Lock No. 1 Read online

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to be clever,’ he hastily went on. ‘When the customers left, at around 1.30, I hid in the toilet. I thought that if Pepito had got wind of anything, he might try and get rid of the stuff. And do you know what happened?’

  Maigret, more solemn now, slowly shook his head.

  ‘Pepito was alone. Of that I’m certain! Suddenly, there was a gunshot. It took a few moments for it to dawn on me, then it took me a few more moments to run into the bar. It looked bigger, at night. It was lit by a single lightbulb. Pepito was lying between two rows of tables and as he fell he’d knocked over some chairs. He was dead.’

  Maigret rose and poured himself another glassful of brandy, while his wife signalled to him not to drink too much.

  ‘Is that all?’

  Philippe was pacing up and down. And this young man, who generally had difficulty expressing himself, began to wax eloquent in a dry, bitter tone.

  ‘No, that’s not all! That’s when I did something really stupid! I was scared. I couldn’t think straight. The empty bar was sinister, it felt as if it was shrouded in greyness. There were streamers strewn on the floor and over the tables. Pepito was lying in a strange position, on his side, his hand close to his wound, and he seemed to be looking at me. What can I say? I took out my revolver and I started talking. I yelled out some nonsense and my voice scared me even more. There were shadowy corners everywhere, drapes, and I had the impression they were moving. I pulled myself together and went over to have a look. I flung open a door and yanked down a velvet curtain. I found the switchbox and I wanted to turn on the lights. I pushed the switches at random. And that was even more frightening. A red projector lit the place up. Fans started humming in every corner. “Who’s there?” I shouted again.’

  He bit his lip. His aunt looked at him, as distressed as he was. He was her sister’s son and had been born in Alsace. Maigret had wangled him a job at police headquarters.

  ‘I’d feel happier knowing he was in the civil service,’ his mother had said.

  And now, he panted:

  ‘Please don’t be angry with me, Uncle. I don’t know myself how it happened. I can barely remember. In any case, I fired a shot, because I thought I saw something move. I rushed forwards and then stopped. I thought I heard footsteps, whisperings. But there was nothing but emptiness. I would never have believed the place was so big and full of obstacles. In the end, I found myself in the office. There was a gun on the table. I grabbed it without thinking. The barrel was still warm. I took out the chamber and saw that there was one bullet missing.’

  ‘Idiot!’ groaned Maigret between clenched teeth.

  The coffee was steaming and Madame Maigret, sugar bowl in hand, stood there not knowing what she was doing.

  ‘I had completely lost my mind. I still thought I could hear a noise over by the door. I ran. It was only later that I realized I had a gun in each hand.’

  ‘Where did you put the gun?’

  Maigret’s tone was harsh. Philippe stared at the floor.

  ‘All sorts of things were going through my mind. If it was a murder, people would think that since I’d been alone with Pepito—’

  ‘Dear God!’ groaned Madame Maigret.

  ‘It only lasted for a few seconds. I put the gun near Pepito’s hand, to make it look like a suicide, then—’

  Maigret rose to his feet and took up his favourite position in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. He was unshaven. He had put on a little weight since the days when he used to stand like that in front of his stove at Quai des Orfèvres.

  ‘When you left, you ran into someone, am I right?’

  He knew it.

  ‘Just as I was closing the door behind me, I bumped into a man who was walking past. I apologized. Our faces were almost touching. I don’t even know whether after that I closed the door properly. I walked to Place Clichy. I took a taxi and gave the driver your address.’

  Madame Maigret put the sugar bowl down on the beech table and slowly asked her husband:

  ‘Which suit are you wearing?’

  For half an hour, it was a mad rush.

  Maigret could be heard shaving and getting dressed in the bedroom. Madame Maigret cooked some eggs and questioned Philippe.

  ‘Have you heard from your mother?’

  ‘She’s well. She was planning to come to Paris for Easter.’

  The driver was invited in, but he refused to remove his heavy brown overcoat. Droplets of water trembled in his moustache. He sat down in a corner and stayed put.

  ‘My braces?’ shouted Maigret from upstairs.

  ‘In the top drawer.’

  Maigret came down wearing his coat with a velvet collar and his bowler hat. He pushed away the eggs waiting for him on the table and, defying his wife, drank a fourth glass of brandy.

  It was 5.30 when the door opened and the three men stepped outside and got into the taxi. It took a while for the engine to start. Madame Maigret stood shivering in the doorway while the oil lamp made the reddish reflections dance on the little window panes.

  The sky was so light, it felt like daybreak. But this was February and it was the night itself that was silver-coloured. Each blade of grass was rimed with frost. The apple trees in the neighbouring orchard were iced so white that they looked as fragile as spun glass.

  ‘See you in two or three days!’ yelled Maigret.

  Philippe, embarrassed, shouted:

  ‘Goodbye, Aunt!’

  The driver slammed the car door again and crunched the gears for a moment.

  ‘Please forgive me, Uncle —’

  ‘What for?’

  What for? Philippe didn’t dare say. He was asking forgiveness because there was something dramatic about this departure. He recalled his uncle’s silhouette earlier, by the fireplace, with his nightshirt, his old clothes, his slippers.

  And now, he barely dared look at him. It was indeed Maigret who was beside him, smoking his pipe, his velvet collar upturned, his hat perched on his head. But it wasn’t an enthusiastic Maigret. It wasn’t even a Maigret who was sure of himself. Twice he turned round and watched his little house receding.

  ‘Did you say that Amadieu will arrive at Rue Fontaine at eight?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, at eight o’clock.’

  They had time. The taxi was going quite fast. They drove through Orléans, where the first trams were setting out. Less than an hour later, they reached the market in Arpajon.

  ‘What do you think, Uncle?’

  It was draughty in the back of the car. The sky was clear. There was a golden glow in the east.

  ‘How could Pepito have been killed?’ sighed Philippe, who received no reply.

  They stopped after Arpajon to warm up in a café and almost at once it was daylight, with a pale sun slowly rising where the fields met the horizon.

  ‘There was no one but him and me in—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ said Maigret wearily.

  His nephew huddled in his corner with the look of a child caught misbehaving, not daring to take his eyes off the door.

  They entered Paris as the early-morning bustle was beginning. Past the Lion de Belfort, Boulevard Raspail, the Pont-Neuf …

  The city looked as if it had been washed in clean water, so bright were the colours. A train of barges was gliding slowly up the Seine and the tugboat whistled, puffing out clouds of immaculate steam to announce its flotilla.

  ‘How many passers-by were there in Rue Fontaine when you came out?’

  ‘I only saw the man I ran into.’

  Maigret sighed and emptied his pipe, tapping it against his heel.

  The driver pulled down the glass partition and inquired: ‘Where to?’

  They stopped for a moment at a hotel on the embankment to drop off Maigret’s suitcase, then they got back into the taxi and made their way to Rue Fontaine.

  ‘It’s not so much what happened at the Floria that worries me. It’s the man who bumped into you.’

  ‘Wha
t are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m not thinking anything!’

  He came out with this favourite expression from the past as he turned round to glimpse the outline, once so familiar, of the Palais de Justice.

  ‘At one point I thought of going to the big chief and telling him the whole story,’ muttered Philippe.

  Maigret did not answer and, until they reached Rue Fontaine, he kept his gaze fixed on the view of the Seine as it flowed through a fine blue and gold mist.

  They pulled up a hundred metres from number 53. Philippe turned up the collar of his overcoat to conceal his dinner-jacket, but at the sight of his patent-leather shoes, people turned round to stare all the same.

  It was only 6.50. A window-cleaner was washing the windows of the corner café, the Tabac Fontaine, which stayed open all night. People on their way to work stopped off for a quick café crème with a croissant. There was only a waiter serving since the owner did not get to bed before five or six in the morning and rose at midday. He was a swarthy young southern-looking fellow with black hair. There were cigar ends and cigarette butts lying on a table next to a slate used for keeping score for card games.

  Maigret bought a packet of shag and ordered a sandwich, while Philippe grew impatient.

  ‘What happened last night?’ asked Maigret, his mouth full of bread and ham.

  And, gathering up the change, the waiter answered bluntly:

  ‘People are saying the owner of the Floria was killed.’

  ‘Palestrino?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m on the day shift. And during the day, we don’t have anything to do with the nightclubs.’

  They left. Philippe did not dare say anything.

  ‘You see?’ grumbled Maigret.

  Standing on the kerb, he added:

  ‘That’s the work of the man you bumped into, you realize. Theoretically, no one should know anything before eight o’clock.’

  They walked towards the Floria, but they stopped fifty metres short. They spotted the peaked cap of a Paris police sergeant standing in front of the door. On the opposite pavement, a knot of people had gathered.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Your chief is bound to be at the scene. Go up to him and tell him—’

  ‘What about you, Uncle?’

  Maigret shrugged and went on:

  ‘—Tell him the truth.’

  ‘Supposing he asks where I went next?’

  ‘Tell him you came to fetch me.’

  There was resignation in his voice. They had got off on the wrong foot, and that was all! It was a stupid business and Maigret felt like gnashing his teeth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle!’

  ‘No emotional scenes in the street! If they let you go free, meet me in the Chope du Pont-Neuf. If I’m not there, I’ll leave you a note.’

  They did not even shake hands. Philippe headed straight for the Floria. The sergeant did not know him and tried to bar him from entering. Philippe had to show his badge, then he vanished inside.

  Maigret remained at a distance, his hands in his pockets, like the other onlookers. He waited. He waited for almost half an hour, without the least idea of what was going on inside the club.

  Detective Chief Inspector Amadieu came out first, followed by a short, nondescript man who looked like a waiter.

  And Maigret needed no explanations. He knew that this was the man who had bumped into Philippe. He could guess Amadieu’s question.

  ‘Was it right here that you bumped into him?’

  The man nodded. Inspector Amadieu beckoned Philippe, who was still inside. He came out, looking as nervous as a young musician, as if the entire street were aware of the suspicions that were about to engulf him.

  ‘And was this the gentleman who was coming out at that moment?’ Amadieu must have been saying, tugging his brown moustache.

  The man nodded again.

  There were two other police officers. The divisional chief glanced at his watch and, after a brief discussion, the man sauntered off and went into the Tabac Fontaine while the policemen went back inside the Floria.

  Fifteen minutes later, two cars arrived. It was the public prosecutor.

  ‘I’ve got to go back to repeat my statement,’ the man from the Floria told the waiter at the Tabac Fontaine. ‘Another white wine and Vichy, quick!’

  And, discomfited by Maigret’s insistent stare as he stood nearby drinking a beer, he lowered his voice and asked:

  ‘Who’s that?’

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