Friend of Madame Maigret Read online

  “The two brothers had the afternoon before them for their work. The tools and the compromising documents never remained at the rue de Turenne. Moss took them away with him.

  “On some Mondays, Steuvels would even have time to hurry over to one of his banks and make a deposit.”

  “I don’t see what part was played by the young woman with the child, or by Countess Panetti, or . . .”

  “I’m coming to that, Monsieur le Juge. I told you about the suitcase first because that’s what bothered me more than anything else, right from the start. Ever since I knew of the existence of Moss and suspected what he was up to, I’ve had another question on my mind.

  “Why, on Tuesday, March 12, all of a sudden, when the gang seemed quiet, was there an unusual flare-up that ended in its dispersing?

  “I mean the incident in the place d’Anvers garden, which my wife happened to witness.

  “Only the night before, Moss was living peacefully in his lodgings on the boulevard Pasteur.

  “Levine and the child were staying at the Hôtel Beauséjour, where Gloria would come and pick up the child every morning to take him for a walk.

  “Now, on that Tuesday, about ten in the morning, Moss enters the Hôtel Beauséjour, in which, probably as a precaution, he has never set foot before.

  “Immediately Levine packs his bags, dashes over to the place d’Anvers, calls Gloria, who deserts the child in order to follow him.

  “By the afternoon they’ve all disappeared, leaving no trace.

  “What happened on the morning of March 12?

  “Moss couldn’t have received a telephone call because the house he lived in has no telephone.

  “Neither I nor my detectives made any move at that moment that might have alarmed the gang, the existence of which we didn’t even suspect.

  “As for Frans Steuvels, he was in the Santé.

  “All the same, something did happen.

  “And it was only last night, when I went home, that through the wildest chance I found the answer to this question.”

  Monsieur Dossin was so relieved to know that the man he had put in prison was not innocent that he was listening with a sort of beatific smile, as if he were hearing a story being told.

  “My wife had been waiting for me all evening and had spent the time catching up on a little job she takes care of now and again. This consists of keeping scrapbooks of all newspaper clippings that mention me, and she does it more devotedly than ever since a former Director of Police Headquarters published his memoirs.

  “‘You might possibly write yours some day, after you’ve retired and we’re living in the country,’ she’ll reply when I make fun of her hobby.

  “In any case, when I got home last night, the scissors and paste were on the table. While I was making myself comfortable, I happened to glance over my wife’s shoulder, and in one of the clippings she was just pasting in I saw a photo that I had completely forgotten.

  “It had been taken three years ago by a little newspaperman in Normandy: we were spending a few days at Dieppe, and he’d caught us, my wife and myself, on the steps of our pension.

  “What amazed me was to see this photo on a page from an illustrated magazine.

  “‘Didn’t you read it? It came out recently: a four-page article on the early days of your career and your methods.’

  “There were some other photographs, one of me when I was secretary in a police station and had a drooping moustache.

  “‘What’s the date of it?’

  “‘Of the article? Last week. I haven’t had time to show it to you. You’ve hardly been home lately.’

  “In short, Monsieur Dossin, the article had appeared in a Paris weekly that went on sale on the morning of Tuesday, March 12.

  “I immediately sent someone over to see the people who still had Moss as their lodger on that date, and they confirmed that the younger of the girls had taken the magazine in to him, with the milk, at about half past eight, and that Moss had glanced at it while he was having breakfast.

  “From then on, everything’s straightforward. This even explains Gloria’s long sessions on the garden bench in the place d’Anvers.

  “After their two murders and the arrest of Steuvels, the gang, now broken up, was lying low. Levine probably changed hotels several times before moving into the rue Lepic. For safety he never appeared with Gloria outside, and they even went so far as to avoid spending the night together in the same place.

  “Moss must have come to the place d’Anvers every morning to keep in touch, and all he had to do was take a seat at the end of the bench.

  “Now, as you know, my wife sat down three or four times on that same bench before her dentist’s appointment. The two women had got to know each other and would chat. Moss had probably seen Madame Maigret, to whom he hadn’t paid any attention.

  “Imagine his reaction when he found out from the magazine that the good lady on the bench was none other than the wife of the chief inspector in charge of the investigation!

  “He couldn’t believe it was accidental, could he? He quite naturally thought that we were on his track and that I had turned over this delicate bit of sleuthing to my wife.

  “He rushed over to the rue Lepic and alerted Levine, who dashed over to warn Gloria.”

  “Why did they have a quarrel?”

  “Perhaps about the child? Perhaps Levine didn’t want Gloria to go back for him, thus running the risk of being arrested. She insisted on going, but with maximum precautions.

  “This also makes me inclined to think that when we find them again they won’t be together. They’ll reckon that we know Gloria and the boy, while we know nothing about Levine. He must have gone off in one direction, and Moss in another.”

  “Do you expect to catch them?”

  “Maybe tomorrow, maybe a year from now. You know how things go.”

  “You still haven’t told me where you found the suitcase.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer not to know how we got possession of it? I was, in fact, forced to use slightly illegal methods, for which I take sole responsibility, but you couldn’t possibly approve them.

  “All you need to know is that it was Liotard who relieved Steuvels of the compromising suitcase.

  “For one reason or another, on the Saturday night, Moss had taken the suitcase to the rue de Turenne and left it there.

  “Frans Steuvels had simply shoved it under a table in his workshop, thinking no one would bother about it.

  “On February 21 Lapointe invented a pretext to be admitted and searched the place.

  “Remember that Steuvels couldn’t get in touch with his brother, or any other member of the gang probably, to let them know what was going on. I have a theory about that.

  “He must have wondered how to get rid of the suitcase and was doubtless waiting until after dark to see about it, when Liotard, whom he’d never heard of, turned up.”

  “How did Liotard get to know?”

  “Through an indiscretion in my department.”

  “One of your detectives?”

  “I don’t blame him for it, and there’s not much chance that it will ever happen again. In any case Liotard offered his services, and even went rather beyond what one is entitled to expect from a member of the Bar, since he took away the suitcase.”

  “Did you find it at his place?”

  “At Alfonsi’s; he’d passed it on to him.”

  “Let’s see where we stand now . . .”

  “Nowhere. I mean, we know nothing about the essential thing, that’s the two murders. A man was killed in the rue de Turenne, and previously Countess Panetti was killed in her car, we don’t know where. You must have received the report from Dr. Paul, who found a bullet in the old lady’s cranium.

  “However, a small item of information has reached me from Italy. More than a year ago the Krynkers were divorced in Switzerland, since divorce is impossible in Italy. Countess Panetti’s daughter regained her liberty to marry an America
n, with whom she is now living in Texas.”

  “There was never a reconciliation with her mother?”

  “Far from it. Her mother was more furious with her than ever. Krynker is a Hungarian of good family, but poor. He spent part of the winter at Monte Carlo trying to make his fortune at gambling, without success.

  “He arrived in Paris three weeks before the death of his ex-mother-in-law and lived at the Commodore, then in a small hotel on the rue Caumartin.”

  “How long had Gloria Lotti been in the old lady’s service?”

  “Four or five months. That hasn’t been determined exactly.”

  A sound was heard in the corridor, and the doorman came to announce that the prisoner had arrived.

  “Am I to tell him all this?” asked Monsieur Dossin, whose responsibilities were weighing on him again.

  “There are two possibilities: either he’ll talk, or he’ll still refuse to. I’ve had dealings with several Flemings in my time, and I’ve learned that they’re hard to soften up. If he won’t talk, it will take us weeks or more. We’ll have to wait, in fact, until we rout out one of the four characters holed up Lord knows where.”

  “Four?”

  “Moss, Levine, the woman and the child, and our best bet may be the child.”

  “Unless they’ve got rid of him.”

  “If Gloria went back for him when he was in my wife’s charge, at the risk of getting herself arrested, she must be attached to him.”

  “Do you think it’s her son?”

  “I’m sure of it. It’s a mistake to think criminals aren’t like other people, that they can’t have children and love them.”

  “Her son by Levine?”

  “Probably.”

  Rising to his feet, Dossin smiled a faint smile with a trace of mischief and of humility too.

  “This would be the time for a ‘grilling,’ wouldn’t it? Unfortunately that’s not my strong point.”

  “If you’ll allow me, I can try talking to Liotard.”

  “To get him to advise his client to talk?”

  “As matters stand now, it’s in the interest of both of them.”

  “Shall I have them brought in right away?”

  “In a moment.”

  Maigret went out and said cordially to the man sitting to the right of the door, on the bench worn smooth by constant use:

  “Good morning, Steuvels.”

  Just at that moment Janvier was coming out into the corridor, together with a very distressed Fernande. The inspector was doubtful about letting the woman join her husband.

  “You have time for a chat together,” Maigret said to them.

  “The judge isn’t quite ready.”

  He made Liotard a sign to follow him, and they talked in undertones, pacing up and down the murky corridor where there were policemen outside most of the doors. It took barely five minutes.

  “When you’re ready, just knock.”

  Maigret went alone into Monsieur Dossin’s office, leaving Liotard, Steuvels, and Fernande in conversation.

  “Satisfactory result?”

  “We’ll see. Liotard’s willing, obviously. I’ll cook you up a nice little report in which I’ll manage to mention the suitcase without emphasizing it.”

  “That’s a bit irregular, isn’t it?”

  “Do you want to catch the murderers?”

  “I understand you, Maigret. But my father and my grandfather were on the Bench, and I think I’ll end my days there too.”

  He was blushing, waiting for a knock on the door with a mixture of impatience and misgiving.

  At last it opened.

  “Shall I bring Madame Steuvels in too?” asked the lawyer.

  Fernande had been crying and had her handkerchief in her hand. She immediately tried to catch Maigret’s eye to give him a look of distress, as though she felt confident that he could still put everything right.

  Steuvels, for his part, hadn’t changed. He was still wearing an expression that was both mild and stubborn at the same time, and he went and sat down obediently on the chair he was motioned to.

  As the clerk was about to take his place, Monsieur Dossin said to him:

  “Wait. I’ll call you when the interrogation becomes official. Are you agreeable, Maître Liotard?”

  “Quite. Thank you.”

  Maigret was the only one standing up now, facing the window, down which little raindrops were rolling. The Seine was gray like the sky; the barges, the roofs, the pavements reflected the wetness.

  Then, after two or three little coughs, Judge Dossin’s voice was heard, saying diffidently:

  “I believe the chief inspector would like to put a few questions to you, Steuvels.”

  Maigret, who had just lighted his pipe, had no alternative but to turn round, trying to suppress a smile of amusement.

  “I suppose,” he began, still standing up, as if he were addressing a class, “your counsel has briefly given you the picture? We know what you and your brother have been up to. Possibly, so far as you personally are concerned, we may have nothing else to charge you with.

  “It was not, in fact, your suit that showed traces of blood, but that of your brother, who left his suit with you and took yours away with him.”

  “My brother didn’t commit murder either.”

  “Probably not. Do you want me to interrogate you, or would you rather tell us what you know?”

  Not only was Maître Liotard on his side now, but Fernande, by the look in her eyes, was urging Frans to talk.

  “Question me. I’ll see if I can answer.”

  He wiped the thick lenses of his glasses and waited, round-shouldered, head slightly bent forward as if it were too heavy.

  “When did you learn that Countess Panetti had been killed?”

  “In the course of Saturday night.”

  “You mean the night when Moss, Levine, and a third person, who is probably Krynker, came to your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it your idea to send a telegram to get your wife out of the way?”

  “I wasn’t even told about it.”

  This was plausible. Alfred Moss was sufficiently familiar with the couple’s domestic habits and way of life.

  “So when someone knocked at your door about nine o’clock that evening you didn’t know what it was about?”

  “Yes. Anyhow, I didn’t want to let them in. I was reading peacefully in the basement.”

  “What did your brother tell you?”

  “That one of his companions needed a passport that same evening and he’d brought everything along and I’d better get to work.”

  “Was that the first time he’d brought strangers to your house?”

  “He knew I didn’t want to see anyone.”

  “But you knew he had accomplices?”

  “He’d told me he was working with a man named Schwartz.”

  “The man who called himself Levine at the rue Lepic? A rather fat man, very dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “You all went down to the basement together?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t work in the workshop at that time of night, or the neighbors would have wondered what was up.”

  “Tell me about the third man.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Did he have a foreign accent?”

  “Yes. He was a Hungarian. He seemed anxious to get away and he kept on asking if he wouldn’t run into trouble with a false passport.”

  “For what country?”

  “The United States. They’re the hardest to fake because of certain special signs known only to the consuls and the immigration department.”

  “So you started work?”

  “I didn’t have time.”

  “What happened?”

  “Schwartz was inspecting the flat, as if he was making sure no one could take us by surprise. Suddenly, while I had my back turned—I was bending over the suitcase, which was placed on a chair—I heard a shot and saw the Hungarian slumpin
g to the floor.”

  “Was it Schwartz who had fired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your brother seem surprised?”

  A moment’s hesitation.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Schwartz maintained that this was the only possible way out and that he couldn’t help it. According to him, Krynker had lost his nerve and would inevitably have been caught. If he’d been caught, he would have talked.

  “‘I was wrong to treat him like a man,’ he added.

  “Then he asked me where the furnace was.”

  “He knew there was one?”

  “I think so.”

  Through Moss, obviously, as it was obvious also that Frans did not want to lay it to his brother’s charge.

  “He ordered Alfred to start a fire and asked me to bring some very sharp tools.

  “‘We’re all in the same boat, boys. If I hadn’t shot down this idiot we’d have been arrested within a week. Nobody saw him with us. Nobody knows he’s here. He has no family to start making inquiries. Get him out of the way and we’ll be all right.’”

  This wasn’t the moment to ask the bookbinder if they had all helped with the dismemberment.

  “Did he tell you about the old lady’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was this the first you heard of it?”

  “I hadn’t seen anybody since the point where they left in the car.”

  “He was becoming more reticent, while Fernande’s glance was traveling from her husband’s face to Maigret’s.

  “Speak out, Frans. They got you into it and then cleared out. What good would it do you to keep quiet?”

  Maître Liotard was adding:

  “In my capacity as your counsel, I can tell you that it’s not only your duty to speak out, but in your own interest too. I think the court will take your frankness into consideration.”

  Frans looked at him with big worried eyes and shrugged his shoulders slightly.

  “They spent part of the night at my place,” he finally brought out. “It took a very long time.”

  A sudden heave of her stomach made Fernande put her handkerchief to her mouth.

  “Schwartz, or Levine, never mind his name, had a bottle of brandy in his overcoat pocket, and my brother drank a lot.