Maigret's Dead Man (17 page)

‘After that?'

‘After what?'

‘What happened the next day?'

They again exchanged uncertain looks, and Maigret
had to put them back on the right track once more.

‘He phoned you at the garage on Wednesday
at about five o'clock, didn't he?'

‘No, at the Pélican, in Avenue de
Wagram. We're nearly always there at that time of day.'

‘Now, I want to know what he said exactly,
word for word if possible. Which of you answered?'

‘Me,' said Jo.

‘Think. Take your time.'

‘He seemed in a mighty hurry. Sounded
flustered.'

‘I know …'

‘To begin with, I didn't understand
what it was all about.
He jumbled everything up because he was going so
fast, as if he was afraid we'd be cut off.'

‘I also know that. He phoned me four or
five times that day …'

‘Oh.'

Jo and Ferdinand gave up trying to
understand.

‘So if he rang you, you must know
…' said Jo.

‘Carry on anyway.'

‘He said there were these three men
following him and that he was scared, but he said he might have found a way of shaking them
off.'

‘Did he say what this way was?'

‘No, but he seemed happy enough with his
idea.'

‘Then?'

‘He said, more or less: “It's a
really terrible business, but we might be able to make something of it.” Don't
forget, that you promised …'

‘I repeat my promise,' said Maigret.
‘The pair of you will walk out of here as free as when you came in, and you won't be
bothered afterwards, whatever you tell me – provided, that is, you tell me
everything.'

‘So you knew him as well as we
did?'

‘More or less.'

‘Right! Never mind! Then Albert said:
“Call round and see me tonight at eight. We'll talk it over.”'

‘What did you think he meant by
that?'

‘Wait a minute, he also had time to say
something else before hanging up: “I'll pack Nine off to the cinema.” Do you
see? That meant that there was something serious in the wind …'

‘One moment. Had
Albert ever worked with the both of you before?'

‘Never. What would he have done? You know
what line of work we're in. It's not nine-to-five stuff. Albert was a steady sort,
led a regular life.'

‘But that didn't stop him thinking
that he might make a bit out of what he had discovered.'

‘Maybe it didn't, I don't know.
Wait. I'm trying to remember how he put it, but it's gone. He mentioned the gang
from the north.'

‘So you decided you'd meet him as
arranged.'

‘Did we have any choice?'

‘Listen, Jo, stop playing the fool! For
once there's nothing riding on this for you, so you can be frank with me. You thought your
pal Albert had got the goods on the Picardy gang. You knew, because you read it in the paper,
that they'd got away with millions, and you were wondering if there wasn't some way
of getting your hands on a slice of it. Is that it?'

‘That's what I thought Albert meant,
yes.'

‘Good. We're agreed on that.
Next?'

‘We both went.'

‘And your car broke down on Quai Henri-IV,
which leads me to think that the yellow Citroën wasn't quite as brand new as it
looked.'

‘We'd done it up to sell it. We
hadn't been banking on using it ourselves.'

‘So you reached Quai de Charenton a good
half an hour late. The shutters were closed. You opened the door, which was not
locked.'

They looked at each other
again, gloomily.

‘And you found your pal Albert, who had
been killed with a knife.'

‘That's the size of it.'

‘What did you do?'

‘At first we thought he hadn't
croaked because the body was still warm.'

‘What next?'

‘We saw that the house had been searched.
We remembered that Nine would soon be back from the pictures. There's a cinema not far
from there, in Charenton, just by the canal. So we went there.'

‘What were you thinking of
doing?'

‘We didn't know, really, I swear. We
weren't looking forward to it, either of us. To start with it's no fun having to
break news like that to a woman. And then we started wondering if anyone in the gang had spotted
us. Ferdinand and me talked it over.'

‘And you decided to pack Nine off to the
country?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is she very far away?'

‘She's out down Corbeil way, staying
at an inn by the Seine where we go fishing now and then. Ferdinand's got a boat
there.'

‘Didn't she want to see
Albert?'

‘We talked her out of it. When we drove
along the riverbank again, later that night, there wasn't anybody around the house. You
could still see light under the door, because we never thought to switch it off.'

‘Why did you move the body?'

‘That was
Ferdinand's idea.'

Maigret turned to Jo's companion, who
looked at the floor.

‘Why?' repeated Maigret.

‘I can't explain. I was in a state.
When we were at the inn, we'd had a few drinks, to steady the nerves. I kept telling
myself the neighbours must have seen the car and might even have had a good look at us. Also if
it got out that it was Albert who was dead, they'd come looking for Nine, who
wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut.'

‘So you laid a false trail.'

‘You could say that. The police
aren't as interested in following up on run-of-the-mill cases, when the crime seems
straightforward, such as when, for example, a man is stabbed to death for his money
…'

‘And was it also you who had the idea of
making a slit in his raincoat?'

‘We had to, if we were going to make it
look like he'd been killed on the streets.'

‘And also to rearrange his face for
him?'

‘There was no choice. He couldn't
feel anything. That way we thought the case would be closed quickly, and we'd be kept out
of it.'

‘Is that all?'

‘That's everything, I swear.
Isn't that right, Jo? The next day I resprayed the car, and changed the number
plate.'

It was evident they were now getting ready to
leave.

‘Just a minute. Have you been sent anything
since?'

‘Sent what?'

‘An envelope, with something in
it.'

‘No.'

It was plain to see that they were telling the
truth. They had been genuinely surprised by the question.

And, as Maigret asked it, he saw a possible
solution to the problem which had been bothering him most for the last few days. It had been
supplied by Ferdinand unwittingly, only minutes before. Hadn't Albert told him over the
phone that he had just found a way of getting the gang that was following him off his back?

Hadn't he asked for an envelope at the last
brasserie he had been seen in, just after he had phoned his friends?

He had in his possession, in his pocket,
something which implicated the Czechs. One of them had always kept him in full view.
Wasn't being seen to drop an envelope in a letterbox a good way of getting whoever was
following him off his back?

Slipping the document into the envelope was
merely a diversion.

But whose address had he written on it?

He picked up the phone and called the Police
Judiciaire.

‘Hello? Who's that? … Bodin?
… A job for you, and it's urgent … How many inspectors are on the premises now
… Eh? Just four? One must stay on duty there, of course. Take the other three. Share out
all the post offices in Paris between you … wait! … including the one at Charenton,
where I want you to begin yourself. Question the staff at the poste restante counter. Somewhere
there's got to be a letter addressed to Albert Rochain which has been waiting to be
collected for a few days … Yes, get it and bring it to me … No, not to my home.
I'll be in the office in half an hour.'

He looked at the two men and
smiled.

‘Fancy another?'

They clearly weren't keen on calvados but
accepted out of politeness.

‘Can we go now?'

They still didn't trust him completely and
stood up like schoolboys when the teacher lets the class out for break.

‘We're not going to be dragged in any
deeper?'

‘We won't need to involve you any
further. All I ask is that you don't warn Nine.'

‘She won't be bothered
either?'

‘Why should she be?'

‘Go easy on her, will you? If you knew how
much she loved her Albert!'

When the door closed behind them, Maigret turned
off the gas. The soup was starting to boil over and spill on to the stove.

He was pretty sure that his two bravos had lied
to some extent. According to Dr Paul, they hadn't waited to smuggle Nine to a place of
safety before battering their friend's face to a pulp.

But that did not change things much and in the
last analysis they had proved to be sufficiently cooperative for Maigret to not want to make
life hard for them. Deep down, people like them can feel shame. Just like everybody else.

The office was blue with smoke. Colombani was
sitting in a corner with his legs stretched out in front of him. A few moments earlier, the
commissioner of the Police Judiciaire had also been there. Inspectors came and went.
Coméliau, the examining magistrate, had just phoned.

Again, Maigret picked up the phone.

‘Hello? … Marchand? … Maigret
here … Yes, the real one … What do you mean? You've got another friend called
Maigret? … A count, eh? … No: no relation …'

It was seven o'clock. The man at the other
end of the line was the general manager of the Folies-Bergère.

‘What do you want now?' said Marchand
in his throaty voice. ‘God knows it's not a good time for me. I've just got a
few minutes to dash out and grab a quick snack before the doors open. Unless you fancy a bite to
eat with me? What would you say to the Chope Montmartre, for example? … Ten minutes?
… See you there.'

Janvier was in the office looking very pleased
with himself. It was he who had just brought a handsome, enlarged photograph from Joinville,
like the ones which, personally autographed, are found hanging in actors' dressing rooms.
This one was also signed, in a spiky, ultra-confident hand: Francine Latour.

The woman was pretty, still
very young. Her address appeared on the back: 121, Rue de Longchamp, at Passy.

‘Apparently she is currently appearing in
the Folies-Bergère,' Janvier had said.

‘Did the Pari-Mutuel man recognize
her?'

‘Formally identified her. I'd have
brought him back with me, but he was already late and lives in fear of his wife. But if we need
him we can call him at home at any time. He lives not far from here, on Ile Saint-Louis, and he
has a telephone.'

Francine Latour also had a telephone. Maigret
called her apartment, planning to say nothing and hang up immediately if anyone answered. But,
as he had suspected, she was not there.

‘Feel like going over there, Janvier? Take
someone discreet with you. I don't want to attract any attention.'

‘Want us to have a quiet look round the
apartment?'

‘Not straight away. Wait for my call. One
of you had better stay in a bar close by. Tell him to phone in and leave us the
number.'

He frowned, making sure he remembered everything.
The officer sent out to Citroën's offices had at least come back with one piece of
information: Serge Madok had worked there for two years.

Maigret walked into the inspectors'
office.

‘All right, listen now. I'm probably
going to need a lot of people this evening or tonight. It would be best if you all stayed here
on the job. Take turns to go out and get something to eat locally, or else send out for
sandwiches and beers. I'll see you later. Coming, Colombani?'

‘I thought you were
having dinner with Marchand?'

‘You know him too, don't
you?'

Marchand, who had begun as a tout reselling
pass-out tickets outside theatres, was one of the leading Paris personalities. He had not lost
his rough manner or vulgar way of speaking. He was in the restaurant, elbows on the table,
holding a vast menu. When the two policemen came in, he said to the head waiter:

‘Something light, Georges …
Let's see … Got any partridges?'

‘With cabbage, Monsieur
Marchand.'

‘Sit yourself down, old son. Ah! I see
we've got the Sûreté in tonight. Bring another plate, Georges. What do you two
say to
perdrix au chou
, eh? Hang on! And also to start, how about
truites au
bleu
. Are the trout live, Georges?'

‘You can see them in the display tank,
Monsieur Marchand.'

‘A few hors d'oeuvres while we wait.
That's it. And a soufflé to finish with if you want.'

It was his passion. Even when eating alone he
would order meals like this at lunch or dinner. And that is what he called ‘eating
light', a snack. Maybe, after the show, he would settle down to a proper supper?

‘Well now. And what can I do you for? Not
found anything fishy in my box of delights, I hope?'

It was too soon for serious talking. It was now
the wine waiter's turn to approach. Marchand took a good few minutes choosing the
wines.

‘Right, I'm all ears.'

‘If I tell you something, will you keep it
to yourself?'

‘Listen, you're
forgetting that I probably know more secrets than any other man in Paris. Look, I hold the fate
of hundreds, make that thousands, of married couples in my hands. Keep my trap shut? It's
what I do all day!'

He was a real card. The fact was that he never
stopped talking from morning to night, but it was perfectly true that he never said what he
really meant.

‘Do you know Francine Latour?'

‘She's appearing in a couple of comic
sketches with Dréan.'

‘What do you think of her?'

‘What do I think of her? She's a
decent piece of skirt. Come back and ask me again in ten years.'

‘Does she have talent?'

Marchand gave Maigret a look of comic
surprise.

‘Why are you asking if she's got
talent? I don't know exactly how old she is but she can't be more than twenty and
she's already getting her clothes from the top dressmakers. I even think she's
started having diamonds. I know for a fact that last week she turned up wearing a mink coat.
What else do you want to know?'

‘Does she have lovers?'

‘She's got one. Everybody's got
one.'

‘Know who he is?'

‘I don't see how I could help not
knowing him.'

‘A foreigner, isn't he?'

‘Nowadays they're nearly all
foreigners. It's as if all France is good for any more is supplying faithful
husbands.'

‘Listen, Marchand. This is a lot more
serious than you might think.'

‘When are you going
to get the cuffs on him?'

‘Tonight, I hope. It's not what you
imagine.'

‘At all events, he's used to it. If I
remember right, he's been up in court twice for passing dud cheques or similar. At the
minute he seems flush.'

‘What's his name?'

‘Backstage they all call him Monsieur Jean.
His real name is Bronsky. He's a Czech.'

‘A dud cheque,' added Colombani.
Maigret shrugged his shoulders.

‘He dabbled for a while in the film
business. I think he's still got a finger in that pie,' continued Marchand, who was
quite capable of reeling off the CVs of all Paris' celebrities, including the most
unsavoury customers. ‘Good-looking, likeable, generous. Women adore him, and men are wary
of his charm.'

‘Is he in love with her?'

‘I'd say so. But whether he is or
not, he hardly ever lets the girl out of his sight. They reckon he's jealous.'

‘Where do you think the both of them are
right now?'

‘If there were any horse-races this
afternoon, it's very likely he went with her. A woman who's been buying her clothes
in Rue de la Paix for the last five or six months and wears a new mink coat doesn't get
easily bored at race-courses. Just now, they'll be having a pre-dinner drink in a bar on
the Champs-Élysées. She's not due on stage until half past nine. She usually
gets to the theatre at around nine. So they have plenty of time to have dinner at
Fouquet's or Maxim's or Ciro's. If you want to find them …'

‘Not now. Does Bronsky go to the theatre
with her?'

‘Almost always. He
sees her to her dressing room, hangs around backstage for a while, then makes straight for the
bar just off the main lobby and passes the time of day with Félix. After the second sketch
he joins her in her dressing room and as soon as she's ready he goes off with her.
It's pretty rare if they don't go on to a cocktail party somewhere.'

‘Does he live with her?'

‘Very likely. But that's something
you'd best ask her concierge.'

‘Have you seen him these last few
days?'

‘I saw him just yesterday.'

‘And did he seem more on edge than
usual?'

‘Men like him are always a bit on edge, you
know. When you're walking a tightrope … Listen, I'll say this: as I see it,
the rope is about to break. It's a great shame for the kid! Still, now she's got
herself a decent wardrobe, the rest will take care of itself. She'll have every chance of
finding someone much better for herself …'

As he talked, Marchand ate, drank, wiped his
mouth with his serviette, waved familiarly to people who came in or were leaving and still
managed to find a moment to summon the head waiter or ask for the wine list.

‘Do you know how he got started?'

Marchand, who was constantly reminded of his own
origins by the small-circulation scandal sheets, answered somewhat tersely:

‘Now that, old son, is a question you
don't ask a gentleman.'

But within moments he was ready to resume where
he had left off.

‘What I do know is
that for a time he ran an agency for extras.'

‘Was that a long time ago?'

‘A couple of months. I could find
out.'

‘There's no point. In fact, I'd
rather you didn't mention anything about this discussion to anybody, especially
tonight.'

‘Will you be coming to the
theatre?'

‘No.'

‘I prefer it that way. I would have asked
you not to pursue your inquiries on my premises.'

‘I don't want to run any risks,
Marchand. My picture and Colombani's have appeared in the papers too often. According to
what you say about him and what I know of him, this man is clever enough to spot any of my
inspectors.'

‘Seems to me, my friend, that you're
taking this business very seriously, aren't you? Help yourself to more
partridge.'

‘There's going to be big
trouble.'

‘I see.'

‘There's been trouble already. A lot
of it.'

‘Ah! Well, don't tell me anything.
I'd rather read all about it in the papers tomorrow or the day after. It could put me in a
spot if he asks me to have a drink with him tonight. Come on, eat up! What do you think of this
Châteauneuf? They've only got fifty bottles of it left, and I've told them to
put them aside for me. Now there are just forty-nine. Shall I ask for another?'

‘Better not. We'll be working all
night.'

They went their different ways a quarter of an
hour
later, feeling somewhat sluggish after such a large meal liberally
washed down with too much wine.

‘Let's hope he keeps his mouth
shut,' said Colombani.

‘He will.'

‘By the way, Maigret, did your aunt come up
with any useful leads?'

‘She did indeed. I now know virtually
everything about Li'l Albert.'

‘I thought you might. There's nothing
like women for being well informed. Especially aunts who are just up from the country. Want to
tell me?'

They had a little time to kill. Any easing of the
tension was welcome ahead of a night which promised to be eventful. They chatted as they walked
back along the pavements.

‘You were right earlier. We would most
probably have rounded them all up at Vincennes. Now, provided Jean Bronsky doesn't suspect
that we're closing in on him …'

‘We'll do everything we can,
won't we?'

They reached the Police Judiciaire building at
around nine thirty. There was important news. An inspector was waiting for them. He said
excitedly:

‘Sir, Carl Lipschitz is dead! It happened
virtually before my very eyes! I was standing in the shadows in Rue de Seine, a hundred metres
from the hospital. For some time, I'd been hearing noises to my right. There was someone
there, in the darkness, who seemed reluctant to step forwards. Then I heard the sound of running
footsteps, and a shot was fired. It was so close that my first thought was that someone was
shooting at me, and I automatically got
out my revolver. I sensed rather
than saw a falling body and the outline of someone running off. I opened fire.'

‘Did you kill him?'

‘I aimed for his legs and was lucky. I got
him with my second shot. This man, the one who was running away, also fell to the
ground.'

‘Who was it?'

‘The kid. The one they call Pietr. We
didn't have far to carry him because the hospital was on the other side of the
street.'

‘So Pietr shot at Carl?'

‘Yes.'

‘Were they together?'

‘No, I don't think so. I believe
Pietr was following Carl and shot him.'

‘What is he saying?'

‘The kid? Nothing. He has kept his mouth
shut. His eyes are bright and feverish. He seemed happy or dead pleased with himself to be in
the hospital and as he passed through the corridors he kept looking eagerly all round
him.'