The grey-blue marble bathroom was in a mess, as if it had just been used in haste. The bottle of brandy and a glass were still on one of the shelves.
Dresses, coats and suits in the closet and, on special shelving, thirty or forty pairs of shoes.
‘Do you know how your husband died?’
Her mouth set tight, she looked at him without answering.
‘He was hit over the head with a heavy object, most likely a tyre iron. He wasn’t hit once but a dozen times, and his skull was literally fractured into tiny pieces.’
She didn’t move a muscle. She stood there frozen, gazing at Maigret, and at that moment, anyone would have taken her for a madwoman.
5.
Maigret stopped at the concierge’s lodge.
‘Tell me, when he got married, Sabin-Levesque had a dog, didn’t he?’
‘A beautiful Alsatian, which he adored, and the dog loved him too.’
‘Did it die?’
‘No. A few days after they got back from Cannes, where they spent their honeymoon, they gave it away …’
‘Did you find that strange?’
‘Apparently the dog snarled every time Madame Sabin-Levesque went near it. Once, it even made to bite her and ripped the hem of her dress. She was very scared of it. She made her husband get rid of the animal.’
Once in his office, Maigret sent for the photographer from Criminal Records. First, he showed him the photo of the couple, in Cannes, with the dog.
‘Can you enlarge this print?’
‘The result won’t be brilliant, but the people will be recognizable …’
‘What about this one?’
It was the passport photo.
‘I’ll do my best. When do you want them for?’
‘Tomorrow morning …’
The photographer sighed. With Maigret, everything was always urgent. He was long used to it.
Madame Maigret glanced anxiously at her husband as she always did when he was conducting a difficult investigation. She wasn’t surprised by his silence or by his ill-humour. It was as though, once home, he didn’t know what to do with himself.
He ate absent-mindedly and his wife would ask with a smile:
‘Are you here?’
Because his mind was elsewhere. She remembered a conversation between the two men, one evening when they’d been having dinner at Doctor Pardon’s.
‘There’s one thing,’ Pardon had said, ‘that I find hard to understand. You’re the exact opposite of a law enforcer. One might even say, when you arrest a wrongdoer, that you are sorry.’
‘Yes, that is sometimes true.’
‘And yet you take your investigations to heart as if you are personally involved …’
And Maigret had merely replied:
‘Because each time I am caught up in a human experience. When you’re called out to the bedside of an unknown patient, don’t you feel personally involved too? Don’t you fight against death as if the patient were someone dear to you?’
He was tired and dejected. Admittedly, the sight of the body at the Grenelle docks was enough to turn the stomach even of a forensic pathologist.
Maigret had grown fond of Sabin-Levesque, even though he’d never met him. He’d had a friend, at school, who had a similar character. Outwardly he was light-hearted and carefree. In class, he was the most disruptive pupil, interrupting the teacher or doodling in the margins of his exercise books.
When he was sent out of the classroom for an hour, he would press his nose to the window and make funny faces.
But the teachers didn’t hold it against him, and they ended up laughing. Admittedly, in the exams, he was always in the top three.
The lawyer, who once led a playboy existence, had suddenly married. Why? Had he fallen head over heels in love? Had Nathalie, who called herself Trika, operated with extraordinary cunning?
What had she been hoping for? A society life, a luxurious apartment, travel, visits to fashionable resorts?
A moment had come, after around three months of conjugal life, when Sabin-Levesque had started going out again.
Why?
Maigret asked himself the question and couldn’t find a satisfactory answer. Had she gradually shown herself as she was now? Peace had ceased to reign and, later, they would no longer speak to each other.
Neither of them had requested a divorce.
Maigret ended up dropping off, his head full of question marks. When he got up, after drinking the first cup of coffee his wife brought him in bed, a fine drizzle was falling outside.
‘Have you got a busy day ahead?’
‘I don’t know. I never know what’s in store for me.’
He took a taxi. That was a sign. He usually took the bus or the Métro.
The photographs were waiting on his desk and they were unexpectedly clear. He took one of each and headed for Peretti’s office, at the other end of the corridor. Peretti was head of the Vice Squad and was the only chief inspector to wear a gold ring set with a yellow diamond, as if the people he mingled with in the line of duty had rubbed off on him.
He was a good-looking man, still young, with very black hair and a flamboyant taste in clothes.
‘Well, hello! I haven’t seen you for a long time.’
It was true. Their offices were on the same corridor, but their paths rarely crossed. When they did it was mainly at the Brasserie Dauphine.
‘I don’t suppose you recognize this person?’
Peretti examined the enlarged portrait of Nathalie and went over to the window to see it in the light.
‘Isn’t that the wife of the lawyer whose photo was in the papers yesterday, when she was younger?’
‘That’s her, a little over fifteen years ago … Here she is with her husband, a few weeks or a few months later …’
Peretti studied the Cannes photo just as closely.
‘Neither of them rings any bells …’
‘As I expected. But that’s not all. I had my men draw up a list of all the nightclubs in Paris. Here’s a copy. Are there any that still have the same owner as in those days? I’m particularly interested in the eighth arrondissement and around there.’
Peretti looked at the list.
‘Most of these clubs didn’t exist fifteen years ago. Fashions change. There was a period when Montmartre was the centre of night life. Then there was Saint-Germain-des-Prés …
‘Hold on … The Ciel de Lit, Rue de Ponthieu … It was and still is run by a charming scoundrel who’s never been in trouble with the law …’
‘Any others?’
‘Chez Mademoiselle, Avenue de la Grande-Armée. A very stylish place, owned by a woman, Blanche Bonnard. She must be over fifty, but she’s in good shape. She has another club in Montmartre, Rue Fontaine, a less classy joint: the Doux Frisson …’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘Her apartment is on Avenue de Wagram and I’ve heard she spent a small fortune on it …’
‘I’ll leave the list with you, I have other copies. If by chance something occurs to you …
‘I forgot to ask where the owner of the Ciel de Lit lives …’
‘Marcel Lenoir? In the same building as his club, on the third or fourth floor. I’ve had to search his place for drugs …’
‘Thanks.’
‘Your investigation?’
‘So-so …’
Maigret went back to his office. He attended the morning briefing as usual, and, looking at the superintendent in his chair, he said to himself that he could have been sitting there in a month’s time.
‘This lawyer business, Maigret?’
The other divisional chiefs were there, each with their case files.
‘I haven’t made any headway. I’m gathering information which may or may never be useful …’
He had the enlarged photo of Nathalie sent to the newspapers, with the caption: ‘Madame Sabin-Levesque, at the age of twenty’.
Then he went up to Records to find out whether there was a file under her name or under that of Trika. There was nothing. She didn’t have a criminal record and she’d never been arrested for any reason.
‘Will you drive me to Rue de Ponthieu?’
It was Lapointe who chauffeured him around, or Janvier, because Maigret had never sat at the wheel of a car. He had bought one recently, so they could get to their little house in Meung-sur Loire on Saturday evenings or Sunday mornings, but Madame Maigret was the one who drove.
‘Anything new, chief?’
‘We’re going to see the owner of a nightclub. He’s been running it for over twenty years.’
The club’s shutters were closed, but outside were photos of semi-naked women in a large frame.
They walked in through the main entrance. The concierge sent them up to the third floor, left-hand apartment. A little maid of dubious cleanliness opened the door.
‘Monsieur Lenoir? … I don’t know if he can see you now … He’s just got up and is in the middle of his breakfast …’
‘Tell him it’s Detective Chief Inspector Maigret …’
A moment later, Lenoir came to greet his visitors in the passage. He was enormous, very fat, and he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken. He was wearing an old burgundy dressing gown over faded pyjamas.
‘To what do I owe the honour—?’
‘It’s not a question of honour. Carry on eating …’
‘I’m sorry to receive you like this …’
Lenoir was an old rogue who, twenty-five years earlier, had run a brothel. He must be around sixty now, but unshaven, his eyes still sleepy, he looked older.
‘Please come this way …’
The apartment was as ill-kempt as its occupant and there was a mess everywhere. They went into a little dining room whose window overlooked the street.
One soft-boiled egg had been shelled, and Lenoir sliced the top off a second.
‘In the mornings, I need to put myself to rights …’
He drank black coffee and there were cigarette butts in the ashtray.
‘So, what do you say?’
‘I’d like to show you a photo and ask you if it reminds you of anything …’
He held out the enlarged portrait of Nathalie.
‘I know that face from somewhere … What’s her name?’
‘At that time, around fifteen years ago, she called herself Trika …’
‘They all choose the most ridiculous pseudonyms … Trika …’
‘Do you recognize her?’
‘No, to be honest …’
‘Might you be able to find her name in your books?’
Lenoir ate messily and had egg yolk on his chin and on his dressing-gown lapel.
‘Do you think I keep a register with the names of all the girls who pass through my club? … These women come and go … A lot of them get married and people would be surprised to learn how many do very well for themselves … I had one who became a duchess, in England …’
‘Do you not keep their photographs either?’
‘They nearly all ask for them back when they leave … The others I tear up and throw away …’
‘Thank you, Lenoir.’
‘My pleasure …’
He stood up, his mouth full, and showed them out to the landing.
‘31, Avenue de Wagram …’
It was an elegant building, home to, among others, two doctors, a dentist and a financial adviser.
‘Who shall I say is asking?’ inquired the servant girl, dressed like a stage maid.
‘Maigret.’
‘The detective?’
‘Yes.’
Blanche Bonnard wasn’t having her breakfast but was on the telephone. Her voice could be heard coming from one of the rooms:
‘Yes … Yes … My dear, I can’t commit just like that … I need more detailed information and a report from my architect … Yes … No, I don’t know how long that’ll take me … Will I see you tonight at the club? … As you wish … Bye …’
She came to greet them and her footsteps were muffled by the carpet scattered with brightly coloured rugs. She gazed steadily at Maigret and glanced only briefly at Lapointe.
‘You’re lucky I’m up and about. I’m normally a late riser, but today I have an appointment with my business adviser … Come …’
The sitting room was plush, too plush for Maigret’s taste. Like Lenoir, the woman must have been over fifty, but she still looked good, even in her casual morning wear. She was fat but agreeably well-proportioned, and she had very beautiful eyes.
‘The Sabin-Levesque case, I suppose? I was expecting you sooner or later but I didn’t think you’d be so quick …’
She lit a gilt-tipped cigarette.
‘You may smoke … It doesn’t even bother my parrot … When I saw the photograph in the papers yesterday, it gave me a jolt, and I checked to make sure I wasn’t mistaken …’
‘Did you know Madame Sabin-Levesque when she went by the name of Trika?’
‘Did I know her!’
She got up and went into another room, and returned with a huge album.
‘Seeing as I don’t have a very good memory, I keep everything. I have five albums like this, filled with photos … Here …’
She handed the open album to Maigret. On the right-hand page there was one of those typical nightclub portraits.
It was definitely Nathalie, still very young, looking innocent and spontaneous. She wore a very low-cut dress that revealed her cleavage.
Beside her, leaning over slightly, was Sabin-Levesque … On the table, a champagne bucket and a bottle.
‘This is where he met her … She’d been a hostess for around two months—’
‘Do you know where she came from?’
‘Yes. From Nice, where she’d worked in a fairly seedy club.’
‘Did she confide in you?’
‘They all confide in me. Most of them are lonely, with no one they can talk to … So they turn to Mama Blanche … Can I offer you something? … I don’t drink much, but it’s time for my port.’
It was port of excellent quality, the likes of which Maigret had rarely tasted.
‘Her surname was Frassier and her father died when she was fifteen. He was a book-keeper or something like that … Her mother was the daughter of a Russian count, and she liked everyone to know it … You see, I do remember things after all …
‘In my club, she always sat at the same table. The clients were intimidated by her youth and innocence. They were quite tentative in approaching her. She smiled sweetly at them but remained aloof …
‘She rarely went out with anyone. I don’t think it happened more than three times …’
‘Did she have a regular lover?’
‘No. She lived alone in a little hotel room not far from here, in Rue Brey. I was fond of her, but at the same time I couldn’t completely understand her …
‘One evening, Gérard Sabin-Levesque came in … or rather Monsieur Charles, which is the name we all knew him by … He’d been before, a long time previously … He liked gentle, quiet women and he noticed Trika right away … He went over and sat down at her table … I imagine he asked her to go off with him and she said no …
‘He returned every night for more than a week, before he managed to persuade her to leave with him. She left some things here. Two dresses, underwear, little personal knick-knacks …
‘After a few days, she came back to collect her belongings.
‘“The love of your life?” I asked her.
‘She looked at me without answering.
‘“Has he set you up with a place
?”
‘“There’s nothing definite yet …”
‘She kissed me on both cheeks and thanked me, and that was the last I saw of her.
‘Two months later, though, a wedding photo was published in Le Figaro. Trika wore a wedding dress, and her husband was in tails.
‘This morning, Monsieur Gérard Sabin-Levesque, the renowned lawyer of Boulevard Saint-Germain, married …’
Maigret and Lapointe exchanged looks. What were they to make of this story? The little girl from Quimper, the hostess in a dubious club in Nice, and then at Chez Mademoiselle, had become the wife of one of the best-known and wealthiest lawyers in Paris.
Gérard’s father was still alive at the time, a man of principles. What had he said about this union? And had the three people who lived on the same floor got on together?
After three months, Gérard had already gone back to his old habit of occasionally disappearing for a few days.
Had Nathalie started drinking then? And did she spend most of her time in her apartment?
The years passed and she drank more and more. The lawyer had given up on the idea of married life. They’d become strangers to each other, if not enemies.
‘And now she’s free … Free and wealthy … That niggles you, doesn’t it, inspector?’
‘The papers didn’t tell the full story. Sabin-Levesque received at least ten blows to the head from a heavy object and his skull is in smithereens …’
‘Do you think a woman could have done that?’
‘There are times when women can be as strong as men, if not stronger … Supposing she were guilty, where would the murder have been committed? … In their apartment? … He lost a lot of blood … There’d be bloodstains, and she’s clever enough to know it …
‘And besides, how would she have transported the body to the Seine? How would she have got him downstairs to the car and put him inside?’
‘Of course … The killer could be some thug who attacked him in an empty street.’
‘His wallet is untouched and contained over fifteen hundred francs.’
‘Revenge?’
‘By whom?’
Maigret and Monsieur Charles Page 9