The Cellars of the Majestic Read online

  ‘I don’t understand … And, as I assume you’re not planning to arrest me without a proper warrant, I’d like to know …’

  ‘Actually I do have a warrant, from the financial section of the prosecutor’s office … That surprises you, doesn’t it? … And yet it happens often … You’re dealing with one case … Without intending to, you discover another case, which dates back several years, and which everyone thought had been forgotten … I have in my pocket certain drafts given to me by a man named Atoum … Aren’t you eating any more? … No dessert, madame? … Waiter! … We are each paying separately, aren’t we? … What do I owe you, waiter? … I had a steak and something from the trolley, rib of beef it was, plus three portions of fries and three beers … Do you have a light, Lucas?’

  11. Gala Evening at the Police Judiciaire

  The still dark entrance, then the vast staircase, with a measly lightbulb every now and again, and finally the immense corridor with its many doors.

  Amiably, Maigret said to Marie Deligeard, who was out of breath:

  ‘We’re here, madame … Do catch your breath …’

  A single light was on in the corridor and two men were walking up and down it with large strides, deep in conversation: Oswald J. Clark and his lawyer.

  At the end of the corridor, the waiting room, one side of which was of glass, allowing police officers to come and look at their visitors in certain circumstances. A table with a green cloth.

  Green velvet armchairs. Over the mantelpiece, a Louis-Philippe clock just like the one in Maigret’s office and not working any better than that. On the walls, black frames containing the photographs of police officers who had fallen in the line of duty.

  On the armchairs in a shadowy corner, two women, Charlotte and Gigi.

  In the corridor itself, on a bench, Prosper Donge, still without tie or shoelaces, sitting between two gendarmes.

  ‘This way, Ramuel! … Come into my office … You, madame, if you don’t mind, please stay in the waiting room for a moment … Will you show her the way, Lucas? …’

  He opened his door, smiling at the thought of the three women alone together in the waiting room, the anxious or venomous glances they must be exchanging.

  ‘Come in, Ramuel! … You might as well take your coat off, I think we’re going to be here for a while …’

  A lamp with a green shade on the table. Maigret took off his hat and coat, chose a pipe from the desk and opened the door to the inspectors’ room.

  It was as if the whole of the Police Judiciaire, usually so empty during the night, had been made to look jam-packed for the occasion. Torrence was sitting on the desk, a soft hat on his head. He was smoking a cigarette and, in front of him, on a chair, a little old man with a filthy beard was staring at his elasticated shoes.

  Janvier was still there, taking advantage of the opportunity to bring his report up to date, and keeping an eye on a middle-aged man who looked like a former NCO.

  ‘Are you the concierge?’ Maigret asked him. ‘Would you come in here a moment, please?’

  He stood aside to let him in. The man had his cap in his hand and at first did not see Ramuel, who was standing as far as possible from the light.

  ‘You’re the concierge at 117c Rue Réaumur, aren’t you? … A while back, a man named Prosper Donge rented one of your offices, and since then you’ve been forwarding his letters … Look … Do you recognize Donge?’

  The concierge turned to the corner where Ramuel was standing, shook his head and muttered:

  ‘Um … Er … To be honest … No, I can’t say for sure! … So many people come by! … And it was more than three years ago, wasn’t it? … I might be wrong, but I vaguely remember that he had a beard … And with a beard, well, it might have been someone else …’

  ‘I’m grateful to you … You can go … This way …’

  One down! Maigret opened the door again, called:

  ‘Monsieur Jem, or whatever your name is … Please come in … And tell me …’

  This time, there was no need to wait for the answer. Seeing Ramuel, the little old man had given a start.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  The old man exploded. ‘I’ll have to appear in court, won’t I? They’ll let me stew for two or three days in the witness room and, while I’m doing that, who’ll mind the store? … Then, when I’m on the stand, they’ll ask me a whole lot of embarrassing questions, and the lawyers will say all kinds of things about me to blacken my name … Thanks a lot, inspector!’

  Then suddenly:

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Well, among other things, he killed two people, a man and a woman … The woman was a rich American …’

  ‘Is there a reward?’

  ‘Quite a big one, yes …’

  ‘In that case, you can write … I, Jean-Baptiste Isaac Meyer, tradesman … Are there many witnesses to share the reward? … Because I know how things are … The police make lots of promises … Then when …’

  ‘I’m writing: “… formally identify the person introduced to me as Jean Ramuel as the individual who subscribes to my private postal service under the initials J. M. D. …” Is that right, Monsieur Meyer?’

  ‘Where should I sign?’

  ‘Wait! Let me add: “… And I state that this individual came and collected a final letter on the …” Now, you can sign … You’re a clever one, Monsieur Meyer, because, as I’m sure you know, this case will be good publicity for you, and all those who didn’t yet know about private post will come rushing to see you … Torrence! … Monsieur Meyer can go …’

  Once the door was closed again, Maigret reread the repulsive fellow’s statement with satisfaction. A voice made him jump. It came from the semi-darkness, because only the lamp on the desk was lit.

  ‘I protest, inspector, at …’

  Then, all at once, Maigret appeared to recall something he had forgotten. He began by lowering the ecru blind in front of the window. Then he looked at his hands. It was a Maigret whom few people knew and those who did rarely boasted of it.

  ‘Come here, Ramuel … I said come here! … Closer! … Don’t be afraid! …’

  ‘What are you …?

  ‘You know something? Ever since I learned the truth, I’ve had a real yearning to …’

  Instantly, Maigret’s fist flew and landed on the nose of the bookkeeper, who had raised his arms too late.

  ‘There! … It isn’t exactly standard procedure, I know, but it feels good … Tomorrow, the judge will question you politely, and everyone will be kind to you, because you’re going to become a star of the courtrooms … And those gentlemen are always impressed by stars … Do you understand? … There’s water in the drinking fountain, behind the cupboard door … Wash yourself, you look a mess …’

  Bleeding profusely, Ramuel cleaned up his face as best he could.

  ‘May I see? … That’s better! … You’re almost presentable! … Torrence! … Lucas! … Janvier! … Go ahead, boys … Bring the ladies and gentlemen in …’

  His colleagues themselves were surprised, because he was much more overexcited than usual, even at the end of a difficult investigation. He had lit another pipe. The first person who came in, between two gendarmes, was Donge, holding his handcuffed hands clumsily in front of him.

  ‘Do you have the key?’ Maigret asked one of the gendarmes.

  He sprang the lock, and a moment later the handcuffs clicked shut around Ramuel’s wrists, while Donge looked at the bookkeeper with an almost comical astonishment.

  Then Maigret noticed that Donge had neither tie nor shoelaces, and he ordered Ramuel’s laces and little black silk bow tie to be taken off.

  ‘Please come in, ladies … Come in, Mr Clark … Oh, of course, you don’t understand … I’m sure Mr Davidson will translate for you … Are there enough chairs for everybody? … Oh, yes, Charlotte, you can sit next to Prosper … Only, I ask you to avoid getting
too emotional for the moment …

  ‘Is everybody here? … Close the door, Torrence! …’

  ‘What has he done?’ Madame Ramuel asked in her rasping voice.

  ‘You sit down too, madame! … I hate talking to people when they’re standing … No, Lucas! … Don’t bother to switch on the ceiling light … It’s more intimate this way … What has he done? … The same thing he’s been doing all his life: making forgeries … And I’d wager that the only reason he married you and spent so many years with a horror like you, with all due respect, is because you had a hold on him … And you had a hold on him because you knew about his trickery in Guayaquil … A cable has been sent there, and another one to the head office of the company in London. I’m sure I know the answer already …’

  The voice of the awful Marie rang out:

  ‘Why don’t you say anything, Jean? … It’s true, isn’t it, the two hundred and eighty thousand francs and the trip to Brussels? …’

  She had leaped up like a jack in the box and rushed to him.

  ‘Swine! … Thief! … Crook! … When I think …’

  ‘Calm down, madame … It’s a lot better that he didn’t tell you anything, because otherwise I’d be obliged to arrest you as an accomplice, not only to forgery, but to a double murder …’

  From that moment on, there was an almost comical note. Clark, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Maigret, kept leaning towards his attorney and saying a few words in English. Each time, the inspector threw him a glance and he was convinced that the only thing the American was saying in his language was:

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘As for you, my poor Charlotte,’ Maigret went on, ‘I have to admit to you something that Prosper may have admitted to you the last evening he spent with you … When, thinking he had got over her, you told him about Mimi’s letter and about the child, he hadn’t got over her at all … He didn’t say anything, but there in his coffee room, at about three o’clock, during the break, as Ramuel calls it, he didn’t hesitate to write a long letter to his former lover …

  ‘Don’t you remember, Donge? … Don’t you recall any details?’

  Donge was no longer sure of anything. He didn’t understand what was going on and looked around him with his big blue-green eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, inspector …’

  ‘How many letters did you write?’

  ‘Three …’

  ‘And, at least one of the three times, weren’t you disturbed by a phone call? … Weren’t you called to the purchasing manager’s office to collect the next day’s supplies? …’

  ‘It’s possible … Yes … In fact it’s quite likely …’

  ‘And your letter was still on your table, just opposite Ramuel’s cage … Ramuel the unlucky! … Ramuel who’s been a forger all his life without ever making a fortune … Who did you ask to post your letters?’

  ‘The bellboy … He’d take them up to the lobby, where there’s a postbox.’

  ‘Which means that Ramuel could easily intercept them … And that Mimi … I’m sorry, Mr Clark … To us, she’s still Mimi … Let’s say that Mrs Clark, in Detroit, after receiving letters from a man in love, in which he mostly talked about his son, received other letters, threatening letters, in the same handwriting and also signed Donge … Only, these demanded money … The new Donge wanted to be paid for his silence …’

  ‘Inspector! …’ Prosper exclaimed.

  ‘Just keep quiet, you! … And try to understand, for heaven’s sake! … Because it was a clever piece of work, you must believe that … And it proves yet again that Ramuel has never had any luck … He first had to write to Mimi that you had changed address, which was easy, given that in your letters you hadn’t been very forthcoming about your new life … Then there was that office rented in Rue Réaumur in the name of Prosper Donge …’

  ‘But …’

  ‘To rent an office, you don’t need any proof of identity and you’re given whatever mail arrives in your name … Unfortunately, the cheque that Mimi sends is made out to Prosper Donge, and banks do require the papers to be in order …

  ‘I repeat that Ramuel is an artist in his field … Only, to realize that, it’s necessary to know that you had between half an hour and three-quarters of an hour of calm in the coffee room, just opposite his glass cage, before his very eyes, so to speak, and that you took advantage of that break to catch up with your mail …

  ‘Now all at once you write a letter to your bank in order to close your account and ask that the balance be sent to you in Saint-Cloud …

  ‘But that wasn’t the letter that reached the Crédit Lyonnais. It was another one, written by Ramuel, still in your handwriting, a simple change of address … From now on, all mail for Donge was to be sent to 117c Rue Réaumur …

  ‘The cheque is sent … It’s paid into the account … As for the eight hundred and something francs you receive in Saint-Cloud, it’s Ramuel who sends it to you in the post in the name of the bank.

  ‘A nasty trick, but a cleverly contrived one, as you can see! …

  ‘So cleverly that Ramuel doesn’t trust that address in Rue Réaumur and, taking caution to extremes, has his mail forwarded to a postbox …

  ‘That way, who will ever be able to trace him?

  ‘But suddenly the unexpected happens … Mimi’s in France … Mimi’s staying at the Majestic … At any moment, Donge, the real Donge, could meet her, tell her he never blackmailed her, and …’

  Charlotte couldn’t contain herself any longer. She started crying, without knowing quite why, as she would have cried reading a sad novel or watching a sentimental film.

  ‘Shut up! … Shut up! …’ Gigi whispered in her ear.

  And no doubt Clark was still murmuring to his attorney:

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘As for Mrs Clark’s death,’ Maigret continued, ‘it was accidental … Ramuel, who had access to the hotel register, knew she was staying at the Majestic … Donge had no idea … He learned it by chance from a conversation he overheard in the couriers’ room …

  ‘He wrote … He fixed a meeting for six in the morning and no doubt he was going to demand his son, to weep, to beg … I’m sure that, if they had met, Mimi would have bamboozled him once again …

  ‘He doesn’t suspect that because she thinks she’s dealing with a blackmailer she’s bought a revolver …

  ‘Ramuel is worried … He doesn’t leave the cellars of the Majestic. He hasn’t noticed that little note Donge sent through one of the bellboys …

  ‘And that’s all! … A flat tyre … Donge arriving a quarter of an hour late … Ramuel seeing the young woman wandering in the corridors of the basement and, suspecting what has happened, foreseeing that everything will be discovered …

  ‘He strangles her … He pushes her into a locker …

  ‘Soon, he realizes that everything will point to Donge, whereas nobody would think of suspecting him …

  ‘To be absolutely sure, he writes an anonymous letter, in Charlotte’s handwriting … Because there are several notes from Charlotte in the drawer of the coffee room …

  ‘He’s an artist, I repeat! A miniaturist … Always with a finishing touch! … And when he realizes that poor Justin Collebœuf saw him … When Collebœuf comes and tells him that in all conscience he thinks he’s obliged to report him to the law, there’s another murder, an easy one, and easily pinned on Donge …

  ‘That’s all … Torrence! … Give this scum a wet towel, his nose is starting to bleed … He slipped earlier and banged his face on the corner of the table …

  ‘Do you have anything to say, Ramuel?’

  Silence. Only the American was still asking:

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘As for you, madame … What should we call you? … Marie Deligeard? … Madame Ramuel? …’

  ‘I prefer Marie Deligeard …’

  ‘That’s what I thought … You weren’t wrong in thinking that he was ho
ping to leave you soon … No doubt he was waiting until he had a tidy enough sum in the bank … He could have gone abroad by himself to have his liver treated, a long way from your screeching …’

  ‘Hold on a minute!’

  ‘With all due respect, madame! … With all due respect! …’

  And suddenly:

  ‘Gendarmes! … Take the prisoner to the cells … I hope that tomorrow Judge Bonneau will be so kind as to sign a final warrant and that …’

  Gigi was standing in a corner, perched on her long legs, the tension doubtless giving her such a strong need for drugs that she was dizzy and her nostrils were quivering like a wounded bird.

  ‘Excuse me, inspector …’

  It was the attorney. Clark was standing behind him.

  ‘My client would like to speak with you and Monsieur Donge in my office, as soon as possible, about … about the child who …’

  ‘Do you hear, Prosper?’ Gigi cried triumphantly from her corner.

  ‘Would tomorrow morning be all right? … Are you free tomorrow morning, Monsieur Donge? …’

  But Donge was unable to respond. He had suddenly melted. He had thrown himself on Charlotte’s opulent chest and was weeping – weeping, as they say, every tear he had in his body – while, somewhat embarrassed, she calmed him like a child.

  ‘It’s all right, Prosper! … We’ll bring him up together! … We’ll teach him French! … We’ll …’

  Maigret, for some reason, opened almost all the drawers in his desk. He remembered that in one of them he had stuffed some little sachets seized during a recent raid. He took one, hesitated, shrugged his shoulders.

  Then, as Gigi was almost fainting, he walked over to her. His hand brushed hers.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s one o’clock in the morning … So if you don’t mind …’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Clark seemed to be asking again, bemused by his first contact with the French police.

  It was discovered the following morning that the cheque for two hundred and eighty thousand francs had been presented at the Société Générale in Brussels by a man named Jaminet, a bookmaker by profession.