Maigret took selfish pleasure in his chilly response, but Van Damme sat down at his table anyway.
‘You’ve finished? In that case, allow me to offer you a digestif … Waiter! Well, what will you have, inspector? An old Armagnac?’
He called for the drinks list, and after consultation with the proprietor, chose an 1867 Armagnac, to be served in snifters.
‘I was wondering: when are you returning to Paris? I’m going there this afternoon, and since I cannot bear trains, I’ll be hiring a car … If you like, I’ll take you along. Well, what do you think of my friends?’
He inhaled the aroma of his brandy with a critical air, then pulled a cigar case from his pocket.
‘Please, have one, they’re quite good. There’s only one place in Bremen where you can get them, and they’re straight from Havana!’
Maigret had emptied his eyes of all thought and made his face a blank.
‘It’s funny, meeting again years later,’ remarked Van Damme, who seemed unable to cope with silence. ‘At the age of twenty, starting out, we’re all on the same footing, so to speak. Time passes, and when we get together again, it’s astonishing how far away from one another we seem … I’m not saying anything against them, mind you, it’s just that, back at Belloir’s house, I felt … uncomfortable. That stifling provincial atmosphere! And Belloir himself, quite the clothes horse! Although he hasn’t done badly for himself, seeing as he married the daughter of Morvandeau, the one who’s in sprung mattresses. All Belloir’s brothers-in-law are in industry. And him? He’s sitting pretty in the bank, where he’ll wind up director one of these days.’
‘And the short man with the beard?’ asked Maigret.
‘That one … He may yet find his way and make good. Meanwhile, I think he’s feeling the pinch, poor devil. He’s a sculptor, in Paris. And talented, it seems – but what do you expect? You saw him, in that get-up from another century … Nothing modern about him! And no business sense.’
‘Jef Lombard?’
‘They don’t make them any better! In his younger days, he was a real joker, could keep you laughing yourself silly for hours on end. He was going to be a painter … He earned a living as a newspaper artist, then worked as a photoengraver in Liège. He’s married. I believe they’re expecting their third child.
‘What I’m saying is, when I was with them I felt as if I couldn’t breathe! Those petty lives, with their petty preoccupations and worries … It isn’t their fault, but I can’t wait to get back to the business world.’
He drained his glass and considered the almost deserted room, where a waiter at a table in the back was reading a newspaper.
‘It’s settled, then? You’re returning to Paris with me?’
‘But aren’t you travelling with the short bearded fellow who came with you?’
‘Janin? No, by this time he has already taken the train back.’
‘Married?’
‘Not exactly. But he always has some girlfriend or other who lives with him for a week, a year – and then he gets a new one! Whom he always introduces as “Madame Janin”. Oh, waiter! The same again, here!’
Maigret had to be careful, at times, not to let his eyes give away how keenly he was listening. He had left the address of the Café de Paris back at headquarters, and the proprietor now came over to tell him personally that he was wanted on the phone.
News had been wired from Brussels to the Police Judiciaire: The 30,000-franc notes were handed over by the Banque Générale de Belgique to one Louis Jeunet in payment of a cheque signed by Maurice Belloir.
Opening the door to leave the telephone booth, Maigret saw that Van Damme, unaware that he was being observed, had allowed himself to drop his mask – and now seemed deflated and, above all, less glowing with health and optimism.
He must have felt those watchful eyes on him, however, for he shuddered, automatically becoming the jovial businessman once again.
‘We’re set, then?’ he called out. ‘You’re coming with me? Patron! Would you arrange for us to be picked up here by car and driven to Paris? A comfortable car! See to it, will you? And in the meantime, let’s have another.’
He chewed on the end of his cigar and just for an instant, as he stared down at the marble table, his eyes lost their lustre, while the corners of his mouth drooped as if the tobacco had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
‘It’s when you live abroad that you really appreciate the wines and liqueurs of France!’
His words rang hollow, echoing in the abyss lying between them and the man’s troubled mind.
Jef Lombard went by in the street, his silhouette slightly blurred by the tulle curtains. He was alone. He walked with long strides, slowly and sadly, seeing nothing of the city all around him.
He was carrying an overnight bag, and Maigret found himself thinking about those two yellow suitcases … Lombard’s was of better quality, though, with two straps and a sleeve for a calling card. The man’s shoe heels were starting to wear down on one side, and his clothes did not look as if anyone brushed them regularly. Jef Lombard was walking all the way to the station.
Van Damme, sporting a large platinum signet ring on one finger, was wreathing himself in a fragrant cloud of cigar smoke heightened by the alcohol’s sharp bouquet. Off in the background, the proprietor could be heard on the phone, arranging for the car.
Belloir was probably setting out from his new house for the marble portal of the bank, while his wife took their son for a walk along the avenues. Everyone would wish Belloir a good afternoon. His father-in-law was the biggest businessman around. His brothers-in-law were ‘in industry’. A bright future lay ahead of him.
As for Janin, with his black goatee and his artistic lavallière bow tie, he was on his way to Paris – in third class, Maigret would have bet on it.
And down at the bottom of the heap was the pale traveller of Neuschanz and Bremen, the husband of the herbalist in Rue Picpus, the milling machine operator from Rue de la Roquette, the solitary drinker who went to gaze at his wife through the shop window, sent himself banknotes as if they were a package of old newspapers, bought sausages in rolls at a station buffet and shot himself in the mouth because he’d been robbed of an old suit that wasn’t even his.
‘Ready, inspector?’
Maigret flinched and stared in confusion at Van Damme, his gaze so vacant that the other man tried uneasily to laugh and botched it, stammering, ‘Were you daydreaming? Wherever you were, it was far away … I suspect it’s that suicide of yours you’re still worried about.’
Not entirely. When startled from his reverie, Maigret – and even he did not know why – had been concentrating on an unusual list, counting up the children involved in this case: one in Rue Picpus, a small figure between his mother and grandmother in a shop smelling of mint and rubber; one in Rheims, who was learning to hold his elbow up by his chin while drawing his bow across the strings of a violin; two in Liège, in the home of Jef Lombard, where a third was on the way …
‘One last Armagnac, what do you say?’
‘Thank you: I’ve had enough.’
‘Come on! We’ll have a stirrup cup, or in our case one for the road!’
Only Joseph Van Damme laughed, as he constantly felt he must, like a little boy so afraid to go down into the cellar that he tries to whistle up some courage.
5. Breakdown at Luzancy
As they drove at a fast clip through the gathering dusk, there was hardly a moment’s silence. Joseph Van Damme was never at a loss for words and, fuelled by the Armagnac, he managed to keep up a stream of convivial patter. The vehicle was an old sedan, a saloon car with worn cushions, flower holders and marquetry side pockets. The driver was wearing a trench coat, with a knitted scarf around his neck.
They had been driving for about two hours when the driver pulled over to the side of the road and stopped at least a kilometre from a village, a few lights of which gleamed in the misty evening.
After inspecting the rear wheels
, the driver informed his passengers that he had found a flat tyre, which it would take him fifteen minutes or so to repair.
The two men got out. The driver was already settling a jack under the rear axle and assured them that he did not need any help.
Was it Maigret or Van Damme who suggested a short walk? Neither of them, actually; it seemed only natural for them to walk a little way along the road, where they noticed a path leading down to the rushing waters of a river.
‘Look! The Marne!’ said Van Damme. ‘It’s in spate …’
As they strolled slowly along the little path, smoking their cigars, they heard a noise that puzzled them until they reached the riverbank.
A hundred metres away, across the water, they saw the lock at Luzancy: its gates were closed, and there was no one around. Right at their feet was a dam, with its milky overspill, churning waters and powerful current. The Marne was running high.
In the darkness they could just make out branches, perhaps entire trees, smashing repeatedly into the barrier until swept at last over its edge.
The only light came from the lock, on the far side of the river.
Joseph Van Damme kept talking away.
‘Every year the Germans make tremendous efforts to harness the energy of rivers, and the Russians are right behind them: in the Ukraine they’re constructing a dam that’ll cost 120 million dollars but will provide electricity to three provinces.’
It was almost unnoticeable, the way his voice faltered – briefly – at the word electricity. And then, coughing, Van Damme had to take out his handkerchief to blow his nose.
They were on the very brink of the river. Shoved suddenly from behind, Maigret lost his balance, turning as he fell forwards, and grabbed the edge of the grassy riverbank with both hands, his feet now in the water, while his hat was already plunging over the dam.
The rest happened quickly, for he had been expecting that push. Clods of earth were giving way under his right hand, but he had spotted a branch sturdy enough for him to cling to with his other hand.
Only seconds later, he was on his knees on the towpath and then on his feet, shouting at a figure fading away.
‘Stop!’
It was strange: Van Damme didn’t dare run. He was heading towards the car in only a modest hurry and kept looking back, his legs wobbly with shock.
And he allowed himself to be overtaken. With his head down and pulled like a turtle’s into the collar of his overcoat, he simply swung his fist once through the air, in rage, as if he were pounding on an imaginary table and growled through clenched teeth, ‘Idiot!’
Just to be safe, Maigret had brought out his revolver. Gun in hand, without taking his eyes off the other man, he shook the legs of his trousers, soaked to the knees, while water spurted from his shoes.
Back at the road, the driver was tapping on the horn to let them know that the car was roadworthy again.
‘Let’s go!’ said the inspector.
And they took their same seats in the car, in silence. Van Damme still had his cigar between his teeth but he would not meet Maigret’s eyes.
Ten kilometres. Twenty kilometres. They slowed down to go through a town, where people were going about their business in the lighted streets. Then it was back to the highway.
‘You still can’t arrest me, though,’ said Van Damme abruptly, and Maigret started with surprise. And yet these words – so unexpected, spoken so slowly, even stubbornly – had echoed his own misgivings …
They reached Meaux. Countryside gave way to the outer suburbs. A light rain began to fall, and whenever the car passed a streetlamp, each drop became a star. Then the inspector leaned forwards to speak into the voice-pipe.
‘You’re to take us to the Police Judiciaire, Quai des Orfèvres.’
He filled a pipe he could not smoke because his matches were now wet. Van Damme’s face was almost completely turned away from him and further obscured in the dim light, but he could sense the man’s fury.
There was now a hard edge to the atmosphere, something rancorous and intense.
Maigret himself had his chin thrust out belligerently.
This tension led to a ridiculous incident after the car pulled up in front of the Préfecture and the men got out, the inspector first.
‘Come along!’
The driver was waiting to be paid, but Van Damme was ignoring him. There was a moment of hesitation, indecision.
‘Well?’ said Maigret, not unaware of the absurdity of the situation. ‘You’re the one who hired the car.’
‘Pardon me: if I travelled as your prisoner, it’s up to you to pay.’
A small matter, but didn’t it show how much had happened since Rheims and, most importantly, how much the Belgian businessman had changed?
Maigret paid and silently showed Van Damme to his office. After closing the door behind him, the first thing he did was to stir up the fire in the stove.
Next he took some clothing from a cupboard and, without a glance at the other man, changed his trousers, shoes and socks and placed his damp things near the stove to dry.
Van Damme had sat down without waiting to be asked. In the bright light, the change in him was even more striking: he’d left his bogus bonhomie, his open manner and somewhat strained smile back at Luzancy and now, with a grim and cunning look, he was waiting.
Pretending to pay him no attention, Maigret kept busy for a little while around his office, organizing dossiers, telephoning his boss for some information that had nothing to do with the current case.
Finally, he went over to confront Van Damme.
‘When, where and how did you first meet the man who committed suicide in Bremen and who was travelling with a passport in the name of Louis Jeunet?’
The other man flinched almost imperceptibly but faced his challenger with bold composure.
‘Why am I here?’
‘You refuse to answer my question?’
Van Damme laughed, but now his laughter was cold and sarcastic.
‘I know the law as well as you do, inspector. Either you charge me and must show me the arrest warrant, or you don’t charge me and I don’t have to answer you. And in the first case, the law allows me to wait for the assistance of a lawyer before speaking to you.’
Maigret did not seem angry or even annoyed by the man’s attitude. On the contrary! He studied him with curiosity and perhaps a certain satisfaction.
Thanks to the incident at Luzancy, Joseph Van Damme had been forced to abandon his play-acting and the pretence he had kept up not only with Maigret, but with everyone else and even, in the end, with himself.
There was almost nothing left of the jolly, shallow businessman from Bremen, constantly on the go between his modern office and the finest taverns and restaurants. Gone was the happy-go-lucky operator raking in money with zestful energy and a taste for the good life. All that remained was a haggard face drained of colour, and it was uncanny how quickly dark, puffy circles seemed to have appeared under his eyes.
Only an hour earlier, hadn’t Van Damme still been a free man who, although he did have something on his conscience, yet enjoyed the self-assurance guaranteed by his broker’s licence, his reputation, his money and his shrewdness?
And he himself had emphasized this change.
In Rheims, he was used to standing round after round of drinks. He offered his guests the finest cigars. He had only to give an order, and a café proprietor would hasten to curry favour, phoning a garage to hire their most comfortable car.
He was somebody!
In Paris? He had refused to pay for the trip. He invoked the law. He appeared ready to argue, to defend himself at every turn, fiercely, like a man fighting for his life.
And he was furious with himself! His angry exclamation after what had happened on the bank of the Marne was proof of that. There had been no premeditation. He hadn’t known the driver. Even when they had stopped for the flat tyre, he hadn’t immediately realized how that might work to his advantage.
> Only when they had reached the water … The swirling current, the trees swept by as if they were simply dead leaves … Like a fool, without thinking twice, he’d given that push with his shoulder.
Now he was beside himself. He was sure that the inspector had been waiting for that move! He probably even realized that he was done for – and was all the more determined to strike back with everything he had.
When he went to light a new cigar, Maigret snatched it from his mouth, tossed it into the coal scuttle – and for good measure removed the hat Van Damme hadn’t bothered to take off.
‘For your information,’ said the Belgian, ‘I have business to attend to. If you do not mean to officially arrest me in accordance with the regulations, I must ask you to be good enough to release me. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to file a complaint for false imprisonment.
‘With regard to your little dip in the river, I might as well tell you that I’ll deny everything: the towpath was soggy and you slipped in the mud. The driver will confirm that I never tried to run away, as I would have if I’d really tried to drown you.
‘As for the rest, I still don’t know what you might have against me. I came to Paris on business and I can prove that. Then I went to Rheims to see an old friend, an upstanding citizen like myself.
‘After meeting you in Bremen, where we don’t often see Frenchmen, I was trusting enough to consider you a friend, taking you out for dinner and drinks and then offering you a ride back to Paris.
‘You showed me and my friends the photograph of a man we do not know. A man who killed himself! That’s been materially proved. No one has lodged a complaint, so you have no grounds for taking action.
‘And that’s all I have to say to you.’
Maigret stuck a twist of paper into the stove, lit his pipe and remarked, almost as an afterthought, ‘You’re perfectly free to go.’
He could not help smiling to see Van Damme so dumbfounded by his suspiciously easy victory.
‘What do you mean?’
The Hanged Man of Saint-Pholien Page 5