Maigret at Picratt's

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Maigret at Picratt's Page 13

by Georges Simenon


  The look Fred gave Maigret spoke volumes. Neither of them laughed, and they tried not to smile. Her shoulders emerged from the material, then a breast, which it was a surprise to see naked in that setting.

  Rose’s hand indicated she should pause for a moment, and the girl kept her eyes fixed on it.

  ‘Once all the way round the dance-floor …’ ordered Fred, instantly resuming his humming. ‘Not so fast … Tra la la la … Good!’

  Then Rose’s hand said:

  ‘The other breast …’

  Her nipples were large and pink. The dress slid slowly down, revealing the shadow of the navel, until finally, with a clumsy gesture, the girl let go of it entirely and stood naked in the middle of the dance floor, with both hands on her pubis.

  ‘That will do for today,’ Fred sighed. ‘You can go and get dressed, sweetheart.’

  She headed for the kitchen after picking up her dress. Rose sat with them for a minute.

  ‘They’ll just have to deal with it! I can’t get any more out of her. She might as well be drinking a cup of coffee. It’s nice of you to come and see us, inspector.’

  She was sincere, meant what she said.

  ‘Do you think you’re going to find the murderer?’

  ‘Monsieur Maigret is hoping to get his hands on him tonight,’ announced her husband.

  Looking at the two of them, she sensed she was interrupting and headed off for the kitchen herself, saying:

  ‘I’m going to make something to eat. Will you have a bite with us, inspector?’

  He did not say no. He was still in the dark, really. He had chosen Picratt’s for its strategic location but also partly because he liked being there. When it came down to it, would young Lapointe have fallen in love with Arlette in another setting?

  Fred went and turned off the lights round the dancefloor. They heard the young woman walking back and forth over their heads. Then she came downstairs and joined Rose in the kitchen.

  ‘What were we saying?’

  ‘We were talking about Oscar.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve checked all the boarding houses?’

  It was not even worth answering.

  ‘And he didn’t go to Arlette’s place either?’

  Their thoughts had come to the same point because they both knew the neighbourhood and its inhabitants’ lives.

  If Oscar and Arlette were intimately involved, they had to meet somewhere.

  ‘She never got any telephone calls here?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘I didn’t pay particular attention, but if it had happened regularly, I would have noticed.’

  And she didn’t have a telephone in the apartment either. According to the concierge, she didn’t have male visitors, and that concierge was reliable, unlike the one on Rue Victor-Massé.

  Lapointe had combed through the files on rented rooms, then Janvier had gone round them all and clearly made a conscientious job of it because he had picked up Fred’s trail.

  It was over twenty-four hours since Arlette’s photograph had appeared in the newspapers, and no one so far had reported seeing her going anywhere regularly.

  ‘I stand by what I said: he’s good, that guy!’

  It was evident from Fred’s frown that he was thinking the same as Maigret: all in all, this Oscar didn’t fall into any of the usual categories. He might easily live in the neighbourhood but he wasn’t part of it.

  It was futile, their attempts to place him, to imagine what kind of life he led.

  He was a loner, as far as they could tell, and that impressed them both.

  ‘Do you think he’s going to try to do away with Philippe?’

  ‘We’ll know by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I went into the tabac on Rue de Douai just now. They’re friends. I don’t think anyone knows the neighbourhood as well as they do. Depending on the time of day, they get every type of customer you can think of in there. They don’t have a clue either.’

  ‘And yet Arlette met him somewhere.’

  ‘At his place?’

  Maigret would have sworn it wasn’t there. Maybe this was all a bit ridiculous. The fact they knew almost nothing about him meant Oscar was assuming terrifying proportions. In spite of themselves, they were being influenced by the mystery in which he was veiled, perhaps crediting him with more intelligence than he actually possessed.

  He was like a shadow, always more imposing than the object that casts it.

  He was just a man after all, a man of flesh and blood, a former valet-chauffeur who had always been a womanizer.

  The last time he had been seen in plain daylight was in Nice.

  He had probably got the young chambermaid Antoinette Méjat pregnant, and she had died as a result, and slept with Maria Pinaco, who now was a prostitute on the streets.

  Then, a few years later, he had bought a house near where he was born, which was clearly the behaviour of someone who has risen from lowly beginnings and suddenly has money. He was going back to the place of his birth to show his new fortune off to everyone who had witnessed his humble origins.

  ‘Is that you, chief?’

  The telephone, again. The traditional preamble. Lapointe was in charge of liaison.

  ‘I’m calling from a little bar on Place Constantin-Pecqueur. He went into a block on Rue Caulaincourt and up to the fifth floor. He knocked on someone’s door, but there was no answer.’

  ‘What did the concierge say?’

  ‘There’s a painter who lives in the apartment, a sort of bohemian. She doesn’t know if he shoots up, but she says he often looks strange. She’s seen Philippe go up to his place before. He sometimes spends the night there.’

  ‘Homosexual?’

  ‘Probably. She thinks that such things don’t exist, but she’s never seen her tenant with a woman.’

  ‘What’s Philippe doing now?’

  ‘He has turned right and is heading towards Sacré-Cœur.’

  ‘Nobody seems to be following him?’

  ‘Except us. Everything’s going fine. It’s starting to rain and it’s freezing. If I’d known, I would’ve worn a sweater.’

  Madame Rose had put a red checked tablecloth on the table, in the middle of which a soup tureen was steaming. Four places were laid, and the girl, who had changed into a navy-blue suit and looked very young, was helping her dish up. It was hard to imagine that a few minutes earlier she had been naked in the middle of the dance-floor.

  ‘I’d be amazed if he never came here,’ said Maigret.

  ‘To see her?’

  ‘When it came down to it, she was his pupil. I wonder if he was jealous.’

  It was a question Fred could probably have answered better than he could, because Fred had also had women who slept with other men – women he even forced to sleep with other men – so presumably he knew the kind of feelings that could evoke.

  ‘He won’t have been jealous of the men she met here,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t think?’

  ‘Look, he must have felt sure of himself. He was convinced he’d got her and that she’d never leave.’

  Was it the countess who had pushed her old husband off the terrace of The Oasis? Probably. If Oscar had committed the crime, he would not have had as much leverage over her. Even if they had been working together.

  There was a certain irony to the whole story. The poor count was mad about his wife, pandering to her every whim, humbly begging her to leave a tiny space for him in her wake. But if he had loved her a little less, perhaps she would have put up with him. It was the very intensity of his passion that had made him hateful to her.

  Had Oscar foreseen what would happen one day? Did he spy on the wife? Probably.

  It was easy to picture the scene. The couple standing on the terrace after returning from the casino; the countess having no trouble manoeuvring the old man to the edge, then pushing him over.

  She must have been scared afterwards to see the chauffeur calmly watching her, having witnessed the whole scene.
<
br />   What had they said to each other? What deal had they struck?

  At any rate, it wasn’t the gigolos who had taken everything from her. A sizeable share of her fortune must have gone to Oscar.

  He had had the good sense not to continue working for her. He had dropped out of sight and waited several years before buying a villa in the countryside where he was born.

  He hadn’t drawn attention to himself, hadn’t splashed money around.

  Maigret kept arriving at the same conclusion: this guy was a loner, and he had learned to be wary of loners.

  Bonvoisin was a womanizer, they knew that, and the testimony of the old cook was telling. There must have been others before he met Arlette in La Bourboule.

  Had he broken them in in the same way? Had he bound them on as tight a leash?

  There hadn’t been a whiff of scandal to expose him.

  The countess had started falling to pieces, and no one had mentioned him.

  She used to give him money, so he couldn’t live far away, in the neighbourhood most probably, and yet a man like Fred, who had employed Arlette for two years, had never been able to find out a thing about him.

  Who knew, perhaps it had been Oscar’s turn to be smitten like the count? What was to say that Arlette hadn’t tried to dump him?

  She had tried it once, at least, after an impassioned conversation with Lapointe.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Fred, as if Maigret had been thinking aloud while eating his soup, ‘is why he killed that crazy old girl. People are saying it was to get some jewellery that was hidden in her mattress. It’s possible. Maybe it’s a dead cert. But he had a hold on her and he could have got it some other way.’

  ‘There’s no reason to think she would have given her jewels up that easily,’ said Rose. ‘They were all she had left, and she must have been trying to make them last. Don’t forget either that she was an addict, and they tend to shoot their mouths off.’

  This was all Greek to Arlette’s successor, and she looked curiously at each of them in turn. Fred had found her in a small theatre, where she had a walk-on part. She must have been bursting with pride finally to have her own act, but you could also feel that she was a little scared of going the same way as Arlette.

  ‘Are you staying for tonight?’ she asked Maigret.

  ‘Possibly. I don’t know.’

  ‘He may leave in a few minutes or tomorrow morning, both are equally likely,’ said Fred with a half-grin.

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Rose, ‘Arlette was tired of him, and he felt it. A man can have a woman like her under his thumb for a while. Especially when she’s very young. But she’d met other men …’

  She looked rather insistently at her husband.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Fred? She had offers. Women aren’t the only ones to have a feeling for things. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d decided to make a big score so he could take her to live somewhere else. His only mistake was to be too sure of himself and tell her. That’s been other people’s undoing too.’

  All this was still confused, of course, but even so some truth was starting to emerge, with the disturbing figure of Oscar in particularly sharp relief.

  Maigret went to answer the telephone yet again, but this time it was not for him. Someone on the other end of the line asked for Fred. The latter had the decency not to shut the door.

  ‘Hello, yes … What? What are you doing there? Yes … He’s here, yes … Don’t shout so loud, you’re deafening me … Fine … Yes, I know … Why? That’s stupid, son … You’re better off talking to him … That’s right … I don’t know what he will decide … Stay where you are … He’ll probably come and find you …’

  He was worried when he came back to the table.

  ‘That was the Grasshopper,’ he said, as if to himself.

  He sat down but didn’t immediately start eating again.

  ‘I wonder what’s going on in his head. It is true that in the five years he’s worked for me, I’ve never known what he was thinking. He’s never even told me where he lives. He could be married and have children, and it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘Right at the top of the Butte, Chez Francis, a bistro on the corner where there’s always a guy with a beard who tells fortunes. Do you know the one I mean?’

  Fred was thinking, trying to work something out.

  ‘The funny thing is that Lognon, the inspector, is pacing up and down outside it.’

  ‘Why’s the Grasshopper up there?’

  ‘He didn’t spell it out. I gathered that it was to do with the guy called Philippe. The Grasshopper knows all the fairies in the neighbourhood … at one point I wondered if he wasn’t one himself. He may also deal a bit of drugs in his spare time, just between you and me. I know you’re not going to use it, and I swear he never does any in my place.’

  ‘Is Philippe a regular at Chez Francis?’

  ‘Seems that way. Maybe the Grasshopper knows more about it.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain why he’s there now.’

  ‘All right! I’ll tell you, if you haven’t guessed already. But you’ve got to understand it’s the Grasshopper’s idea. He thinks that if we give you a tip-off, it can only stand us in good stead, because every now and then you’ll remember it and turn a blind eye. In this business we’ve got to be on good terms with you. Besides, apparently he’s not the only one who got the tip-off, because Lognon is skulking around up there too.’

  When Maigret didn’t stir, Fred exclaimed in surprise, ‘You’re not going?’

  Then:

  ‘I get it. Your inspectors need to call you here, and you can’t make yourself scarce.’

  Maigret headed to the telephone all the same.

  ‘Torrence? Have you got any men there? Three? Good! Send them to Place du Tertre. They’re to watch Chez Francis, the bistro on the corner. Tell the eighteenth to send men up that way too. I don’t know exactly, no. I’m staying here.’

  He slightly regretted making Picratt’s his headquarters now, and was in two minds whether to get a car to drive him to the top of the Butte.

  The telephone rang. It was Lapointe again.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s doing, chief. For half an hour, he’s been zigzagging round the streets of Montmartre. Maybe he suspects he’s being followed and he’s trying to shake us off. He went into a café on Rue Lepic, then back down to Place Blanche and did another circuit of the two brasseries. Then he retraced his steps and went back up Rue Lepic. In Rue Tholozé he went into a building with a studio at the end of the courtyard. An old woman, who used to be a café-concert singer, lives there.’

  ‘Is she a drug addict?’

  ‘Yes. Jacquin went and questioned her as soon as Philippe left. She’s the same sort as the countess, only shabbier. She was drunk. She started laughing and said she hadn’t been able to give him what he was looking for. “I haven’t even got any for myself!”’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s having boiled eggs in a bar on Rue Tholozé. It’s bucketing down with rain. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘He’ll probably go up to Place du Tertre.’

  ‘We almost did just now. But he suddenly turned round. I wish he’d make up his mind. My feet are cold.’

  Rose and the new girl cleared the table. Fred fetched the bottle of brandy and filled two tasting glasses while the coffee was being poured.

  ‘I’ll have to go up and get dressed soon,’ he announced. ‘That’s not me trying to get rid of you. Make yourself at home. Cheers.’

  ‘You don’t think the Grasshopper knows Oscar?’

  ‘Well, well. I was just thinking that.’

  ‘He’s at the races every afternoon, isn’t he?’

  ‘And there’s every chance that a man with nothing to do, like Oscar, is going to spend some of his time at the races. Is that what you mean?’

  He emptied his glass, wiped his mouth, looked at the girl, who d
idn’t know what to do with herself, and winked at Maigret.

  ‘I’m going to get dressed,’ he said. ‘Come up for a second, sweetie, so I can talk to you about your act.’

  After another wink, he added in a low voice:

  ‘You’ve got to pass the time, eh?’

  Maigret was left alone at the back of the club.

  9.

  ‘He went up to Place du Tertre, chief, and almost bumped into Inspector Lognon, who just had time to step back into the shadows.’

  ‘You’re sure he didn’t see him?’

  ‘Yes. He went and looked in the window of Chez Francis. Because of this weather there’s hardly anyone there. A few regulars sitting glumly over their drinks. He didn’t go in. Then he took Rue Mont-Cenis and went down the stairs. On Place Constantin-Pecqueur he stopped in front of another café. There’s a big stove in the middle of the room, sawdust on the floor, marble tables, and the owner’s playing cards with some locals.’

  Picratt’s new girl had come back down, a little embarrassed, and, not quite knowing where to put herself, had come and sat next to Maigret. Perhaps so as not to leave him on his own. She had already put on the black silk dress that had belonged to Arlette.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Geneviève. They’re going to call me Dolly. They’re getting me photographed in this dress tomorrow.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three. Did you see Arlette do her act? Is it true that she was incredible? I’m a bit clumsy, aren’t I?’

  Lapointe sounded glum next time he telephoned.

  ‘He’s going round in circles like a circus horse. We’re following, and it’s still bucketing down. We’ve gone back to Place Clichy and Place Blanche, where he did yet another circuit of the two brasseries. As he’s got no drugs he’s starting to have a little drink here and there. He can’t find what he’s looking for and he’s walking more slowly, keeping in the shadow of the houses.’

  ‘He doesn’t suspect anything?’

  ‘No. Janvier had a talk with Inspector Lognon. It was when he did another round of the addresses Philippe had gone to last night that Lognon heard about Chez Francis. He was just told that Philippe went there from time to time and that someone probably gave him drugs.’

 

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