‘Because I insist on eating with you. I said so when I invited myself. This is the first and probably the last time we shall have dinner together. Unless …’
He smiles. She says insistently:
‘Unless what?’
‘Forget it. We’ll talk about it in the morning and if we have time we’ll add up all the lies you’ve told … Take this claw … Oh, go on!’
And suddenly, as they eat under the kitchen light, he surprises himself thinking:
‘But someone murdered Pegleg!’
Poor old Pegleg! His was a strange fate indeed! He hates adventure so much that he says no to the commonest form of adventure: marriage. But that doesn’t save him from losing a leg at Cape Horn on the other side of the world, on a three-masted sailing ship!
His craving for a quiet life leads him to Jeanneville, where human passions are not allowed in, where the houses are toys, where the trees look like trees made of painted wood in children’s nurseries.
But it is to this place that adventure comes looking for him once more, and it arrives breathing menace from a place where he has never set foot, a place full of horrors which he never dreamed existed, from Place Pigalle, which is inhabited by a race apart and is a kind of Parisian jungle where the tigers have slicked-down hair and carry Smith & Wessons in their pockets.
And one morning that is no different from any other morning, a morning washed with bright watercolours, he is gardening, his straw hat on his head, pricking out innocent seedlings which would yield tomatoes which he can perhaps already see in his mind, heavy and red, juicy, their thin skins bursting in the sun, and then, only minutes later, he is lying dead in his bedroom, which smells of polish and the countryside.
Just as she used to, before all this happened, Félicie sits down to eat at a corner of the table and is constantly getting up to see to a pan on the gas stove or to pour boiling water into the coffee-pot. The window is open, and in the blue of the night, which turns into velvet spangled with stars, invisible crickets call to each other, frogs take their place in the chorus, a train chugs along the valley, men play cards in the Anneau d’Or and the ever-faithful Lucas eats chops instead of lobster.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m washing up.’
‘Not tonight, Félicie. You’re exhausted. I would be very glad if you just went to bed … I insist! You must lock your door …’
‘I’m not sleepy.’
‘Really? In that case I’ve got something to help you to sleep. Give me half a glass of water. Two of these pills … There. Drink up, now. Nothing to be afraid of. I’ve no intention of poisoning you …’
She drinks, to show him that she’s not afraid. As a reaction to Maigret’s paternal manner, she once more feels to the need to say:
‘I still hate you. One day you’ll be sorry for all the harm you’ve done. Anyway, tomorrow I shall be going away.’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere. I don’t want to see you ever again. I don’t want to stay in this house, where you’ll be able to do what you want.’
‘Understood. Tomorrow …’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Upstairs, with you. I just want to make sure everything’s all right in your room … Good. The shutters are closed … Goodnight, Félicie.’
When he comes back down to the kitchen, the carcass of the lobster is still in an earthenware dish, and there it will stay, where he can see it, all through the night.
The alarm-clock standing on the black doily on the mantelpiece is registering half past nine when he takes off his shoes, climbs the stairs noiselessly, listens and checks that Félicie, knocked out by the gardenal, is sleeping peacefully.
A quarter to ten. Maigret is sitting in Pegleg’s basket chair. He is smoking his pipe. His eyes are half closed. The sound of an engine through the darkness of the fields. A car door slams. Then Lucas, who has walked into the bamboo coat stand in the dark hallway, lets rip with a choice oath.
‘There was a phone call, sir …’
‘Sh! Keep it down. She’s sleeping.’
Lucas eyes the lobster with just a hint of resentment.
‘The Musician was living with a woman known as Adèle. They found her file. Her real name is Jeanne Grosbois. She was born near Moulins …’
‘Go on.’
‘At the time the Chamois was done over, she was working at the Tivoli brasserie in Rouen. She left the day after Pedro was murdered.’
‘She must have gone to Le Havre with the Musician. Any more?’
‘She spent a few months in Toulon, at Les Floralies, then Béziers. She made no secret of the fact that her man was in the Santé prison.’
‘Has she been seen in Paris?’
‘Sunday. One of her old friends spotted her in Place Clichy. She said she would be taking off for Brazil at any time soon.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No. The Musician was released last Friday.’
All that was what Maigret called ‘in-house detective work’. Now, at precisely this moment, police vans are taking up positions in deserted sidestreets in the area around Place Pigalle. At Quai des Orfèvres, the questioning of villains, who are getting impatient and beginning to think that something serious is going on, continues.
‘Phone in and tell them to send you a photo of the Musician as quick as they can. There must be one in Court Records. On second thoughts, no … Phone first and send the taxi to collect it.’
‘Anything else, sir?’
‘Yes. When the driver gets back with the photo, I want you to go to Poissy. There’s a café-bar just next to the bridge. It will be closed. Wake the owner. He’s an old lag. Stick the photo under his nose and ask him if it is the same man who almost got physical with Félicie at his place on Sunday evening.’
The car drives off. Once again there is silence and unbroken night. In his hand, Maigret warms the small glass of brandy which he poured himself, sips it and from time to time looks up at the ceiling.
Félicie turns over in her sleep, and the bed springs creak. What is she dreaming of? Does she have as much imagination at night as she does during the day?
Eleven o’clock. Under the eaves of the Palais de Justice, a clerk in a grey overall opens a folder and from it takes two photos with unnaturally sharp lines, one showing the full face, the other the profile. He hands them to the driver, who will deliver them to Lucas.
In the area around Place Pigalle, crowds spill out of the cinemas of Montmartre, the luminous sails of the Moulin Rouge turn above the throng, through which the buses nose their way with difficulty. Hotel porters in blue, red and green braided uniforms, bouncers and black doormen take their places outside night clubs while Detective Chief Inspector Piaulet stands in the middle of the square, keeping an eye on the unseen operation.
Janvier has stationed himself in the bar of the Pelican, an excessively dimly lit room where the band are removing the covers from their instruments. It does not escape his notice that a waiter hurries back from outside, looking scared, and hustles the owner into the cloakroom.
Side by side with the law-abiding citizens who have had an enjoyable evening and are drinking a last beer on the terraces of the brasseries before going home to bed, the other Montmartre, the one which is just waking up, is alive with various rumours and whispers. There is a tension in the air. The owner emerges from the cloakroom, smiles at Janvier and mutters something to one of the girls who are sitting in a corner.
‘I don’t think I’ll be staying late tonight,’ she says. ‘I’m tired.’
There are many like her who, ever since news of the presence of police vans has gone the rounds, do not feel any desire to hang around in this dangerous part of town. But on Boulevard Rochechouart, Rue de Douai, Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette and all the main routes out of the area, the men and women in uniform suddenly start seeing unobtrusive figures coming out of the dark.
‘Papers …’
What follows depends on the mood they’re in.
‘On your way.’
Or more frequently:
‘Get in.’
In, that is, to the prison vans, whose headlamps cast a feeble light along the pavement.
Are the Musician and Adèle still inside the trap set by the police? Will they manage to slip out through the net? But in any case, they’ll know the score. And even if they have gone to ground in an attic, some helpful soul will have put them in the picture.
A quarter to midnight. Lucas, killing time playing dominoes with the landlord of the Anneau d’Or – just one light has been left on in the deserted bar – gets to his feet when he hears the taxi pull up outside.
‘I’ll be gone about half an hour,’ he says.
Time enough to drive down to Poissy and then go back up for a few words with the chief.
The café-bar is in darkness. Lucas’s knocking is loud in the still of the night. Then a woman in curlers puts her head out of a window
‘Fernand! It’s for you …’
A light goes on, footsteps, grunts, the door opens a crack.
‘Eh? … What? … I just knew that business would land me in it … I’m licensed. I got bills to pay. I don’t want to get involved …’
Standing by the counter in the greyish room, his braces dangling down his thighs and his hair rumpled, he stares at the two photos.
‘Right … Well, what do you want to know?’
‘Is this the man who was put in his place by Félicie?’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. That’s it. Did you know him before Sunday?’
‘Never set eyes on him until then … What’s he done?’
Midnight. Lucas gets out of the car, and Maigret jumps in his chair like a sleeping man who is woken up. He hardly seems to be taking any interest in what the sergeant is telling him.
‘I thought so.’
Dealing with villains is as easy as pie, tough as they are or think they are. They are known for it. You can say in advance exactly what they will do. But it’s not the same as coping with a phenomenon like Félicie, who has given him so many headaches.
‘What do I do next, sir?’
‘Go back to Orgeval. Just carry on playing dominoes while you’re waiting for the phone to ring.’
‘How did you know I was playing dominoes?’
‘Because there are only two of you, the landlord and you, and because you can’t play cards.’
‘Do you think anything is going to happen here?’
Maigret shrugs. He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.
‘Goodnight.’
One in the morning. Félicie has started talking in her sleep. Standing outside her door, Maigret has tried to make out what she was saying, but couldn’t. Without thinking, he tried the handle and the door opened slightly.
He smiles. How very sweet of her! She trusts him in spite of everything, as she hasn’t locked herself in. He listens for a moment to her breathing, to the jumbled syllables which she murmurs like a child, he sees the milky patch which is the bed and the dark stain of her hair on the pillow. He shuts the door again and goes back downstairs in tiptoe.
A loud blast of a whistle in Place Pigalle. It’s the signal. All exits are now covered. Uniformed men march in line, rounding up men and women who spring out of nowhere and try to get past the checkpoint. A policeman is badly bitten on the thumb by a large woman with red hair in evening dress. The police vans start filling up.
The owner of the Pelican, standing in his doorway drawing anxiously on his cigarette, tries to complain:
‘I assure you, officer, there’s nothing to see inside. Just a few Americans on the town.’
Someone tugs at the jacket of the young Inspector Dunan, who had waited for Maigret that afternoon at the Hôtel Beauséjour. Ah! It’s the hotel waiter. He’s probably come out to see the fun.
‘Quick … It’s her!’
He points to the glazed door of a bar. The sole occupant, the owner, stands behind his bar counter. At the back, a door is just closing, but not before the inspector has had time to see the figure of a woman.
‘The one who came in with the man …’
Adèle … The inspector calls up two uniformed men … They rush towards the door, tear through the deserted cloakroom and down a set of narrow steps, which smell of damp, stale wine and urine.
‘Open up!’
They have reached the cellar. The door is locked. One of the officers breaks it down with a shoulder charge.
‘Hands up whoever’s in there …’
The beam of an electric torch lights up barrels, racks of bottles and cases of aperitifs. Nothing stirs. Or rather, when they became absolutely still, as the inspector orders his men to do, they hear a sound of short breathing, almost like the palpitations of a terrified heart.
‘Stand up, Adèle.’
She leaps out in a fury from behind a pile of packing-cases and puts up a desperate struggle as if against all the odds she still hopes she can escape from the three policemen who have the devil’s own job trying to get the handcuffs on her.
‘Where’s your boyfriend?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘What were you doing in the street?’
‘No idea.’
She sneers: ‘Oh, it’s a lot easier going after a defenceless woman than hunting for the Musician, isn’t it?’
They grab her handbag. Back in the bar they open it and find only her battered registration card, a little loose change and some letters written in pencil, probably the letters which the Musician smuggled out of his cell to be sent to his mistress, for they were addressed to her at Béziers.
A first police van, with a full load, is driven to the cells in the Préfecture de Police, which is going to be crowded tonight. A fair number of gentlemen in dinner-jackets and ladies in evening dresses and even waiters and porters have been rounded up.
‘At least we got his girlfriend, sir …’
Detective Chief Inspector Piaulet asks, though without great hopes:
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come clean? Where is he?’
‘You won’t find him.’
‘Take her away. Not in a van. Send her to Rondonnet.’
All through the apartment blocks and furnished hotel rooms doors are being knocked on, papers are being checked, men in shirtsleeves are mortified to have been found not only where they are but found there when they are not alone.
‘All I ask is that you make sure that my wife …’
Of course! Of course!
‘Hello! Is that you, Lucas? … Will you tell Maigret that Adèle is here … Yes … She’s not talking, of course … No, nothing on the Musician … We’re continuing to question her, yes … We’re still keeping the whole district under wraps …’
Now that the most of the goats have been separated from the sheep, calm has more or less returned to the area around Place Pigalle, a flat calm after the storm. The streets are quieter than usual, and the night-owls who drift up from the centre of town are very disconcerted to find the taverns so dead or to be approached by singularly unpersisten
t cabaret touts.
Four o’clock. It’s the third time Lucas has walked into Cape Horn. Maigret has removed his collar and tie.
‘You wouldn’t have any tobacco on you by any chance? I smoked my last pipe an hour ago …’
‘Adèle’s behind bars.’
‘What about him?’
He is afraid he might be wrong, and yet … The Musician is flat broke, that much is certain. Just before he was released from prison, Adèle left Béziers with hardly any money. He comes out to Poissy. That was on Sunday. Maybe he even ventured up as far as Jeanneville? He follows Félicie to the café-bar. Wouldn’t the simplest plan be to seduce the maid in the cockatoo get-up? That way he could get into the house without any bother …
But she slaps his face!
Then the next day, which was Monday, old Lapie is killed in his bedroom. The Musician has to get away without the wad of cash.
‘What time was Adèle arrested?’
‘Half an hour ago. They phoned as soon as they had her.’
‘Right, off you go. Get the taxi.’
‘Do you think he’ll …’
‘Get a move on. Go on.’
Maigret carefully shuts the door behind him, then sits down again in the kitchen, by the window, after turning out the light and catching yet another glimpse of the red shell of the lobster on the table.
8. Félicie’s Café au Lait
Her eyes are wide open. She does not know what time it is. Last night she forgot to wind up her alarm-clock as she usually does. The room is filled with almost complete darkness, for all that is visible of the approaching dawn are silver streaks through the slats of the shutters.
Félicie listens. Her mind is blank. Mind and body are still sluggish, as if she has been worn down by sleeping too deeply, and for the moment she cannot tell what is real from what she has dreamed. She has been quarrelling, arguing vehemently, she has even come to blows with the placid man she hates so much who is bent on destroying her. Ah! how she loathes him!
Who opened the door? Because someone did during the night. She was lying there, waiting, worrying. It was pitch-dark. Yellowish light came in from the landing, but the door closed, and a car engine started up … The sound of car engines has flitted in and out of her entire night’s sleep.
Félicie Page 12