‘Just until half past four, when things start up again with the tea dance …’
A few more minutes went by, and Maigret still hadn’t left his corridor. Suddenly, a bell rang in the coffee room, Monsieur Charles stood up, uttered a few words into the phone, reluctantly put down his newspaper and set off towards distant corridors.
‘Where is he going?’
‘What time is it? Half past three? It must be the purchasing manager calling him to collect the supplies of coffee and tea.’
‘Is it like this every day?’
‘Every day …’
Ramuel watched as Maigret, calm as ever, walked into the coffee room. What he did next was quite banal. All he did, in fact, was open the drawer in the table, which was a common white wooden table. In it he found a small bottle of ink, a penholder and a box of writing paper. There were also some pencil ends and two or three money order forms.
He was closing the drawer again when Monsieur Charles came back, carrying some packages. Seeing Maigret leaning over the table, Monsieur Charles misunderstood.
‘You can take it …’ he said, referring to the newspaper. ‘Not that there’s much in it! … I only ever read the serial and the small ads.’
That was what it was all about!
‘There! … Prosper Donge is sitting calmly at this table … The three women next door are bustling about in the steam by the sinks … He …’
In an instant, Maigret lost his heaviness, his sleepy demeanour. It was as if he had suddenly remembered that he had an urgent job to do. Without saying goodbye to anyone, he walked rapidly towards the locker room, grabbed his coat, put it on as he walked and a moment later collapsed on to the back seat of a taxi.
‘To the financial section of the prosecutor’s office!’ he cried to the driver.
A quarter to four. Would he still find anybody there? If all went well, it was possible that by evening …
He turned. The taxi had just passed Edgar Fagonet, known as Zebio, walking in the direction of the Majestic.
10. Dinner at the Coupole
The operation was carried out with such deliberate force that even the old antique dealer, who was slowly mouldering away deep in his lightless shop, shuffled across the wooden floor to the door.
It was just before six. The drab shops in Rue des Saints-Pères were dimly lit, and purple light still lay across the street.
The car from the Préfecture of Police emerged from the street along the river, its horn blowing loudly enough to make all the antique dealers and second-hand booksellers jump inside their shops.
Then, in a screech of brakes, it stopped at the edge of the kerb, and three men jumped out, looking resolute, as if answering an emergency call.
Maigret headed for the door just as the pale, frightened face of the assistant stuck itself up against the glass like a transfer. One of the two inspectors entered the alleyway to make sure the shop had no other way out; the other one, who had remained on the pavement, was almost a caricature of an inspector, with his thick moustache and his dark, suspicious eyes, whom Maigret had chosen quite deliberately.
In the shop, its walls hung with oriental rugs, its atmosphere one of muffled calm, the assistant was trying to get over his fright.
‘Do you want to see Monsieur Atoum? … I’ll check if he’s here …’
But Maigret had already brushed the fellow aside. He had spotted a kind of crack in the carpets at the back, a redder light, and he could hear a murmur of voices. He soon found himself on the threshold of a small room which looked as if it was formed of four rugs, its only furniture a divan with multicoloured leather cushions and a round table inlaid with mother-of-pearl on which a cup of Turkish coffee stood steaming.
A man stood there, getting ready to leave, clearly just as nervous as the assistant. Another man sat on the divan, smoking a gold-tipped cigarette and saying something in a foreign language.
‘Monsieur Atoum, isn’t it? … Detective Chief Inspector Maigret of the Police Judiciaire …’
The visitor left even more hastily than planned, and the front door could be heard closing behind him. Maigret sat down calmly on the edge of the divan and looked curiously at the little Turkish coffee cups.
‘Don’t you recognize me, Monsieur Atoum? … We spent half a day together … When was it? … Oh, yes, nearly eight years ago now … A nice trip! The Vosges, Alsace! … If I remember correctly, we parted company near a border post …’
Atoum was fat, but had a youthful face and wonderful eyes. Dressed with studied elegance, scented, his fingers adorned with rings, he squatted rather than sat on the divan. The little room, illumined by a fake alabaster lamp, was more like something from an Eastern bazaar than a Parisian scene.
‘What was it you had done that time? … Not much, if I remember correctly … Only, as your papers weren’t in order, the French government preferred to pay for you to take that trip to the border … Actually, you came back that same evening, but nobody lost face, and I think you found people to pull strings for you …’
Atoum, who was as calm as ever, confronted Maigret with the stillness of a cat.
‘After that, you became a banker, because in France a clean record isn’t required of those who handle other people’s money … Then you got into trouble again, Monsieur Atoum …’
‘Do you mind my asking, inspector …’
‘What I’m doing here? Well, to be honest, I’m still not sure. I have a car and men at the door. We may all leave together …’
Atoum’s hand did not shake as he lit another cigarette, after a gesture towards Maigret, who refused.
‘I may also just go quietly on my way and leave you here …’
‘And what will that depend on?’
‘On the answer you’re going to give to a small question … I know how discreet you are, so I’ve taken a few precautions against your discretion, as you can see! … When you were a banker, you had a bookkeeper who was your right arm, your trusted associate – notice I don’t say your accomplice – whose name was Jean Ramuel … Well, I’d like to know why you parted company with such a valuable assistant, why, to be more precise, you threw him out …’
A fairly long silence. Atoum was thinking.
‘You’re mistaken, inspector … I didn’t throw him out. He left of his own free will, for health reasons, if I remember correctly …’
Maigret stood up. ‘Too bad! In that case, it’s the first option … If you’d like to follow me, Monsieur Atoum …’
‘Where are you planning to take me?’
‘To the border, once again …’
A slight smile hovered over Atoum’s lips.
‘Only this time, it’ll be a different border … You know, I quite fancy a trip to Italy … I’ve been told you left Italy in a hurry, forgetting to serve a five-year sentence for fraud and passing bad cheques … Which means …’
‘Sit down, inspector …’
‘Are you telling me I won’t have to get up again in a moment?’
‘What do you want to do with Ramuel?’
‘Maybe put him in his place, what do you think?’
And, abruptly changing tone:
‘Come on, Atoum! I have no time to waste today … I suspect Ramuel has a hold on you! …’
‘I admit that if he talked out of turn he could cause me a lot of problems. The affairs of a bank are complex. He was in the habit of sticking his nose into everything … I wonder if it mightn’t be better for me to choose Italy … Unless you can give me certain assurances … For example, that if he talked about certain things, you wouldn’t take any notice, given that it’s the past and I’ve become an honest shopkeeper since then …’
‘It’s within the realm of possibilities …’
‘In that case, I can tell you that Ramuel and I parted company after a somewhat heated argument … What happened was that I’d discovered that he was working in my bank for his own benefit and that he’d made a number of forgeries …’
&n
bsp; ‘I assume you’ve kept these documents?’
Atoum blinked and admitted in a low voice:
‘But he’d kept others, which means …’
‘Which means you both have a hold on each other … Well, Atoum, I need you to hand those documents over to me immediately …’
The man hesitated a while longer. An Italian prison or a French prison? He finally stood up. Behind the divan, he lifted the curtain, revealing a little safe built into the wall, which he opened.
‘These are drafts on which Ramuel imitated, not only my signature, but those of two of my customers … If, when you search his place, you find a little red notebook in which I noted down various transactions, I’d be grateful if you …’
And as he crossed the shop behind Maigret, he pointed to a magnificent Karamani carpet and after a brief hesitation murmured:
‘I wonder if Madame Maigret would like that design …’
It was half past eight when Maigret walked into the Coupole and headed straight for the area of the vast room where people were dining. He was alone, with his bowler hat pushed back on his head and his hands in his pockets, as usual. His one concern seemed to be to find a free seat.
Suddenly, he spotted a short man sitting over a plate of cold meats and a glass of beer.
‘There you are, Lucas … Is that seat free?’
He sat down, like a man pleased to be having a good dinner, then stood up again to entrust his overcoat to the bellboy. Beside him, an aggressively vulgar woman sitting over a decent-sized half-lobster was crying in an unpleasant voice:
‘Waiter! … Bring me a different mayonnaise … This one smells of soap …’
Maigret turned to her, then to the man sitting next to her, and seemed genuinely surprised.
‘Well, well! Monsieur Ramuel … We seem to keep meeting! Would you be so kind as to introduce me? …’
‘My wife … Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, of the Police Judiciaire …’
‘Pleased to meet you, inspector …’
‘A steak and fries and a large beer, waiter!’
His gaze came to rest on Ramuel’s plate, which contained noodles without butter and without cheese.
‘Do you know what I think?’ he said suddenly in a cordial tone. ‘I think, Monsieur Ramuel, that you’ve always been unlucky … It struck me the first time I saw you … There are people like that, who never succeed at anything, and I’ve noticed that they’re also the ones who end up with the most unpleasant diseases and infirmities …’
‘He’s going to use what you say to excuse how difficult he is!’ Marie Deligeard cut in, sniffing the new mayonnaise she had just been brought.
‘Intelligent, well educated, hard working as you are,’ Maigret went on, ‘you ought to have made your fortune ten times over … And the strangest thing is that on several occasions you really did come close to finding a wonderful position for yourself … In Cairo, to start with … Then in Ecuador … Each time, after a rapid rise, you find yourself falling as low as before … You land an excellent job in a bank? … As luck would have it, the banker you get involved with, a man named Atoum, turns out to be crooked, and you’re obliged to leave him …’
Around them, the diners were far from suspecting the repercussions of this conversation. Maigret was affecting a light, companionable tone, tucking into his steak with gusto, while Lucas kept his head bowed over his plate and Ramuel seemed very preoccupied with his noodles.
‘The fact is, I really wasn’t expecting to find you here on Boulevard Montparnasse. I thought you’d be on the train to Brussels by now …’
Ramuel didn’t flinch, but his complexion became yellower, and his fingers tensed on his fork. It was his companion who exclaimed:
‘What’s this? … You were planning to go to Brussels and you didn’t tell me? … What does that mean, Jean? … Another woman, eh?’
‘I can assure you, madame,’ Maigret said good-naturedly, ‘that it’s nothing to do with a woman … No need to worry about that! … But your husband … I mean your friend …’
‘You can say my husband … I don’t know what he told you about that, but we’re properly married … Here’s the proof …’
She searched feverishly in her bag and took out a torn, yellowed paper folded very small.
‘Look! … This is our marriage certificate …’
It was all written in Spanish, and there were lots of stamps and seals from the Republic of Ecuador.
‘Answer me, Jean! … What were you planning to do in Brussels?’
‘But … I never had any intention …’
‘Come now, Monsieur Ramuel … I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to cause a domestic quarrel … When I found out you’d withdrawn almost all your money from the bank and that you had asked for a cheque for two hundred and eighty thousand francs, to be cashed in Brussels …’
Maigret hastened to put some of the perfectly crisp fries in his mouth because he had a terrible desire to smile. Sure enough, a foot had come to rest on his own, Ramuel’s foot in fact – his way of begging him to keep quiet.
It was too late. Forgetting her lobster, forgetting the dozens of people having dinner around them, Marie Deligeard, or rather Marie Ramuel, if the paper was to be believed, flew off the handle.
‘You did say two hundred and eighty thousand francs? … So he had two hundred and eighty thousand francs in the bank and he refused me the bare necessities? …’
Maigret glanced at the lobster and the twenty-five-franc half-bottle of Riesling.
‘Answer me, Jean! … Is it true? …’
‘I have absolutely no idea what the inspector’s talking about …’
‘Do you have a bank account?’
‘I swear I don’t have a bank account, and that if I had two hundred and eighty thousand francs …’
‘And you, inspector, what do you say?’
‘I’m sorry, madame, to put you in this state. I thought you knew everything, that your husband never hid anything from you …’
‘I understand now!’
‘What do you understand?’
‘The way he’s been behaving lately … He’s been too meek … Too submissive … I knew it wasn’t natural … Obviously, he was getting ready to pull that trick on me!’
Neighbours turned with a smile, because these words could be heard from up to three tables away.
‘Marie! …’ Ramuel implored.
‘So you were secretly feathering your nest, depriving me of everything, while getting ready to run off and leave me … One fine day, he’d just slip away! … I’d be left all alone in an apartment where the rent probably hadn’t even been paid! … Oh, no, my friend! … You tried to shake me off twice before, but you know perfectly well you didn’t get away with it … Are you sure there isn’t a woman mixed up in all this, inspector? …’
‘Tell me, inspector, don’t you think it might be better to continue this conversation elsewhere? …’
‘No, not at all!’ Maigret sighed. ‘As matter of fact, I’d quite like … Waiter! …’
He pointed to the silver trolley with its convex lid, which was being pushed between the tables.
‘What do you have there?’
‘Rib of beef …’
‘Well, then, give me a slice … Some rib of beef, Lucas? … And fries, waiter! …’
‘Take this lobster away, it isn’t fresh!’ Ramuel’s companion cut in. ‘Give me the same thing the inspector is having … So, that bastard put money aside and …’
She was so upset, she was forced to redo her make-up, shaking a powder puff of a dubious pink colour over the table.
And under the table there were some unexpected movements: Ramuel giving her little kicks to silence her, and she refusing to listen to reason and responding with angry prods of her heels.
‘You’ll pay for this, you crook! … Just you wait …’
‘This can all be cleared up soon enough, you’ll see … I don’t know why the inspector thinks …’
‘Are you sure you’re not making a mistake? … Because we know what you police are like … When you don’t know anything and you’re floundering, you make up all kinds of things to take people for a ride … Is that what this is?’
Maigret looked at the time. It was half past nine. He gave a little wink to Lucas, who felt the need to cough. Then finally he leaned over towards Ramuel and his companion as if to tell them something in confidence.
‘Don’t move, Ramuel … Don’t make a scene, it’d be pointless … The man on your right is one of ours … As for Sergeant Lucas, he’s been following you since this afternoon and he’s the one who phoned me to say you were here …’
‘What does this all mean?’ Marie Deligeard stammered.
‘It means, madame, that I wanted to let you eat first … I’m obliged to place your husband under arrest … We’re going to do this nicely, it’ll be better for everybody … Finish your dinner … In a while, we’ll leave here together, like good friends … We’ll find a taxi and take a trip to Quai des Orfèvres … You have no idea how quiet the offices are at night … Some mustard, waiter! … And some gherkins, if you have them …’
A big line furrowing her forehead, which did nothing to make her prettier or more enticing, Marie Deligeard ate fiercely, occasionally throwing her husband a withering look. Maigret asked for a third beer, leaned again towards Ramuel and said conspiratorially:
‘It just so happens that at about four o’clock this afternoon, I suddenly remembered that you’d been a sergeant-major …’
‘You always told me you were a second lieutenant!’ Marie squealed, determined never to miss an opportunity.
‘It’s already quite something, madame, to be a sergeant-major! … It’s the sergeant-major who does all the writing for the company … In fact, I remembered my own military service, which was a long time ago, as you can imagine …’
Nothing could stop him from savouring his fries, which were really sensational, crisp on the outside and tender on the inside.
‘As our captain came to the barracks as seldom as possible, it was the sergeant-major who signed the furloughs, in fact most of the documents, in the captain’s name, of course … And the signature was so well imitated that the captain himself couldn’t tell what he had signed from what the sergeant-major had done … What do you have to say about that, Ramuel?’
The Cellars of the Majestic Page 12