‘To start my career.’
‘What kind of career?’
He frowned as he looked at Maigret, as if to assure himself that there was no mockery in the inspector’s voice.
‘I’m still hesitating. Perhaps I’ll do both … I certainly want to write, but I’m not sure if it will take the form of screenplays, or whether I’ll try novels … Directing would tempt me, but only if I could have complete control over the film …’
‘You have contacts in the film industry?’
‘Through the Vieux-Pressoir, yes. You meet beginners like me there. But an important producer like Monsieur Carus isn’t too grand to have dinner with us.’
‘Who is this Monsieur Carus?’
‘A film producer, like I said. He lives in the Hotel Raphaël, and his offices are at 18A, Rue de Bassano, just off the Champs-Élysées.’
‘And he puts up the money for films?’
‘He’s done three or four. Co-productions with the Germans and Italians. He travels around a lot.’
‘And how old is this gentleman?’
‘Round about forty.’
‘Is he married?’
‘He lives with a young woman called Nora, an ex-model.’
‘Did he know your wife?’
‘Of course. This is a scene where we all know each other.’
‘Does Monsieur Carus have plenty of money?’
‘He finds enough for his films.’
‘But he doesn’t have personal wealth?’
‘Like I said, he lives in the Raphaël, he has a suite of rooms there. It must be expensive. And in the evenings, you’ll find him in the most chic nightclubs.’
‘It wasn’t by any chance him that you were looking for on the night from Wednesday to Thursday?’
Ricain blushed.
‘Yes. Well, him or somebody else. Preferably him, because he usually has bundles of notes in his pocket.’
‘Do you owe him money?’
‘Yes.’
‘A lot?’
‘Getting on for two thousand …’
‘And he hasn’t asked you to pay it back?’
‘No.’
A slight change, difficult to identify with precision, had come over the young man, and Maigret observed him more closely.
But he would have to proceed carefully, since his interviewee was always ready to go back into his shell.
3.
When Maigret stood up, Ricain gave a start and looked at him anxiously, since he always seemed to expect some blow of fate, or some betrayal. The inspector went to stand for a moment at the open window, as if to plunge back into the real world, watching the passers-by, the traffic on the Pont Saint-Michel, and a tug-boat with a large white trefoil on its funnel.
‘I’ll be right back.’
From the inspectors’ office, he called the Forensic Institute.
‘Maigret here. Could you see whether Doctor Delaplanque has finished his post-mortem?’
He waited some time before he heard the pathologist’s voice on the line.
‘Ah, good timing, inspector. I was just going to call you. Have you discovered what time the young woman had her last meal, and what it consisted of?’
‘I’ll be able to tell you that in a minute. What about the wound?’
‘As far as I can judge, the shot was fired from a distance I’d reckon as a metre to a metre and a half.’
‘From the front?’
‘From the side. The victim was standing. She must have staggered back a step or two before falling on to the carpet. The lab that checked the bloodstains can confirm that. Something else. This woman had begun a pregnancy which was terminated in the third or fourth month, rather clumsily. She was a heavy smoker, but her health generally was quite good.’
‘Can you hold on for a moment?’
He went back into his office.
‘Did you eat dinner with your wife on Wednesday night?’
‘At about half past eight at the Vieux-Pressoir.’
‘Can you remember what she had?’
‘Let me think … I wasn’t hungry. I just had some cold cuts … Sophie ordered some fish soup that Rose recommended, and then a beef stew.’
‘No dessert?’
‘No. We had a carafe of Beaujolais. I had a coffee, Sophie didn’t want any.’
Maigret went back into the next room and repeated the menu to Delaplanque.
‘If she ate at about half past eight, I can already place her death at about eleven at night, because the food was almost entirely digested. I’ll be able to tell you more after the chemical analysis, but that’ll take a few days.’
‘Did you do the paraffin test?’
‘Yes, I thought of that. No traces of gunpowder on her hands. You’ll get my preliminary report first thing in the morning.’
Maigret returned to sit behind his desk, and arranged in order of size the five or six pipes that were permanently lined up there.
‘I’ve got a few more questions I want to ask you, Ricain, but I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to do this today. You’re tired out and your nerves are under strain.’
‘I’d prefer to get it over with.’
‘As you like. To sum up, then, if I’ve understood you correctly, you’ve never had a steady job or a regular income?’
‘There must be thousands of us like that, I suppose.’
‘Who do you still owe money to?’
‘All the local traders. Some of them won’t serve us any more. I owe five hundred francs to Maki …’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A sculptor. He lives in the same building as me. He works in abstracts but now and again, to earn a bit of money, he’s willing to make a bust. He got a commission about two weeks ago. He was paid four or five thousand francs and he bought us dinner. Over dessert, I asked him if he could lend me a bit …’
‘And who else?’
‘There are plenty of people!’
‘Were you intending to pay them back?’
‘One day, I’m sure to be earning a lot of money. Most film directors and famous writers started off like me.’
‘Very well, let’s change the subject. Were you jealous?’
‘Jealous of who?’
‘I mean in relation to your wife. I presume there were times when your friends flirted with her?’
Ricain remained silent, looking embarrassed, and gave a shrug.
‘I don’t think you can understand. You’re from a different generation … Young people like us don’t regard those things as so important.’
‘Do you mean that you let her have intimate relations with other men?’
‘It’s hard to reply to such a crude question.’
‘Try, all the same.’
‘She posed naked for Maki.’
‘And nothing happened?’
‘I didn’t ask them.’
‘What about Monsieur Carus?’
‘Carus can have any girl he wants, they all want to be in films or on TV.’
‘And he takes advantage?’
‘I think so …’
‘Your wife was trying to get into films, wasn’t she?’
‘She had a part with a few lines about three months ago.’
‘So, you weren’t jealous?’
‘Not the way you think.’
‘Now, you told me that Carus has a mistress …’
‘Yes, Nora.’
‘And is she jealous?’
‘That’s not the same thing. Nora’s clever and ambitious. She doesn’t care about the cinema. All that interests her is to be Madame Carus and have plenty of money.’
‘Did she get on with your wife?’
‘As she did with everyone else. Nora looked down on all of us, men and women alike. What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you planning to interview everyone I’ve been in touch with?’
‘Possibly. Somebody killed your wife. You tell me you didn’t do it, and until I see an
y evidence to the contrary, I’m inclined to believe you.
‘Some person unknown gained entrance to your apartment on Wednesday night, when you had just gone out. This person didn’t have a key, which means that your wife let whoever it was in, unsuspectingly.’
Maigret looked seriously at the young man in front of him, who was impatiently trying to get a word in.
‘Wait! Which of your friends knew you had a gun?’
‘Most of them … Probably all of them.’
‘Did you carry it on you?’
‘No. But if I had a bit of money and invited a few friends round … I’d buy some cold meat, salmon, salad things, and everyone would bring their own bottle of wine or whisky …’
‘And what time would these little parties finish?’
‘Pretty late at night. We’d drink a lot. Someone might fall asleep and stay over until the morning … I sometimes brought out the pistol as a joke.’
‘Was it loaded?’
Ricain did not reply at once and at moments like this it was hard not to suspect him.
‘I don’t know …’
‘Look. You’re describing to me parties at night, when everyone was more or less drunk. You picked up an automatic weapon, just as a game, and now you tell me that you don’t know whether it was loaded or not. A little while ago, you said you didn’t even know where the safety catch was. You could have killed any one of your friends without meaning to.’
‘Yes, that’s possible. When you’re drunk …’
‘And were you often drunk, Ricain?’
‘Quite often. Not so that I didn’t know what I was doing, but yes, I was a heavy drinker, like most of my friends. When you meet up in cafés and nightclubs …’
‘Where did you keep this pistol?’
‘It wasn’t locked away. Just in the top drawer of the chest with a lot of old stuff, string, nails, bills, the kind of thing you shove in there.’
‘So anyone who’d been to a party at your place could have taken the gun out and used it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you suspect anyone?’
Another hesitation and an evasive expression.
‘No.’
‘Nobody was truly in love with your wife?’
‘Just me.’
Why did he say this in a sarcastic tone?
‘In love, but not jealous?’
‘I already explained …’
‘And what about Carus?’
‘I told you about him before.’
‘Maki?’
‘He’s a big brute to look at, but he’s really as mild as can be, and women scare him.’
‘Tell me about the others, the people you run round with, the ones you meet at the Vieux-Pressoir, the ones who would end up at your place when you had a bit of money.’
‘There’s Gérard Dramin. He’s a first assistant. It was with him I worked on a screenplay and I was third assistant on the film.’
‘Married?’
‘At the moment, he’s separated from his wife. Not for the first time. After a few months, they always get back together again.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Here and there, always in a hotel room. He boasts he doesn’t own anything except a suitcase and what’s inside it.’
‘Are you getting all this, Janvier?’
‘Yes, I’m keeping up, chief.’
‘Who else, Ricain?’
‘A photographer, Jacques Huguet, who lives in the same building as me, in the central block.’
‘Age?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Married?’
‘Twice. And divorced twice. He’s got one kid by the first wife and two by the second. She lives on the same floor as him.’
‘Does he live alone, then?’
‘He’s with Jocelyne now, a nice girl, who’s seven or eight months pregnant.’
‘So that’s three women. Does he still see the first two?’
‘The wives get on very well.’
‘Carry on.’
‘Carry on what?’
‘With the list of your friends, the regulars at the Vieux-Pressoir.’
‘They change, I told you. There’s Pierre Louchard …’
‘And what does he do?’
‘He’s over forty, he’s a homosexual, keeps an antique shop in Rue de Sèvres.’
‘What reason does he have to be mixed up with your group?’
‘No idea. He’s a customer at the Vieux-Pressoir. He follows us around. He doesn’t say much, just likes being with us.’
‘Do you owe him money?’
‘Not much. Three hundred and fifty francs.’
The telephone rang. Maigret picked it up.
‘Hello, chief. Lapointe wants a word with you. Shall I put him through?’
‘No, I’ll come in.’
He returned to the inspectors’ office.
‘You asked me to call you when we’d finished, chief. Lourtie and I questioned all the neighbours who might have heard anything, especially the women, because most of the men are still at work.
‘No one can remember hearing a shot. They’re used to hearing noises in the evenings from the Ricains’ apartment. Several tenants had complained to the concierge and were thinking of writing to the landlord.
‘Once, round about two in the morning, an old woman who was up at her window, because she had a toothache, saw a completely naked girl come out of the apartment and run round the courtyard, followed by a man.
‘She isn’t the only one who claims they had orgies in the Ricains’ place.’
‘Did Sophie have callers when her husband wasn’t there?’
‘You know, chief, the women I talked to weren’t too specific. The words that came up most often were: savages, badly brought-up people, no morals. And the concierge was waiting for their lease to expire to ask them to leave, because they’re six months behind with the rent, and the owner had decided to get rid of them if they didn’t pay up. What shall I do?’
‘Stay there till I join you. Keep Lourtie with you; I might need him.’
He returned to his office, where Janvier and Ricain both sat in silence.
‘Listen carefully, Ricain. As things stand at present, I don’t want the examining magistrate to bring charges against you. But I don’t imagine you’d want to go back to sleep in Rue Saint-Charles.’
‘I couldn’t …’
‘You don’t have any money. I’d rather not let you loose in Paris to go running after a friend for money again …’
‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘Inspector Janvier will take you to a modest hotel near here, on the Ile Saint-Louis. You can order something to eat through room service. On the way, you can pick up a razor, soap and a toothbrush from a chemist’s shop.’
The inspector winked at Janvier.
‘And I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave the hotel. But in any case, I should say that if you did …’
‘I’d be followed … Yes, I get it … I’m innocent …’
‘As you have said.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘It’s not my job to trust people. I like to wait and see. Goodnight.’
Once he was alone, Maigret paced round his office for a few minutes, sometimes stopping at the window. Then he picked up the phone and called his wife to say he would not be home for dinner.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the Métro and on the way to the Bir-Hakeim station. He knocked at the apartment door and Lapointe opened it.
There were still traces of formalin in the air. Lourtie, sitting in the only armchair in the room, was smoking a small but very strong cigar.
‘Want to sit here, chief?’
‘No thanks. I suppose you haven’t found anything new?’
‘Some photos. Here’s one where the Ricain couple are on the beach. Another standing by their car.’
Sophie was not at all bad-looking. She had a rather sulky expression, as was the fashion
among all the girls, and wore her hair in bouffant style. In the street, she would have been indistinguishable from thousands of others who dressed alike and struck similar poses.
‘No wine or alcohol?’
‘A bottle in the wardrobe with some dregs of whisky.’
It was an old wardrobe, of no particular style, like the chest and the chairs, but the white matt paint, contrasting with the floor and the red walls, made it look original.
Maigret, hat on head, pipe in mouth, was opening doors and drawers. Very few clothes. Three dresses in all, cheap and colourful. Some matador pants and polo-neck sweaters.
Next to the bathroom, the kitchenette was hardly more than a cupboard with a gas ring and a small refrigerator. In that he found an opened bottle of mineral water, a quarter-pound of butter, three eggs and a chop sitting in congealed sauce.
Nothing was very clean, neither the clothes, nor the kitchen, nor the bathroom, in which some underclothes were draped.
‘Has anyone phoned?’
‘Not since we’ve been here.’
The murder must have been reported in the evening papers, or would be very soon.
‘Lourtie, you’re to go and get a bite to eat and come back to settle down here as comfortably as possible. OK?’
‘Understood, chief. All right if I take a nap?’
As for Maigret and Lapointe, they were setting out on foot in search of the Vieux-Pressoir.
‘Have you arrested him, chief?’
‘No. Janvier has taken him to the Hotel des Cigognes on the Ile Saint-Louis.’
It wasn’t the first time they had lodged there someone they wanted to keep under observation.
‘Do you think he did it?’
‘He’s both clever enough and stupid enough to have done it. Then again …’
Maigret searched for words but found none. He had rarely been intrigued by anyone as much as by this François Ricain. At first sight, he was just another ambitious youngster, such as arrive every day in Paris and all capital cities.
Was he heading for failure? He was only twenty-five. Plenty of well-known men were still in their humble beginnings at his age. At times, the inspector was inclined to trust him. Then, next minute, he would be heaving a sigh of discouragement.
‘If I was his father …’
But what would he do with a son like Francis? Try to calm him down, get him back on the straight and narrow?
He’d have to go and see Ricain’s father in Montmartre. Unless he turned up at the Police Judiciaire when he saw the newspapers.
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