Maigret's Pickpocket Page 12

  Touched, Maigret looked down at the banknotes which a large calloused hand with square fingernails was pushing across the desk.

  ‘Well,’ the father sighed, standing up and twisting his hat in his hands, ‘if I’ve got this right, there’s still some hope for me that he’s innocent. I’m sure he is. Whatever the papers say, I can’t bring myself to believe he could do something like that.’

  Maigret saw him to the door and shook the hand which he hesitantly extended.

  ‘Should I keep on hoping?’

  ‘One should never give up hope.’

  Once he was alone, he almost called Doctor Pardon. He would have liked to have a word with him, ask him a few questions. Pardon wasn’t a psychiatrist, no. Nor indeed a professional psychologist.

  But in his career as a local doctor, he had seen all kinds of cases, and his views had often confirmed Maigret in his opinion.

  At this time of day, Pardon would be in his surgery with a queue of twenty patients in the waiting room. Their regular monthly dinner was only scheduled for next week.

  It was curious: he suddenly had, for no particular reason, a painful sensation of loneliness.

  He was just one element in the complex machinery of Justice. And he had available to him specialists, inspectors, a telephone, the telegraph, all the desirable help he needed. Above him was the prosecutor’s office, the examining magistrate and, in the last analysis, the judges and juries in the criminal courts.

  Why was it, then, that he felt responsible? It seemed to him that the fate of a human being depended on him. He did not yet know who that was: the man or woman who had taken the pistol from the drawer of the white-painted chest and had shot Sophie.

  One detail had struck him from the start, and he had still not managed to explain it. It is rare that in the course of a quarrel, or at a moment of high emotion, someone would aim at the head.

  The reflex, even in a case of self-defence, is to shoot at the chest, and only professional criminals aim at the belly, knowing that a wound there is usually fatal.

  From a distance of about a metre, the killer had aimed at her head. To make it look like suicide?

  No, because he had left the gun in the room. At least if Ricain could be believed …

  The couple had come home at about ten. He had needed money. Unlike his usual practice, Francis had left his wife in Rue Saint-Charles while he set off in search of Carus, or some other friend who might lend him two thousand francs.

  Why had he waited until that night, if the money was needed for a payment next morning?

  He had gone back to the Vieux-Pressoir, to see if the producer had arrived.

  At that moment, Carus was already in Frankfurt; they had checked the flights from Orly. And he had not told Bob or any other member of the little gang where he was going.

  Nora, on the other hand, was in Paris. But not in her apartment in the Raphaël as she had claimed that morning, since the concierge’s register contradicted that.

  Why was she lying? Did Carus know she was not in the hotel? Wouldn’t he have phoned her when he got to Frankfurt?

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Hello. Doctor Delaplanque for you. Shall I put him through?’

  ‘Yes, please … Hello, doctor.’

  ‘Maigret? Forgive me for troubling you, but something’s been bothering me since this morning. If I didn’t mention it in the report, it’s because it’s very vague. During the post-mortem, I found some faint marks on the dead woman’s wrists, as if they’d been held tightly. Not really proper bruises.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘That’s all. Though I’m not saying there was a struggle, it wouldn’t have surprised me, I could imagine an aggressor grabbing the victim by her wrists and pushing her. She could have fallen on to the sofa, then got up again, and the moment when she was regaining her balance would be when the gun was fired. That would explain why the bullet was taken from the wall about one metre twenty from the floor, whereas if the young woman had been standing upright …’

  ‘I see. So there are some very slight bruises are there?’

  ‘One of the marks is clearer than the others. It could be a thumbprint, but I can’t be sure. That’s why I can’t state this officially. See if you can make anything of it.’

  ‘The stage I’m at, I have to try and use whatever I can. Thank you, doctor.’

  Janvier was standing silently in the doorway.

  He had returned to the area, alone this time, with an obstinate expression, as if now it was a matter between the Grenelle neighbourhood and him. He had walked along the Seine, stopping forty metres upstream from the Pont de Bir-Hakeim, where the pistol had been thrown into the water and fished out again; then he had headed towards the large modern apartment building on Boulevard de Grenelle.

  In the end he went in, and knocked on the glass of the concierge’s lodge. She was a young, attractive woman and her little sitting room was brightly lit.

  After showing her his badge, he asked:

  ‘Is it you that collects the tenants’ rent?’

  ‘Yes, inspector.’

  ‘So you must know François Ricain?’

  ‘They live on the courtyard side and they don’t often come through this way. I mean, they didn’t … Well, they tell me he’s back. But her … Yes, of course I knew them, and it wasn’t nice to have to be after them all the time for their rent. In January, they asked me for a postponement of a month, then on the 15th of February another one. The landlord decided to evict them if by the 15th of March they didn’t pay the two quarters owing.’

  ‘And they haven’t?’

  ‘The 15th of March was the day before yesterday.’

  Wednesday.

  ‘And you weren’t anxious when they didn’t turn up?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting them to be paying. In the morning, he didn’t come by to pick up his post and I told myself he preferred to avoid me. They didn’t get many letters, anyway. Just catalogues and magazines he had subscriptions to. In the afternoon, I went to knock at their door, and there was no answer.

  ‘On Thursday morning, I knocked again, but since there was still no answer, I asked one of the tenants if she had heard anything. I even thought they might have done a midnight flit. It would be easy, because the street door on to Rue Saint-Charles is always open.’

  ‘What’s your opinion of Ricain?’

  ‘I can’t say I took much notice of him. Now and then, a tenant would complain because they were playing music or having friends round into the small hours, but there are other people who do that in the building, especially the young ones. He seemed to be an artist of some kind.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘What can I say? They were obviously short of money … Can’t have been much fun for them. Are they sure she didn’t kill herself?’

  He was learning nothing new, and perhaps he wasn’t even trying too hard to do so. He wandered about, looking at the nearby streets, the houses, the open windows, peering into the small shops.

  At seven o’clock, he pushed the door of the Vieux-Pressoir and was almost disappointed not to see Fernande perched on her bar stool.

  Bob Mandille, seated at a table, was reading the evening paper, while the waiter was finishing the place-settings, putting on each checked tablecloth a crystal vase containing a rose.

  ‘Ah, look who’s here! The inspector.’

  Bob got up and shook hands with Maigret.

  ‘So what have you found out? The journalists are complaining. They’re saying there’s a mystery about this whole affair and they’re being kept at arms’ length.’

  ‘That’s simply because we have nothing to tell them.’

  ‘Is it true that you’ve released Francis?’

  ‘He was never under arrest, and he’s free to go. Who told you that?’

  ‘Huguet, the photographer, who lives in the same block of flats, on the fourth floor. The one with two wives, and a third woman with a child on the way. He saw Franc
is in the courtyard as he was going back to his place. I was surprised he didn’t come to see me. Tell me, has he got any money?’

  ‘I gave him twenty francs to get something to eat and take the bus home.’

  ‘Well, in that case, he won’t be long. Unless he’s gone over to the newspaper he works for, and by some miracle there’s money for him there. It sometimes happens.’

  ‘You didn’t see Nora on Wednesday night?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without Carus, and he was abroad.’

  ‘Yes, in Germany. She went out alone. So I’m wondering where she went.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you?’

  ‘She claims she returned to the Raphaël at about nine p.m.’

  ‘And that isn’t true?’

  ‘The concierge’s register suggests it was more like eleven o’clock.’

  ‘That’s odd.’

  Bob gave a thin ironic smile that traced a kind of crack in his reconstructed face.

  ‘You think it’s funny?’

  ‘Well, you have to admit Carus was asking for it! He takes any chance he can get. It would be funny if Nora was also … But I don’t believe that, actually.’

  ‘Because she loves him?’

  ‘No, because she’s too smart and too calculating. She wouldn’t risk losing it all, when she’s so near her goal, just for an affair, even with the most attractive man in town.’

  ‘She was perhaps not as near her goal as you think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Carus was regularly meeting Sophie in an apartment in Rue François-Ier, which he rented for that purpose.’

  ‘And it was as serious as that?’

  ‘It’s what he says. He also says he thought she had the makings of a film star and would have become one quite soon.’

  ‘Are you serious? Carus? But she was the kind of girl you can see any day of the week. Just walk down the Champs-Élysées and you could pick up enough of them to fill all the cinema screens in the world.’

  ‘Nora was aware of their liaison.’

  ‘Well, now, I’m lost. It’s true, if I had to understand the love lives of all my customers, I’d have ulcers by now. So go and tell my wife all this. She’ll be annoyed with you if you don’t pop in and say hello to her in the kitchen. She’s fond of you. Won’t you have a glass of something?’

  ‘Later.’

  The kitchen was large and more modern than he had expected. As he predicted, Rose wiped her hand on her apron before shaking his.

  ‘So you’ve decided to let him go?’

  ‘Is that so surprising?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Everyone that comes in here has their own little theory. Some people think Francis did it out of jealousy. Others say it was a lover she wanted to break up with. And one or two think it could be a woman taking revenge on her.’

  ‘Nora?’

  ‘Who suggested that?’

  ‘Carus had a serious affair going on with Sophie. Which Nora knew about. He was planning to get her into films.’

  ‘Is that true, or are you inventing it to get me to talk?’

  ‘It’s true. Does it shock you?’

  ‘Me? It’s a long time since anything shocked me. If you were in this business …’

  It did not occur to her that in the Police Judiciaire too they had a certain experience of human nature.

  ‘Only, my dear inspector, if Nora did it, you’ll have a job to prove it, because she’s smart enough to fool the lot of you.

  ‘Are you eating here tonight? I’ve got some duck à l’orange. And before that I can offer you two or three dozen baby scallops straight in from La Rochelle. My mother sends me them. Oh yes, she’s over seventy-five, and she’s down at the market every morning.’

  Huguet, the photographer, arrived with his companion. He was a rosy-cheeked man with a naive expression and a cheerful manner, and you would have sworn he was proud to be parading about with a woman seven months pregnant.

  ‘Have you met? … Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? … Jacques Huguet. And his lady friend …’

  ‘Jocelyne,’ the photographer pointed out, as if this was important, or as if he liked pronouncing the poetic name.

  And with exaggerated concern, almost as if he were mocking her:

  ‘What will you have to drink, sweetheart?’

  He was fussing around her with affectionate and tender attentions, as if to say to the others: ‘See, I’m in love and not ashamed of it. We’ve made love. We’re expecting a child … and we’re happy. And it doesn’t bother us one bit if you find us ridiculous.’

  ‘Now what will you young folks have to drink?’

  ‘A fruit juice for Jocelyne. A port for me.’

  ‘And you, Monsieur Maigret?’

  ‘A beer.’

  ‘Francis isn’t here?’

  ‘Were you going to meet him here?’

  ‘No, but I thought he would be wanting to see his friends again. If only to show them that he’s free and that the police hadn’t been able to keep hold of him. He’s like that.’

  ‘You thought we were going to hang on to him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s difficult to predict what the police will do.’

  ‘Do you think he killed his wife?’

  ‘What does it matter whether it was him or someone else? She’s dead, isn’t she? And if Francis killed her, he must have had good reasons.’

  ‘What kind of reasons, in your opinion?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He’d had enough of her perhaps. Or she was making scenes at home? Or she was having affairs? People should be left to live their lives, shouldn’t they, sweetheart?’

  Some customers were just entering who were not regulars, and who hesitated before making for a table.

  ‘For three?’

  Since the newcomers were a middle-aged couple and a young girl.

  ‘This way, please.’

  And now they were being treated to Bob’s big performance: the menu, the whispered recommendations, the praise for the white house wine from the Charentes, the chaudrée …

  Sometimes he would wink at his companions, who were still standing at the bar.

  It was at that moment that Ricain came in, stopping short when he saw Maigret in the company of Huguet and the pregnant woman.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ cried the photographer. ‘So what happened to you? We thought you were in a deep dark prison cell.’

  Francis made an effort to smile.

  ‘Well, as you see, I’m here. Good evening, Jocelyne. Is it for me that you’ve come, inspector?’

  ‘For the moment it’s for the duck à l’orange.’

  ‘What will you have?’ asked Bob, who had passed the diners’ order on to the waiter.

  ‘Is that port you’re drinking?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘No, a Scotch. Unless I owe you too much already …’

  ‘For today, I’ll chalk it up.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘That depends on the inspector.’

  Maigret was rather disconcerted by the turn of the conversation, but he supposed it was the kind of banter that circulated between members of the little gang.

  ‘Did you go to the newspaper office?’ he asked Ricain.

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘You needed money …’

  ‘I just got an advance of a hundred francs on what they owe me.’

  ‘And what about Carus?’

  ‘I didn’t go to see him.’

  ‘But you were looking for him on Wednesday evening and almost all night.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t Wednesday today.’

  ‘It so happens,’ the photographer broke in, ‘that I’ve seen Carus. I went into the studio and he was doing a screen test with some girl I didn’t know. He even asked me to take some photos.’

  ‘Of the girl?’

  Maigret wondered whether he had taken some of Sophie too.

  ‘H
e’ll be dining here. At least, that was what he said at three o’clock this afternoon, but you never know with him … Or with Nora … Well, actually I came across Nora too.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘No, two or three days ago. It was somewhere unexpected. A little nightclub in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where you usually only meet very young kids.’

  ‘And when was this?’ Maigret asked, paying attention suddenly.

  ‘Let me see. It’s Saturday today … Friday? … No … And Thursday, I went to an opening night at the ballet … Must have been Wednesday. I was looking to take some photos to illustrate an article on the under-twenties, and someone had mentioned this club to me.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘About ten in the evening. Yes, I must have got there at about ten. Jocelyne was with me. What do you think, sweetheart? Ten, wasn’t it? Rather a scruffy little place, but picturesque. All the boys had long hair down to their collars.’

  ‘Did she see you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. She was in a corner with some man who was certainly not an under-twenty. I think he must have been the proprietor, and they looked as if they were having a serious discussion …’

  ‘Did she stay long?’

  ‘Well, I went into the two or three rooms where they were dancing. If you can call it dancing. They did what they could, crammed up against each other.

  ‘I glimpsed her once or twice through the heads and shoulders bobbing about. She was still talking to the guy and he had taken out a pencil to write figures on a piece of paper.

  ‘Funny, when I come to think of it. Even in everyday life, she doesn’t look very real. But in that weird world, it would have been worth taking a photo.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t want to create any bother with Papa Carus. I depend on him for a good half of my daily bread.’

  The others heard Maigret order:

  ‘Another beer, Bob.’

  His voice and his attitude were not quite the same.

  ‘Can you keep me the corner table that I had last night?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to eat with us?’ the photographer asked in surprise.

  ‘Another time.’

  He needed to be alone, to think. By chance, the ideas he had started to string together had just been disturbed, and now nothing made sense.