The Cellars of the Majestic Read online

  At the age of thirty-two, he sets sail for Guayaquil in the Republic of Ecuador, to work for an Anglo-French mining company. His job is to revise the company’s bookkeeping system, which has apparently become quite muddled.

  He is away for six years. It is there that he makes the acquaintance of Marie Deligeard, on whom we have little information, and who, in all likelihood, had exercised a none too respectable profession in South America.

  He comes back with her. The head office of the company having been transferred to London, we lack information about this period.

  For a time, the couple live a life of ease in Toulon, Cassis and Marseilles. Ramuel tries to deal in land and villas, but has little success.

  Marie Deligeard, whom he introduces as Madame Ramuel, even though they are not married, is a loud, vulgar woman who does not hesitate to cause scenes in public places and takes a wicked pleasure in being noticed.

  There are numerous quarrels between them. Occasionally Ramuel leaves his companion for several days; but she is always the one who has the last word.

  Ramuel and Marie Deligeard surface again in Paris, in a fairly comfortable rented apartment in Rue Delambre: a bedroom, a kitchen, a bathroom and an entrance hall, for a rent of eight hundred francs per month.

  Ramuel is hired as an accountant at the Atoum Bank in Rue Caumartin. (This bank is currently bankrupt, although Atoum has opened a carpet shop in Rue des Saints-Pères under the name of one of his employees.)

  It is just before this bankruptcy that Ramuel leaves the bank and, almost immediately, after reading a small ad, he applies to the Majestic as a bookkeeper.

  He has been there for three years. The management has no complaints about him. The staff do not like him, because he is excessively strict.

  On several occasions, during his quarrels with his companion, he has stayed at the hotel for several days, sleeping on a makeshift bed. Almost always, he has received telephone calls from her, or else the woman has come to the basement in person.

  He is the laughing stock of the staff, because he seems to be genuinely terrified of her.

  It should be noted that yesterday Jean Ramuel returned to his conjugal life at the apartment in Rue Delambre.

  A quarter of an hour later, the old clerk knocked softly at Maigret’s door. Not receiving any answer, he opened the door noiselessly and tiptoed in.

  Sitting back in his armchair, his waistcoat unbuttoned, an extinguished pipe in his mouth, the inspector seemed to be asleep.

  The usher was about to cough to inform him of his presence when Maigret murmured, without opening his eyes:

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A gentlemen asking to see you … Here’s his card.’

  It was as if Maigret was still reluctant to shake off his drowsiness, and it was with his eyes still closed that he held out his hand. At last, he sighed, put the visiting card down next to him and simultaneously picked up the telephone.

  ‘Shall I send him in?’

  ‘Not just yet …’

  He had barely glanced at the card:

  Étienne Jolivet, assistant manager, Crédit Lyonnais, O. branch.

  ‘Hello? … Could you ask Judge Bonneau if he’d be so kind as to give me the name and address of Mr Clark’s attorney … Attorney, that’s right … Then get the attorney on the phone for me … It’s urgent …’

  For more than a quarter of an hour, Monsieur Jolivet, dressed to the nines in striped trousers, a black jacket with edging and a hat as stiff as reinforced concrete, sat with great dignity on the edge of his chair in the dreary waiting room of the Police Judiciaire. As companions, he had a fierce-looking young man and a prostitute who kept telling her story in a rasping voice:

  ‘First of all, how could I have taken his wallet without his noticing? … These men from the provinces, they’re all the same … They don’t dare admit to their wives what they’ve spent in Paris, so they claim they’ve been robbed … Luckily the head of Vice knows me … That proves I …’

  ‘Hello? … Monsieur Herbert Davidson? … How do you do, Monsieur Herbert Davidson. Detective Chief Inspector Maigret here … Yes … I had the pleasure of meeting your client Mr Clark yesterday … He was very pleasant … What’s that you say? … No, no, not at all! … I don’t remember any of that … I’m phoning you because I had the impression he was willing to help us in so far as he could … You say he’s with you right now? …

  ‘Then ask him … Hello? … I know that in the circles he moves in, especially in the United States, the life of each member of a married couple is quite distinct … Nevertheless, he might have noticed … Don’t hang up … Wait, Mr Davidson … You can translate afterwards … It’s been established that Mrs Clark received at least three letters from Paris in the course of the last few years … I’d like to know if Mr Clark saw them … I’d especially like to know if she received any more letters of the same kind … Yes … I’ll wait … Thank you …’

  He heard a murmur of voices at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello? … What’s that you say? … He didn’t open them? … He didn’t ask his wife what was in them! … Of course! … That’s a concept …’

  He would have liked to see Madame Maigret receiving letters without showing them to him!

  ‘About one every three months? … Always the same handwriting? … Yes … Postmarked Paris? … Wait, Mr Davidson …’

  He went to open the door of the inspectors’ office, because they were creating a commotion.

  ‘Shut up in there!’

  Then he came back.

  ‘Hello? … Quite large sums? … Would you be so kind, Mr Davidson, as to make a note of these statements in writing and transmit them to the examining magistrate? … No, still nothing! … I’m sorry about that … I really don’t know how the newspapers found out, but I can assure you it was nothing to do with me … Even this morning, I sent away four reporters and two photographers who were waiting for me in the corridor of the Police Judiciaire. Please give my regards to Mr Clark …’

  He frowned. Opening the door to the inspectors’ office just now, hadn’t he thought he recognized …? He opened it again and there, sure enough, sitting on the table, was a reporter, accompanied by his photographer.

  ‘Listen, my friend … I think I just shouted loudly enough for you to have heard … If a single word of what I said appears in your rag, I’ll cut off all information to you from now on … Understood?’

  All the same, as he returned to his office and called for the clerk, he had a vague smile on his lips.

  ‘Bring in Monsieur … Monsieur Jolivet …’

  ‘Good day, sir … I’m sorry to disturb you … I thought it was best … Reading last night’s newspaper …’

  ‘Please sit down …’

  ‘Actually, I must confess, I’m not doing this of my own accord, but in agreement with our managing director, whom I telephoned first thing this morning … The reason the name Prosper Donge struck me is that I’d seen it only recently … What you need to know is that in the O. branch, I’m the person who looks at the cheques … A mechanical task, of course, since the client’s account has been verified previously … I take a look … I stamp the cheque … All the same, as this was a large sum …’

  ‘Hold on a moment … Are you telling me Prosper Donge was a customer of yours?’

  ‘For the past five years, inspector. And even longer, since his account was transferred to us at that point by our branch in Cannes …’

  ‘Allow me to ask the questions … In that way, it’ll be easier for me to get my thoughts in some kind of order … Prosper Donge was a customer of your branch in Cannes … Can you tell me how large his account was at that time?’

  ‘A very modest account, like that of most of the hotel employees we have as customers … It should be noted, though, that as they don’t pay for board and lodgings, they can put aside most of their income, if they’re serious about it … That was certainly the case with Donge, who paid between a thou
sand and fifteen hundred francs into his account every month …

  ‘In addition, a bond he’d had us buy for him had just come due at twenty thousand francs … In short, he had about fifty-five thousand francs when he arrived in Paris …’

  ‘And did he continue to make small deposits?’

  ‘Wait! I’ve brought with me a summary of his transactions. You’ll see there’s something quite troubling … First year … Donge, who’s living in furnished rooms in Rue Brey, near the Étoile, still pays in about twelve thousand francs …

  ‘The second year, he makes withdrawals but no deposits. His address changes. He’s living in Saint-Cloud now, where, if I’ve understood from the cheques he drew, he’s had a house built … Cheques to the property agent, the carpenter, the painters, the building firm …

  ‘So that by the end of that year, as you can see from this summary, all he has left in the bank is eight hundred and thirty-three francs and a few centimes …

  ‘Then, three years ago, in other words, just a few months later …’

  ‘Excuse me! You did say three years ago …’

  ‘That’s right … I’ll give you the exact dates in a moment … Three years ago, he informs us by letter that he has moved and asks us to take note of his new address: 117c Rue Réaumur …’

  ‘Just a moment … Have you ever seen Donge in person?’

  ‘I may have seen him, but I don’t remember … I’m not at the counter, I have a private office where I only see the public through a kind of spyhole …’

  ‘Have your staff seen him?’

  ‘I asked several members of staff this morning … One of them remembers him well, for the simple reason that he’s also had a house built in the suburbs … He told me Donge even remarked that he’d left it almost as soon as it was built …’

  ‘Could you get this employee on the phone?’

  Maigret took advantage of the phone call to stretch like a man who is collapsing with tiredness, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

  ‘So, you were saying … Let’s see! … Donge moves house to 117c Rue Réaumur … Will you excuse me a moment? …’

  He vanished into the inspectors’ office.

  ‘Lucas … Get a taxi … 117c Rue Réaumur … Find out what you can about Monsieur Prosper Donge … I’ll explain later …’

  He came back to his deputy branch manager.

  ‘What are Donge’s transactions from that point?’

  ‘That’s what I came here to tell you about. I was astonished when I examined his account this morning, and even more astonished when I discovered his latest transaction … The first American cheque …’

  ‘Excuse me. What did you say?’

  ‘Oh, there are several! … The first American cheque, drawn on a bank in Detroit and made out to Prosper Donge, dates from March, again three years ago, and is for five hundred dollars … I can tell you exactly how much that was at the time …’

  ‘Never mind! …’

  ‘The cheque was paid into his account. Six months later, another cheque for the same amount was sent to us by Donge with a request to cash it and credit him with that amount …’

  The deputy manager suddenly became alarmed at the inspector’s beatific expression. Maigret seemed to have stopped listening to him. In fact, it was as if Maigret’s mind had gone blank. It had suddenly occurred to him that if he hadn’t phoned the attorney before receiving this visitor, if he hadn’t asked some specific questions on the telephone, they could always claim that it was mere chance that …

  ‘I’m listening, Monsieur … Monsieur Jolivet, isn’t it? …’

  Each time, he was obliged to glance at the visiting card.

  ‘Or rather, I already know what you’re going to tell me. Donge has continued to receive cheques from Detroit, at the rate of about one every three months …’

  ‘That’s right … But …’

  ‘These cheques added together amount to about how much?’

  ‘Three hundred thousand francs …’

  ‘Which has remained in the bank without Donge ever making a withdrawal?’

  ‘That’s right … For the past eight months, though, there haven’t been any more cheques …’

  Of course! Before coming to France, hadn’t Mrs Clark been on a Pacific cruise with her son?

  ‘During that time, has Donge continued to deposit small sums every month?’

  ‘I can’t find any trace of them on his account … Obviously, any such deposits would have been derisory compared with those cheques from America … But I’m just getting to the most troubling part … The letter from the day before yesterday … I’m not the one who dealt with it … That was the head of the foreign service, you’ll understand why … Anyway, the day before yesterday, we received a letter from Donge … Instead of containing a cheque as usual, it asked if we could send him one, payable to bearer, to be presented at a bank in Brussels … It’s a common transaction … People who travel often ask us to issue a cheque to them, payable at another bank, which avoids the complication of a letter of credit and also avoids them having to take large sums with them in cash …’

  ‘How much was the cheque for?’

  ‘Two hundred and eighty thousand French francs … Almost the whole of the account … In fact, all that’s left to Donge’s credit is less than twenty thousand francs …’

  ‘In other words, you issued the cheque?’

  ‘We sent it to the address requested …’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Monsieur Prosper Donge, 117c Rue Réaumur, as usual …’

  ‘And it had gone out by yesterday morning?’

  ‘Most likely, yes … But in that case, Donge can’t have it in his possession …’ The deputy manager brandished the newspaper. ‘He can’t have it, since, the day before yesterday, more or less at the same time we were drawing up the cheque, Prosper Donge was arrested!’

  Maigret rapidly leafed through the telephone directory, discovered that 117c Rue Réaumur, where there were lots of numbers, had a phone in the concierge’s lodge. He called. Lucas had been on the premises for several minutes.

  He gave him brief instructions.

  ‘A letter, yes, addressed to Donge … The envelope bears the heading of the Crédit Lyonnais, O. branch … Be quick about it … Call me back …’

  ‘I think, inspector,’ the deputy manager said, with some solemnity, ‘that I did well to …’

  ‘Oh, yes! … Oh yes! …’

  Except that he’d stopped seeing the fellow. He was no longer bothered with him. He was far away. God alone knew exactly where. He felt the need to move objects about, to stoke the stove, to come and go.

  ‘There’s an employee from the Crédit Lyonnais here, sir …’

  ‘Send him in …’

  At the same moment, the telephone rang. The employee stood stock still in the doorway in an expectant attitude, looking fearfully at his deputy manager and wondering what he could have done to be summoned to police headquarters.

  ‘Lucas?’

  ‘Get this, boss, the building where I am isn’t a residential building. There are only offices, most of them just one room. Some are rented by provincial tradesmen who consider it an advantage to have an address in Paris. There are some who never set foot here, and their post is forwarded to them. In others, all you find is a typist to answer the phone … Hello? …’

  ‘Carry on!’

  ‘Three years ago, Donge had an office here for two months, paying six hundred francs a month in rent … He only came two or three times … Since then, he’s been sending the concierge a hundred francs a month to have his mail forwarded to him …’

  ‘Forwarded where? …’

  ‘Jem Private Post, 42 Boulevard Haussmann …’

  ‘In what name?’

  ‘The envelopes are already typed up … Donge sends them in advance … Wait … It isn’t very bright in the lodge … Yes, let’s have some light, please … Here we are … J. M. D., Jem Private Post, 42 B
oulevard Haussmann … That’s all … You know private postal services are the only ones to accept initials …’

  ‘Have you kept your taxi? … No? … Idiot! … Get another one … What time is it? … Eleven o’clock? … Get over to Haussmann … Did the concierge forward a letter yesterday morning? … Yes? … Hurry up, then …’

  He had forgotten all about the two men, who did not know how to act and were listening to him with a certain astonishment. His mind had gone such a distance that he almost asked them:

  ‘What are you two doing there?’

  Then all at once he calmed down.

  ‘What do you do at the bank?’ he asked the employee, who jumped.

  ‘I’m in the current account service.’

  ‘Do you know Prosper Donge?’

  ‘Yes, I do … I mean I’ve seen him several times … The thing is, at the time he was having a house built in the suburbs and so was I … Only, I’d chosen a plot with …’

  ‘I know … Anyway …’

  ‘He would come from time to time to withdraw little sums for those suppliers who didn’t have bank accounts and wouldn’t accept cheques … He found it a chore … I remember we talked about that … That everyone should have a bank account, like they do in America … It was difficult for him to come, because his work kept him at the Majestic from six in the morning to six in the evening and, at that hour, the bank was closed … I told him … The deputy manager won’t hold it against me, because we do it for some customers … I told him that he only had to give me a call and I’d send him the money with the receipt to sign … Two or three times, I also sent him money at the Majestic …’

  ‘Have you seen him again since?’

  ‘I don’t think so … Mind you, for two summers running, I was sent to manage the branch in Étretat … He may have come then …’

  Maigret abruptly opened a drawer of his desk, took out a photograph of Donge and placed it on the desk without saying a word.

  ‘That’s him!’ the employee cried. ‘He has a fairly recognizable face. Apparently – or so he told me – he had smallpox when he was a child, and the farmers he was living with didn’t even send for the doctor …’