Friend of Madame Maigret

by Georges Simenon

  There were also some white linen suits of the kind worn mainly in the tropics, some pretty loud outfits, others which, on the contrary, might have belonged to a bank clerk, and for all of them there were matching shoes, bought in Paris, Nice, Brussels, Rotterdam, or Berlin.

  Finally, at the very bottom, separated from the rest by a sheet of brown paper, they unearthed a clown’s costume, which the girl stared at in more bewilderment than all the rest.

  “Was he an actor?”

  “In his own way.”

  There was nothing else revealing in the room. The blue suit they had just been talking about wasn’t there, for Peeters-Moss was wearing it when he left; perhaps he was still wearing it.

  In the drawers, small objects, cigarette cases, wallets, cuff links and collars, keys, a broken pipe, but not a single document, no address book.

  “Thank you, mademoiselle. It was very sensible of you to inform us and I’m sure you won’t regret it. I suppose you haven’t a telephone?”

  “We used to have one a few years ago, but . . .”

  And in a low voice:

  “Papa hasn’t always been like this. That’s why we can’t hold it against him. He used not to drink at all. Then he met some old friends from the Beaux Arts who are just about in the same boat, and he got into the habit of going out with them to a little café in the Saint-Germain area. It didn’t do them any good.”

  A bench in the studio held several precision tools, for sawing, filing, planing the sometimes minute pieces of wood from which they made cunning toys.

  “Take along a bit of sawdust in a paper, Janvier.”

  That would please Moers. It was amusing to think that through his analysis alone they would inevitably have made their way in the end to this flat perched high in a building on the boulevard Pasteur. That would have taken weeks, possibly months, but they would have got there just the same.

  It was ten o’clock. The wine bottle was empty, and Grossot proposed to accompany “these gentlemen” down to the street, which he was not permitted to do.

  “I’ll probably be back.”

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t expect so. In any case I don’t think you have anything at all to fear from him.”

  “Where shall I drop you, chief?” asked Janvier, taking the wheel of the car.

  “Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. Not too near the Chope du Nègre. Wait for me.”

  It was one of those big restaurants that serve sauerkraut and frankfurters, where on Saturday and Sunday evenings four half-starved musicians play on a dais. Maigret immediately spied the two couples not far from the front window, noted that the two ladies had ordered green crème de menthes.

  Alfonsi was the first to stand up, not completely sure of himself, like a man who expects a kick in the pants, while the lawyer, smiling, self possessed, held out his well-kept hand.

  “May I introduce our lady friends?”

  He did so condescendingly.

  “Would you like to sit down for a minute at this table or do you want to move over to a separate one right away?”

  “On condition that Alfonsi keeps the ladies company and waits for me, I’d rather hear what you have to say now.”

  A table was vacant near the cash desk. The clientele was mainly made up of local shopkeepers treating their families to dinner in a restaurant, just as Maigret had done the night before. There were also some regular customers, bachelors or unhappily married men, playing cards or chess.

  “What will you have? A beer? One beer and one brandy and water, waiter.”

  It would probably not be long before Liotard was frequenting bars near the Opéra and the Champs-Élysées, but for the present he still felt more at home in this neighborhood where he could stare at people with an air of great superiority.

  “Has your alert brought any results?”

  “Was it to question me, Maître Liotard, that you invited me to come and see you?”

  “Maybe it was to make peace. What would you say to that? Perhaps I was a bit short with you. Don’t forget that we’re on opposite sides of the fence. Your job is to destroy my client, mine is to save him.”

  “Even by becoming his accomplice?”

  The shot went home. The young lawyer with the long, pinched nostrils blinked two or three times.

  “I don’t know what you mean. But since you prefer it, I’ll come straight to the point. As luck would have it, chief inspector, you’re in a position to do me a lot of harm, even to delay, if not interrupt, a career that everyone agrees will be brilliant.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Thank you. The Bar Council is pretty strict about certain rules, and I admit that in my hurry to get ahead I haven’t always stuck to them.”

  Maigret was drinking his beer with the most innocent air in the world, watching the cashier, and she might have mistaken him for the hat maker from the shop around the corner.

  “I’m waiting, Maître Liotard.”

  “I hoped you might help me, because you know very well what I’m referring to.”

  He still did not react.

  “You know, chief inspector, I come from a poor family, very poor . . .”

  “The Counts de Liotard?”

  “I said very poor, not plebeian. I had a hard time paying my way through the university and when I was a student I had to take all kinds of jobs. I even wore a uniform in a big cinema on the Grands Boulevards.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Only a month ago I wasn’t eating every day. I was waiting, like all my colleagues of my own age, and some older ones too, for a case that would give me a chance to distinguish myself.”

  “You’ve found it.”

  “I’ve found it. That’s what I’m getting at. On Friday, in Monsieur Dossin’s office, you uttered certain words that made me think that you knew a great deal about this business and that you wouldn’t hesitate to use it against me.”

  “Against you?”

  “Against my client, if you prefer.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Of his own accord he ordered another beer, for he had rarely drunk any as good, especially in contrast to the sculptor’s lukewarm wine. He was still watching the cashier, as if he was glad she looked so much like the old-fashioned café cashiers, with her big bust pushed up by her corset, her black silk blouse ornamented with a cameo, her hair like a set-piece in a hairdresser’s window.

  “You were saying?”

  “Very well then. You’re determined to make me come clean and you’ve got the whip hand. I made a professional error in soliciting Steuvels to become my client.”

  “Only one?”

  “I happened to hear about the whole thing in a perfectly casual way and I hope no one is going to have any trouble on my account. I’m quite friendly with a certain Antoine Bizard; we live in the same building. We’ve been through the mill together. We’ve been reduced to sharing a tin of sardines or a camembert. Recently Bizard got a steady job on a paper. He has a girlfriend.”

  “The sister of one of my detectives.”

  “So you do know.”

  “I like hearing you tell it.”

  “Through his job on the paper, for which he does miscellaneous items, Bizard is in a position to hear about certain matters before they become public . . .”

  “Crimes, for instance.”

  “If you like. He’s got into the habit of phoning me.”

  “So that you can go and offer your services?”

  “You’re a cruel winner, Monsieur Maigret.”

  “Go on.”

  He was still looking at the cashier and at the same time making sure that Alfonsi was keeping the two women company.

  “I was informed that the police were interested in a bookbinder in the rue de Turenne.”

  “On February 21, early in the afternoon.”

  “That’s right. I went over there and I really did talk about an ex libris before bringing up a hotter matter.”

  �
�The furnace.”

  “That’s all. I told Steuvels that if he was in any trouble I’d be glad to defend him. You know all that. And it was not so much for my own sake that I instigated the conversation we’ve had tonight, which I hope will remain strictly between the two of us, as for my client’s. Anything that would harm me at the moment would harm him by repercussion. There it is, Monsieur Maigret. It’s for you to decide. I may be suspended from the Bar tomorrow morning. All you have to do is go and see the president and tell him what you know.”

  “Did you stay at the bookbinder’s long?”

  “Fifteen minutes at the most.”

  “Did you see his wife?”

  “I think at one point she stuck her head out of the staircase.”

  “Did Steuvels take you into his confidence?”

  “No. I’m prepared to give you my word of honor on that.”

  “One more question, Maître. How long has Alfonsi been working for you?”

  “He’s not working for me. He’s running a private detective agency.”

  “Of which he’s the only employee!”

  “That’s none of my business. To defend my client with any chance of success I need certain information that it would be unbecoming for me to dig up for myself.”

  “Primarily you needed to be kept up to date on what I know.”

  “That’s fair enough, isn’t it?”

  The cashier was picking up the telephone, which had just rung, and answering:

  “Just a minute. I don’t know. I’ll find out.”

  As she was opening her mouth to give a name to the waiter, the chief inspector stood up.

  “Is it for me?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Maigret.”

  “Do you want to take it in the booth?”

  “Never mind. I’ll only be a second.”

  It was the call he was expecting from young Lapointe. The latter’s voice was tense with excitement.

  “Is that you, chief inspector? I’ve got it!”

  “Where?”

  “I didn’t find anything at the lawyer’s, where I nearly got caught by the concierge. I went over to the rue de Douai as you had told me. There are crowds of people going in and out there. It was easy. I had no trouble opening the door. The suitcase was under the bed. What shall I do with it?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the tobacconist’s on the corner of the rue de Douai.”

  “Take a taxi to the Quai. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Yes, chief. Are you pleased?”

  Carried away by his enthusiasm and pride, he had ventured to use the “word” for the first time . . . though not with complete confidence . . .

  “You’ve done a good job.”

  The lawyer was watching Maigret uneasily. The chief inspector sat down again at his place on the bench with a sigh of satisfaction, signaled to the waiter.

  “Another beer. Perhaps you’d be good enough to bring this gentleman a brandy.”

  “But . . .”

  “Pipe down, boy.”

  That made the lawyer gasp.

  “Look, it’s not the Bar Council I’m going to report you to. It’s the public prosecutor. Tomorrow morning I’ll probably ask him for two warrants for arrest, one in your name, and one in that of your pal Alfonsi.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What’s that likely to get you, suppression of evidence in a murder case? I’ll have to look up the statute book. I’ll think it over. May I leave the bill to you?”

  Already on his feet, he added softly, confidentially, leaning over Philippe Liotard’s shoulder:

  “I’ve got the suitcase!”

  9

  Maigret had rung the judge’s office the first time at about half past nine and spoken to the clerk:

  “Would you ask Monsieur Dossin if he can see me?”

  “Here he is now.”

  “Something new?” the judge had asked. “I mean besides what’s in the morning press?”

  He was very excited. The papers reported the discovery of the chocolate-colored car and the corpse of the old woman at Lagny.

  “I think so. I’ll come and tell you about it.”

  But since then, every time the chief inspector was making for the door of his office something would delay him, a telephone call, or the arrival of a detective who had a report to make. The judge had called back discreetly, asked Lucas:

  “Is the chief inspector still there?”

  “Yes. Shall I put him on?”

  “No. I suppose he’s busy. I’m sure he’ll be up in a minute.”

  At a quarter past ten he had finally made up his mind to get Maigret on the line.

  “Sorry to bother you. I imagine you’re swamped. But I’m having Frans Steuvels brought in at eleven o’clock and I wouldn’t want to begin the interrogation before seeing you.”

  “Would you mind if your interrogation turned into a confrontation?”

  “Who with?”

  “With his wife, probably. If I may, I’ll get a detective to fetch her just on the chance.”

  “Do you want an official summons?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Monsieur Dossin waited a good ten minutes more, pretending to study the dossier. At last there was a knock at the door, he almost made a rush to open it and saw Maigret silhouetted, a suitcase in his hand.

  “Are you going away?”

  The chief inspector’s smile enlightened him, and he murmured, not able to believe his eyes:

  “The suitcase?”

  “It’s heavy, I can tell you.”

  “So we were right?”

  He was relieved of a great weight. The systematic campaign of Philippe Liotard had finally shaken him and it was he, after all, who had taken the responsibility of keeping Steuvels in prison.

  “Is he guilty?”

  “Guilty enough to be put inside for several years.”

  Maigret had known the contents of the suitcase since the previous evening, but he made the inventory again, with all the pleasure of a child setting out his Christmas presents.

  What made the brown suitcase, with its handle mended with string, so heavy, were some pieces of metal that looked a bit like bookbinder’s stamps, but which were actually the seals of various sovereign states.

  Conspicuous among them were those of the United States and of all the South American republics.

  There were also some rubber stamps like those used in town halls and government offices, all arranged as carefully as a commercial traveler’s samples.

  “This is Steuvels’s work,” explained Maigret. “His brother Alfred provided him with the models and the blank passports. As far as I can tell from these specimens, the passports weren’t counterfeit but were obtained by thefts from consulates.”

  “Had they been in this racket long?”

  “I don’t think so. Two years roughly, judging by the bank accounts. In fact this morning I telephoned most of the banks in Paris, and that’s partly what kept me from coming up to see you earlier.”

  “Steuvels has an account at the Société Générale in the rue Saint-Antoine, hasn’t he?”

  “He has another in an American bank in the place Vendôme, another in an English bank on the boulevard. So far we’ve found five different accounts. It began two years ago, which corresponds with the date when his brother came back to Paris to live.”

  It was raining. The weather was gray and mild. Maigret was sitting by the window, smoking his pipe.

  “You see, Monsieur le Juge, Alfred Moss doesn’t fall into the category of professional criminals. Those men have one speciality and most of the time they stick to it. I’ve never known a pickpocket turn burglar, nor a burglar forge checks or try confidence tricking.

  “Alfred Moss is a clown, first and foremost, an acrobat.

  “It was as a result of a fall that he got into the game. If I’m not much mistaken, he brought off his first job by chance when, cashing in on
his knowledge of languages, he was taken on by a big London hotel as an interpreter. An opportunity arose to steal some jewelery, and he seized it.

  “This was enough for him to live on for a time. Not for long, because he has one vice; I found this out this morning too, from his local bookie: he bets on the races.

  “Like any amateur, he didn’t stick to one type of theft, but wanted to try everything.

  “He did it with unusual skill and luck, since it’s never been possible to prove anything against him.

  He had his ups and downs. A confidence trick would follow some forged checks.

  “He wasn’t as young as he used to be, was known to the police in most capitals, blacklisted in the big hotels where he had usually operated.”

  “That’s when he remembered his brother?”

  “Yes. Two years ago, the gold traffic, which had been his previous activity, wasn’t paying off any more. On the other hand, faked passports, especially for America, were beginning to bring astronomical prices. He reasoned that a bookbinder, accustomed to reproducing coats of arms on little blocks, would be able to do just as good a job with official seals.”

  “What amazes me is that Steuvels, who doesn’t lack for anything, should have accepted. Unless he leads a double life that we haven’t discovered.”

  “He doesn’t lead a double life. Poverty, real poverty of the kind he knew in his childhood and adolescence, produces two kinds of people: the extravagant and the miserly. It more often produces misers, and they’re so afraid of seeing the bad days return that they’re capable of anything at all to provide against them.

  “If I’m not greatly mistaken, that’s the case with Steuvels. The list of banks where he’s made deposits offers additional proof. I’m convinced this wasn’t just a way of hiding his nest egg, because it never occurred to him that he might be found out. But he was suspicious of banks, of nationalizations, devaluations, and he would put by a bit here and a bit there, in different banking houses.”

  “I thought he practically never went out without his wife.”

  “That’s right. It was she who went out without him, and it took me some time to discover that. Every Monday afternoon, she went to the Vert-Galant laundry-barge to do her washing. Almost every Monday Moss would come over with his suitcase, and when he was early, he’d wait at the Tabac des Vosges until his sister-in-law had left.