‘There’s no rule against an officer from the Police Judiciaire being present at an interrogation. So if you don’t mind, we’ll resume where we left off.’
All the same, Judge Dossin was influenced by Maigret’s presence and took a while to find his place in his own notes.
‘I was asking you, Monsieur Steuvels, if you’re in the habit of buying your clothes ready-made or if you have a tailor.’
Steuvels thought for a moment, then replied, ‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘I don’t really think much about clothes. When I need a suit, I sometimes buy it ready-made, just as I’ve sometimes had it made for me.’
‘By what tailor?’
‘I had a suit several years ago that was made by a neighbour, a Polish Jew. I haven’t seen him for a while. I think he went to America.’
‘Was it a blue suit?’
‘No, it was grey.’
‘How long did you wear it?’
‘Two or three years, I can’t remember.’
‘What about your blue suit?’
‘It must be ten years since I last bought a blue suit.’
‘But some of your neighbours saw you in blue not so long ago.’
‘They must have confused my suit and my overcoat.’
It was true that a navy-blue overcoat had been found in the apartment.
‘When did you buy that overcoat?’
‘Last winter.’
‘Wasn’t it odd to buy a blue overcoat when you only had a brown suit? The two colours aren’t particularly well matched.’
‘I don’t pay that much attention to my appearance.’
During this time, Maître Liotard had been looking defiantly at Maigret, staring at him so fixedly it was as if he wanted to hypnotize him. Then, as he would have done in court to impress the jury, he gave a sarcastic smile and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Why won’t you admit that the suit found in the wardrobe belongs to you?’
‘Because it doesn’t belong to me.’
‘Then how do you explain why it was there, when to all intents and purposes you never leave home, and your bedroom can only be reached through the workshop?’
‘I can’t explain it.’
‘Let’s be reasonable, Monsieur Steuvels. I’m not trying to trap you. This is at least the third time we’ve tackled this subject. If you are to be believed, someone got into your home without your knowledge and left two human teeth in the ashes in your stove. What’s more, this person chose the day when your wife was away and, for her to be away, he’d had to go to Concarneau – or dispatch an associate – to send a telegram saying that her mother was ill. Wait, that’s not all.
‘Not only were you alone at home, which practically never happens, but you made such a big fire in the stove, that day and the following day, that it took you five trips to carry all the ashes to the dustbins.
‘Regarding that, we have a statement by your concierge, Madame Salazar, who has no reason to lie, and who can see all her tenants’ comings and goings quite easily from her lodge. On Sunday morning, you took five trips, each time with a large bucket full of ashes.
‘She thought you’d been doing the spring cleaning and were burning old papers.
‘We have another statement, from Mademoiselle Béguin who lives on the top floor, and who claims that your chimney was smoking the whole of Sunday. Black smoke, she insisted. She opened her window at a certain point and noticed an unpleasant smell.’
‘Isn’t this Mademoiselle Béguin, who is sixty-eight years old, known locally for being simple-minded?’ Liotard asked, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray and choosing another from a silver case. ‘Allow me also to observe that for four days, as the weather reports from 15th, 16th, 17th and 18th February clearly show, the temperature in Paris and the surrounding region was abnormally low.’
‘That doesn’t explain the teeth. Nor does it explain the presence of a blue suit in the wardrobe, or the bloodstains on that suit.’
‘You’re making these accusations and it’s for you to prove them. But you can’t even prove that suit really belongs to my client.’
‘Would you allow me to ask a question, your honour?’
Dossin turned to Liotard, who didn’t have time to object, because Maigret had already turned to Steuvels and was asking:
‘When did you first hear of Maître Philippe Liotard?’
Liotard stood up to counter-attack, but Maigret went on impassively:
‘When I finished questioning you on the evening of your arrest, or rather in the early hours of the morning, and I asked you if you wanted a lawyer, you replied in the affirmative and designated Maître Liotard.’
‘A prisoner has a perfect right to choose the lawyer he wishes, and if that question is asked again, I’ll be obliged to refer the matter to the Bar Council.’
‘Refer away! It’s you I’m asking, Steuvels. You haven’t answered.
‘It wouldn’t have been surprising if you’d mentioned the name of some famous lawyer, but you didn’t.
‘You didn’t look through any directory while you were in my office, and you didn’t ask anybody.
‘Maître Liotard doesn’t live in your neighbourhood. I don’t think his name had ever appeared in the newspapers up until three weeks ago.’
‘I object!’
‘Please do. But tell me, Steuvels, had you ever heard of Maître Liotard on the morning of the 21st, before my inspector came to see you? If yes, tell me when and where.’
‘Don’t answer that.’
Steuvels hesitated, round-shouldered, observing Maigret through his big glasses.
‘You refuse to answer? All right. I’ll ask you another question. Did anyone phone you on the afternoon of the 21st and tell you about Maître Liotard?’
Steuvels was still hesitating.
‘Or, if you prefer, did you telephone anyone? Let me take you back into the atmosphere of that day, which had begun like any other day. It was sunny and very mild, so you didn’t light your stove. You were at work by the window when my inspector appeared and asked if he could visit the premises, using some pretext or other.’
‘You admit it!’ Liotard cut in.
‘Yes, maître, I admit it. But I’m not asking you the questions.
‘You immediately realized that the police were interested in you, Steuvels.
‘At that time, there was a brown suitcase in your workshop, but it had gone by the time Sergeant Lucas came back in the evening with a search warrant.
‘Who phoned you? Who alerted you? Who came to see you between Inspector Lapointe and Sergeant Lucas?
‘I’ve checked the list of people you’re in the habit of phoning, whose numbers you had written down in a notebook. I’ve checked your registers. The name Liotard doesn’t appear among your customers either.
‘But he came to see you that very day. Did you call him or did someone you know send him?’
‘I forbid you to reply.’
But Steuvels gestured impatiently. ‘He came of his own accord.’
‘This is Maître Liotard you’re talking about, isn’t it?’
Steuvels looked around, and there was a gleam in his eye, as if he were taking a personal delight in embarrassing his lawyer. ‘Maître Liotard, yes.’
Liotard turned to the clerk, who was still writing. ‘You have no right to record these answers. They have nothing to do with the case. Yes, it’s true, I went to see Steuvels, whose reputation
I was familiar with, to ask him if he could do some bookbinding for me. Isn’t that correct?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Why on earth was there a wicked little flame in Steuvels’ clear eyes?
‘It was about an ex-libris with the family coat of arms. That’s right, Monsieur Maigret, my grandfather was the Comte de Liotard. He renounced his title voluntarily when he was ruined. Anyway, I wanted a family coat of arms, and I went to see Steuvels, because I knew he was the best bookbinder in Paris, even though I’d been told he was very busy.’
‘Did you talk to him about this coat of arms?’
‘Forgive me, but you now seem to be questioning me. We’re in your office, Monsieur Dossin, and I don’t intend to be taken to task by a policeman. I already expressed my reservations when he started questioning my client. But that a member of the bar should—’
‘Do you have any other questions to ask Monsieur Steuvels, Inspector Maigret?’
‘No questions. I’m grateful to you.’
The funny thing was that Maigret still had the impression Steuvels wasn’t angry about what had happened and was even looking at him with a new-found liking.
As for Liotard, he sat down, seized a file and pretended to become engrossed in it.
‘You can come and see me whenever you like, Maître Liotard. Do you know my office? The last one on the left, at the end of the corridor.’
He smiled at Judge Dossin, who didn’t look very comfortable, and headed for the little door leading from the Palais de Justice to the Police Judiciaire.
The place was more like a beehive than ever, with telephones ringing behind doors, people waiting in every corner, inspectors hurrying along the corridors.
‘I think someone’s waiting for you in your office, sir.’
When he opened the door, he found Fernande in conversation with young Lapointe, who was sitting in Maigret’s seat, listening to her and taking notes. Embarrassed, he stood up. Fernande was plainly dressed, in a belted beige gabardine coat and a hat of the same material.
‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Have you just seen him? Is he still upstairs?’
‘He’s very well. He admits that Liotard came to the workshop on the afternoon of the 21st.’
‘Something much worse than that has just happened,’ she said. ‘Please take what I’m going to tell you seriously. This morning, I left Rue de Turenne as usual to take him his dinner at the Santé. You know the little enamelled pans I put them in.
‘I caught the Métro at Saint-Paul and changed at Châtelet. I’d bought a newspaper on the way, but hadn’t had time to read it yet.
‘There was a seat free next to the door. I sat down and started reading, I’m sure you know which article.
‘I’d put the stacked pans on the floor next to me, and I could feel the heat against my leg.
‘A few stations before the Gare Montparnasse, a lot of people got on, most of them with suitcases. They must all have been going to catch a train.
‘I was so engrossed in my reading, I wasn’t paying attention to what was happening around me when I had the impression somebody was touching the pans.
‘I just had time to notice a hand trying to put back the metal handle.
‘I stood up and turned to the person next to me. We were just coming into Montparnasse, where I had to change. Almost everybody was getting out.
‘I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to overturn the pans and slip away on to the platform before I could see his face.
‘The food spilled all over. I’ve brought you the pans. Apart from the one underneath, they’re more or less empty.
‘Look for yourself. There’s a metal strip with a handle which keeps them together.
‘It didn’t open by itself.
‘I’m sure someone was following me and tried to poison the food meant for Frans.’
‘Take it to the lab,’ Maigret said to Lapointe.
‘They might not find anything. They must have tried to put the poison in the top pan, and that’s empty. But you do believe me, don’t you, inspector? You know I’ve always been honest with you.’
‘Always?’
‘As honest as possible. This time it’s Frans’ life that’s at stake. Those bastards want to get him out of the way, and they tried to use me without my knowing.’
She sounded extremely bitter.
‘If only I hadn’t been engrossed in my newspaper, I might have seen the man. All that I know is that he was wearing a coat about the same colour as mine and worn-out black shoes.’
‘Young?’
‘Not very young. Not old either. Middle-aged. Or ageless, if you know what I mean. There was a stain near the shoulder of his coat, I noticed it as he was getting away.’
‘Tall? Thin?’
‘Fairly short. Average height at most. He looked like a rat, that’s what I really thought.’
‘And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?’
She thought this over. ‘No. I can’t recall him from anywhere.’ Then she seemed to have second thoughts. ‘It’s just come back to me. I was reading the item about the woman with the little boy and the Hôtel Beauséjour. He made me think of one of the two men, the one the hotel owner said looked like a seller of dirty postcards. You’re not laughing at me?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t think I’m making this up?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think they tried to kill him?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
Lapointe came back and announced that the lab wouldn’t have their report ready for several hours.
‘Do you think it’s best if he makes do with the food in the prison?’
‘That might be wise.’
‘He’s going to wonder why I haven’t sent him his meal. I won’t see him for another two days, when I visit him.’
She wasn’t crying, wasn’t putting on airs, but her dark eyes had rings under them and were filled with anxiety and distress.
‘Come with me.’
He winked at Lapointe, then led her upstairs and along corridors that grew increasingly deserted as they advanced. With difficulty, he opened a little window looking out on the courtyard, where a Black Maria was waiting.
‘He’ll be down soon. Will you excuse me? I have things to do upstairs …’
With a gesture, he pointed to the upper floors.
Incredulous, she watched him walk away, then gripped the bars with both hands, trying to see as far as possible in the direction from where Steuvels was going to emerge.
5.
Something to do with a Hat
It was refreshing to leave the offices, with their doors slamming ceaselessly as the inspectors went in and out and all the telephones in use at the same time, and climb the always deserted staircase towards the upper floors of the Palais de Justice, where the labs and the records department were located.
It was already getting dark, and on the dimly lit stairs, which resembled some secret staircase in a castle, Maigret was preceded by his own gigantic shadow.
In a corner of an attic room, Moers, a visor over his forehead, his big glasses in front of his eyes, was working beneath a lamp which he would move closer to him or push back by tugging on a wire.
Moers hadn’t been to Rue de Turenne to question the neighbours, hadn’t drunk Pernod or white wine in any of the three bars, had never tailed anybody in the street or
spent the night standing in front of a closed door.
He never got upset or excited, but it was quite possible he would still be bent over his desk tomorrow morning. He had once spent three whole days and nights there.
Without a word, Maigret grabbed a straw-bottomed chair, came and sat down next to Moers, lit his pipe and puffed on it gently. Hearing a regular noise on a fanlight above his head, he realized that the weather had changed and it had started to rain.
‘Look at these, chief,’ Moers said, holding out a bundle of photographs as if they were a pack of cards.
He had done a magnificent job, alone here in his corner. With the vague descriptions he had been given, he had somehow brought to life and even given personalities to three people of whom almost nothing was known: the fat, dark-skinned, well-dressed foreigner, the young woman in the white hat, and the accomplice who looked like ‘a seller of dirty postcards’.
To do so, he had hundreds of thousands of records at his disposal, but he was probably the only person to remember them well enough to achieve what he had just so patiently achieved.
The first packet, which Maigret examined, comprised some forty photographs of fat, well-groomed men of the Greek or Middle Eastern type, with smooth skin and rings on their fingers.
‘I’m not too happy with those,’ Moers sighed, as if he had been given the task of casting a film. ‘You can try them all the same. But I prefer these.’
There were only about fifteen photographs in the second packet, and they were cause for congratulations, so closely did they resemble the person described by the owner of the Hôtel Beauséjour.
Looking at the backs, Maigret learned the professions of these characters. Two or three were racing tipsters. There was a pickpocket he knew personally, having once arrested him on a bus, and an individual who solicited at the doors of big hotels for certain specialized establishments.
There was a self-satisfied little gleam in Moers’ eyes. ‘Amusing, isn’t it? For the woman, I have almost nothing, because our photographs don’t include hats. But I’ll keep going.’
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