Maigret and the Loner Read online

  ‘I asked him to change his mind.’

  ‘Didn’t he object?’

  Little Monsieur Vannier was on his high horse by now.

  ‘I’d like to know what this is all about.’

  ‘You’ll soon find out.’

  ‘Opening drawers as if this was your home. Asking ridiculous questions. And claiming you’ve made the boss come back from La Baule …’

  Maigret left without saying another word, leaving the fellow to continue his tirade.

  6.

  Maigret had just got back to headquarters when he received a phone call from La Baule. It was Véran, one of the two inspectors he had sent there to fetch Mahossier.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Quite badly at first. He started by looking down his nose at us and refusing to come with us to Paris. He said he had friends in high places and he’d start an almighty row.’

  ‘How did his wife react?’

  ‘She was listening, looking surprised. I let him argue for a few minutes, then took the handcuffs from my pocket and told him that if he didn’t come quietly he’d have these things on his wrists for the whole journey. His face turned red. “You’d dare do that?” “Yes.” “But why, for God’s sake?” I think what hurt him most was being humiliated. In the end he went with us to the station to catch the night train. His wife wanted to come along, but he refused, telling her he’d be back within forty-eight hours. “They have nothing they can pin on me, do you understand? They’re the ones who’ll end up looking stupid.”’

  The following morning, Maigret took his seat at his desk, chose a pipe, filled it slowly and motioned to Torrence to sit at the end of the table with a notepad. Usually, or as often as possible, it was Lapointe who recorded interrogations, since he was the best stenographer in the Police Judiciaire, but Torrence didn’t do too badly.

  Maigret pushed a button, and Véran brought Mahossier in. His features were hard, his eyes fixed.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘I object to this arrest. There’s no justification for it, and I reserve the right to file a complaint, even if you are Maigret.’

  Maigret didn’t flinch.

  ‘Do you mind telling me, Monsieur Mahossier, where your gun is?’

  ‘What gun?’

  ‘The one that was still in the top drawer of your night table a few days ago. A .32 calibre, unless I’m mistaken.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about guns and I couldn’t tell you what calibre that one is. It was given to me a long time ago.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘In the same drawer, probably.’

  There was a bad-tempered tone in his voice, and when he looked at Maigret his eyes expressed intense hatred. But wasn’t there also fear in those eyes?

  ‘The gun isn’t in the drawer any more. What have you done with it?’

  ‘I’m not the only one with access to the apartment.’

  ‘You mean Mademoiselle Berthe might have grabbed it? Please don’t make jokes. It won’t get you anywhere.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was the cook who took it.’

  ‘Could it have been your mother-in-law? She was in your home the night you had dinner alone at Pharamond’s and got home at three in the morning.’

  ‘I’ve never got home at three in the morning.’

  ‘Would you like me to bring in the witness who got a good look at you and is sure to recognize you?’

  Torrence was writing as quickly as he could, his forehead bathed in sweat.

  ‘Not only did someone I have here see you enter a building in Impasse du Vieux-Four just before three o’clock, but another witness heard you come home a few minutes after that hour.’

  ‘My wife, I suppose?’ The tone was ironic.

  ‘If it was your wife, she wouldn’t be able to testify against you.’

  Maigret, unlike Mahossier, was very calm.

  ‘So it’s that old bitch Berthe. Just because she was slightly involved in raising my wife, she’s so jealous of anyone else going near her that she can’t stand me.’

  ‘Where did you meet Marcel Vivien?’

  ‘I don’t know who you mean.’

  ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘I don’t take any notice of the human interest stories.’

  ‘But you know he was murdered, don’t you? He was asleep in his bed when he was shot three times in the chest.’

  ‘Is that any concern of mine?’

  ‘It might be. It would be wonderful if you could find your gun.’

  ‘I’d first have to find out who took it or moved it.’

  He was the kind of man who would deny things in the face of all the evidence. As he lit a cigarette, his hand shook. It might have been with anger.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in Impasse du Vieux-Four?’

  ‘I couldn’t even tell you where it is.’

  Maigret abruptly changed the subject, throwing Mahossier.

  ‘What became of Nina Lassave?’

  ‘Am I supposed to know her? The name doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘In 1945 and 1946 you were living in Montmartre, in a hotel not far from Boulevard Rochechouart.’

  ‘I used to live round there, but I don’t remember what year it was.’

  ‘Nina had an apartment in Boulevard Rochechouart.’

  ‘It’s possible. So did lots of people. Am I supposed to know them, too?’

  ‘It’s likely you met her and Marcel Vivien, who was her lover. Think before you answer. Were you also Nina Lassave’s lover?’

  ‘I don’t need to think. The answer’s no. I wasn’t married yet, and I had a few girlfriends at the time, but she wasn’t one of them, and I’ve never met anyone called Marcel Vivien.’

  ‘So you have nothing to do with any of this?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  He was becoming insolent, but he was also growing increasingly nervous and couldn’t stop his hands shaking.

  ‘To give you time to think, I’m going to send you to the cells.’

  ‘You have no right.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the custody order, duly signed by the examining magistrate.’

  ‘If you’re planning to question me again, I want my lawyer present.’

  ‘I could refuse. Your lawyer can step in when you’re with the examining magistrate. But I want to give you every chance. What’s his name?’

  ‘Maître Loiseau. His address is 38, Boulevard Beaumarchais.’

  ‘I’ll inform him in good time.’

  Maigret stood up and walked heavily over to the window, which was open on a maddeningly blue sky. Except for those on the beaches, everyone was desperate for rain, but still it wouldn’t fall. If anything, the temperature was rising.

  Inspector Véran led Mahossier to his cell.

  ‘He’ll get what’s coming to him,’ the man muttered, presumably referring to Maigret.

  Maigret, for his part, said to Torrence:

  ‘He’s tough. Type up the notes you took. We’ll get him to sign the statement next time.’

  ‘Do you really think he knew Nina Lassave?’

  ‘It’s possible. I was just putting feelers out, but I think I got a reaction. He wasn’t expecting me to talk about her.’

  He changed pipes and put on his hat.

  ‘If I’m needed urgently, I’ll be at the offices of the Parisien libéré.’

  Torrence looked at him in surprise but said nothing. Maigret began by having a beer at the Brasserie Dauphine, then hailed a taxi.

  ‘To the Parisien libéré.’

  He remembered that it had been one of the first newspapers to appear after the Liberation. He himself hadn’t been in Paris in 1946. That was the time when he had done something to displease the then commissioner of the Police Judiciaire, who had retired a few months later. He had been sent to Luçon, where there was very little to do, and in order to kill time he had played billiards almost all day long. He had moped there for nearly a year. Madam
e Maigret, too, had found it hard to adjust to life in the Vendée.

  Fortunately, the new commissioner had recalled him to Paris. He wasn’t yet a detective chief inspector and didn’t yet lead the Crime Squad.

  That period in Luçon was a kind of gap in his career and in his memories.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the editor.’

  ‘Who shall I say?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  The editor, whom he didn’t know and who was very young, came out of his office to greet him.

  ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

  ‘It’s a work matter.’

  ‘How can we help you?’

  ‘I assume you keep all issues of your paper?’

  ‘Of course. They’re classified by year.’

  ‘I’d like to look at the years 1945 and 1946.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  They went down tortuous corridors and finally came to a dark room where rows of huge tomes bound in black canvas sat on shelves.

  ‘Would you like someone to help you?’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Especially as it may take hours.’

  This was something Maigret should have done at the beginning of the investigation. He had thought about it briefly, then it had gone out of his head.

  ‘I can have some beer brought up for you. The bistro opposite is used to it.’

  ‘I’ve just had a drink, thanks.’

  Once alone, he took off his jacket, rolled up his shirt-sleeves and looked for the volume for the year 1945.

  After an hour, he had finished with that year. Of course, he read only the headlines. None of them seemed to refer to Marcel Vivien, Nina Lassave or Louis Mahossier.

  He went and put back the volume and, with a heavy head, started on the year 1946. Twice, the editor came to make sure he didn’t need anything.

  ‘Still not hungry?’

  ‘I could certainly do with a beer now.’

  The air was blue with pipe smoke. The room smelled of old paper and printer’s ink.

  There were headlines that surprised him, cases that had created a lot of stir in their day and were now completely forgotten.

  January … February … March … April …

  He eventually came to August. And finally, dated 17 August, there was the headline:

  Young woman strangled on Boulevard Rochechouart

  It wasn’t in bold lettering, or even on the first page. Nobody seemed to have attached much importance to the story.

  A young woman of 22, Nina Lassave, was found strangled in the bedroom of her apartment on Boulevard Rochechouart. She was lying naked on her bed. Nothing had been disturbed in either the room or the rest of the apartment. The concierge, when questioned, was unable to provide any information that might help the investigators.

  For several years, Nina Lassave worked as an assistant in a lingerie shop in Rue Lepic, where the owner was very pleased with her work.

  It was at the end of 1945 that she suddenly stopped working. There was a man in her life, but he seldom came to see her at home. What happened the night she died? That is what the investigation must try to establish, but it will not be an easy task. The concierge is quite elderly and does not take much notice of comings and goings in the building.

  Chief Inspector Piedbœuf is in charge of the investigation.

  The following issue featured the headline:

  No new developments in Boulevard Rochechouart murder

  Only a few lines to say that the police were looking further into the victim’s private life. The pathologist’s report established that she had indeed died from strangulation, but had not been sexually assaulted.

  The concierge had been questioned again. She had confirmed that a man who appeared relatively young sometimes came back with her and went up to her apartment, but never spent the night there.

  She had caught sight of him once or twice. But she would find it difficult to recognize him. For about two months, another man, this one easier to describe, had been coming to see her in the afternoon and, the light being better, the concierge had got a good look at him.

  He was very tall and very thin, with blue eyes. He would climb the stairs four at a time and leave alone an hour later.

  It was only three days later that the Parisien libéré announced:

  Suspect has been questioned by Chief Inspector Piedbœuf

  Not much is being revealed about the interrogations that have been taking place at the Police Judiciaire. We do know, however, that the tall, thin man who came several times to Nina Lassave’s apartment on Boulevard Rochechouart has been identified as one Louis M …, a house painter, who lives in a small hotel in the neighbourhood.

  He does not deny having been the young woman’s lover but claims he did not see her on the day she died. The concierge, though, has stated that she was on the stairs when he came to see Nina Lassave that day at about four in the afternoon.

  Due to lack of evidence, M … has been released, although the police are continuing to investigate him.

  As for cabinetmaker Marcel V …, who had been Nina Lassave’s lover for more than six months, he has been able to establish that he was in a café on Boulevard de la Chapelle at the time of the murder.

  Maigret was taking notes in his old black notebook. A waiter from a local brasserie had brought him a nice frothy beer, and the interest he was taking in what the newspaper was revealing to him had made his headache go away.

  He tried to walk back to the editor’s office but got lost in the corridors and had to ask for directions.

  ‘Would you mind my having someone photograph a number of articles in your archives?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Is it all right if I use your phone?’

  He got through to Moers.

  ‘Is Mestral there? … Could you send him to the Parisien libéré for me? In the offices, he should ask for the archives. I’ll be there.’

  Maigret went back to his seat and continued leafing through old issues of the newspaper. Nina Lassave was mentioned less and less, and then only in a few lines, because a big political trial had grabbed all the attention at the time.

  It now appears that Louis M …, whom the concierge thinks she saw going up to Nina Lassave’s apartment at about four in the afternoon, also has an alibi. Chief Inspector Piedbœuf is continuing his investigation, as are his inspectors, but it does not seem as if anything new has been discovered.

  That was almost the end of the Boulevard Rochechouart murder case as far as the newspaper was concerned. No photographs had been published of either Mahossier or Marcel Vivien.

  Mahossier had been questioned two or three more times at Quai des Orfèvres. He had been taken to see Examining Magistrate Coméliau, who was still alive at the time, but no charges had been brought against him.

  Mestral arrived half an hour later with a whole battery of cameras and flashes.

  ‘Are there a lot of pages to photograph?’

  ‘Only half a dozen fairly short articles.’

  Maigret watched him go about his task, pointing out the articles as he went along.

  ‘Will it be possible to have the prints in the course of the afternoon?’

  ‘Let’s say about four, if I’m allowed to have lunch.’

  Maigret went to thank the editor.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we can talk about it yet?’

  ‘When the time comes, I promise you’ll have the scoop.’

  ‘Thanks. I hope to hear from you soon.’

  It was just after midday. From Rue d’Enghien to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir was only fifteen minutes’ walk, and Maigret, in a good mood, looked at the passers-by, the shop windows and the coaches as he walked. There were two or three coaches at the Bastille, which the foreigners were photographing as they had photographed the Arc de Triomphe, Sacré-Cœur and the Eiffel Tower. Most looked tired but didn’t
want to miss any of the sights they had been promised.

  He was humming as he walked into his apartment.

  ‘I get the feeling things are going better,’ Madame Maigret said as she served the starter.

  ‘I think I’ve done a good job. I don’t yet know what the result will be, but there’s sure to be one. A pity there’s a man who can’t talk any more.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marcel Vivien. By the way, I know something new that I have no reason to hide. Nina Lassave was murdered in her apartment in August 1946.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘Strangled.’

  ‘No wonder you couldn’t find her!’

  ‘Precisely. I’ve been questioning Mahossier, but he’s clamming up more and more.’

  He ate heartily. There was a leg of lamb, a lovely pink colour, with just a hint of blood near the bone.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ he sighed, taking another slice.

  ‘Do you think you’re getting to the end?’

  ‘I can’t say yet, but we’ve come quite a long way. The funniest thing is that what I discovered this morning in the archives of the Parisien libéré is probably in the files at headquarters, in much greater detail. The only reason I didn’t think of looking there is that we were in Luçon at the time.’

  ‘I’ve never been so bored in my life.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Would you like a peach? They’re very ripe and juicy.’

  ‘A peach would be fine.’

  He was at peace with the world and himself.

  This time, he took a taxi back to the office. The windows were wide open, as they had been on the previous days, and there was the occasional breath of cooler air playing about the room.

  ‘Torrence!’

  ‘Yes, chief.’

  ‘Have you finished typing up the transcript?’

  ‘I finished before lunch.’

  ‘Could you bring me a copy?’

  When he had it on his desk, he continued:

  ‘I want you to go up to Records. In the files for 1946, there must be one about the murder of Nina Lassave in Boulevard Rochechouart.’

  ‘I thought I recognized that name. It’s coming back to me now. It was Chief Inspector Piedbœuf who dealt with it.’

  ‘Exactly. I’d like the file as soon as possible.’