In fact, wasn’t he counting on that weapon?
Always supposing that Florentin was really in the wardrobe, why had the man spent nearly a quarter of an hour in the bedroom, where he couldn’t pace about without stepping over the corpse?
Was it money that he was looking for? How had he managed not to find it, when all he had to do was force a drawer with a feeble lock?
Letters? Some kind of document?
None of them, neither François Paré, the civil servant, nor Fernand Courcel, the fat man, nor last of all the disdainful Victor Lamotte, needed money.
All three, on the other hand, would probably have reacted violently to blackmail.
He kept coming back to Florentin, Florentin whom the magistrate would have forced him to arrest if he had been aware of the facts.
Maigret had hoped to interrogate the red-haired man, Jean-Luc Bodard, but the inspector whom he had sent to find him had come back empty-handed. The young insurance salesman was away on a trip and wouldn’t be back until the evening.
He lived in a small hotel on Boulevard des Batignolles, the Hôtel Beauséjour, and took his meals in restaurants.
Maigret was worried, as if something was going wrong with his investigation. He was unhappy with himself, uneasy. He didn’t feel up to studying the files piled up on his desk and he opened the door to the inspectors’ office.
‘Come with me,’ he said to Lapointe. ‘We’re going to take a car.’
It was only once they were on the embankment that he muttered:
‘Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.’
He felt as if he had forgotten an important point, as if he had overlooked the truth without realizing it. For the whole journey he didn’t say a word and bit so hard on his pipe that he broke the ebonite stem.
‘Park the car and then come and find me.’
‘In the apartment?’
‘In the lodge.’
He was haunted by the monstrous silhouette of the concierge and her motionless eyes. He found her in exactly the same place as the day before, standing behind her tulle curtain, holding it aside with her hand, and she only decided to step back when he pushed the door open.
She didn’t ask what he wanted and merely looked at him with disapproval.
Her skin was very white, an unhealthy white. Was she ‘a bit slow’ as they say in the countryside, one of those inoffensive simpletons that one used to come across in villages?
He grew impatient, seeing her standing stock still in the middle of the lodge.
‘Sit down,’ he said irritably.
She calmly shook her head.
‘I asked you some questions yesterday and now I’m going to ask you them again. I should warn you this time that you could be prosecuted for giving false evidence if you don’t tell the truth.’
She didn’t flinch, and he thought he could see amusement in her eyes. She clearly wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of anybody.
‘Did anyone go up to the third floor between three and four o’clock?’
‘No.’
‘And the other floors?’
‘Only an old woman, to see the dentist.’
‘Do you know François Paré?’
‘No.’
‘A big, fat man, in his fifties, balding and with a black moustache …’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He used to come here on Wednesday at about half past five. Did he come yesterday?’
‘Yes.’
‘At what time?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Before six.’
‘Did he stay up there for a long time?’
‘He came down straight away.’
‘He didn’t ask you any questions?’
‘No.’
She answered mechanically, her face motionless, without taking her eyes off Maigret, as if she was still waiting for him to set a trap for her. Was it possible that she was protecting someone? Did she realize the importance of her statements?
It was the fate of Florentin that was at stake because, if no one had come into the house, the tale told by Maigret’s childhood friend was false, there had been no ring on the door, no visitor, no waiting in the wardrobe, and Florentin had definitely shot his girlfriend.
There was a faint knock on the window, and Maigret brought in Lapointe.
‘One of my inspectors,’ he explained. ‘Once again, weigh your words and only reply if you’re certain.’
She had never played such an important part in her life, and she seemed to be cheering inwardly. It must have been marvellous to see a chief of police practically begging her to help him.
‘Was François Paré never there during the afternoon?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure that you’d have seen him?’
‘Yes.’
‘But sometimes you go into your kitchen.’
‘Not at that time of day.’
‘Where is the telephone?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘If someone called …’
‘No one called.’
‘Does the name Courcel mean anything to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you know that name and not Monsieur Paré’s?’
‘Because he practically lived here. Ten years ago he spent many of his nights up there, and he often went out with the Papet girl.’
‘Was he cordial towards you?’
‘He said hello to me as he passed.’
‘Did you like him better than the others?’
‘He was more polite.’
‘He still sometimes spends the night here on Thursday evening.’
‘That’s none of my business.’
‘He didn’t come yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know his car?’
‘It’s blue.’
Her voice was neutral and toneless. Lapointe was startled by this phenomenon.
‘Do you know the name of the man with the limp?’
‘No.’
‘He’s never stopped in the lodge?’
‘No.’
‘He’s called Lamotte. You didn’t see him yesterday either?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t see the red-haired man called Bodard?’
‘I didn’t see him.’
Maigret wanted to shake her to drag the truth out of her, like getting money out of a piggy-bank.
‘In short, you are telling me that Léon Florentin stayed on his own up there with Joséphine Papet.’
‘I didn’t go up there.’
It was exasperating.
‘But it’s the only possible solution if we are to believe your evidence.’
‘I can’t help that.’
‘Do you hate Florentin?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘One might imagine that you were taking revenge.’
‘Let people think what they will.’
There was a flaw somewhere, Maigret could feel it. Even if her immobility was natural to her, even if she normally spoke in that monotonous voice, using as few words as possible, something was wrong. Either she was lying deliberately, for some unknown reason, or she wasn’t telling them everything she knew.
She was staying on the defensive, that much was certain, trying to second-guess the questions.
‘Tell me, Madame Blanc … Did anyone threaten you?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe Joséphine Papet’s murderer threatened to make you shut up if you talked.’
She shook her head.
‘Let me finish … By speaking to us, you enable us to arrest him, and as a result he won’t be able to do anything more to you. By remaining silent, you run the risk that he will consider it more prudent to get rid of you.’
Why the sudden irony on her face?
‘A murderer will rarely hesitate to kill an awkward witness. I could cite you dozens of cases. But if you don’t trust us, we won’t be able to protect you …’
For a few seconds Maigret
hoped. She didn’t go so far as to become truly human, but there was something like a lapse, a slight tremor, perhaps a hesitation.
He waited anxiously.
‘What do you have to say about it?’ he said at last.
‘Nothing.’
He was at the end of his tether.
‘Come on, Lapointe.’
And, once he was in the street:
‘I’m almost certain that she knows something … I wonder if she’s as stupid as she seems.’
‘Where are we going now?’
He hesitated. While waiting to question the insurance salesman, he no longer knew where to pick up the investigation.
‘Boulevard Rochechouart.’
Florentin’s studio was closed, and the painter working in the adjacent doorway called to them:
‘There’s nobody there.’
‘Did he leave a long time ago?’
‘He didn’t come back for lunch. Are you from the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. Since yesterday there’s always been someone roaming about in the courtyard and following him as soon as he goes out. What’s he done?’
‘We don’t even know if he’s done anything.’
‘So he’s a suspect!’
‘If you like.’
He was a man who just wanted to talk, something that he probably missed during the day.
‘Do you know him well?’
‘We sometimes chatted.’
‘Did he have a lot of customers?’
The painter gave Maigret a comical look.
‘Customers? Well, first of all, where would they have come from? It wouldn’t have occurred to anybody to turn up in this courtyard expecting to find an antiques shop. If you can call them antiques …
‘Besides, he was rarely here. He hardly did anything but hang up a sign: “Back in a minute” or “Closed until Thursday”.’
‘Did he sometimes sleep in the storeroom?’
‘I suppose so, because I sometimes saw him in the morning, shaving. I have lodgings on Rue Lamarck.’
‘Did he ever confide in you?’
He thought this over, still wielding his brushes. He was so used to painting the Sacré-Coeur that he could have done it blindfolded.
‘He doesn’t like his brother-in-law, that’s for certain.’
‘Why?’
‘He told me that if his brother-in-law hadn’t stolen from him, he wouldn’t be where he is. His parents had a prosperous business, I can’t remember where …’
‘In Moulins.’
‘Could be. When his father retired, the daughter’s husband took over the business. He was supposed to give some of the takings to Florentin. That was what they’d agreed. And yet once the father was dead he stopped paying anything.’
Maigret remembered the pink, laughing girl who had stood behind the white marble counter and who, perhaps, was the real reason for his very rare visits to the patisserie.
‘He never asked you for money?’
‘How did you know? No large sums. Besides, I couldn’t have lent him large sums. Twenty-five francs here and there, sometimes fifty, but rarely …’
‘Did he pay you back?’
‘Not the next day, as he promised, but a few days later … What’s he suspected of? You’re Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, aren’t you? I recognized you immediately, because I’ve seen photographs of you in the papers.
‘If you’re taking the trouble to look into him, it must be an important case … A crime? Do you think he’s killed somebody?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘If you want to know my opinion, he’s not someone who’s capable of killing. I’m not saying he hasn’t committed the occasional indiscretion … And anyway! Perhaps it isn’t his fault. He’s always got new projects on the go, and I’m convinced that he believes in them. His ideas aren’t always bad. Then he gets carried away and it comes to nothing.’
‘You don’t by any chance have a key to his studio?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Just a guess.’
‘Customers only turn up once in a blue moon, and that’s why he left me the key. I know the price of the few bits of furniture he has for sale.’
He went and fetched a large key from a drawer.
‘I don’t suppose he’ll mind.’
‘Don’t worry.’
For the second time Maigret, helped by Lapointe, patiently searched the studio, then the storeroom. They left no corner unexplored. There was a sweetish smell in the storeroom, a shaving soap that Maigret wasn’t familiar with.
‘What are we looking for, chief?’
And Maigret muttered:
‘I have no idea.’
‘Nobody around Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette saw a blue Jaguar yesterday. A woman in the dairy knows the car very well.
‘“It parks just outside the shop every Thursday … Hold on! Today’s Thursday, and I haven’t seen it … It’s a little fat man who drives it. I hope nothing’s happened to him.”’
Janvier delivered his report.
‘I also went to the garage on Rue La Bruyère. I saw the car registered in the name of Joséphine Papet. It’s a two-year-old Renault. It has only twenty-four thousand kilometres on the clock and it’s very well maintained. Nothing in the boot. In the glove compartment, a Michelin guide, a pair of sunglasses and a tube of aspirin.’
‘I hope we’ll have more luck with the insurance man.’
Janvier sensed that his boss was floundering and was careful to say nothing, maintaining an innocent expression.
‘Have you called him in?’ he asked at last, however.
‘He doesn’t get back to his hotel until the evening. You could go there, at about eight o’clock, for example. You might have a long time to wait. As soon as he arrives, call me at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.’
It was after six. The offices were emptying. Just as he was about to pick up his hat, the phone rang. It was Inspector Leroy.
‘I’m in a restaurant on Rue Lepic, chief, where he’s eating. I’m going to do the same. We spent the afternoon in a cinema on Place Clichy which was showing some witless film. As it was a continuous performance, we saw the film through almost twice, sitting one behind the other.’
‘Did he look worried?’
‘Not at all. He turned round from time to time to glance at me. He nearly suggested joining him for something to eat.’
‘I’ll send someone to Boulevard Rochechouart shortly to take over from you.’
‘You know, I’m not tired at all.’
‘Send somebody along, Janvier. I don’t know who’s available. And don’t forget to call me as soon as the redhead gets back to his hotel. The Beauséjour. It would be better if he doesn’t know you’re there.’
Maigret stopped on Place Dauphine to have a drink at the bar. The day had made a bad impression on him, particularly his conversation with Victor Lamotte.
The interview with the concierge certainly hadn’t been any more inspiring.
‘Give me another.’
He waved to some colleagues who were playing cards in a corner. When he got home, he made no attempt to conceal his bad mood. And with Madame Maigret that was impossible anyway.
‘When I think how easy it would be!’ he groaned, taking off his hat.
‘What would be easy?’
‘Arresting Florentin. That’s what anyone would do in my place. If I told the examining magistrate about half the evidence I have against him, he’d send me to arrest him straight away.’
‘Why are you hesitating? Because he was your friend?’
‘Not my friend. A schoolmate,’ he corrected her.
He filled a meerschaum pipe, one that he only smoked in the apartment.
‘That’s not why …’
He looked as if he himself was trying to find out the real reason for his attitude.
‘Everything’s against him. There’s a bit too much against him, do you understand? And
most of all I don’t like the concierge.’
She almost burst out laughing, because he said it seriously, as if it was a serious argument.
‘From where we are, we can’t imagine the life that that girl led. As for the fellows who came to see her on particular days, it’s almost impossible to believe …’
He was angry with everyone: with Joséphine Papet, first of all, for allowing herself to be killed so stupidly, with Florentin for accumulating all that incriminating evidence against himself, with that solemn civil servant Paré, whose wife suffered from nervous exhaustion, with the fat little ball-bearings man and particularly with that presumptuous limping man from Bordeaux.
But it was the concierge that he kept coming back to.
‘She’s lying … I’m sure that she’s lying, or hiding something … Except that she’s never going to give in.’
‘Eat up.’
She had served a very frothy omelette aux fines herbes, and Maigret wasn’t even paying it any attention. The salad was flavoured with croutons rubbed with garlic, followed by juicy peaches.
‘You shouldn’t take this business so much to heart.’
He looked at her like someone thinking about something else.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s as if you’re personally involved, as if it’s a member of your family.’
He suddenly relaxed, realizing how ridiculous his attitude was, and smiled at last.
‘You’re right. It’s stronger than me. I hate it when people cheat. And yet someone’s cheating, and it’s getting to me.’
The phone rang.
‘You see!’
‘He’s just gone into the hotel,’ Janvier announced at the other end of the line.
It was the redhead’s turn. Maigret was about to hang up when Janvier added:
‘There’s a woman with him.’
5.
Boulevard des Batignolles, with its lines of trees, was gloomy and deserted but, at its end, by contrast, Place Clichy could be seen brilliantly lit.
Janvier emerged from the shadows, the glowing tip of his cigarette piercing the darkness.
‘They came on foot, arm in arm. The man is small, short legs, very lively. The girl is young and pretty.’
‘You can go home to bed, or your wife will be cross with me.’
Maigret's Childhood Friend Page 8