‘That’ll be easy to check.’
‘Then there are the prints of a man I think is probably quite young. There are only a few of them, and they’re the freshest ones.’
Antoine, presumably, whom Madame Calas must have given something to eat in the kitchen when he had arrived during the night.
‘Finally, there are two prints from another man, including one partly erased.’
‘Plus Calas’ prints in the drawers?’
‘Yes.’
‘So to sum up, it looks as if quite recently, on Sunday, for example, the house was thoroughly cleaned, but nobody bothered about the inside of the furniture. Is that it?’
They were all thinking of the dismembered body that had been dragged up piece by piece from the waters of the canal.
That dismemberment hadn’t been carried out in the street, or on a patch of waste ground. It had required time, because each piece had been carefully wrapped in newspaper and tied with string.
In what condition would a room be in after an operation like that had been performed in it?
Maigret now regretted having delivered Madame Calas into Judge Coméliau’s far from gentle clutches.
‘Have you been down to the cellar?’
‘We had a quick look everywhere. At first glance, there’s nothing unusual in the cellar, but we’ll be going back down there, too.’
He left them to get on with their work. For a while, he walked up and down the bistro, and the ginger cat started following him. The sun lit the bottles lined up on the shelf and cast soft reflections on a corner of the counter. Passing the big stove, he realized that it had gone out. He opened it, saw that some of the ashes were still glowing and mechanically stirred them.
A moment later, he went behind the counter, dithered over the bottles, chose the bottle of calvados and poured himself a glass. The till was half open in front of him, with a few banknotes and some small change in it. On the wall to the right, near the window, hung a list of the drinks with their respective prices.
He took the price of a calvados from his pocket and put the money in the till. He jumped, as if caught out, when he saw a figure looming outside the window. It was Inspector Judel, who was trying to see inside.
Maigret went and opened the door.
‘I thought I’d find you here, chief. I phoned headquarters and they told me they didn’t know where you were.’
Judel looked around him with a touch of surprise, presumably searching for Madame Calas.
‘Is it true you arrested her?’
‘She’s with Judge Coméliau.’
With his chin, Judel gestured towards the kitchen, where he could see the technicians.
‘Have they found anything?’
‘It’s still too early to know.’
And, above all, too long to explain. Maigret didn’t feel up to it.
‘I’m glad I’ve got hold of you, I didn’t want to do anything without your opinion. I think we’ve found the red-headed man.’
‘Where is he?’
‘If my information’s correct, not far from here. Unless he’s on night shift this week. He works as a timekeeper at Zenith Transport, the company that—’
‘Rue des Récollets. I know. Roulers and Langlois.’
‘I thought you’d prefer to question him yourself.’
Moers’ voice reached them from the kitchen.
‘Do you have a moment, chief?’
Maigret walked to the back of the bistro. Madame Calas’ black shawl was spread on the table, and Moers, who had first examined it with a magnifying glass, was focusing his microscope.
‘Want to have a look at this?’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Do you see brownish lines on the wool that look like twigs? Actually, it’s hemp. Our tests will confirm it, but I’m pretty sure. They’re threads that are almost invisible to the naked eye and have come off a piece of string.’
‘The same kind of string that …’
Maigret was referring to the string that had been used to wrap the parts of the dismembered body.
‘I’d almost be prepared to swear it. Madame Calas probably didn’t do a lot of wrapping. We haven’t found a single piece of string like that in the house. There are pieces of string in a drawer, but it’s either thinner string, or fibre string, or red string.’
‘Many thanks. I assume you’ll still be here when I get back?’
‘What will you do with the cat?’
‘Take him with me.’
The cat let itself be picked up, and Maigret was holding it under his arm as he left the house. He hesitated as he was about to enter the grocery and told himself that the animal would be better off in a butcher’s shop.
‘Isn’t that Madame Calas’ cat?’ the butcher’s wife asked as he approached the counter.
‘Yes. Would it bother you to keep him for a few days?’
‘As long as he doesn’t fight with mine …’
‘Is Madame Calas a customer of yours?’
‘She comes in every morning. Is it true that it was her husband who …’
Instead of expressing herself in words on such a morbid subject she preferred to glance towards the canal.
‘Yes, it looks like it’s him.’
‘What have they done with her?’
And as Maigret was searching for an evasive answer, she went on:
‘I know that not everybody agrees with me and that there’s a lot to be said about her, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s an unhappy woman who’s not to blame.’
Within a few minutes, the two men were waiting for the procession of lorries to pass so they could slip safely into the big yard of the Roulers and Langlois depot. A glass cage on the right bore the word ‘Office’ in black lettering. The yard was surrounded by raised platforms that looked like the platforms in a railway freight yard, from which packages, sacks and crates were loaded into the lorries. There was an incessant rough and tumble of activity, and the noise was deafening.
‘Chief!’ Judel cried just as Maigret was reaching out for the door handle.
Maigret turned and saw a red-headed man standing on one of the platforms with a slim ledger in one hand, a pencil in the other, looking at them fixedly. He was of medium height and wore grey overalls. His shoulders were broad, and the skin of his face, bright, ruddy and pockmarked, looked like orange peel.
Men loaded with packages passed in front of him, each yelling a name, a number and the name of a town or village, but he didn’t seem to hear them any longer, his blue eyes still fixed on Maigret.
‘Don’t let him get away,’ Maigret told Judel.
He went into the office, where a young girl asked him what he wanted.
‘Are either of the owners here?’
She didn’t have to reply, because a man with close-cropped grey hair now came up to him, a questioning look on his face.
‘Are you one of the owners?’
‘Joseph Langlois. I get the feeling I’ve seen you somewhere before.’
He had probably seen his photograph in the newspapers. Maigret gave his name and Langlois waited suspiciously for what was to come next.
‘Who’s the red-headed man I can see on the other side of the yard?’
‘What do you want with him?’
‘I don’t know yet. Who is he?’
‘Dieudonné Pape, who’s been working for me for more than twenty-five years. I’d be surprised if you found anything on him.’
‘Is he married?’
‘He’s been a widower for years. Actually, I think his wife died only two or three years after they got married.’
‘Does he live alone?’
‘I suppose so. His private life is none of my business.’
‘Do you have his address?’
‘He lives in Rue des Écluses-Saint-Martin, not far from here. Do you know the number, Mademoiselle Berthe?’
‘Fifty-six.’
‘Does he work all day?’
‘He
does his eight hours, like everybody else, but not necessarily during the day. The depot is open day and night, lorries are loading and unloading constantly. Because of that, we have three shifts, and the rota changes every week.’
‘What shift was he on last week?’
Langlois turned to the girl he had called Mademoiselle Berthe.
‘Can you have a look?’
She checked in a file.
‘The early shift.’
Langlois explained what this meant:
‘In other words, he came on at six in the morning and finished at two in the afternoon.’
‘Is your depot open on Sundays, too?’
‘Yes, but with only two or three men on duty.’
‘Was he one of them last Sunday?’
The girl again checked in her files.
‘No.’
‘What time is he due to finish today?’
‘He’s on the second shift. That means he’ll knock off at ten this evening.’
‘Could you get someone to take his place?’
‘Can’t you at least tell me what you want with him?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’
‘Is it something important?’
‘Probably very important.’
‘What do you suspect him of?’
‘I prefer not to answer that.’
‘Whatever you’re thinking, I can tell you right now that you’re barking up the wrong tree. If all my employees were like him, I’d never have anything to worry about.’
He wasn’t pleased. Without telling Maigret what he was going to do and without asking him to follow him, he left the office, walked across the yard and went up to Dieudonné Pape.
Pape didn’t react while his boss was talking to him, merely continued staring at the glass cage. Langlois turned to the far end of the yard and seemed to be calling someone. A little old man soon appeared, also in overalls, a pencil behind his ear. They exchanged a few words, and the newcomer took the ledger from the hands of the red-headed man, who followed his boss across the courtyard.
Maigret hadn’t moved. The two men came in, and Langlois announced:
‘This is a detective chief inspector from the Police Judiciaire. Apparently, he needs to speak to you.’
‘I have a few questions for you, Monsieur Pape. If you don’t mind coming with me …’
Dieudonné Pape pointed to his overalls.
‘Can I change?’
‘I’ll go with you.’
Langlois didn’t say goodbye to Maigret, who followed Pape into a kind of corridor that had been turned into a cloakroom. Pape didn’t ask any questions. He must have been over fifty and gave the impression of a calm, meticulous man. He put on his coat and hat and walked out into the street with Judel on his right and Maigret on his left.
He seemed surprised that there was no car outside, as if he had expected to be taken immediately to Quai des Orfèvres. When they got to the corner of the street, opposite the yellow-painted bar, and they made him turn left instead of down towards the centre of the city, he opened his mouth to say something, but stopped in time.
Judel had realized that Maigret was taking them to Calas’ bistro. The door was still locked, and Maigret knocked. Moers came and opened up for them.
‘Go in, Pape.’
Maigret turned the key in the lock.
‘You know this place well, don’t you?’
The man was disorientated. While he might have foreseen that he would be questioned by the police, he was surprised by the way things were happening.
‘You can take your coat off. The fire’s on. Sit down in your place. I assume you have a regular seat?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know this place pretty well, don’t you?’
‘I’m a customer.’
He was trying to figure out what the men were doing in the kitchen with their equipment, and must also be wondering where Madame Calas was.
‘A very good customer?’
‘A good customer.’
‘Did you come here on Sunday?’
He looked like an honest man, and there was both gentleness and shyness in his blue eyes, which were like the eyes of some animals which always seem to be wondering why human beings treat them so badly.
‘Sit down.’
Intimidated, he did as he was told.
‘I wasn’t here on Sunday.’
He had thought before answering.
‘Did you stay at home all day?’
‘I went to see my sister.’
‘Does she live in Paris?’
‘No, in Nogent-sur-Marne.’
‘Does she have a telephone?’
‘Nogent 317. Her husband’s a building contractor.’
‘Did you see anyone else apart from your sister?’
‘Her husband, her children, then, at about five, some neighbours who are in the habit of coming to her house to play cards.’
Maigret signalled to Judel, who knew what he wanted and walked over to the phone booth.
‘What time did you leave Nogent?’
‘I took the eight o’clock bus.’
‘Did you drop by here before going home?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last see Madame Calas?’
‘On Saturday.’
‘What shift were you on last week?’
‘The morning shift.’
‘So it was after two in the afternoon that you came here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was Calas here?’
He had to think about this.
‘Not when I arrived.’
‘But he did come back?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Did you stay here for a long time?’
‘Quite a long time.’
‘How long?’
‘More than two hours. I don’t know exactly.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I had a drink and chatted.’
‘With other customers?’
‘Mostly with Aline.’
He blushed as he uttered the name and hastened to explain:
‘I think of her as a friend. We’ve known each other a long time.’
‘How long?’
‘More than ten years.’
‘So you’ve been coming here every day for more than ten years?’
‘Almost every day.’
‘Preferably when her husband is away?’
This time, he didn’t reply but bowed his head in a preoccupied manner.
‘Are you her lover?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Are you?’
Instead of replying, he asked anxiously:
‘What have you done with her?’
Maigret replied openly:
‘Right now she’s with the examining magistrate.’
‘Why?’
‘To answer some questions about her husband’s disappearance. Haven’t you read the newspapers?’
As Dieudonné Pape didn’t react, but remained lost in thought, Maigret called out:
‘Moers! Can you take his prints?’
Pape let him take them. He seemed more concerned than scared, and his fingers didn’t shake as they rested on the paper.
‘Now compare them.’
‘With which ones?’
‘The two in the kitchen, including the one that’s partly erased.’
When Moers walked away, Dieudonné Pape said in a soft but reproachful tone:
‘If you want to know if I went in the kitchen, you only had to ask me. I often go there.’
‘Were you there last Saturday?’
‘I made myself a cup of coffee.’
‘You don’t know anything about the disappearance of Omer Calas?’
He still seemed to be thinking things over, like a man faced with a crucial decision.
‘You don’t know that he was murdered and his body dismembered and thrown in the canal?’
There w
as something quite impressive about it. Neither Judel nor Maigret had expected it. Slowly, the man turned to look at Maigret, appeared to scrutinize his face and at last said, still in the same soft but slightly reproachful voice:
‘I have nothing to say.’
‘Did you kill Calas?’ Maigret insisted, with equal gravity.
Dieudonné Pape shook his head.
‘I have nothing to say,’ he repeated.
7. Madame Calas’ Cat
Maigret was eating his dessert when he became aware of the way his wife was looking at him, a slightly sardonic but maternal smile on her lips. He pretended not to notice it at first, looked back down at his plate and ate a few more spoonfuls of egg custard before raising his eyes again.
‘Do I have a mark on the end of my nose?’ he grunted.
‘No.’
‘Then why are you laughing at me?’
‘I’m not laughing. I’m smiling.’
‘It’s as if you’re making fun of me. Am I so comical?’
‘You’re not comical, Jules.’
It was unusual for her to call him that, and it only happened when she was in a tender mood.
‘What am I, then?’
‘Do you realize you haven’t said a single word since you’ve been sitting here?’
No, he hadn’t realized.
‘Could you even tell me what you’ve been eating?’
‘Lamb’s kidneys,’ he replied in an artificially grouchy tone.
‘And before?’
‘Soup.’
‘What kind of soup?’
‘I don’t know. Vegetable, I suppose.’
‘Is that woman bothering you so much?’
Most of the time, and it was true of this case, too, Madame Maigret knew nothing of the cases her husband dealt with apart from what she read in the newspapers.
‘Do you think she killed him?’
He shrugged like a man trying to rid himself of an obsession.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Or do you think Dieudonné Pape did it and she’s his accomplice?’
He felt like telling her that it didn’t matter. And indeed, as far as he was concerned, it didn’t. What mattered was to understand. The fact was, not only did he not yet understand, the better he knew the people involved, the more in the dark he was.
The very reason he had come home for dinner instead of working away at his investigation was to clear his head, to plunge back into everyday life, as if to see the protagonists of the Quai de Valmy drama from another angle.
Maigret and the Headless Corpse Page 10