Maigret and the Good People of Montparnasse Read online

‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret knows about it.’

  ‘Did he send you a summons?’

  She smiled, a little woman, graceful despite her age.

  ‘No need for that.’

  ‘You’ve got something to tell him?’

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘He’s very busy just now.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I’ll wait.’

  She had waited until seven in the evening, then she had left. They saw her back again a few days later, with the same purple hat, the same knitting, and she took her seat as if she were a regular, in the glass-panelled waiting room.

  They had made a few inquiries, just to check. She had run a haberdasher’s in Montmartre for many years, and now had a comfortable income. Her nieces and nephews had several times tried to have her interned in a psychiatric hospital, but on each occasion she had been sent home, on the grounds that she posed no risk to anyone.

  Where had she chanced on Maigret’s name? She evidently did not know him by sight, since he had walked several times past the glass partition when she was there, and she had not recognized him.

  ‘Very well, Lucas. Time to shut up shop!’

  They were going home early, especially for a Saturday. Maigret filled his pipe and fetched his coat, hat and scarf from the cupboard.

  He went past the waiting room, turning his head away as a precaution, and once in the courtyard was faced with the yellow-tinged fog that had settled on Paris during the afternoon.

  He was in no hurry. The collar of his overcoat turned up, hands in pockets, he made his way round the Palais de Justice, passed under the great clock on the embankment, and crossed the Pont-au-Change. As he reached the middle of the bridge, he suddenly had the feeling he was being followed, and turned round abruptly. There were numerous passers-by in both directions. Nearly everyone, because of the cold, was walking quickly. He was almost sure that a darkly clad man, about ten metres away from him, had suddenly done an about-turn.

  He attached no importance to it, and besides it was just an impression.

  A few minutes later, he was waiting for his bus in Place du Châtelet, then found enough room on the rear platform to carry on smoking his pipe. Did it really have an unusual taste? He would have sworn it. Perhaps because of the fog, and a certain quality in the air. A very pleasant taste anyway.

  He was thinking about nothing in particular, but gazed absent-mindedly at his fellow passengers’ heads nodding with the motion of the bus.

  Then he was back on the pavement in the almost deserted Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, and glimpsing the lights of his apartment, which he always recognized from a distance. He started up the familiar staircase, saw the strips of light under the doors, heard muffled voices and the sound of radios playing.

  The front door opened as usual, before he had touched the handle, and Madame Maigret, silhouetted against the light, put a mysterious finger to her lips.

  He looked at her questioningly, trying to see past her.

  ‘There’s someone here …’ she whispered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s a bit odd.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he absolutely had to speak to you.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘I can’t say exactly, but there’s drink on his breath.’

  There was a quiche lorraine for supper, he could tell by the smell from the kitchen.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I got him to sit in the front room.’

  She took his coat, hat and scarf. The flat seemed less light than usual, but that again was obviously just an impression. With a shrug, he pushed the door of their front room, where for a little over a month now, a television set had been installed in a prominent place.

  The man had remained standing in a corner, coat on and hat in hand. He seemed intimidated and hardly dared look at the inspector.

  ‘Forgive me for following you home,’ he stammered.

  Maigret had immediately noticed the man’s hare-lip and was not displeased to find himself at last face to face with this person.

  ‘You’ve been coming to Quai des Orfèvres to see me, haven’t you?’

  ‘Several times, yes.’

  ‘And your name is … Just a minute … Planchon.’

  ‘Léonard Planchon, yes, that’s right.’

  And he repeated more and more humbly:

  ‘Forgive me …’

  His eyes were roving round the small room, coming to rest on the half-open door, as if he wanted to run away again. How many times had he left like that, without seeing the inspector?

  At least five times. Always on a Saturday afternoon. So that they had started calling him ‘the Saturday caller’.

  It was rather like the case of the madwoman, with variations. The Police Judiciaire, like a newspaper office, attracts all kinds of people who are behaving oddly in some way, and in the end some of them become known and familiar faces.

  ‘I did write to you first,’ he murmured.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  Through the glass door into the dining room, the table could be seen laid for dinner and the man glanced towards it.

  ‘It’s time for your supper, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Maigret again, with a sigh.

  For once he was home early, but his evening meal was going to have to wait. Too bad about the quiche! And the television news! For the last few weeks, he and his wife had adopted the habit of watching television while they ate, which had meant moving to different places at the table.

  ‘You say you’ve written to me?’

  ‘At least ten letters.’

  ‘Signed with your name?’

  ‘The first ones weren’t signed. I tore them up. Then I tore up the others too. That’s when I decided to come and see you.’

  Maigret, too, recognized the smell of alcohol, but the man in front of him was not drunk. Nervous, yes. His clasped fingers were pressed together so tightly that the knuckles were white. Only gradually did he gather enough confidence to look straight at the inspector, and his expression was almost beseeching.

  How old was he? Hard to say. Neither young nor old, but he gave the impression of never having been young. Thirty-five?

  Nor was it easy to guess the social category to which he belonged. His clothes, although of poor cut, were of good quality; his hands, while very clean, were those of a manual worker.

  ‘Why did you tear up the letters?’

  ‘I was afraid you’d think I was mad.’

  And looking up, with a clear need to convince, he added:

  ‘I’m not mad, inspector. I beg you to believe that I’m not mad.’

  This was generally a bad sign, yet Maigret was already almost persuaded. He could hear his wife coming and going in the kitchen. She must have taken the quiche out of the oven, but it would in any case be spoiled now.

  ‘So you wrote several letters to me. Then you came to Quai des Orfèvres. On a Saturday, if I remember rightly?’

  ‘It’s the only day I’m free.’

  ‘What is it you do, Monsieur Planchon?’

  ‘I’ve got a painting and decorating business. A very modest one. In the summer, I might have five or six men on the job. You get the idea.’

  Because of his hare-lip, it was hard to say whether he was smiling timidly or pulling a disparaging face. His eyes were very light blue, and he had fair, almost reddish hair.

  ‘The first time you called was about two months ago. You wrote on the form that you wanted to speak to me in person. Why?’

  ‘Because you’re the only person I feel I can trust. I read in the papers …’

  ‘Very well. That Saturday, instead of waiting, you left after about ten minutes.’

  ‘I was scared.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘I told myself you wouldn’t take me seriously. Or that you’d stop me doing what I had in mind.’

  ‘You came back the following Saturday …’
/>
  ‘Yes.’

  Maigret had been in a meeting that day with the chief of police and two other senior officers. When he had emerged, an hour later, the waiting room was empty.

  ‘Were you still scared?’

  ‘I didn’t know …’

  ‘What didn’t you know?’

  ‘I didn’t know if I wanted to go through with it.’

  He rubbed his forehead.

  ‘It’s so complicated. You see, there are moments when I lose track …’

  Another time, Maigret had sent Lucas to see to him. The man had refused to tell him why he was there, saying that it was personal, then he had literally fled.

  ‘Who gave you my address?’

  ‘I followed you. Last Saturday, I nearly came up to you in the street, then I thought that wasn’t the right place. Not for the kind of conversation I wanted to have. Neither was your office. Perhaps you’ll understand …’

  ‘How did you know, this evening, what time I would be going home?’

  And Maigret suddenly recalled the feeling he had had on the Pont-au-Change.

  ‘You were hiding on the embankment, weren’t you?’

  Planchon nodded.

  ‘You followed me to the bus stop?’

  ‘Yes. Then I took a taxi and got here a few minutes before you.’

  ‘You have some problem that’s worrying you, Monsieur Planchon?’

  ‘Worse than a problem.’

  ‘How many drinks did you have before coming here?’

  ‘Two? Maybe three? Before all this, I hardly touched alcohol, at most a glass of wine with a meal.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It depends on the day. Or rather the night, I don’t drink on the job. If I had three brandies just now, it was to give me courage. Are you vexed with me?’

  Maigret was puffing slowly at his pipe, not taking his eyes off his visitor, trying to form an opinion. He had not yet succeeded. He sensed in Planchon a pathetic side that distracted him. He had the impression of some repressed passion, of some overwhelming distress, accompanied by remarkable patience.

  This man, and Maigret would have put his hand in the fire about that, had few social contacts: everything went on inside his head. He had been tormented for two months by the need to talk. He had tried, Saturday after Saturday, to meet the inspector, and every time, he had dodged it at the last moment.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell me the whole story?’

  Another glance through the door at the dining room, where two places had been laid facing the television.

  ‘I feel ashamed, I’m holding up your meal. It could take a long time … Your wife will be annoyed with me … Listen, I tell you what, I’ll wait here while you eat. Or I can come back later. Yes, that’s it! I’ll come back later.’

  He made to get up, and Maigret obliged him to stay where he was.

  ‘No, Monsieur Planchon! This time we’re getting to it, aren’t we? Tell me what’s troubling you. Tell me face to face what you wrote in all those letters you tore up.’

  Then suddenly, staring at the carpet with its red leaf pattern, the man burst out:

  ‘I want to kill my wife!’

  Immediately, his gaze went to the inspector’s face. Maigret had managed, with some difficulty, not to give a start.

  ‘You intend to kill your wife?’

  ‘I’ve got to! There’s no other way out … I don’t know how to explain it to you. Every night, I tell myself it’s going to happen, it’s impossible for it not to happen one day or another. So I thought that if I told you about it …’

  Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his spectacles, searching for words, and Maigret noticed that a button of his jacket was hanging by a thread. Despite his distress, Planchon intercepted the brief glance and smiled, or rather grimaced.

  ‘Yes, that too,’ he said bitterly. ‘She doesn’t even pretend to …’

  ‘Pretend to what?’

  ‘To look after me. To be my wife.’

  Was he regretting having come? He was shifting about on the chair, occasionally looking at the door as if he were about to bolt outside.

  ‘I’m wondering if I wasn’t wrong to come. But you’re the only man in the world I can trust … It seems as if I’ve known you a long time. I’m almost sure you’ll understand.’

  ‘Are you a jealous husband, Monsieur Planchon?’

  Their eyes met. Maigret thought he could see complete frankness in the other man’s expression.

  ‘Not any more, I think. I was. But no. Now, I’m past that …’

  ‘But you want to kill her just the same?’

  ‘Because there’s no other solution. So I told myself if I warned you, by letter or in person … First of all, it would be more honest. Then perhaps if I did that, I’d change my mind … You understand? … No, it’s impossible to understand if you don’t know Renée. I’m sorry if this is coming out in a muddle. Renée’s my wife. My daughter’s called Isabelle. She’s seven, she’s all I have left in the world. You don’t have children, I believe?’

  He looked around again, as if to check there were no toys lying about, or the many other signs of a child in the house.

  ‘They want to take her from me too. They’re doing all they can to manage that. They don’t try to hide it … I wish you could see how they treat me. Do you think my mind’s disturbed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In a way, that might be better? They could lock me up right away. Like they will if I kill my wife. Or if I kill him. Really, to do the job properly, I should kill them both. But if I was in prison, who’d look after Isabelle? You see the problem?

  ‘I’ve thought up a lot of complicated plans. At least ten, and every time I’ve worked them out in detail. The main thing was not to get caught. People would just think the two of them had gone away. I read in the paper that thousands of women go missing every year in Paris alone, and the police don’t bother to look for them. And it would be even better if he disappeared at the same time as her …

  ‘You know, I even decided one time where I’d bury their bodies. It was when I was working up at the top of Montmartre, on a site where concrete was being mixed. I’d have taken them there at night, in my van, and nobody would ever have found them.’

  He was getting worked up, speaking quite volubly now, but without ceasing to watch Maigret’s reactions.

  ‘Has anyone ever come before to tell you he was going to kill his wife, or someone else?’

  This was all so unexpected that Maigret found himself searching his memory.

  ‘Not like this,’ he admitted finally.

  ‘You think I’m making it up, inventing a story to get your attention?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You believe I really want to kill my wife?’

  ‘You certainly intended to.’

  ‘And you think I will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you have come to see me.’

  Planchon stood up, too nervous and on edge to stay sitting. He threw his arms in the air.

  ‘Well, that’s what I told myself,’ he almost sobbed. ‘That’s why, every time, I went away without being seen. And that’s why I needed to talk to you. I’m not a criminal. I’m an honest man. And yet …’

  Maigret got up in turn, went over to the sideboard, fetched the bottle of plum brandy, and poured a glass of it for his visitor.

  ‘You’re not having any?’ the other murmured shamefacedly.

  Then, as he glanced at the dining room:

  ‘Of course! You haven’t eaten, and here I am talking away, not making sense. I’d like to be able to explain it all to you, but I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Would you prefer it if I asked you some questions?’

  ‘That might be easier.’

  ‘Sit down, then.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Eight years.’

  ‘And you l
ived alone before that?’

  ‘Yes. I was always alone, after my mother died when I was fifteen. We lived in Rue Picpus, not far from here. She cleaned people’s houses.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘I never knew him.’

  He had reddened.

  ‘You became an apprentice?’

  ‘That’s right. I became a house-painter. I was twenty-six when my boss, who lived in Rue Tholozé, discovered he had a bad heart, and decided to retire to the country.’

  ‘So you took over the business?’

  ‘I had some savings. I hardly used to spend anything. It still took me six years to buy him out.’

  ‘Where did you meet your wife?’

  ‘You know Rue Tholozé? It runs off Rue Lepic, just opposite the Moulin de la Galette. It’s a cul-de-sac, with steps at the end. I live just at the bottom of the steps, a small house with a courtyard. It’s handy for ladders and materials.’

  He was calming down. His speech was becoming less agitated, more evenly paced.

  ‘Halfway up the street on the left, there’s a dance hall called the Bal des Copains where I used to go for an hour or two on Saturday nights.’

  ‘To dance?’

  ‘No, I’d sit in a corner and have a lemonade, because this was before I started to drink. I’d listen to the music and watch the couples on the dance-floor.’

  ‘Any sweethearts?’

  He replied awkwardly:

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He raised a hand to his lip.

  ‘I’m not good-looking. Women have always scared me a bit. I thought my deformity would disgust them.’

  ‘So anyway, you did meet one, called Renée.’

  ‘Yes. The place was full that evening … They put us at the same table. I didn’t dare speak to her. And she was as shy as me. You could tell she wasn’t used to it.’

  ‘To dance halls?’

  ‘Dance halls, everything, Paris … In the end she spoke first, and I found out she’d only been in the city a month. I asked her where she came from. And she was from Saint-Sauveur, near Fontenay-le-Comte in the Vendée, which just happens to be my mother’s home village. I went there a few times as a child, to see aunts and uncles. So that made things easier. We could say the names of people we both knew.’

  ‘What was Renée doing in Paris?’

  ‘Working as a housemaid for a dairywoman in Rue Lepic.’