, who was still inside. He came out, looking as nervous as a young
musician, as if the entire street were aware of the suspicions that were about to
engulf him.

‘And was this the gentleman who
was coming out at that moment?' Amadieu must have been saying, tugging his
brown moustache.

The man nodded again.

There were two other police officers.
The divisional chief glanced at his watch and, after a brief discussion, the man
sauntered off and went into the Tabac Fontaine while the policemen went back inside
the Floria.

Fifteen minutes later, two cars arrived.
It was the public prosecutor.

‘I've got to go back to
repeat my statement,' the man from the Floria told the waiter at the Tabac
Fontaine. ‘Another white wine and Vichy, quick!'

And, discomfited by Maigret's
insistent stare as he stood nearby drinking a beer, he lowered his voice and
asked:

‘Who's that?'