Maigret's Pickpocket Page 11

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Has it ever happened to you, picking up the phone and only hearing someone breathing?’

  ‘Is there some theory behind this?’

  ‘Supposing whoever it was expected to find that you weren’t there, and wanted to talk to Sophie?’

  ‘Again? What have they been telling you, the people you’ve been questioning last night and again this morning? What grubby gossip are you trying to—?’

  ‘One question, Francis.’

  He gave a start, surprised to hear himself called by this name.

  ‘What did you do last year, when you discovered that Sophie was pregnant?’

  ‘She’s never been pregnant.’

  ‘We have a medical report. Janvier?’

  ‘Here it is, chief. Delaplanque just brought it over.’

  Maigret glanced through it.

  ‘Look here. You’ll see I’m not making things up, simply referring to the medical evidence.’

  Ricain glared at him again savagely.

  ‘My God, what is this, what’s it all about? Have you decided to drive me mad? One minute you’re accusing me of killing my wife, the next—’

  ‘I’ve never accused you.’

  ‘Well, as good as. You’ve insinuated it. Then to calm me down …’

  He picked up the glass he had drunk the cognac from and hurled it violently to the floor.

  ‘I ought to have wised up about all your little tricks. It’d make a good film, wouldn’t it? But the Prefecture would certainly ban it. So Sophie was pregnant, a year ago? And naturally, since we don’t have a child, I suppose you think we went to a backstreet abortionist? Is that it? Is this some new accusation you’ve found to pin on me, because the other one wouldn’t stick?’

  ‘I never claimed you knew about it. I was asking whether your wife had told you about it. In fact, she asked someone else for help.’

  ‘Because it was somebody else’s business, and not mine, her husband’s?’

  ‘She wanted to avoid trouble for you, and perhaps for you not to have it on your conscience. She thought that a child, at this point in your career, would simply be a burden.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She confided in one of your friends.’

  ‘Who, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Carus.’

  ‘What? You want me to believe that it was to Carus that—’

  ‘He told me about it this morning. Nora confirmed it half an hour later, but with a slight difference. According to her, Sophie wasn’t alone when she told Nora about this pregnancy. You were both there.’

  ‘She was lying, then.’

  ‘That’s possible.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘For the time being, I don’t believe anyone.’

  ‘Including me?’

  ‘Including you, Francis. All the same, you’re free to go.’

  And Maigret relit his pipe, sat down at his desk, and started leafing through a file.

  6.

  Ricain had left, his manner hesitant and awkward, like a bird suspiciously contemplating its open cage door, and Janvier had looked inquiringly at his chief. Were they really letting him out on to the streets without any surveillance?

  Maigret, pretending not to understand this unspoken question, went on studying his file, then stood up at last with a sigh and went to stand at the window.

  He was in a bad mood. Janvier had returned to the inspectors’ office where he and Lapointe were exchanging impressions in low voices when Maigret entered the room. The two inspectors instinctively moved apart, but it was unnecessary. Maigret did not seem to see them.

  He was wandering from one desk to another as if he did not know what to do with his bulky body, stopping in front of a typewriter, a telephone or an empty chair, moving a sheet of paper for no reason.

  In the end, he muttered:

  ‘Get a message to my wife that I won’t be home for lunch.’

  He was not calling her himself, which was a bad sign. No one dared speak, let alone ask him any questions. In the inspectors’ office, everyone was on tenterhooks, he could feel it, and, with a shrug, he went back into his own office and fetched his hat.

  He said nothing, neither where he was going, nor when he would be back, and left no instructions, as if suddenly he had lost interest in the whole affair.

  On the wide dusty staircase, he emptied his pipe by tapping it against his heel, then crossed the courtyard, vaguely saluted the man on duty, and set off towards Place Dauphine.

  Perhaps that wasn’t where he really wanted to go. His mind was elsewhere, in that neighbourhood unfamiliar to him: Grenelle, Rue Saint-Charles, Avenue de La Motte-Picquet.

  He saw again the dark line of the overhead Métro cutting diagonally across the sky, and thought he could hear the rumble of carriages. The enclosed, rather sickly-sweet atmosphere of the Vieux-Pressoir; Rose, wiping her hands on her apron all the time with a cheerful air, and the waxen features of the former stuntman with the ironic smile.

  Maki, huge and mild-mannered, sitting in his corner, his gaze becoming vaguer and more lost as he drank … Gérard Dramin, with his pale ascetic face, endlessly correcting his screenplay … Carus, who went to such lengths to be friendly to everyone, and Nora, artificial from her fingertips to her bleached hair …

  It was as if his steps were taking him, unconsciously, from force of habit, to the Brasserie Dauphine, and he automatically greeted the owner, sniffed the warm smells inside the restaurant, and headed for his usual corner, where he had sat thousands of times on the same banquette.

  ‘There’s andouillette on the menu today, chief inspector.’

  ‘With mashed potatoes?’

  ‘And what would you like as a starter?’

  ‘Whatever you’ve got. And a carafe of Sancerre.’

  His colleague from Special Branch was dining in the other corner with a civil servant from the Ministry of the Interior, whom Maigret knew only by sight. The other customers were almost all regulars; lawyers who would soon be crossing the square to go into court, an examining magistrate and an inspector from the Gambling Squad.

  The restaurant owner too understood this was not the moment to start chatting, and Maigret ate slowly, with a concentrated air, as if it was a matter of some importance.

  Half an hour later, he was turning the corner of the Palais de Justice, slowly, hands behind his back, without taking interest in anything in particular, like a lonely man taking the dog for a walk, and finally he found himself on the staircase; he pushed open the door to his office.

  A note from Gastinne-Renette was waiting for him. It wasn’t the definitive report. But the pistol found in the Seine was indeed the gun that had fired the shot in Rue Saint-Charles.

  He shrugged once more, since he already knew this. At times, he felt overwhelmed by all these secondary questions, reports, phone calls and routine comings and goings.

  Joseph, the old usher, tapped on his door and as usual came in without waiting for a reply.

  ‘There’s a gentleman—’

  Maigret held out his hand, glanced at the form.

  ‘Show him in.’

  The man was wearing black, contrasting with his highly coloured cheeks and his shock of grey hair.

  ‘Sit down, Monsieur Le Gal. My condolences.’

  The man had had time to weep in the train, and it seemed likely that in order to give himself courage he had had a few strong drinks. His eyes wandered and he found it difficult to get his words out.

  ‘What have they done with her? I didn’t want to go to their address in case I met that man, because I think I’d strangle him with my bare hands.’

  How many times had Maigret witnessed the same reactions on the part of families?

  ‘In any case, Monsieur Le Gal, her body is not in Rue Saint-Charles but in the Forensic Institute.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Near the Pont d’Austerlitz, on the embankment. I’ll have you driven over there
, since it’s essential that you officially identify your daughter.’

  ‘Did she suffer?’

  He was clenching his fists but without conviction. It could be sensed that his energy had evaporated, along with his anger, as the kilometres had rolled past, so that now his head was empty, and he was merely mouthing words he no longer believed.

  ‘I hope you’ve arrested him.’

  ‘There is no evidence against her husband.’

  ‘But look, inspector, the day she told us about that man, I could see it would end badly.’

  ‘Did she bring him to see you?’

  ‘No, I’ve never met him. All I’ve seen is some blurred photograph. She didn’t want to introduce him to us. As soon as she met him, her family ceased to exist for her.

  ‘All she wanted was to get married as quickly as possible. She’d even prepared the letter of consent for me to sign. Her mother didn’t want me to do it. But I gave in in the end, so I think I must be a bit responsible for what happened.’

  In every case, there was always, like this, something both moving and sordid.

  ‘Was she your only child?’

  ‘No, luckily we have a son, he’s fifteen.’

  In fact, Sophie had long ago disappeared from their lives.

  ‘Will I be able to take her body back to Concarneau?’

  ‘As far as we’re concerned, the formalities are over.’

  The word he had used was ‘formalities’.

  ‘Have they … I mean, was there a …?’

  ‘A post-mortem, yes. To arrange transport I would advise you to consult a funeral director, they’ll take care of everything.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him about it. He has no objection to her being buried in Concarneau.’

  ‘I hope he’s not intending to come? Because in that case, I won’t answer for anything. There are people back home with shorter fuses than me.’

  ‘I know. I’ll make sure he stays in Paris.’

  ‘He did it, didn’t he?’

  ‘I assure you that I don’t know that.’

  ‘Who else would have killed her? She saw everything through his eyes. He’d literally hypnotized her. Since she got married, she’s not written to us as much as three times; she didn’t even send us greetings at New Year.

  ‘It was only through the newspapers that I found her new address. I thought they were still in the little hotel in Montmartre where they lived after the wedding. A funny sort of wedding anyway, no parents, or friends. Would you see that leading to a good future?’

  Maigret listened to the end, nodding his head sympathetically, then closed the door behind his visitor, whose breath had smelled strongly of spirits.

  And what about Ricain’s father? He would no doubt turn up as well. Maigret was expecting him. He’d sent an inspector to Orly and another to the Hotel Raphaël to photograph the page of the register that the concierge had shown him.

  ‘There are two journalists here, sir.’

  ‘Tell them to talk to Janvier.’

  A little later, Janvier put his head round the door.

  ‘What shall I say to them, chief?’

  ‘Anything you like. That the investigation is ongoing.’

  ‘They thought they’d find Ricain here, so they brought along a photographer.’

  ‘Let them look for him. They can go and ring the bell in Rue Saint-Charles if they want.’

  He was ponderously following the course of his thoughts, or rather the different and contradictory thoughts going through his mind. Had he been right to let Ricain go free in his over-excited state?

  He wouldn’t get far with the twenty francs Maigret had given him. He’d have to start going in search of money again, knocking on doors, doing the rounds of his friends.

  ‘All the same, it’s not my fault that …’

  It was almost as if Maigret had a bad conscience about it, as if he was blaming himself for something. He kept going back to the very beginning of the case, to the platform of the bus.

  He could see again the woman with the empty stare and the string bag that kept hitting his legs. A chicken, butter, eggs, leeks, celery. He had wondered why she had gone shopping so far from home.

  A young man had been smoking a pipe that was too short and thick to be any good. His hair had been as fair as Nora’s bleached coiffure.

  At that moment, he had not yet set eyes on Carus’ mistress who, at the Hotel Raphaël and elsewhere, passed for his wife.

  He had briefly lost his footing on the bus, and someone had deftly removed his wallet from his hip pocket.

  He would have liked to be able to dissect that instant in some way, because it seemed to him the most important. The stranger jumping from the moving bus in Rue du Temple and dashing in a zigzag course through the shoppers towards the narrow lanes of the Marais.

  His image was very clear in Maigret’s mind. He was sure that he would recognize him, because the thief had turned round.

  Why had he turned round? And why, when he had discovered Maigret’s identity, thanks to the wallet’s contents, had he put it in a brown envelope and sent it back to its owner?

  At that time, the moment of the theft, Ricain had believed he was a wanted man. He was sure that he would be accused of his wife’s murder and locked up. The reason he had given for his desire not to be arrested was an odd one: claustrophobia.

  It was the first time in thirty years that Maigret had heard a suspect give this explanation for going on the run. On reflection, though, he was obliged to admit that it could sometimes be the case. He himself took the Métro only when there was no alternative, because he felt unable to breathe there.

  And why did he have a compulsion, when in his office, to go over to the window all the time?

  He was sometimes met with disapproval, especially from the prosecutor’s office, for doing in person tasks which should be handled by his inspectors, leaving headquarters to interrogate witnesses on the spot instead of having them summoned, revisiting the crime scene for no good reason, even taking over surveillance duties, rain or shine.

  He was fond enough of his office, but he couldn’t stay there for two hours without feeling the need to escape. During an investigation, he would have liked to be everywhere at once.

  Bob Mandille must be taking a nap now, since the Vieux-Pressoir stayed open late at night. Did Rose have a siesta too? What would she have said if they had been sitting facing each other over a table in the empty restaurant?

  Everyone had a different opinion of Ricain and Sophie. And some people even expressed contradictory views within the space of a few hours, Carus for instance.

  Who was Sophie, really? The kind of girl who threw herself at any man? Or an ambitious woman who had thought that someone like Francis would offer her the life of a film star?

  She was in the habit of meeting the film producer in a love nest in Rue François-Ier. If Carus was telling the truth, that is.

  Ricain’s jealousy had been mentioned, and apparently he was never far from his wife’s side. On the other hand, he didn’t hesitate to borrow money from her lover.

  Did he know? Did he turn a blind eye?

  ‘Someone to see me?’

  As he had expected. The father. Ricain’s this time, a large, sturdy man, still youthful-looking despite the grey crew-cut hair.

  ‘I wasn’t sure about coming.’

  ‘Sit down, Monsieur Ricain.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No. He was here this morning, but he’s left.’

  The man had deeply etched features, bright eyes and a thoughtful expression.

  ‘I’d have come before, but I was driving the Paris–Vintimille express.’

  ‘When did you last see Francis?’

  The other man repeated, in surprise:

  ‘Francis?’

  ‘That’s what his friends all call him.’

  ‘Well, at home he was François. Let me see. He turned up to see me just before Christma
s.’

  ‘Were you on good terms?’

  ‘I saw him so rarely!’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘He introduced her to me a few days before they got married.’

  ‘How old was he when his mother died?’

  ‘Fifteen. He was a good boy, but already a bit difficult; he didn’t like to be crossed. It was a waste of time trying to stop him doing something if he was set on it. I wanted him to go into the railways. Not necessarily manual work, he could have got a good office job.’

  ‘Why did he come to see you before Christmas?’

  ‘To ask me for money, of course. The only reason he ever came. He didn’t have any proper work. He scribbled and thought he was going to be a famous writer.

  ‘I did my best … I couldn’t exactly tie him up … I was often away for three days on end. It wasn’t much fun for him to come home to an empty house and have to make his own meals. What do you think, inspector?’

  ‘I just don’t know.’

  The man looked surprised. That a senior official in the police force should not have a definite opinion was beyond his understanding.

  ‘You don’t think he’s guilty?’

  ‘So far, there’s nothing to prove it one way or the other.’

  ‘You think that woman was right for him? She didn’t bother to wear a dress when he brought her to see me, she was in trousers with sloppy shoes, she hadn’t even combed her hair. It’s true you see girls like that everywhere in the street now.’

  There was quite a long silence, during which Monsieur Ricain glanced several times at Maigret. Finally, he pulled a battered wallet from his pocket and took out several hundred-franc notes.

  ‘It’s best if I don’t go to see him. If he wants to see me, he knows where I live. I expect he’s still short of money. He might need it to pay a good lawyer.’

  A pause. A question.

  ‘Do you have children, inspector?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘He mustn’t feel he’s been abandoned. Whatever he’s done, if he’s done something bad, he’s not responsible. Tell him that’s what I think. Tell him he’s welcome to come to the house whenever he wants. But I won’t force him. I understand.’