Maigret (4 page)

‘Wait! There was a Joseph, at any
rate. He was telling the others how he'd spent the afternoon being questioned
by an examining magistrate. But you know how it goes. They play.
Belote!
Rebelote!
Your turn, Pierre … Then one
of them says
something … Someone answers from the bar … Pass! … Pass again! … Your go, Marcel! …
The owner
was playing too … There was an African … “Do you want a
drink?” a tall, dark-haired man asked me, pointing to a chair near him.
“I don't mind if I do.” He showed me his hand. “In any
case,” said the man they called Joseph, “I think it's risky to
involve a cop. Tomorrow, they're going to bring me face to face with him. He
looks like a right idiot, of course …” “Hearts trumps.” “
Quatrième haute!
”' Fernande interrupted herself:

‘Will you have a cup of coffee
too?'

And soon the smell of coffee filled the
three-room apartment.

‘So anyway, I couldn't
suddenly start asking them about Cageot, could I? I said to them, “So do you
fellows come here every night?” “Looks like it,” said the one
sitting next to me. “And you didn't hear anything, last
night?”'

Maigret, having removed his coat and
hat, had half opened the window, allowing the street noises to enter the room.
Fernande went on:

‘He gave me a funny look and he
said: “Are you a bad girl?” I could see he was getting aroused. Still
playing cards, he stroked my knee. And he went on: “Us lot, we don't
hear anything, you understand? Apart from Joseph, who saw what he had to see
…” That made them all roar with laughter. What could I do? I didn't dare
move my leg away. “Spades again!
Tierce haute
and
belote!
” “He's one hell of a guy!” said Joseph, who
was drinking a hot toddy. But the fellow who was stroking my leg coughed then
grumbled:
“I'd rather he didn't spend so much
time with the cops, if you know what I mean.”'

Maigret felt as if he were in the room.
He could have put a name to almost each face. He already knew that the owner
ran a brothel in Avignon. And the tall, dark-haired man must be the owner of the
Cupidon, in Béziers, and of a brothel in Nîmes. As for the African, he belonged to a
local jazz outfit.

‘They didn't mention any
names?' Maigret asked Fernande, who was stirring her coffee.

‘No names. Two or three times they
said
the Lawyer
. I thought they meant Cageot. He looks like a degenerate
lawyer. But wait, I haven't finished! Aren't you hungry? It must have
been three in the morning. You could hear them pulling down the shutters at the
Floria. My neighbour, who was still rubbing my knee, was beginning to annoy me.
That's when the door opened and Cageot came in. He touched the brim of his
hat, but he didn't say a general hello.

‘Nobody looked up. You could feel
they were all giving him shifty glances. The owner scooted over to the bar.

‘“Give me six
Voltigeur
cigars and a box of matches,” said Cageot.

‘Little Joseph didn't bat an
eyelid. He stared at the bottom of his toddy glass. Cageot lit a cigar, put the
others in his jacket pocket, and looked for a note in his wallet. You could have
heard a pin drop.

‘The silence didn't bother
him. He turned round, looked at everyone, calmly, coolly, then touched his hat again
and left.'

As Fernande dunked her buttered bread in
her
coffee, her pyjama top had fallen open, revealing a pert
breast.

She must have been in her late twenties,
but she had the body of a girl and her barely formed nipples were pale pink.

‘They didn't say anything
after he left?' questioned Maigret who couldn't help turning down the
gas ring on which the kettle was beginning to sing.

‘They looked at each other and
exchanged winks. The owner sat down again, sighing: “Is that all?”
Joseph, who looked awkward, explained: “It's not that he's proud,
you know!”'

At this time of day, Rue Blanche was
almost provincial. You could hear the clatter of the hooves of the horses harnessed
to a heavy brewer's dray.

‘The others sniggered,'
added Fernande. ‘The one who was groping my leg groaned: “It's not
that he's proud, no! But he's shrewd enough to land us all in it. I tell
you, I'd like it better if he didn't go to Quai des Orfèvres every
day!”'

Fernande had told her story taking care
not to forget anything.

‘Did you go straight
home?'

‘That wasn't
possible.'

Maigret looked none too pleased.

‘Oh!' she hastily added,
‘I didn't bring him back here. It's best not to show those people
that you've got a few bits and pieces. He didn't let me go until five
o'clock.'

She rose and went to get a breath of
fresh air by the window.

‘What should I
do now?'

Maigret paced up and down,
preoccupied.

‘What's his name, your
lover-boy?'

‘Eugène. There are two gold
initials on his cigarette case: E.B
.
'

‘Do you want to go back to the
Tabac Fontaine
tonight?'

‘If I have to.'

‘Pay attention to the one called
Joseph in particular, the little guy who fetched the police.'

‘He took no notice of
me.'

‘I'm not asking you to do
that
. Just listen carefully to what he says.'

‘Now, if you don't mind, I
have to clean my place up,' said Fernande tying a kerchief over her hair.

They shook hands. And as he descended
the stairs, Maigret had no idea that there would be a raid in Montmartre, and that
the police would swoop on the Tabac Fontaine and take Fernande to the
station.'

Cageot knew.

‘I should inform you of half a
dozen women who are in an irregular situation,' he was saying at that very
moment to the chief of the vice squad.

Fernande above all, who was going to be
carted off in a meat wagon!

Maigret had just finished shaving and was
cleaning his razor when there was a knock on his door. It was nine in the morning.
He had been awake since eight, but, for once, he had lain in bed for ages watching
the sun's slanting rays and listening to the sounds of the city.

‘Come in!' he shouted.

And he took a sip of the cold coffee
stagnating at the bottom of his cup. Philippe's hesitant footsteps echoed in
the room and finally reached the bathroom.

‘Good morning, son.'

‘Good morning, Uncle.'

Maigret knew from his voice that
something was wrong. He buttoned up his shirt and looked at his nephew, who had red
eyelids and puffy nostrils like a child who had been crying.

‘What's happened?'

‘I've been
arrested!'

Philippe said this as gloomily as if he
were announcing that he would be going in front of a firing squad in five
minutes.

He held out a newspaper. Maigret glanced
at it while continuing to get dressed.

Despite Inspector Philippe
Lauer's denials, examining magistrate Gastambide reportedly decided to
have him arrested this morning
.

‘My
photo's splashed all over the front page of the
Excelsior
,'
Philippe added melodramatically.

His uncle said nothing. There was
nothing to be said. His braces dangling, slippers on his bare feet, he padded to and
fro in the sunshine, hunting for his pipe, then his tobacco and finally a box of
matches.

‘You didn't drop by there
this morning?' asked Maigret.

‘I've come from Rue des
Dames. I saw the paper when I was having my coffee and croissant in Boulevard des
Batignolles.'

It was an exceptional morning. The air
was fresh, the sun joyful, and the intense, animated bustle of Paris a frenzied
dance. Maigret opened the window and the room reverberated with the throbbing life
of the riverbanks, while the slow-moving Seine shimmered in the sunlight.

‘Well, you have to go, my boy!
What can I say?'

He didn't want to get all
sentimental over this kid who had forsaken his green valley in the Vosges for the
corridors of the Police Judiciaire!

‘Naturally, it won't be as
cushy as home!'

His mother was Madame Maigret's
sister, and that said it all. She mollycoddled the boy:
Philippe will be home
soon … Philippe will be hungry … Have Philippe's shirts been ironed?
…

And tasty little dishes, home-made
desserts and liqueurs! And sprigs of lavender in the linen cupboard!

‘There's something
else,' said Philippe while his uncle adjusted his detachable collar.
‘Last night I went to the Floria.'

‘Of course!'

‘Why of
course?'

‘Because I advised you not to go
there. Now what have you done?'

‘Nothing. I chatted with that
girl, Fernande, you know. She hinted that she was working with you and that she had
some mission to carry out at the café on the corner of Rue de Douai. Since I was
leaving anyway, I followed her, instinctively. It was on my way home. But on her way
out of the café, she was yelled at by inspectors from the vice squad and bundled
into a meat wagon.'

‘You tried to step in, I'll
bet!'

Philippe looked shamefaced.

‘What did they say?'

‘That they knew what they were
doing.'

‘Off you go now,' sighed
Maigret, hunting for his tie. ‘Don't worry.'

He put his hands on Philippe's
shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks and, to cut the scene short, suddenly pretended
to be very busy. Only when the door had opened and closed behind Philippe again did
he look up, hunch his shoulders and mutter a few garbled syllables.

The first thing he did once on the
riverbank was to buy the
Excelsior
from a news kiosk and look at the photo
which was indeed on the front page with the caption:

Inspector Philippe Lauer, accused of killing Pepito Palestrino, who was
under surveillance.

Maigret walked slowly over the
Pont-Neuf. The previous evening, he had not gone inside the Floria but had paid a
visit to Rue des Batignolles to sniff around Cageot's place.
He lived in a residential building dating from the 1880s, like most of the apartment
blocks in the neighbourhood. The corridor and the staircase were poorly lit. It was
easy to imagine the dark, dismal apartments, grubby curtains at the windows and
furniture with faded velvet upholstery.

Cageot's apartment was on the
mezzanine. There was no one around at this time of day and Maigret had entered the
building as if he were a regular visitor. He wandered up to the fourth floor and
then came back down again.

There was a safety lock on
Cageot's door, otherwise Maigret might have given in to temptation. He walked
past the lodge and the concierge, face pressed up against the window, stared after
him for a while.

What could that matter? Maigret crossed
almost the entire city on foot, his hands in his pockets, the same thoughts going
round and round in his head.

Somewhere – at the Tabac Fontaine or
elsewhere – there was a small group of crooks who were happily going about their
illicit business. Pepito had been one of them. Barnabé too.

And one by one, Cageot, the big boss,
was eliminating them, or having them eliminated.

Gangland killings! The police would
hardly have bothered about them if that idiot Philippe—

Maigret had arrived at Quai des
Orfèvres. Two inspectors on their way out greeted him with unconcealed surprise, and
he went through the entrance, crossed the courtyard and walked past the vice
squad.

Upstairs it was time for the morning
briefing. In the vast
corridor, fifty police officers stood in
huddles, speaking in loud voices and passing on intelligence and records. Sometimes
an office door opened and a name was yelled and summoned inside.

Maigret's arrival caused a few
moments' silence and unease. But he sauntered past the groups looking
perfectly at home, and the officers resumed their confabs to keep up
appearances.

To the right was the chief's
waiting room furnished with red velvet armchairs. Sitting in a corner, a lone
visitor was waiting. Chin cupped in his hands, Philippe stared fixedly ahead of
him.

Maigret walked off in the opposite
direction, reached the end of the corridor and knocked at the last door.

‘Come in!' answered a voice
from inside.

And everyone saw him enter Detective
Chief Inspector Amadieu's office, hat in hand.

‘Hello, Maigret.'

‘Hello, Amadieu.'

They touched fingertips as they used to
do when they saw each other every morning. Amadieu signalled to an inspector to
leave, then murmured:

‘Did you want to talk to
me?'

Maigret perched on the edge of the desk
in a familiar pose and picked up a box of matches from the table to light his
pipe.

His colleague had pushed back his chair
and tilted it backwards.

‘How's country
life?'

‘Fine, thanks.
How are things here?'

‘Still the same. I have to see the
chief in five minutes.'

Maigret pretended not to know what that
meant and began unbuttoning his overcoat, slowly and deliberately. He was very much
at home in this office, which had been his for ten years.

‘Are you worried about your
nephew?' blurted out Amadieu, who was unable to keep quiet any longer.
‘I want you to know that I'm even more concerned than you are. I'm
the one who's carrying the can. It's gone all the way to the top, you
know. The minister himself sent a note to the chief. I'm not even involved any
more. It's the examining magistrate who's in charge. Gastambide was
there in your day, wasn't he?'

The telephone rang. Amadieu held the
receiver to his ear and muttered:

‘… Yes, chief … Very good, chief …
In a few minutes … I'm not alone … Yes … That's correct …'

Maigret knew what this conversation was
about. At the other end of the corridor, Philippe had just been called into the
chief's office.

‘Did you want to ask me
something?' said Amadieu, getting to his feet. ‘You heard. The chief
wants me.'

‘Just a couple of questions. First
of all, was Cageot aware that Pepito was about to be arrested?'

‘I don't know. Besides, I
don't see how that's relevant.'

‘I'm sorry. I know Cageot. I
know he's an informer. I also know that sometimes there's careless talk
in front of informers. Did he come here two or three days before the
murder?'

‘I think so. Yes, I
recall—'

‘Another
question: Do you know the address of Joseph Audiat, that waiter who was walking down
Rue Fontaine and just happened to bump into Philippe?'

‘He sleeps at a hotel in Rue
Lepic, if I'm not mistaken.'

‘Have you checked out
Cageot's alibi?'

Amadieu feigned a smile.

‘Now look, Maigret, I know how to
do my job!'

But there was more to come. On the desk,
Maigret had spotted a yellow cardboard folder with the vice squad's
letterhead.

‘Is that the report on Fernande
Bosquet's arrest already?'

Amadieu looked away. He had seemed about
to give Maigret a clear explanation, but now his hand was on the door knob and he
merely mumbled:

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean that Cageot had a girl
arrested by the Vice. Where is she now?'

‘I don't know.'

‘May I have a quick look at the
file?'

It was hard to say no. Maigret leaned
over, read a few lines and concluded:

‘She's probably having her
fingerprints done as we speak.'

The telephone rang again. Amadieu raised
his hand.

‘I'm sorry, but—'

‘I know. Mustn't keep the
chief waiting.'

Maigret buttoned up his overcoat and
left the office at the same time as Amadieu. Instead of heading back down the
stairs, he walked with him to the waiting room with red velvet armchairs.

‘Would you ask the chief if he can
see me?'

Amadieu pushed open a
padded door. The office boy also vanished inside the head of the Police
Judiciaire's office where Philippe was being grilled. Maigret stood waiting,
hat in hand.

‘The chief is very busy and
requests that you come back this afternoon.'

Maigret turned and walked back through
the knots of inspectors. His expression was a little grim, but he wanted to keep up
appearances. He gave a joyless smile.

He did not go back out into the street,
but sneaked off down the narrow corridors and up the winding staircases that led to
the top floor of the Palais de Justice. He found his way to the criminal records
department and pushed open the door. The women's session was over. In the grey
room around fifty men who had been arrested the previous night were getting
undressed, leaving their clothes in little piles on the benches lining the
walls.

Once naked, one by one they went into
the next room where staff in black overalls took their fingerprints, sat them down
on the anthropometric chair and shouted out their measurements like sales assistants
in a department store announcing a sale at the till.

There was a smell of sweat and filth.
Most of the men were bewildered, awkward in their nakedness, allowing themselves to
be shoved around from pillar to post and trying to obey instructions, many of them
confused because they did not speak French.

Maigret cordially shook hands with the
staff and heard the inevitable platitudes:

‘Popping in to
say hello?' ‘How's life in the country?' ‘It must be
gorgeous in this weather!'

The neon lamp shed a crude light in the
little room where the photographer worked.

‘Were there a lot of women, this
morning?'

‘Seven.'

‘Have you got their
records?'

They were lying on a table since they
had not yet been filed. The third one was Fernande's, with the prints of her
five fingers, a clumsy signature and a horribly realistic mug shot.

‘Did she say anything? Did she
cry?'

‘No. She was very
docile.'

‘Do you know where she's
been taken?'

‘I don't know whether they
let her go or whether they'll make her do a few days in
Saint-Lazare.'

Maigret's gaze roved over the
naked men who stood in rows like soldiers. He raised his hand to his hat and
said:

‘Goodbye!'

‘Are you leaving so
soon?'

He was already on the stairs, where
there was not a single step that he hadn't trodden a thousand times. Another
staircase, to the left, narrower than the first, led to the laboratory whose every
nook and cranny, every vial, he knew.