Maigret Takes a Room Read online

  ‘That’s your demand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘In that case you can come. You probably aren’t far from Rue Lhomond.’

  ‘No distance at all.’

  ‘I’ll stay at my window during your visit. You mustn’t close the curtains, or lower the blind.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘When you leave the house, a small car will be waiting a little way along the street. You just have to meet me there.’

  A silence. Finally the sound of the receiver being replaced.

  Maigret took the time to light his pipe, reached the sitting-room door and looked vaguely at Lucas.

  ‘Call headquarters and ask for a car. Make it stop a little way down the street.’

  ‘Shall I wait for you there?’

  ‘It’s not worth it.’

  ‘You don’t need me any more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I stay anyway?’

  ‘If you like.’

  Had Maigret really said, ‘If you like’?

  It was never certain, but Lucas took it for granted, and that was how he was able to go on telling his story more or less to the end.

  While Lucas made for the telephone, Maigret was taking a bottle of beer from behind the cellar door, without glancing at Mademoiselle Clément, whom he seemed not to see. Then he went to the stairs and climbed them slowly, glan-cing into the bedroom of Mademoiselle Blanche, who was lying on her bed, in her dressing gown, reading the paper.

  A few moments later he was leaning against the window, which he had opened, and the hail had stopped as if by magic. Madame Boursicault was in her bed, hands crossed under her head, staring at the ceiling, as motionless as someone who feels she is being observed.

  The sky was brighter, but the sun wasn’t yet piercing the clouds, and the light was as harsh as those electric lightbulbs with unfrosted glass. Hailstones drifted along the pavement.

  The man came from the other end of the street, quite simply, quite naturally, like an ordinary passer-by. He was short and thin, dressed in grey, and even his face looked grey. He might have been old and well preserved; equally he could have been a young man who had aged prematurely.

  His clothes were well cut, the overall effect not inelegant.

  When he was only two or three houses away he looked up towards the window, and his eyes met Maigret’s. He made no gesture. His features didn’t move. Without pausing, he entered the house opposite, and it was only on the stairs, or on the landing, that he froze, because two or three minutes passed before Maigret saw the woman turn towards the door.

  She opened her mouth and must have said:

  ‘Come in.’

  She saw him before Maigret did, sat up on her bed, turned almost immediately towards the window and was clearly about to hurry over to close it.

  The man spoke to her, walking towards her, set his hat down on a chair and remained calm and self-controlled as if reassuring an anxious child.

  Without turning towards Maigret even once, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and Françoise Boursicault huddled against him with her head in the hollow of his shoulder, while he stroked her forehead with one hand.

  From where she was sitting she could see the inspector, and he, embarrassed, stepped back and opened his bottle of beer and drank it from the neck, because he had forgotten to bring up a glass, and the tooth mug was an unappetizing colour.

  He stepped out on to the landing. Mademoiselle Blanche was surprised to see him coming into her room – she thought, in fact, that he had no objections to seeing her in a state of undress – and particularly to see him talking for a long time about everything and nothing, about the book she was reading and the hail that had just fallen.

  He heard the phone ring: Lucas answering downstairs and quick footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘It’s for you, chief … It’s headquarters … They’ve found a clue …’

  Lucas was equally surprised to find Maigret in the girl’s bedroom; he was all the more surprised when Maigret received the news he brought him without surprise and without pleasure.

  ‘She lived for a time on Rue des Dames, in a little furnished house, where a man who …’

  ‘Is the Police Judiciaire still on the line?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got Lapointe, very excited. He wants to give you some details. He’s checked with Records. He’s sure …’

  ‘Tell him I’ll see him in my office straight away.’

  In Lucas’ stories these details assumed an almost epic quality.

  ‘I could easily have imagined he was only interested in the pretty girl lying on her bed and putting on airs for his benefit, her dressing gown more than half-open …’

  Lucas had time to go back downstairs, to go and speak to Mademoiselle Clément in her kitchen. She too was becoming agitated and vaguely worried.

  ‘What’s he doing? What’s going on?’

  Maigret only left Mademoiselle Blanche’s room when he had nothing more to see in the house opposite but a reclining woman whose face was turned towards him, and on whose cheeks he discerned the shining streaks of tears.

  He took the trouble of going to say goodbye to Mademoiselle Clément, and she noticed the suitcase that he was holding.

  ‘Are you going for good?’

  ‘I’ll come by and say hello.’

  ‘Is your inquiry over? Did you find him?’

  He didn’t reply directly.

  ‘Thank you for your care and your kindness.’

  And, as he was looking around at the décor that had become so familiar to him, she started laughing, the throaty laugh that shook her big bosom.

  ‘It’s ridiculous! I’ll miss you. I’d got used to you and already considered you as one of my tenants.’

  Perhaps to please her, he murmured:

  ‘Me too …’

  Then, to Lucas:

  ‘I’ll see you back at headquarters soon.’

  Mademoiselle Clément followed him to the door, where she stood as he crossed the street. The little black car of the Préfecture was a little way down, two houses further away than the Auvergnat’s bistro.

  Maigret hesitated and approached the counter.

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘One last white wine, yes.’

  He drank it, after which it was the landlord’s turn. The landlady came out of her kitchen and wanted to raise her glass as well. Like Mademoiselle Clément, she said:

  ‘I’d got used to you …’

  They watched him leave; the fat woman was still in her doorway. He opened the car door, put his suitcase in first and murmured:

  ‘May I?’

  Once he was settled on his seat, he finally said to the driver:

  ‘To the Quai!’

  The little grey man was sitting beside him; politely, he took off his hat, which he held on his knees for the whole journey.

  The two men didn’t exchange a word.

  9.

  In which young Lapointe begins to be less proud of his file

  The two men slowly climbed the dusty stairs, whose familiar smell Maigret was pleased to sniff. As always, people were waiting in the glazed waiting room. Joseph, the old office clerk, cheerfully called:

  ‘Hello, sir!’

  ‘Hello, Joseph!’

  ‘The chief would like you to call in and see him.’

  ‘I’ll go there in a moment.’

  ‘Monsieur Lapointe has also asked me to tell him as soon as you get back.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Monsieur Torrence phoned.’

  ‘Thanks, Joseph.’

  He was returning very gently into the everyday routine. As he opened his office door, it seemed to be reproaching him for his desertion.

  ‘Come in!’

  He opened the window and took off his hat and his raincoat.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable. Sit down.’

  Suddenly the internal telephone rang. It was Lapointe.

  ‘I have h
is name and the whole story, chief. Do you want me to come and see you with the file?’

  ‘In a little while. I’ll call you.’

  Poor Lapointe! He said with a piqued smile:

  ‘Fine!’

  In front of him, the man was sitting on a chair, lifting the leg of his trouser so as not to break the crease. He was plainly very concerned with his appearance. He was clean shaven. His fingernails were neat. His expression was one of extreme fatigue.

  ‘Have you lived in the colonies?’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  It was hard to say exactly. It was something indefinable. Something in his complexion, in his expression, in that kind of premature ageing, because Maigret was now sure that the man before him was barely more than forty-five.

  ‘You’re younger than her, aren’t you?’

  There were two of them sitting talking in an office, and they looked as if they were calmly talking business, as if, in a few moments, one of the two was not about to stop being a man like any other.

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No, thank you. I haven’t smoked for years.’

  ‘And you don’t drink either?’

  They were getting to know each other gradually, with furtive glances that didn’t yet settle.

  ‘I don’t drink any more, no.’

  ‘Did you drink a lot?’

  ‘Once upon a time.’

  ‘One of my inspectors is waiting to bring me your file.’

  Strangely, the man didn’t imagine for an instant that he was bluffing. He said simply:

  ‘It was bound to happen sooner or later.’

  ‘Did you expect it?’

  ‘I knew it was inevitable.’

  ‘You’re almost relieved? Aren’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps. As long as she isn’t mixed up in the case. It’s not her fault. Don’t forget your promise to me.’

  It was the only moment when he showed any apprehension. He was calm; one might even have said that as their conversation was played out in the peace of the office he relaxed some more, as a man who hadn’t been able to do so for years.

  ‘As for me, I’ve decided to pay the price.’

  He added with a shy smile:

  ‘I suppose it’s going to be a high one?’

  ‘Probably, yes.’

  ‘My head?’

  Maigret gestured vaguely.

  ‘It’s hard to predict how juries are going to react. You might not pay such a high price if …’

  The man said in a clear voice, with a hint of anger:

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s your business. How old were you when you met her?’

  ‘Twenty. I had just been through the recruiting board and declared unfit.’

  ‘Born in Paris?’

  ‘In the Nièvre.’

  ‘Parents well to do?’

  ‘Middle class. Quite poor.’

  ‘Did you study?’

  ‘Three years of middle school.’

  Around the same age as Paulus. He too had come to Paris with the idea of making a career for himself.

  ‘Did you work?’

  ‘I’ve worked.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘In offices … I was badly paid …’

  Like Paulus, again.

  ‘And you started frequenting bars?’

  ‘I was alone in Paris. I hated being in my room.’

  ‘And you met Françoise in a bar?’

  ‘Yes. She was four years older than me.’

  ‘She had a lover?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she left him because of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You set up home together?’

  ‘I couldn’t, because I had no money. I’d just left my job. I was looking for another one.’

  ‘Did you love her?’

  ‘I thought so. But I didn’t know yet.’

  He had uttered those words seriously, slowly, staring at the floor.

  ‘Would you rather I asked for the file?’

  ‘It’s not worth it. My name was Julien Foucrier. Françoise’s last boyfriend had money to burn. I was furious not to be able to give her anything.’

  ‘Did she complain?’

  ‘No. She said we had our whole lives ahead of us, and I would get there eventually.’

  ‘You lacked patience?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Who did you kill?’

  ‘I didn’t plan to kill anyone. Opposite where I lived, on Rue des Dames, behind Boulevard des Batignoles, there was a man in his sixties that the owner of the house had told me about.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was always late with my rent. She told me he lent money to people in my situation, and that I would be better off owing it to him than to her. I went to see him. He lent to me twice, at one hundred per cent interest. He lived alone in a dark flat, where he did his own housework. His name was Mabille.’

  Maigret didn’t tell him that he vaguely remembered the case.

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘Yes. I went to see him a third time to ask him for a new loan, and he opened the safe. There were two candelabras on the mantelpiece. I grabbed one of them.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘The police wasted nearly a month. In fact, just after my visit, someone else went up to see Mabille, a man with a criminal record, and it was his description that the concierge gave. He was arrested. For a long time they thought he was the guilty man.’

  ‘Did you tell Françoise the truth?’

  ‘I was living in a trance. When I read in the papers that they’d released the man arrested in my place I lost my head and crossed the border.’

  ‘Still without saying anything to Françoise?’

  ‘I wrote to tell her that my family needed to see me, and that I would be back soon.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘To Spain. Then to Portugal, from where I set sail for Panama. The French papers published my name and my description. In Portugal I managed to get hold of a passport in the name of Vermersch.’

  ‘And you’ve lived under that name since then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you stay in Panama for a long time?’

  ‘Eighteen years.’

  ‘You heard nothing from Françoise?’

  ‘How would I have heard from her?’

  ‘You didn’t write to her?’

  ‘Never. At first I worked as a waiter in a French hotel. Then I set up my own restaurant.’

  ‘Was it successful?’

  He answered, almost modestly:

  ‘I made some money. Enough to live comfortably. I fell ill. My liver. I was drinking a lot. Over there they sell real absinthe quite freely. I’d developed a taste for it. I spent three months in hospital, and the doctors recommended a change of climate.’

  ‘How long ago did you come back to France?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘So, before Françoise fell ill in turn.’

  ‘Yes. Two years before.’

  ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘I wasn’t looking for her. I wouldn’t have dared. I was sure she would refuse to see me. I just met her on the Métro by chance one day.’

  ‘Where were you living?’

  ‘Where I’m still living, on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.’

  It was his second smile; if you could call it a smile.

  ‘A few blocks away from you, on the corner of Rue du Chemin-Vert.’

  ‘Françoise told you she was married?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She wasn’t angry with you?’

  ‘No. She considered herself responsible for what had happened.’

  ‘Did she still love you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’d never stopped loving her?’

  He didn’t raise his voice, he spoke very simply, in a neutral tone, and the sun was starting to pierce the clouds, st
ill young and humid.

  ‘You didn’t ask her to leave her husband?’

  ‘She didn’t think she had the right. You see, he’s a very good man, and she respects him.’

  ‘We met up two or three times a week when her husband was at sea, in a café on Boulevard Sébastopol. I was the one who wanted to know where she lived. Not for the reason you imagine. We didn’t think about it. One day I went into the house when the concierge was shopping and I left almost immediately.’

  ‘Did it become a habit?’

  ‘It happened several times.’

  ‘Had you already agreed on the signal?’

  ‘The copper pot! Yes. I knew I’d get caught sooner or later. It was inevitable.’

  ‘You never suggested that she follow you abroad?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have agreed.’

  ‘Because of Boursicault?’

  ‘Yes. You don’t know him.’

  ‘Then she became an invalid?’

  ‘A little while afterwards. You’ve seen her. That’s the worst thing that could have happened to us. She couldn’t go out. I went to her place more often. One morning, when the concierge came back, I was still in the flat and I hid. I stayed there until the next day.’

  ‘And from then on you started again?’

  ‘Yes. It somehow made us feel as if we were a household. Don’t forget that we had never lived together. When I was living on Rue des Dames, she had kept her room on Boulevard Rochechouart. That’s why nobody’s ever talked about her. That’s the story! I started staying for two days, then three, sometimes more. We ended up organizing ourselves, because there was the question of food. I brought mine with me.’

  ‘Obviously there was no danger of her husband coming home unexpectedly, given that the boats stuck to a strict timetable.’

  ‘It was hardest during his month’s leave.’

  It was all grey, melancholy, like the man himself, like the lodgings on Rue Lhomond, like the woman who spent her days lying in her bed.

  ‘Last week I saw through the window that the street was under surveillance.’

  ‘Did you think it was because of you?’

  ‘The papers hadn’t mentioned Paulus. I couldn’t have suspected that it was the house opposite that the police were interested in. I thought quite naturally that they’d tracked me down. They probably weren’t sure, or did they think I was outside and they were waiting for me to come back? For two days I imagined all kinds of things. Ten times I was about to give myself up, but I would have had to talk about Françoise, and they would have questioned her, perhaps arrested her, and her husband would have found out …’