‘I see.’
‘Then you can guess the rest. Arnold took his commission in kind. It’s claimed, although I have no actual evidence, that he took his commission with Ward’s wives, too.’
‘Including Muriel?’
‘He’s been to Lausanne twice on his own to see her. But there’s nothing to prove he wasn’t on an errand for Ward.’
‘What about the countess?’
‘Definitely! And not only Arnold in her case. When she’s drunk enough champagne, she often needs a shoulder to cry on.’
‘Did Ward know?’
‘I never had much to do with Colonel Ward. Don’t forget I’m only a policeman.’
They both smiled. It was a curious conversation, in which not everything was openly expressed, a conversation full of innuendo.
‘In my opinion, Ward knew a lot of things, but wasn’t particularly affected by them. I learned from this morning’s newspapers that in Monte Carlo you met Monsieur Van Meulen, who’s another of our guests. They were great friends, both men who’ve lived a lot, and neither of them ever asked of people, women in particular, more than they could give. They’re very much of the same calibre, except that Van Meulen is cooler and more self-controlled, whereas the colonel was a bit of a drinker … I assume you’ll have coffee?’
Maigret was to keep for a long time the memory of lunch in this little restaurant, which reminded him of an open-air tavern on the banks of the Marne, but with a touch of Swiss seriousness, less zest, perhaps, and more genuine intimacy.
‘Is the countess taking the same plane as you?’
‘I forbade her to do so.’
‘That’ll depend on what she drinks between now and four o’clock. You’d prefer her not to take it?’
‘She’s quite conspicuous, and something of a nuisance.’
‘She won’t take it,’ the director promised. ‘Would it bother you too much if I asked you to pay a short visit to our offices? My men would so much like to meet you …’
He was shown around the premises of the Sûreté, which were in a brand-new building, on the same floor as a private bank and just below a ladies’ hairdresser. Maigret shook hands, smiled and repeated the same kind words ten times. The local white wine he had drunk filled him with a sense of well-being.
‘Now it’s time I put you in a car. If you’re late, we’ll be forced to sound the siren all the way …’
Soon he was back in the atmosphere of airports, the loudspeaker announcements, the bars with uniformed pilots and stewardesses hastily drinking their coffees.
Then came the plane, mountains higher than those this morning, meadows and farms glimpsed between clouds.
Lapointe was waiting for him at Orly with one of the Police Judiciaire’s black cars.
‘Did you have a good trip, chief?’
Here again were the suburbs, then Paris on a fine late afternoon.
‘Hasn’t it been raining?’
‘Not a drop. I thought it was best to come and get you.’
‘Anything new?’
‘I’m not up to date with everything. All the information comes in to Lucas. I went to see some of the night staff, which meant quite a bit of travelling, because most of these people live in the suburbs.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘Nothing specific. I tried to establish a timetable of when everyone went in and out. It wasn’t easy. Apparently there are 310 guests at the hotel, everyone comes and goes, makes phone calls, rings for the waiter or the chambermaid, calls for a taxi, a bellboy, a manicurist, whatever. Plus, the staff are afraid to say too much. Most of them answer evasively.’
Still driving, he took a paper from his pocket and passed it to Maigret.
8 p.m. The third floor chambermaid enters 332, the countess’s suite, and finds the countess in her dressing gown, receiving a manicure.
‘Is it for the blanket, Annette?’
‘Yes, countess.’
‘Would you mind coming back in half an hour?’
8.10. Colonel Ward is in the bar of the hotel with John T. Arnold. The colonel looks at his watch, leaves his companion and goes up to his suite. Arnold orders a sandwich.
8.22. From his suite, the colonel asks for a call to Cambridge and speaks to his son. Apparently he made similar calls twice a week, always about the same time.
About 8.30. In the bar, Arnold goes into the phone booth. He must have made a call within Paris, because the switchboard operator has no record of it.
8.45. From 347, the colonel phones 332, probably to find out if the countess is ready.
About 9.00. The colonel and the countess come out of the lift and drop off their keys. The doorman calls them a taxi. Ward gives the address of a restaurant in the Madeleine area.
Lapointe had been watching as Maigret continued with his reading.
‘I went to the restaurant,’ he said. ‘Nothing to report. They often had dinner there and were always given the same table. Three or four people came and shook the colonel’s hand. The couple didn’t seem to be arguing. While the countess was eating her dessert, the colonel, who never had dessert, lit a cigar and looked through the evening papers.’
About 11.30. The couple arrive at the Monseigneur.
‘They were regulars there, too,’ Lapointe said, ‘and there was even a tune that the gypsy orchestra automatically played as soon as the countess appeared. They ordered champagne and whisky. The colonel never danced.’
Maigret imagined the colonel, first at the restaurant, where he took advantage of the fact that he didn’t require a dessert to read his newspaper, then on the red velvet banquette at the Monseigneur. He didn’t dance, didn’t flirt either, because he had known his companion for a long time. The musicians came and played at his table.
‘They were regulars there, too,’ Lapointe had said.
Three evenings, four evenings a week? And elsewhere, in London, Cannes, Rome, Lausanne, they frequented almost identical nightclubs, where the same tune was probably played when the countess came in and the colonel never danced.
He had a grown-up son of sixteen, in Cambridge, whom he phoned for a few minutes every three days, and a daughter in Switzerland he probably also phoned.
He’d had three wives: the first, who had remarried, led an existence similar to his, then Alice Perrin, who divided her time between London and Paris, and finally Muriel Halligan, a member of the single women’s club.
In the streets, people were leaving work and hurrying towards the Métro entrances and the bus stops.
‘We’re here, chief.’
‘I know.’
The courtyard of Quai des Orfèvres, which was growing dark, the staircase, as grey as ever, even though the lights were on.
He didn’t go to see Lucas right away, but went into his own office, switched on the light and sat down in his normal seat, with Lapointe’s memo in front of him.
00.15. Ward is called to the telephone. Unable to find out where the call came from.
Almost without thinking, Maigret reached out his hand to the telephone.
‘Get me my apartment … Hello, is that you? … I’m back … Yes, I’m in my office … I don’t know yet … Everything’s fine … No, no, not at all. Why should I be sad?’
Why on earth had his wife asked him that question? He’d only wanted to get back in touch with her, that was all.
About 00.30. Marco Palmieri and Anna de Groot arrive at the Monseigneur.
(Note: Anna de Groot left the George-V at 7 p.m. She was alone. She met Marco at Fouquet’s, where they had a quick dinner before going to the theatre. Neither was in evening dress. They are known at both Fouquet’s and the Monseigneur, and their relationship is considered more or less official.)
Maigret was becoming aware of the amount of coming and going this report represented, the patience that Lapointe had shown to obtain information that was apparently of such little importance.
00.55. The barman of the George-V announces to his five or six remaining c
ustomers that he is about to close. John T. Arnold orders a Havana cigar and takes the three men he has been playing cards with out into the lobby.
(Note: I’ve been unable to establish with any certainty if Arnold left the bar during the evening. The barman couldn’t say for sure. All the tables, as well as all the stools, were occupied up until ten in the evening. It was then that he noticed Arnold, in the left corner, near the window, in the company of three Americans who had recently arrived, including a film producer and an actor’s agent. They were playing poker. Also unable to find out if Arnold already knew them or if he made their acquaintance that evening in the bar. They used chips, but when they finished the barman saw dollars change hands. He thinks they were playing for high stakes. He doesn’t know who won.)
1.10. The waiter is called to the small Empire drawing room at the far end of the lobby and is asked if it is still possible to get a drink. He says yes, and they ask him for a bottle of whisky, some soda and four glasses. The four customers from the bar have chosen this place to continue their game.
1.55. Entering the Empire drawing room, the waiter sees that they have gone. The bottle is almost empty, the chips on the table, cigar butts in the ashtray.
(Questioned the night porter about this. The producer’s name is Mark P. Jones and he is in France with a famous American comedian who is due to shoot a film or parts of a film in the south. Art Levinson is the star’s agent. The third player is unknown to the porter. He has seen him several times in the lobby, but he isn’t a guest of the hotel. He thinks he saw him leave that night at about two in the morning. I asked him if Arnold was with him. He can’t say yes or no. He was on the telephone, as a guest on the fifth floor was complaining of the racket her neighbours were making. He went up himself and diplomatically asked the couple in question to keep the noise down.)
Maigret sat back in his chair and slowly filled his pipe, looking out at the grey evening beyond the windows.
About 2.05. The colonel and the countess leave the Monseigneur, take a taxi that is parked outside the nightclub and are driven to the George-V. I easily traced the taxi. The couple didn’t utter a word during the ride.
2.15. They arrive at the George-V and get their keys from the porter. The colonel asks if there are any messages for him. There are none. Conversation while waiting for the lift, which takes a while to come down. They don’t seem to be quarrelling.
2.18. The floor waiter is called to Suite 332. The colonel in an armchair, looking tired, as usual at that hour. The countess facing him, busy taking off her shoes and rubbing her feet. She orders a bottle of champagne and a bottle of whisky.
About 3.00. Anna de Groot returns, accompanied by Count Marco Palmieri. Cheerful and affectionate, but discreet. She is a little more animated than he is, probably because of the champagne. They talk to each other in English, even though both of them speak fluent French, the Dutch woman with a pronounced accent. The lift. A few moments later, they ring and ask for mineral water.
3.35. There is a call from 332. The countess tells the switchboard operator that she thinks she is dying and asks for a doctor. The switchboard operator first calls the nurse, then phones Dr Frère.
Maigret skimmed quickly through the rest, stood up, opened the door to the inspectors’ room and found Lucas sitting by the light of his green-shaded lamp, talking on the telephone.
‘I don’t understand,’ Lucas was crying in an exasperated tone. ‘I keep telling you I don’t understand a word you’re saying. I don’t even know what language you’re speaking … No, I don’t have an interpreter handy.’
He hung up and mopped his forehead.
‘If I understood correctly, that was a call from Copenhagen. I don’t know if they were talking German or Danish … It hasn’t stopped since this morning. Everyone wants to know everything.’
He stood up, embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked you if you had a good trip … By the way, I had a call for you from Lausanne to say that the countess is taking the night train and will get to Paris at seven in the morning.’
‘Did she call you herself?’
‘No. The person you had lunch with.’
It was kind of him, and Maigret appreciated the tactful way he had dealt with it. A discreet helping hand … The director of the Lausanne Sûreté hadn’t left his name, and Maigret, who hadn’t kept his card, had already forgotten it.
‘What has Arnold been doing today?’ Maigret asked.
‘First thing this morning, he went to a hotel on Faubourg Saint-Honoré, the Bristol, where Philps, the English solicitor, is staying.’
The Englishman hadn’t gone to the George-V, too international to his taste, or the Scribe, too French, but had chosen to stay opposite the British Embassy, as if determined not to feel too far from his own country.
‘They spent an hour conferring, then went together to an American bank on Avenue de l’Opéra, then to an English bank on Place Vendôme. In both, they were immediately seen by the manager. They were there for quite a long time. At exactly midday, they parted on Place Vendôme, and the solicitor took a taxi back to his hotel, where he had lunch alone.’
‘And Arnold?’
‘He crossed the Tuileries on foot, without hurrying, like a man who has all the time in the world, sometimes looking at his watch to make sure. He even browsed for a while among the second-hand booksellers by the Seine, leafing through old books and looking at prints, then, at a quarter to one, presented himself at the Hôtel des Grands-Augustins. He waited in the bar, drinking a Martini and glancing at the papers. Ward’s third wife soon joined him.’
‘Muriel Halligan?’
‘Yes. She usually stays at that hotel. Apparently she’d arrived at Orly at about eleven thirty. When she got to the hotel, she took a bath and rested for half an hour before going to the bar.’
‘Did she phone?’
‘No.’
Which meant that she must have arranged to meet Arnold from Lausanne before leaving.
‘Did they have lunch together?’
‘Yes, in a little restaurant in Rue Jacob that looks like a bistro, but is very expensive. Torrence, who went in after them, says the food is wonderful and the bill is pretty steep … They chatted away happily, like old friends, but not loudly enough for Torrence to catch anything. Then Arnold walked her back to her hotel and took a taxi to join Monsieur Philps at the Bristol. The telephone didn’t stop ringing, with calls from London, Cambridge, Amsterdam and Lausanne. Several people went up to the suite, including a Parisian notary named Monsieur Demonteau, who stayed longer than the others. There’s a group of reporters in the lobby, waiting to find out when the funeral will be, and if it’ll be in Paris, London or Lausanne. Supposedly, Ward was officially domiciled in Lausanne. They’re also keen to know about the will, but so far they haven’t got hold of any information. But they have reported that Ward’s two children are expected any time now … You look tired, chief.’
‘No … I don’t know …’
He was more sluggish than usual and would honestly have been hard put to say what he was thinking about. It was the same experience as after a sea voyage: he still had the movement of the plane in his body, and his head was buzzing with images. It had all been too quick. Too many people, too many things one after the other. Joseph Van Meulen, naked on his bed, in the hands of his masseur, then leaving him in the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris to go in his dinner suit to a gala at the Sporting Club … The little countess with her crumpled face, hollows at the sides of her nose, her hands shaking from the alcohol … Then the fair-haired director of the Lausanne Sûreté – what was his name? – serving him a very clear, very cool wine with a candid smile, tinged with a slight irony towards the people he was talking about … The single women’s club …
Now, in addition, he had the four men playing poker in the bar, then in the Empire drawing room …
And Monsieur Philps, in his English hotel opposite the British Embassy, the bank managers
putting themselves out … Meetings, telephone calls, Monsieur Demonteau the notary, the reporters in the lobby of the Bristol and at the door of the George-V even though there was no longer anything to be seen there …
A young man in Cambridge, doubtless on his way to being a billionaire himself one day, who had suddenly learned that his father, who had phoned him the previous evening from a hotel on the continent, was dead …
And a girl of fourteen, envied perhaps by her schoolmates because she was packing her bags to go to her father’s funeral …
By this hour, the little countess must be drunk, but she would still take the night train. All she had to do, whenever she felt faint, was have another drink to pick herself up. Until she fell.
‘You look as if you have an idea, chief.’
‘Me?’
He shrugged, as if freeing himself from a spell. And it was his turn to ask a question:
‘Are you very tired?’
‘Not too tired.’
‘In that case, let’s go and have a nice quiet dinner together at the Brasserie Dauphine.’
There, they wouldn’t find the same clientele as at the George-V, or on the planes, or in Monte Carlo or Lausanne. A heavy kitchen smell, the same you found in country inns. The mother at her oven, the father behind the tin counter, the daughter helping the waiter to serve.
‘And then?’
‘Then I want to start all over again, as if I knew nothing, as if I didn’t know these people.’
‘Do you want me to go with you?’
‘There’s no need. To do what I have to do, I’d rather be alone.’
Lucas knew what that meant. Maigret was going to prowl Avenue George-V, sullenly puffing at his pipe, glancing right and left, sitting down here and there and getting up again almost immediately as if he didn’t know what to do with his big body.
Maigret Travels Page 10