Maigret and the Man on the Bench
Page 8
He didn’t muse on this. The woman was still following him with her eyes, and, as Lapointe had said, one of her breasts – always the same one, soft and wobbly like bread dough – had a tendency to slip free of her dressing gown.
‘Did he have a key to the room?’
They had only found a key to the house in Juvisy on him.
‘Yes, he had one, but he left it with me when he went out.’
‘Do the other tenants do that?’
‘No. He told me that he misplaced everything, so he’d rather leave it downstairs and pick it up on the way in. As he wasn’t coming home in the evening or at night . . .’
Maigret took the photo out of the frame. Before he left he changed the water in the birdcage and had another poke around in the room.
‘I’ll probably be back,’ he told her.
She led the way downstairs.
‘I suppose there’s no point in offering you a glass of something?’
‘Do you have a telephone? Give me your number. I may need to ring you to ask you about something.’
‘Bastille 22-51.’
‘Your name?’
‘Mariette. Mariette Gibon.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘For now.’
He and Lapointe made a dash for the car through the rain, which was still bucketing down.
‘Drive as far as the corner of the street,’ Maigret ordered.
And, to Lapointe:
‘Go back to the house. I forgot my pipe in the room upstairs.’
In fact, Maigret hadn’t ‘forgotten’ his pipe at all. Besides, he always carried a spare in his pocket.
‘On purpose?’
‘Yes. Keep Mariette occupied for a few minutes and then come and find me here.’
He pointed out a small bar, which sold firewood and coal. He hurried inside and used the telephone to ring headquarters.
‘Lucas, please . . . Is that you, Lucas? . . . I want you to arrange to have the following telephone number tapped straight away: Bastille 22-51.’
Then, while waiting for Lapointe to return, and having nothing to do but sip his drink at the bar, he took a closer look at the photo. It didn’t surprise him in the least that Louis had chosen the same physical type as his wife for his mistress. He only wondered whether she had the same personality. Anything was possible.
‘Here’s your pipe, chief.’
‘Was she on the phone when you got back there?’
‘I don’t know. There were two other women with her.’
‘The naked woman?’
‘She’d pulled on a dressing gown.’
‘You can go and get some lunch. I’ll see you back at headquarters this afternoon. I’ll hold on to the car.’
He gave the driver Léone’s address in Rue de Clignancourt. He stopped off on route at a confectioner’s to buy a box of chocolates. He shielded it under his raincoat as he walked from the car. It seemed a bit incongruous to go into an establishment like that, full of light and delicate things, with his clothes soaked through, but he had no choice. He handed over the chocolates somewhat awkwardly and said:
‘For your mother.’
‘How kind of you to think of her.’
Perhaps because of the humidity, it was even warmer in there than on the previous occasion.
‘Wouldn’t you like to give them to her yourself?’
He preferred to stay out in the shop, where he could still feel in contact with the world outside.
‘I only want to show you this photo.’
She glanced at it and said immediately:
‘It’s Madame Machère!’
Maigret was pleased. It wasn’t the sort of result that lent itself to banner headlines. It was really hardly anything at all. But it did prove to him that he hadn’t been mistaken about Monsieur Louis. He wasn’t the sort of man who would have picked up a woman in the street or in a bar. Maigret didn’t see him as the type who would chat up a complete stranger.
‘How do you know her?’ he asked.
‘Because she worked at Kaplan’s. Not for very long. Only six or seven months. Why are you showing me this photo?’
‘She was Monsieur Louis’ girlfriend.’
‘Ah!’
He knew that would upset her, but he couldn’t avoid it.
‘Did you ever notice anything between them when they were both in Rue de Bondy?’
‘I’d swear that there was nothing going on. They worked in the warehouse, with ten or fifteen others, depending on the time of year. Her husband was a policeman, I seem to recall.’
‘Why did she leave her job?’
‘I think she had to have an operation.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you again.’
‘You aren’t disturbing me. Have you seen Monsieur Saimbron?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me. Did Monsieur Louis live with that woman?’
‘She visited him in the room he was renting near to Place de la République.’
‘I’m sure she was just a friend and that there was nothing between them.’
‘It’s possible . . .’
‘If the company records still existed I could give you her address. But I don’t know what has become of them.’
‘Now I know she is a policeman’s wife, I will be able to find her. You said her name was Machère, didn’t you?’
‘Unless I’m misremembering. Her first name is Antoinette.’
‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle Léone.’
‘Goodbye, Monsieur Maigret.’
He made a getaway, because the old lady was stirring in the back room, and he couldn’t summon up the courage to go and see her.
‘The Préfecture.’
‘At Quai des Orfèvres?’
‘No. The Police Municipale.’
It was midday. People were spilling out of the offices and shops and waiting to cross the road and make a dash to their usual restaurant. There were groups sheltering in all the doorways, all with the same expression of glum resignation on their faces. On the news-stands the papers were all soaked.
‘Wait for me here.’
He found the office of the personnel director and asked about a certain Machère. A few minutes later he learned that there had indeed been a police officer called Machère, but he had been killed in a brawl two years earlier. At the time he was living in Avenue Daumesnil. His wife was drawing a pension. The couple didn’t have children.
Maigret noted down the address. To save time, he telephoned Lucas, which meant he didn’t have to cross Boulevard du Palais.
‘Has she made any calls?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Has anyone called her?’
‘Not her. Only one of her girls, name of Olga, about a dress fitting. We checked, and the call came from a dressmaker in Place Saint-Georges.’
He would have lunch later. For now he was happy to grab an aperitif in a bar and then get back into the little black car.
‘Avenue Daumesnil.’
It was a long way down the avenue, next to the Métro station. He found an ordinary, lower-middle-class building, somewhat shabby-looking.
‘Madame Machère, please.’
‘Fourth floor on the left.’
There was a lift, which rose by fits and starts, sometimes lurching to a halt between floors. The brass button on the door was well polished, and the doormat was clean. He rang. Straight away, he heard footsteps inside.
‘One moment!’ came a voice from the other side of the door.
She must have been pulling on a dress over her négligé. She wasn’t the sort of woman to display herself in a dressing gown, not even to the gasman.
She gazed at Maigret without a word, but he could tell that she was upset.
‘Come in, detective chief inspector.’
She looked just like her photos, just as the jewellery shop assistant had described her, tall and sturdy, with a calm demeanour, very self-confident. She had reco
gnized Maigret. And of course she knew why he was here.
‘This way . . . I was just doing some housework.’
Be that as it may, her hair was neatly brushed, and she was wearing a dark dress with not a button undone. The parquet floor was gleaming. Next to the door there were two felt pads which she must have put under her shoes when she came home with wet feet.
‘I’ll make everything dirty.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
It was basically the same as the interior of the house in Juvisy, only less new and more highly polished, with the same knick-knacks on the furniture and, on top of the dresser, a photograph of a police constable with a medal hung over the frame.
He didn’t want to embarrass her or take her by surprise. But then, she shouldn’t have been surprised anyway. He simply said:
‘I’ve come to talk to you about Louis.’
‘I was expecting you.’
Even though she was sad, she kept a dry eye and a dignified expression.
‘Please take a seat.’
‘I will make your chair damp. Were you close friends, you and Louis?’
‘He liked me well enough.’
‘No more than liked?’
‘Maybe. He had never been very happy.’
‘Were you already in a relationship with him when you were working in Rue de Bondy?’
‘You’re forgetting that my husband was still alive then.’
‘Did Louis ever make approaches to you?’
‘He never considered me any differently from the other women in the warehouse.’
‘So it was later, after Kaplan’s had gone out of business, that you met up again?’
‘Eight or nine months after my husband’s death.’
‘Did you meet by chance?’
‘You know as well as I do that a widow’s pension is not enough to live on. I had to look for a job. Even when my husband was alive I had jobs, for example at Kaplan’s, but I didn’t work regularly. A neighbour introduced me to the staff manager at the Châtelet, and I got a job as an usherette.’
‘Is that where . . .?’
‘Yes, one day when we had a matinee screening. We were screening Around the World in Eighty Days, as I recall. I recognized Monsieur Louis as I was showing him to his seat. He recognized me too. Nothing else happened. But he came back, always to a matinee, and looked around for me when he walked in. That went on for some time, because there are only two matinees a week apart from Sunday. One day, on the way out, he asked me out for a drink. We had a quick dinner, because I had to be back for the evening screening.’
‘Did he already have his room in Rue d’Angoulême?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Did he tell you that he wasn’t working any more?’
‘He didn’t say that, just that he was free every afternoon.’
‘You didn’t know what he did?’
‘No. I would never have dreamed of asking.’
‘Did he speak to you much about his wife and his daughter?’
‘A lot.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘You know, things I can’t really repeat. When a man is unhappy at home and takes you into his confidence . . .’
‘He was unhappy at home?’
‘They treated him like dirt, because of his brothers-in-law.’
‘I don’t understand.’
In fact, Maigret understood only too well, but he wanted to encourage her to talk.
‘They both have good jobs. They get free travel for themselves and their families . . .’
‘And a pension.’
‘Yes. They criticized Louis for lacking ambition, for being satisfied to spend his whole life working as a lowly warehouseman.’
‘Where did you go with him?’
‘Almost always to the same café, in Rue Saint-Antoine. We would talk for hours.’
‘Do you like waffles?’
She blushed.
‘How do you know about that?’
‘He went to buy waffles in Rue de la Lune.’
‘Much later, when . . .’
‘When you started visiting him in Rue d’Angoulême?’
‘Yes. He wanted me to see the place where he spent a good part of his time. He called it his bolt-hole. He was very proud of it.’
‘He didn’t tell you why he had rented a room in town?’
‘To have a little place he could call his own, even if it was only for a few hours a day.’
‘Did you become his mistress?’
‘I went to his place quite often.’
‘Did he give you jewellery?’
‘Just some pendant earrings, six months ago, and a ring, more recently.’
She was wearing it on her finger.
‘He was too nice, too sensitive. He needed someone to raise his spirits. Whatever you might think, more than anything I was a friend to him, his only friend.’
‘Did he ever come here?’
‘Never! Because of the concierge and the neighbours. It would have been the talk of the neighbourhood.’
‘Did you see him on Monday?’
‘For about an hour.’
‘At what time?’
‘Early afternoon. I had shopping to do.’
‘Did you know where to find him?’
‘I arranged to meet him.’
‘By telephone?’
‘No. I never phoned him. We set it up the last time we got together.’
‘Where did you meet?’
‘Almost always in our little café. Sometimes on the corner of Rue Saint-Martin and the Boulevards.’
‘Was he punctual?’
‘Always. On Monday it was cold and foggy. I have a delicate throat. We went to a newsreel cinema.’
‘Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle.’
‘You know?’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Around four. Half an hour before he died, if what the papers say is true.’
‘Do you know if he had arranged to meet anyone else?’
‘He didn’t say anything to me.’
‘Did he ever talk to you about his friends, the people he knew?’
She shook her head and looked at the glass-fronted dresser in the dining room.
‘Would you care for a glass of something? I only have vermouth. I’ve had it a while, because I don’t drink.’
He accepted out of politeness. There was a layer of sediment in the base of the bottle, which no doubt dated from the time of the late police officer.
‘When I read the newspaper I almost came to see you. My husband often spoke to me about you. I recognized you straight away when you arrived just now, because I have seen your photo so many times.’
‘Did Louis ever talk about divorcing his wife to marry you?’
‘He was too afraid of his wife.’
‘And his daughter?’
‘He loved his daughter very much. He would have done anything for her. Nevertheless, I think he was also a little disappointed in her.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s just a feeling I had. He was often sad.’
She didn’t seem that cheerful herself; she spoke in a dull, monotonous voice. Was it she who cleaned the apartment in Rue d’Angoulême when she paid him a visit?
He couldn’t see her undressing before Louis and lying on the bed. He couldn’t even imagine her naked, or in her underwear. He could much more easily picture them in their little café, as she described it, sitting in the shadows, speaking quietly, occasionally glancing at the clock above the bar.
‘Did he spend a lot of money?’
‘That depends on what you mean by “a lot”. He didn’t go without. He seemed well enough off. If I had let him, he would have bought me all sorts of presents, silly trinkets that he spotted in shop windows.’
‘Have you ever bumped into him sitting on a bench?’
‘On a bench?’ she repeated, as if the question had struck her.
She hesitated.
‘In what way?’
‘He reminded me of a clown or a comedian without his make-up on. I didn’t stare at him. I simply noticed that his shoes looked worn and the hem of his trouser legs was frayed.’
‘Did you ask Louis who he was?’
‘He told me that you meet all sorts sitting on benches, and it can be quite fun.’
‘Do you know anything else? Didn’t you want to go to the funeral?’
‘I didn’t dare. In a day or two I’m planning to take some flowers to his grave. I suppose the warden will show me where it is. Will I be mentioned in the newspapers?’
‘I’m sure you won’t.’
‘It’s really important. They’re very strict about this sort of thing at the Châtelet, and I could lose my job.’
It wasn’t too far to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, so when he left her Maigret had the driver drop him off at his apartment, telling him:
‘Go and get something to eat and meet me back here in one hour.’
During lunch, his wife looked at him more closely than usual. Finally, she spat it out:
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Why should there be anything the matter with me?’
‘I don’t know. You seem like a different person.’
‘Like who?’
‘Nobody in particular. You’re just not Maigret.’
He laughed. He was thinking about Louis so much he had ended up adopting what he imagined had been the latter’s mannerisms, his very facial expressions.
‘I trust you’re going to change out of that suit?’
‘What’s the point? I’m only going to get wet again.’
‘Do you have another funeral?’
He did finally put on the clothes she laid out for him, and it felt pleasant to be dry again, albeit temporarily.
At Quai des Orfèvres he didn’t go straight to his office but instead dropped in on the Vice Squad.
‘Do you know of one Mariette or Marie Gibon? I’d be grateful if you could look her up in your files.’
‘Young?’
‘Fifties.’
Straight away, the inspector went to some filing cabinets full of faded, dusty files. He didn’t have to look very long. The Gibon girl was born in Saint-Malo and had been a registered prostitute for eleven years. She had been hauled into Saint-Lazare police station, while it still existed, three times. Two arrests for scamming clients.