‘Is the Grasshopper still there?’
‘No. He left a few minutes ago. At the moment Philippe’s on his way back down the Rue du Mont-Cenis’ stairs, I suppose so he can have a look in the café on Place Constantin-Pecqueur.’
Tania arrived with the Grasshopper. It wasn’t time to turn Picratt’s sign on yet, but they all must have been in the habit of coming early. Everyone felt the club was home, in a way. Rose looked in to cast an eye over the room before going up to get dressed. She still had a tea towel in her hand.
‘There you are!’ she said to the new girl.
Then, scrutinizing her from head to foot, she instructed, ‘Next time don’t put your dress on so early. It’s a waste, the wear and tear.’
Finally, she said to Maigret, ‘Help yourself, inspector. The bottle’s on the table.’
Tania seemed out of sorts. She studied Arlette’s successor and shrugged slightly.
‘Shove up.’
Then she stared at Maigret for a long time.
‘You haven’t found him yet?’
‘I’m hoping to tonight.’
‘You don’t think it might have occurred to him to make himself scarce?’
She knew something too. When it came down to it, they all knew some detail or other. He had already sensed that yesterday. Now Tania was wondering if it wouldn’t be better for her if she talked.
‘Did you meet him with Arlette?’
‘I don’t even know who he is or what he looks like.’
‘But you know he exists?’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘Where he hides, maybe.’
It was as if being cooperative was a matter of dishonour: she pouted as she talked, and it came out grudgingly.
‘My dressmaker lives on Rue Caulaincourt, just opposite Place Constantin-Pecqueur. I usually go there about five in the afternoon, because I sleep most of the day. On two separate occasions I saw Arlette get off a bus at the corner of the square and walk across it.’
‘Which way?’
‘Towards the stairs.’
‘Didn’t you think of following her?’
‘Why would I have done that?’
She was lying. She was curious. She probably hadn’t been able to see anyone when she got to the bottom of the stairs.
‘That’s all you know?’
‘That’s it. He must live around there somewhere.’
Maigret had poured himself a glass of brandy and he lazily heaved himself to his feet when the telephone rang again.
‘Same old story, chief.’
‘The café on Place Constantin-Pecqueur?’
‘Yes. He’s only going there and the two brasseries on Place Blanche. He’s looking in Chez Francis now.’
‘Lognon is still at his post?’
‘Yes. I’ve just seen him as I was going past.’
‘Ask him from me to go to Place Constantin-Pecqueur and talk to the café owner. Not in front of the customers, if he can. I want him to ask if the owner knows Oscar Bonvoisin. If he says he doesn’t, tell him to describe him, because they might know him under a different name.’
‘Shall I do that now?’
‘Yes. He’s got time while Philippe makes his rounds. Tell him to call me immediately afterwards.’
When he went back into the main room, the Grasshopper was there, pouring himself a drink at the bar.
‘You haven’t caught him yet?’
‘How did you get that tip-off about Chez Francis?’
‘From some fairies. They all know each other, that lot. They told me about a bar on Rue Caulaincourt first, which Philippe goes to from time to time, and then about Chez Francis, where he sometimes goes late at night.’
‘Do they know Oscar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bonvoisin?’
‘They don’t know his last name. They said he was a local who comes every now and then and has a glass of white wine before going to bed.’
‘Does he meet Philippe there?’
‘Everyone talks to each other there. He’s no different. Now, you can’t say I haven’t helped you.’
‘He hasn’t been seen today?’
‘Or yesterday.’
‘Did they tell you where he lives?’
‘Somewhere local.’
Time was passing slowly now, and it felt a little as if it would all never end. Jean-Jean, the accordionist, arrived and went to the bathroom to clean his muddy shoes and run a comb through his hair.
‘Is Arlette’s murderer still on the loose?’ he asked.
Then it was Lapointe on the telephone.
‘I passed on your orders to Inspector Lognon. He is in Place Constantin-Pecqueur. Philippe has just gone into Chez Francis, where he is having a drink, but there’s no one who matches Oscar’s description there. Lognon will call you. I told him where you were. Was that right?’
Lapointe’s voice had changed over the evening. He had to go into bars to telephone. This was his umpteenth call. He had probably had a little nip each time to warm himself up.
Fred came down, resplendent in his dinner-jacket, with a fake diamond stud in his starched shirt, his clean-shaven face pink and glowing.
‘Go and get dressed,’ he told Tania.
Then he went to turn on the lamps and spent a moment straightening the bottles behind the bar.
The second musician, Monsieur Dupeu, had just arrived when Maigret finally heard Lognon on the other end of the line.
‘Where are you calling from?’
‘From Chez Manière, on Rue Caulaincourt. I went to Place Constantin-Pecqueur. I’ve got the address.’
He was in a state of high excitement.
‘Did you get it easily?’
‘The owner fell for it completely. I didn’t say I was with the police. I pretended that I had come up from the country and was looking for a friend.’
‘Do they know him by his name?’
‘They call him Monsieur Oscar.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘At the top of the stairs, on the right, a little house at the end of a small garden. There is a wall around it. The house isn’t visible from the street.’
‘Has he gone to Place Constantin-Pecqueur today?’
‘No. They waited before starting the card game, because he’s usually on time. That’s why the owner took his place.’
‘What has he told them he does?’
‘Nothing. He doesn’t talk much. They think he’s a man of independent means who’s got plenty of money. He is very good at belote. He often stops by in the morning about eleven o’clock, while he’s doing his shopping at the market, to have a glass of white wine.’
‘He does his shopping himself? He hasn’t got a maid?’
‘No. Or cleaning lady. They say he is a bit crazy.’
‘Wait for me near the stairs.’
Maigret drained his glass and went and got his heavy, still wet overcoat from the cloakroom, while the two musicians played a few notes as if getting in the mood.
‘Is it him?’ asked Fred, still at the bar.
‘Could be.’
‘Will you come back this way for a drink or two?’
It was the Grasshopper who went and whistled for a taxi. As he shut the car door, he said under his breath:
‘If it’s the guy I’ve vaguely heard about, you’d better be careful. He’ll kick.’
Water streamed down the taxi’s windows, and the lights of the city were only visible through the fine cross-hatching of the rain. Philippe must be splashing around somewhere out there, with his escort of inspectors following in the shadows.
Maigret walked across Place Constantin-Pecqueur and found Lognon pressed against a wall.
‘I’ve identified the house.’
‘Any lights on?’
‘I looked over the wall. You can’t see anything. The fairy mustn’t know the address. What’s the plan?’
‘Is there any way out a
t the back?’
‘No. There’s only this door.’
‘We’re going in. Are you armed?’
Lognon merely pointed at his pocket. There was a decrepit wall, like a wall in the country, with tree branches showing above it. Lognon set to work on the lock. It took him several minutes, while Maigret made sure no one was coming.
Once open, the door revealed a small garden, which looked like a parish priest’s garden, and, at the end, a double-storey house of the sort you still find in some backstreets in Montmartre. No lights were on.
‘Go and open the front door, then come back.’
Despite the lessons he had had with experts, Maigret had never been brilliant with locks.
‘Wait for me outside and when the others come past, tell Lapointe or Janvier that I’m in here. They’re to carry on following Philippe.’
There was no sound, no signs of life inside. Maigret had his gun in his hand all the same. It was hot in the hallway, and he caught a smell like something from the country. Bonvoisin must have wood fires. The house was damp. He thought twice about putting a light on, then shrugged and turned the switch he had found to his right.
Unexpectedly, the house was very clean, with none of that slightly cheerless and somehow dubious quality of most bachelors’ homes. A coloured glass lantern lit the hall. He opened the door to his right and found himself in the sort of living room you see in window displays on Boulevard Barbès: crass but plush, with lots of heavy wood. The next room was a dining room from the same school, faux rustic with plastic fruit in a silver dish.
There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, and when he went into the kitchen he saw it was equally meticulous. A small fire was still burning in the stove, and the water in the kettle was lukewarm. He opened the cupboards, found some bread, meat, butter, eggs and, in a scullery, some carrots, turnips and a cauliflower. The house couldn’t have had a cellar, because there was a cask of wine in the scullery with an upturned glass on the bung, which suggested it saw regular use.
There was another room on the ground floor, across the corridor from the living room. It was a largish bedroom, with a bed covered with a satin eiderdown. Lamps with silk shades gave a very feminine light, and Maigret noted the abundance of mirrors, like in some brothels. There were almost as many mirrors in the adjoining bathroom.
Apart from the food in the kitchen, the wine in the scullery and the fire in the stove, there were no signs of life. Nothing lying around, as in even the best-kept houses. No ash in the ashtrays. No dirty washing or crumpled clothes in the wardrobes.
He understood why when he got to the first floor and opened both doors, not without a certain apprehension. Accentuated by the sound of rain on the roof, the silence was distinctly intimidating.
There was no one there.
The room on the left was Oscar Bonvoisin’s actual bedroom, the one in which he lived his solitary life. The bed here was iron, with thick red blankets. It had not been made, and the sheets had seen better days. On the bedside table, there was some fruit, including a half-eaten apple that was already turning brown.
Dirty shoes and two or three packets of cigarettes lay around on the floor. There were cigarette butts more or less everywhere.
He may have had a proper bathroom downstairs, but here, in a corner of the room, there was only a basin with a single tap and dirty towels. A pair of men’s trousers hung from a hook.
Maigret looked for papers without success. The drawers contained a hodgepodge of stuff, including cartridges for an automatic pistol, but not a single letter or personal document.
It was on the ground floor, when he went back downstairs, in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, that he discovered a drawer full of photographs. The film was in with them, along with the camera that had been used to take them and a magnesium lamp.
There weren’t just photographs of Arlette. Twenty women at least, all young and good-looking, had modelled for Bonvoisin, who had got them all to assume the same sexual poses. Some of the photographs had been blown up. Maigret had to go back upstairs to find the cubbyhole on the first floor with a red lightbulb over some trays, and a mass of phials and powders.
He came back down when he heard footsteps outside and flattened himself against the wall, his gun pointed at the door.
‘It’s me, chief.’
It was Janvier, dripping with water, his hat bent out of shape by the rain.
‘Have you found anything?’
‘What’s Philippe doing?’
‘Going round in circles, same as before. I don’t understand how he’s still standing. He got in a conversation with a flower seller in front of the Moulin Rouge and asked her for drugs. She told me afterwards. She knows him by sight. He pleaded with her to tell him where he could find some. Then he went into a telephone box and called Doctor Bloch to tell him he was at the end of his rope and threaten him somehow. At this rate, we’re going to have him throwing a fit on the pavement.’
Janvier looked at the empty house, with the lights on in every room.
‘You don’t think the bird has flown?’
His breath smelled of alcohol. He gave one of his tense little smiles, which Maigret knew well.
‘You’re not notifying the train stations?’
‘Judging by the fire in the stove, he left the house at least three or four hours ago. In other words, if he means to make a run for it, he’ll have got a train a long time ago. He’s spoiled for choice.’
‘We can still put the borders on alert.’
It was odd. Maigret felt no inclination to set all this heavy police machinery in motion. It was only a hunch, of course, but he thought this case could not spread beyond Montmartre, where everything had happened up until now.
‘You think he’s watching Philippe somewhere?’
Maigret shrugged. He did not know. He left the house and found Lognon pressed against the wall.
‘You’d better turn off the lights and keep watch here.’
‘Do you think he’ll come back?’
He didn’t think anything.
‘Tell me, Lognon, where did Philippe go last night?’
The inspector had written the addresses in his notebook. After he was released, the young man had trailed lucklessly round all of them.
‘You sure you haven’t missed any out?’
Lognon bridled.
‘I’ve told you everything I know. There is only one address left: his, on Boulevard Rochechouart.’
Maigret didn’t say anything, just lit his pipe with a faint air of satisfaction.
‘Good. Stay here, just in case. Follow me, Janvier.’
‘Have you got an idea?’
‘I think I know where we’re going to find him.’
They set off on foot, hands jammed in pockets, overcoat collars turned up. It wasn’t worth taking a taxi.
When they got to Place Blanche, they saw Philippe in the distance, coming out of one of the two brasseries and, closer to, young Lapointe in a cap, who nodded at them.
The other inspectors were not far away, still flanking the young man.
‘You come with us too.’
It was only another 500 metres along the deserted boulevard. The nightclubs, their signs shining in the rain, could hardly be making a fortune in that weather. The doormen in their gold braid were firmly under cover, ready to unfurl their big red umbrellas.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Philippe’s place.’
The countess had been killed in her apartment, hadn’t she? And hadn’t the murderer waited for Arlette in her place on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette?
It was an old building. Over the closed shutters, they saw a sign for a picture framer and, to the right of the door, one for a bookseller. They had no choice but to ring the bell. The three men entered a dimly lit hallway, and Maigret gestured to his companions to keep quiet. Passing the concierge’s lodge, he muttered an indistinct name, and all three started up the uncarpeted stairs.
There was lig
ht under a door on the first floor and a wet doormat. Then the automatic lighting went out, and it was dark until the sixth floor.
‘Let me go first, chief,’ whispered Lapointe, trying to squeeze between Maigret and the wall.
Maigret firmly pushed him away. He knew from Lognon that the maid’s room Philippe lived in was third on the left on the top floor. His electric torch showed the narrow, yellowing corridor was empty, and he pressed the light switch.
Then he stationed his men either side of the third door and put one hand on the door knob while holding his gun in the other. The knob turned. The door wasn’t locked.
He pushed it with his foot, then froze, listening. As in the house he had just left, all he could hear was the rain on the roof and the water running in the pipes. It seemed as if he could hear his companions’ heartbeats too, or maybe they were his own.
He reached out his hand, found the switch by the doorframe.
There was nobody in the room. There was no wardrobe to hide in. Bonvoisin’s upstairs bedroom was a palace compared to this one. The bed didn’t have sheets. A chamber pot hadn’t been emptied. Dirty laundry lay on the floor.
Lapointe bent down unnecessarily to look under the bed. There wasn’t a living soul in that room. It stank.
Suddenly Maigret had a feeling that something had moved behind him. To the amazement of the two inspectors, he jumped backwards and, as he turned, slammed his shoulder into the door opposite.
The door gave. It wasn’t locked. There was someone behind it, someone watching them, and Maigret had noticed the door move imperceptibly.
His momentum threw him forward into the room, and he would have fallen over if he hadn’t collided with a man almost as heavily built as him.
The room was dark, and it was Janvier who had the sense to turn on the light.
‘Watch out, chief …’
Maigret had already been headbutted in the chest. He staggered backwards, still without falling, and reached for something that toppled over, a bedside table with a piece of pottery on it that smashed.
Grabbing his gun by the barrel, he tried to hit his assailant with the butt. He did not know this Oscar they had all been talking about but he recognized him now, from other people’s descriptions and the picture he had of him in his imagination. The man had crouched down again and was barrelling towards the two inspectors who were blocking his way.
Maigret at Picratt's Page 14