The Hotel Majestic (17 page)

She had become so heated she had to touch up her face, waving a doubtful pink powderpuff over the tablecloth.

And under the table, there was frantic activity—Ramuel quietly kicking her to make her shut up, and she pretending not to understand and stabbing him viciously with her heel in return.

“You'll pay for this, you beast! . . . Just you wait . . .”

“Look, I'll explain it all, in a minute . . . I don't know why the superintendent thinks . . .”

“And you, you're sure you're not mistaken? . . . I know what you police are like . . . When you can't find out anything and are floundering about in the dark, you invent something just to make people talk . . . I hope that's not what you're doing?”

Maigret looked at his watch. It was half past nine. He gave Lucas a quiet wink, and Lucas coughed. Then Maigret leant confidentially towards Ramuel and the woman.

“Don't move, Ramuel . . . Don't make a scene, it won't help . . . Your right-hand neighbour is one of our men . . . And Sergeant Lucas has been following you since this afternoon and it was he who telephoned me to let me know you were here . . .”

“What do you mean?” stuttered Marie Deligeard.

“I mean, madame, that I wanted to let you eat first . . . I'm afraid I have to put your husband under arrest . . . And it will be better for everyone if we do it quietly . . . Finish your meal . . . We'll go out together in a minute—all good friends . . . We'll get a taxi and go for a little ride to the Quai des Orfèvres . . . You can't imagine how peaceful the offices are at night . . . Some mustard, please, waiter! . . . And some gherkins, if you've got any . . .”

Marie Deligeard went on attacking her food with venom, giving her husband a terrible look from time to time, her brow furrowed with a deep scowl, which was hardly conducive to making her look any prettier or more prepossessing. Maigret ordered a third glass of beer and leant across to Ramuel, murmuring confidentially: “You see, at about four o'clock this afternoon, I suddenly remembered that you had been a quartermaster-sergeant . . .”

“You always said you were a second-lieutenant!” the odious woman spat, not missing a trick.

“But it's very smart, madame, being a quartermaster-sergeant! . . . It's the quartermaster-sergeant who does all the writing for the company . . . So, you see, I remembered my military service, which was a long time ago, as you can imagine . . .”

Nothing could prevent him enjoying his chips. They were sensational—crisp outside and melting within.

“As our captain came to the barracks as little as possible, it was our quartermaster-sergeant who signed all the passes and most other documents, in the captain's name, of course . . . And the signature was so well done that the captain could never tell which signatures he had written himself and which were the work of the quartermaster-sergeant . . . Do you see what I mean, Ramuel?”

“I don't understand . . . And as I imagine you're not going to try to arrest me without a proper warrant, I'd like to know . . .”

“I've got a warrant from the Financial Section of the Public Prosecutor's Department . . . Does that surprise you? . . . It happens quite often, you see . . . One is busy on a case . . . Without meaning to, one uncovers something else, which happened many years ago and which everyone has forgotten . . . I've got some bills in my pocket, given to me by a man called Atoum . . . You won't have any more to eat? . . . No dessert, madame? . . . Waiter! . . . We'll each pay for our own, don't you think? . . . What do I owe you, waiter? . . . I had a steak, something from the trolley, oh yes, some beef, three portions of chips and three beers . . . Have you got a light, Lucas?”

The dark porch, then the great staircase, with a dim light at infrequent intervals, and finally the long corridor with its many doors.

Maigret said cheerfully to Marie Deligeard, who was out of breath: “We've arrived, madame . . . You can get your breath back . . .”

There was only one light on in the corridor, and two men were walking along deep in conversation—Oswald J. Clark and his solicitor.

At the end of the corridor was the waiting-room, which was glassed in on one side, to allow the police to come and watch their visitors if necessary. There was a table with a green cloth.

Green velvet armchairs. A Louis-Philippe clock on the mantelpiece—exactly like the one in Maigret's office and in no better working order. Black frames on the walls with photographs of policemen who had fallen on the field of glory.

Two women in armchairs, in a dark corner—Charlotte and Gigi.

In the corridor, on a bench, Prosper Donge—still without his tie and shoelaces—sitting between two policemen.

“This way, Ramuel! . . . Come into my office . . . And madame, would you be good enough to wait in the waiting-room for a minute, please? Will you show her the way, Lucas?”

He opened the door to his office. He was smiling at the thought of the three women left alone in the waiting-room, no doubt exchanging worried and angry glances.

“Come in, Ramuel! . . . You'd best take off your overcoat, because it looks as though we'll be here for some time . . .”

A green-shaded lamp on the table. Maigret took off his hat and coat, chose a pipe from his desk and opened the door of the inspectors' room.

It was as if Police Headquarters, usually so empty at night, had been stuffed with people for the occasion. Torrence was sitting at his desk, wearing a felt hat. He was smoking a cigarette, and sitting on a chair facing him was a little old man with a ragged beard, who was busily staring at his elastic-sided shoes.

Then there was Janvier who had seized the chance to write up his report, and who was keeping an eye on a middle-aged man, who looked like an ex-NCO.

“Are you the concierge?” Maigret asked him. “Would you come into my office for a minute?”

He stood aside to let him go in first. The man held his cap in his hand and didn't at first see Ramuel, who was standing as far from the light as possible.

“You're the concierge at 117b Rue Réaumur, aren't you? . . . Some time ago a man called Prosper Donge rented one of your offices and since then you have continued to send on his mail to him . . . Here . . . Do you recognize Donge?”

The concierge turned towards Ramuel in his corner, and shook his head, saying: “Hm . . . Er . . . Frankly . . . no! I can't say I do . . . I see so many people! . . . And it was three years ago, wasn't it? . . . I don't know if I remember rightly, but I have a vague idea that he had a beard . . . But perhaps the beard was someone else . . .”

“Thank you . . . You can go now . . . This way . . .”

One done. Maigret opened the door again and called: “Monsieur Jem! . . . I don't know what your real name is . . . Would you come in, please . . . And would you be good enough to tell me . . .”

There was no need to wait for an answer this time. The little old man started with surprise on seeing Ramuel.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you recognize him?”

The old man was furious.

“I'll have to go and give evidence at the trial, I suppose? And they'll leave me to rot for two or three days in the witnesses' room, and who'll look after my shop during that time? . . . Then, when I'm in the witness box I'll be asked a lot of embarrassing questions, and the lawyers will say a lot of things about me which will ruin my reputation . . . No thank you, superintendent!”

Then he suddenly added: “What's he done?”

“Well—he's killed two people for a start—a man and a woman . . . The woman was a rich American . . .”

“Is there a reward?”

“A pretty large one, yes . . .”

“In that case, you can write . . . I, Jean-Baptiste Isaac Meyer, businessman . . . Will there be many witnesses sharing the reward? . . . Because I know what happens . . . The police make fine promises . . . Then, when it comes to the point . . .”

“I'll write: ‘. . .
formally recognize in the man presented to me as Jean Ramuel the person with whom I dealt at my private correspondence bureau under the initials J. M. D.
. . .' Is that correct, Monsieur Meyer?”

“Where shall I sign?”

“Wait! I'll add: ‘. . .
And I confirm that the said person came to collect a final letter on
. . .' Now you can sign . . . You're a cunning old devil, Monsieur Meyer, because you know very well that all this will bring you a good deal of publicity and that everyone who hadn't already heard of your bureau will be rushing to contact you . . . Torrence! . . . Monsieur Meyer can go now . . .”

When the door had shut behind him, the superintendent read the repellent old man's statement with satisfaction. A voice made him start. It came from a dark corner of the room—only the lamp on the desk was lit.

“I protest, superintendent, you . . .”

Then Maigret suddenly seemed to remember that he had forgotten something. He began by pulling the unbleached cotton blind across the window. Then he looked at his hands. This was a Maigret that few people knew, and those who did, didn't often boast about it afterwards.

“Come here, my little Ramuel . . . Do as I say, come here!! . . . Farther! . . . Don't be afraid! . . .”

“What do . . . ?”

“You see, since I've discovered the truth, I've had a terrible desire to . . .”

As he spoke, Maigret's fist shot out and landed on the accountant's nose, as, too late, Ramuel raised his arm.

“There! . . . It's not really in order, of course, but it does one good . . . Tomorrow, the judge will interrogate you politely and everyone will be nice to you because you'll have become the star attraction of the court . . . Those gentlemen are always impressed by a star performer . . . If you see what I mean . . . There's some water in the basin, in the cupboard . . . Wash yourself, because you look disgusting like that . . .”

Ramuel, bleeding profusely, washed himself as well as he could.

“Let me see! . . . That's better! . . . You're almost presentable . . . Torrence! . . . Lucas! Janvier! . . . Come on, lads . . . Bring in the ladies and gentlemen . . .”

Even his colleagues were surprised to find him much more elated than he usually was, even at the end of a difficult case. He had lit another pipe. The first to enter, between two policemen, was Donge, who held his handcuffed hands clumsily in front of him.

“Have you got the key?” Maigret asked one of the men.

He unlocked the handcuffs, and an instant later they snapped shut round Ramuel's wrists, while Donge stared at him with almost comic stupefaction.

The superintendent then noticed that Donge had neither tie nor shoelaces, and he ordered Ramuel's laces and his little black silk bow tie to be taken away.

“Come in, ladies . . . Come in, Monsieur Clark . . . I know you can't understand what we're saying . . . But I'm sure Monsieur Davidson will be kind enough to translate . . . Has everyone got a chair? . . . Yes, Charlotte, you can go and sit next to Prosper . . . But I must ask you not to be too effusive for the time being . . .

“Is everyone here? . . . Shut the door, Torrence!”

“What has he done?” Madame Ramuel asked in her coarse voice.

“Please sit down too, madame! . . . I hate talking to people who are standing up . . . No, Lucas! . . . Don't bother to put on the ceiling light . . . It's cosier like this . . . What has he done? . . . He's gone on doing what he's been doing all his life: committing forgeries . . . And I bet that if he's married you and spent so many years with a poisonous creature like you, saving your presence, it's because you've got a hold over him . . . And you've got a hold over him because you knew what he was up to in Guayaquil . . . There's a cable on its way there, and another for the company headquarters in London. I know in advance what the answer will be . . .”

And Marie chipped in in her vile voice: “Why don't you answer, Jean? . . . So the two hundred and eighty thousand francs and the trip to Brussels were true, then! . . .”

She had sprung up like a jack-in-the-box, and rushed towards him.

“Scoundrel! . . . Thief! . . . Scum! . . . To think . . .”

“Calm yourself, madame . . . It was much better that he didn't tell you anything because if he had done so, I would have been obliged to arrest you as an accomplice, not only in the forgery but in a double crime . . .”

From then on, an almost comic note was added to the proceedings. Clark, who kept his eyes on Maigret, kept leaning across to his solicitor to say a few words in English. Each time, the superintendent looked at him, and he was sure that the American must be saying, in his own language: “What's he saying?”

However, Maigret continued: “As for you, my poor Charlotte, I have to tell you something which Prosper perhaps told you on the last evening he spent with you . . . When you thought he was better and told him about Mimi's letter and the story of the child, he wasn't better at all . . . He didn't say anything, but set to work during the rest period, in his still-room, as Ramuel has explained, writing a long letter to his old mistress . . .

“Don't you remember, Donge? . . . Don't you remember the details?”

Donge didn't know what to reply. He couldn't understand what was going on and kept looking round him with his great sky-blue eyes.

“I don't understand what you mean, sir . . .”

“How many letters did you write?”

“Three . . .”

“And on at least one of the three occasions, weren't you disturbed by a telephone call? . . . Weren't you summoned to go to the storekeeper to collect your rations for the next day? . . .”