‘Wait for me. I shan’t be long.’
He went into the concierge’s lodge, which was a sort of small sitting room. The concierge wasn’t a woman but a white-haired man.
‘Maître d’Argens, please?’
‘He died at least ten years ago.’
‘Were you already working here?’
‘I’ve been here for thirty years.’
‘Who took over his practice?’
‘Not a lawyer but an architect, Monsieur Mage.’
‘Did he keep some of the staff on?’
‘Monsieur d’Argens only had an elderly secretary who took retirement and went back to her home town.’
‘Did you know a Mademoiselle Frassier?’
‘A pretty brunette, always restless …? She worked for Maître d’Argens over twenty years ago … She only stayed for a year because she didn’t like the job, and I don’t know what became of her …’
Maigret, his brow troubled, returned to his taxi. Admittedly, this was only the start of the investigation, but it did not bode well, with so little to go on. Furthermore, he had to act with discretion, because Monsieur Sabin-Levesque could well reappear at any moment.
The sun had gone down behind the buildings. The air was chilly and Maigret regretted leaving his spring coat at the office.
He had the taxi drop him off at the corner of Quai des Orfèvres and Boulevard du Palais because he felt like another glass of beer.
He was still thinking about Nathalie, the strange Madame Sabin-Levesque, and he had a hunch that she knew a lot more than she was telling him.
Back in his office, he filled one of his pipes and went over to the door into the inspectors’ office. Lapointe was typing. Janvier was looking out of the window. Lucas was busy on the phone.
‘Janvier … Lapointe … Come into my office, will you …’
Janvier too was gradually becoming more experienced and was developing a paunch.
‘Are you free, Janvier?’
‘Nothing important at the moment. I’ve finished with the young car thief …’
‘Have you got the energy to spend the night outdoors?’
‘Why not?’
‘Go to Boulevard Saint-Germain as soon as you can and watch number 207a … If the woman matching the description I’m about to give you leaves the building, follow her … You’d better take a car …
‘She has dark hair, is fairly tall and very thin, with staring eyes and a nervous twitch … If she leaves the building, it will probably be on foot, even though she has a chauffeur and two cars … One’s a Bentley and the other a Fiat …
‘Tell Lourtie to relieve you tomorrow morning and pass on the instructions …’
‘How is she dressed?’
‘When she came here, she was wearing a fur coat, mink most likely.’
‘All right, chief.’
Janvier went out and Maigret turned to Lapointe.
‘What about you? No news?’
Lapointe blushed and stammered, without looking directly at Maigret.
‘Yes … A phone call … A few minutes ago …’
‘From whom?’
‘The woman from this morning.’
‘What did she want?’
‘First of all she asked if you were here … I said no. She sounded completely drunk.
‘“So who am I speaking to, then?” she said.
‘“Inspector Lapointe.”
‘“That’s not the young pup from earlier who was writing down everything I said?”
‘“Yes it is.”
‘“Well, tell the detective chief inspector from me he can go to hell … and the same to you …”’
Lapointe added, still embarrassed:
‘I could hear what sounded like a struggle.
‘“Leave me alone, damn you …”
‘Someone must have grabbed the phone from her hands, because the line went dead.’
Before leaving the Police Judiciaire, Maigret said to Lapointe:
‘I’d like you to come and pick me up from my place with one of the cars, at eleven o’clock …’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘Tonight. I fancy sniffing around a few nightclubs.’
Madame Maigret had set aside the herrings, which he loved, and he savoured them as he absently watched the news on the television. From his face, she guessed that the case in hand was no run-of-the-mill investigation and that it was preoccupying him, that he was almost making it a personal mission.
It was true. That day, that mild, clear 21st of March, he had been plunged into a world that was foreign to him; above all he’d found himself faced with a type of woman he had never met before and who disconcerted him.
‘Take out a dark suit for me, my best one.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Lapointe is coming to pick me up at eleven. He and I have to visit a couple of nightclubs.’
‘That’ll cheer you up, won’t it?’
‘If I can find answers to my questions …’
Ensconced in his armchair, he snoozed in front of the television and, at half past ten, his wife brought him a cup of coffee.
‘If you have to stay awake all night …’
He lit a pipe first, and then sipped his coffee. For him, coffee and pipe went hand in hand.
He freshened up in the bathroom, then changed, as if his appearance might be of importance. A part of him was still stuck in the days when people dressed up to go to the opera and wore a dinner-jacket to go to a nightclub.
It was five to eleven. He thought he heard a car pulling up. He opened the window and saw, parked at the kerb, one of the little black cars belonging to the Police Judiciaire with a lanky figure at the wheel.
He kissed Madame Maigret and headed for the door, grumpy but deep down very pleased not to be the head of the Police Judiciaire.
‘Don’t wait up for me, whatever you do.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sleepy.’
The air wasn’t too cold and the moon was rising over the chimneys. There were still a lot of windows lit up and some of them were open.
‘Where are we going, chief?’
Maigret pulled from his pocket the old envelope on which he’d written down the addresses he’d found in the telephone directory.
‘Do you know the Chat Botté?’
‘No.’
‘It’s in Rue du Colisée …’
On the Champs-Élysées, they followed the two lanes of cars with their lights on that flowed between the rows of neon signs. A doorman with as many stripes as an general stood outside the nightclub. He greeted them with a military salute and opened the double door for them. They went through a thick red curtain and handed their hats and coats to the cloakroom attendant.
The pianist was idly tinkling on the keys, the guitarist was tuning his instrument and, for the time being, no one was at the double bass.
The room was red. Everything was red – the walls, the ceilings, the upholstery – an orangey red which, overall, was not aggressive but rather cheerful. The bar, in contrast, was in white stucco and the bartender was drying glasses which he put on the shelves behind him.
The maître d’ came over to them without much conviction. Perhaps he’d recognized Maigret? Perhaps the two men didn’t look like genuine punters?
Maigret waved him away and headed for the bar. Three women were seated at different tables while, at another, a couple appeared to be arguing. It was too early. Things would only begin to get going around midnight.
‘Good evening, gentlemen … What would you like to drink?’
The bartender had silver hair and a distinguished appearance. He looked at them with feigned indifference.
‘I don’t suppose you serve beer?’
‘No, Monsieur Maigret.’
&n
bsp; ‘Give us whatever you like …’
‘Dry Martini?’
‘Fine …’
One of the women came and sat on a stool at the bar, but the silver-haired bartender discreetly signalled to her and she went back to her table.
After pouring their drinks, he asked:
‘Well?’
Maigret smiled.
‘I admit,’ he said, ‘we’re not here to have fun. Nor are we here to cause you trouble … It’s information I’m after …’
‘If I can be of any help, it will be a pleasure …’
A kind of understanding had developed between them. The difficulty, for Maigret, was to describe a man he had never seen.
‘Of average height, or rather slightly shorter than average. In his early forties … Tubby and already paunchy … Fair hair, getting a bit thin, and a chubby face … He dresses very tastefully, nearly always in beige tones—’
‘Are you looking for him?’
‘I’d like to track him down.’
‘Has he gone missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘What offence has he committed?’
‘None.’
‘That could be Monsieur Charles …’
‘Does he match the description?’
‘More or less … Very cheerful, isn’t he? … Always happy …?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Don’t you know him?’
‘No.’
‘He comes here every so often and sits at the bar, orders a bottle of champagne … Then he looks around the room, examining the hostesses closely, one by one … He eventually makes up his mind and has the one he likes brought over to him …’
‘Does he stay late?’
‘That depends … Sometimes he leaves with the girl … Other times he just discreetly slips her a five-hundred-franc note and leaves … Probably to go and look elsewhere …’
‘How long is it since you last saw him?’
‘Quite a while … Six weeks, maybe … Or even two months …’
‘When he left with one of the women, would she be off work for several days?’
‘Keep your voice down. The boss doesn’t like that. And he’s over there on the floor …’
A man in a dinner-jacket, Italian-looking, with waved hair and a thin moustache. He was watching them from a distance. He too had probably recognized Maigret.
‘In theory, the hostesses aren’t allowed to leave before closing time …’
‘I know … I am also aware that the rules aren’t always enforced … Are there any young women here who have gone off with him on occasion?’
‘Martine, I think … If you want to talk to her, you’d do best to go and sit at her table … I’ll send over a bottle …’
The young woman with loose, shoulder-length hair gazed at them with curiosity.
A few customers had arrived, some with their wives, and the band was playing a blues number.
‘Have you ordered drinks?’ she asked.
‘The bartender ordered for us,’ grunted Maigret, thinking of the problem he was going to have with his expenses claim.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘No.’
‘Do you want me to call one of my friends over?’
The boss, standing close to the table, said to her:
‘Watch out, Martine. They’re police.’
‘Is it true?’ she asked Maigret.
‘It’s true.’
‘Why do you want to talk to me?’
‘Because you have been out with Monsieur Charles.’
‘And is there any harm in that?’
She wasn’t being defiant. She carried on talking in a sweet, soft voice, and seemed to find the whole thing amusing.
‘No. It so happens that Monsieur Charles has been missing for a month. Since the 18th of February to be precise. Have you seen him since that date?’
‘Actually I was surprised that he’d stopped coming and I mentioned it to one of my friends …’
‘What do you think of him?’
‘His name isn’t Charles, obviously. He must be some big shot who has to keep his real identity secret when he wants to have a bit of fun. He’s very elegant, very meticulous. I told him he had a woman’s hands, they were so well manicured—’
‘Where did you go with him?’
‘I thought he was going to take me to a hotel, but he asked if we could go to my place … I have a nice studio apartment on Avenue de la Grande-Armée … I don’t entertain anyone there … Besides, I very rarely agree to go out with a customer … People think that’s what the hostesses are there for, but it’s not true …’
The champagne was poured and she raised her glass.
‘To Monsieur Charles, because it’s thanks to him that you’re here. I hope nothing’s happened to him …’
‘We don’t know. He’s simply gone missing …’
‘Is it his wife who’s worried? She’s mad, isn’t she?’
‘Did he talk to you about her?’
‘We spent four days together … He was funny, because he insisted on helping me with the cooking and washing-up … From time to time, he’d tell me about himself, always quite vaguely …
‘I won’t ask you who he is …’
‘A big shot, as you guessed …’
‘Does he live in Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I suppose that from time to time he goes off on a little jaunt?’
‘Exactly … Four, five days, a week …’
‘I phoned the boss, Monsieur Mazotti, to tell him I was ill, but he probably didn’t believe me … When I came back to work, he was sulking …’
‘How long ago was this fling you’re talking about?’
‘Two months? Perhaps a bit longer …’
‘Had he never come to Rue du Colisée before?’
‘I had occasionally spotted him at the bar … But he couldn’t have found what he was looking for, because he left alone …’
‘Did he visit other clubs?’
‘He didn’t tell me, but I assume he did.’
‘Did he have a car?’
‘No. We walked to my place arm in arm. He was very cheerful …’
‘Did he drink a lot?’
‘Not what you’d call a lot. Just enough to make him tipsy …’
‘He didn’t mention that he had a bachelor pad in town?’
‘Did he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No. He wanted to come to my place … During those four days, we lived like a pair of old lovers … He’d watch me have my bath and get dressed … He’d lean on the window-sill when I went out to the shops and, by the time I got back, the table was laid …’
‘Can you think of anything else that might help me find him?’
‘No. I’m thinking … We went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, but the sky clouded over and we came home quite quickly … He was very—’
She stopped talking abruptly, as if prudish.
‘Go on.’
‘You’ll laugh at me … He was very affectionate, full of little attentions, like a man in love … When he left, he slipped a cheque into my hand … Are you leaving so soon?’
Mazotti, the owner, was waiting for them by the red curtain concealing the door.
‘Have you found what you were looking for, inspector?’
‘Martine will tell you. Goodnight.’
They were getting a clearer idea of Sabin-Levesque’s character, and Maigret had learned more about him than from his wife or from his chief clerk.
‘Shall we carry on?’ asked Lapointe.
‘While we’re about it … The Belle Hélène, Rue de Castiglione …’
This club was more sophis
ticated in appearance. The decor was entirely in pastel colours, and violins were playing a slow waltz. Here too, Maigret made his way over to the bar, followed by Lapointe. He looked at the bartender and frowned.
‘So they’ve let you out?’ he asked.
‘I was released early for good behaviour …’
He was Maurice Mocco, a Corsican gangster with an extensive criminal record.
‘What will you have, inspector? … What about you, young man? … Is he your son, Monsieur Maigret?’
‘One of my inspectors.’
‘You’re not after me, I hope?’
‘No.’
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Two beers …’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have any …’
‘Water …’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. Do you know Monsieur Charles?’
‘Which one? There are several. One of them, who’s completely bald and must be in his seventies, comes from Bordeaux for business once a week and takes the opportunity to drop in here … The other one comes less regularly … Quite short, very elegant, very pleasant, always dressed in a light-coloured suit …’
‘Tubby?’
‘You could say he’s tubby, yes …’
‘Has he ever gone off with a hostess?’
‘He generally leaves them alone, but once, he noticed one, Leila, who stopped working here a long time ago … It was last summer … They sat talking at the table in the corner, over there … Leila kept shaking her head, but he was insistent … When he left, I called her over …
‘“Who the hell is that man?” she asked me.
‘“A very respectable gentleman …”
‘“He insisted he wanted me to go and spend a few days in the country with him … At an inn … Somewhere simple, fresh air … You’ve got to be kidding!”
‘“What was he offering you in exchange?”
‘“Ten thousand at first … When he saw I wasn’t interested, he upped it to fifteen and then twenty thousand … He couldn’t believe I was saying no … To the country, no way! With all the crazy people around these days …”’
‘What became of this Leila?’
‘I think she married an engineer from Toulouse … She never came back here …’
Maigret too was in need of some fresh air, because it was suffocating in those nightclubs and the smell of the women’s perfume was making him feel sick. He and Lapointe paced up and down the empty street.
Maigret and Monsieur Charles Page 4