Maigret's Dead Man Page 17

  Hadn’t he asked for an envelope at the last brasserie he had been seen in, just after he had phoned his friends?

  He had in his possession, in his pocket, something which implicated the Czechs. One of them had always kept him in full view. Wasn’t being seen to drop an envelope in a letterbox a good way of getting whoever was following him off his back?

  Slipping the document into the envelope was merely a diversion.

  But whose address had he written on it?

  He picked up the phone and called the Police Judiciaire.

  ‘Hello? Who’s that? … Bodin? … A job for you, and it’s urgent … How many inspectors are on the premises now … Eh? Just four? One must stay on duty there, of course. Take the other three. Share out all the post offices in Paris between you … wait! … including the one at Charenton, where I want you to begin yourself. Question the staff at the poste restante counter. Somewhere there’s got to be a letter addressed to Albert Rochain which has been waiting to be collected for a few days … Yes, get it and bring it to me … No, not to my home. I’ll be in the office in half an hour.’

  He looked at the two men and smiled.

  ‘Fancy another?’

  They clearly weren’t keen on calvados but accepted out of politeness.

  ‘Can we go now?’

  They still didn’t trust him completely and stood up like schoolboys when the teacher lets the class out for break.

  ‘We’re not going to be dragged in any deeper?’

  ‘We won’t need to involve you any further. All I ask is that you don’t warn Nine.’

  ‘She won’t be bothered either?’

  ‘Why should she be?’

  ‘Go easy on her, will you? If you knew how much she loved her Albert!’

  When the door closed behind them, Maigret turned off the gas. The soup was starting to boil over and spill on to the stove.

  He was pretty sure that his two bravos had lied to some extent. According to Dr Paul, they hadn’t waited to smuggle Nine to a place of safety before battering their friend’s face to a pulp.

  But that did not change things much and in the last analysis they had proved to be sufficiently cooperative for Maigret to not want to make life hard for them. Deep down, people like them can feel shame. Just like everybody else.

  9.

  The office was blue with smoke. Colombani was sitting in a corner with his legs stretched out in front of him. A few moments earlier, the commissioner of the Police Judiciaire had also been there. Inspectors came and went. Coméliau, the examining magistrate, had just phoned.

  Again, Maigret picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello? … Marchand? … Maigret here … Yes, the real one … What do you mean? You’ve got another friend called Maigret? … A count, eh? … No: no relation …’

  It was seven o’clock. The man at the other end of the line was the general manager of the Folies-Bergère.

  ‘What do you want now?’ said Marchand in his throaty voice. ‘God knows it’s not a good time for me. I’ve just got a few minutes to dash out and grab a quick snack before the doors open. Unless you fancy a bite to eat with me? What would you say to the Chope Montmartre, for example? … Ten minutes? … See you there.’

  Janvier was in the office looking very pleased with himself. It was he who had just brought a handsome, enlarged photograph from Joinville, like the ones which, personally autographed, are found hanging in actors’ dressing rooms. This one was also signed, in a spiky, ultra-confident hand: Francine Latour.

  The woman was pretty, still very young. Her address appeared on the back: 121, Rue de Longchamp, at Passy.

  ‘Apparently she is currently appearing in the Folies-Bergère,’ Janvier had said.

  ‘Did the Pari-Mutuel man recognize her?’

  ‘Formally identified her. I’d have brought him back with me, but he was already late and lives in fear of his wife. But if we need him we can call him at home at any time. He lives not far from here, on Ile Saint-Louis, and he has a telephone.’

  Francine Latour also had a telephone. Maigret called her apartment, planning to say nothing and hang up immediately if anyone answered. But, as he had suspected, she was not there.

  ‘Feel like going over there, Janvier? Take someone discreet with you. I don’t want to attract any attention.’

  ‘Want us to have a quiet look round the apartment?’

  ‘Not straight away. Wait for my call. One of you had better stay in a bar close by. Tell him to phone in and leave us the number.’

  He frowned, making sure he remembered everything. The officer sent out to Citroën’s offices had at least come back with one piece of information: Serge Madok had worked there for two years.

  Maigret walked into the inspectors’ office.

  ‘All right, listen now. I’m probably going to need a lot of people this evening or tonight. It would be best if you all stayed here on the job. Take turns to go out and get something to eat locally, or else send out for sandwiches and beers. I’ll see you later. Coming, Colombani?’

  ‘I thought you were having dinner with Marchand?’

  ‘You know him too, don’t you?’

  Marchand, who had begun as a tout reselling pass-out tickets outside theatres, was one of the leading Paris personalities. He had not lost his rough manner or vulgar way of speaking. He was in the restaurant, elbows on the table, holding a vast menu. When the two policemen came in, he said to the head waiter:

  ‘Something light, Georges … Let’s see … Got any partridges?’

  ‘With cabbage, Monsieur Marchand.’

  ‘Sit yourself down, old son. Ah! I see we’ve got the Sûreté in tonight. Bring another plate, Georges. What do you two say to perdrix au chou, eh? Hang on! And also to start, how about truites au bleu. Are the trout live, Georges?’

  ‘You can see them in the display tank, Monsieur Marchand.’

  ‘A few hors d’oeuvres while we wait. That’s it. And a soufflé to finish with if you want.’

  It was his passion. Even when eating alone he would order meals like this at lunch or dinner. And that is what he called ‘eating light’, a snack. Maybe, after the show, he would settle down to a proper supper?

  ‘Well now. And what can I do you for? Not found anything fishy in my box of delights, I hope?’

  It was too soon for serious talking. It was now the wine waiter’s turn to approach. Marchand took a good few minutes choosing the wines.

  ‘Right, I’m all ears.’

  ‘If I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Listen, you’re forgetting that I probably know more secrets than any other man in Paris. Look, I hold the fate of hundreds, make that thousands, of married couples in my hands. Keep my trap shut? It’s what I do all day!’

  He was a real card. The fact was that he never stopped talking from morning to night, but it was perfectly true that he never said what he really meant.

  ‘Do you know Francine Latour?’

  ‘She’s appearing in a couple of comic sketches with Dréan.’

  ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘What do I think of her? She’s a decent piece of skirt. Come back and ask me again in ten years.’

  ‘Does she have talent?’

  Marchand gave Maigret a look of comic surprise.

  ‘Why are you asking if she’s got talent? I don’t know exactly how old she is but she can’t be more than twenty and she’s already getting her clothes from the top dressmakers. I even think she’s started having diamonds. I know
for a fact that last week she turned up wearing a mink coat. What else do you want to know?’

  ‘Does she have lovers?’

  ‘She’s got one. Everybody’s got one.’

  ‘Know who he is?’

  ‘I don’t see how I could help not knowing him.’

  ‘A foreigner, isn’t he?’

  ‘Nowadays they’re nearly all foreigners. It’s as if all France is good for any more is supplying faithful husbands.’

  ‘Listen, Marchand. This is a lot more serious than you might think.’

  ‘When are you going to get the cuffs on him?’

  ‘Tonight, I hope. It’s not what you imagine.’

  ‘At all events, he’s used to it. If I remember right, he’s been up in court twice for passing dud cheques or similar. At the minute he seems flush.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Backstage they all call him Monsieur Jean. His real name is Bronsky. He’s a Czech.’

  ‘A dud cheque,’ added Colombani. Maigret shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He dabbled for a while in the film business. I think he’s still got a finger in that pie,’ continued Marchand, who was quite capable of reeling off the CVs of all Paris’ celebrities, including the most unsavoury customers. ‘Good-looking, likeable, generous. Women adore him, and men are wary of his charm.’

  ‘Is he in love with her?’

  ‘I’d say so. But whether he is or not, he hardly ever lets the girl out of his sight. They reckon he’s jealous.’

  ‘Where do you think the both of them are right now?’

  ‘If there were any horse-races this afternoon, it’s very likely he went with her. A woman who’s been buying her clothes in Rue de la Paix for the last five or six months and wears a new mink coat doesn’t get easily bored at race-courses. Just now, they’ll be having a pre-dinner drink in a bar on the Champs-Élysées. She’s not due on stage until half past nine. She usually gets to the theatre at around nine. So they have plenty of time to have dinner at Fouquet’s or Maxim’s or Ciro’s. If you want to find them …’

  ‘Not now. Does Bronsky go to the theatre with her?’

  ‘Almost always. He sees her to her dressing room, hangs around backstage for a while, then makes straight for the bar just off the main lobby and passes the time of day with Félix. After the second sketch he joins her in her dressing room and as soon as she’s ready he goes off with her. It’s pretty rare if they don’t go on to a cocktail party somewhere.’

  ‘Does he live with her?’

  ‘Very likely. But that’s something you’d best ask her concierge.’

  ‘Have you seen him these last few days?’

  ‘I saw him just yesterday.’

  ‘And did he seem more on edge than usual?’

  ‘Men like him are always a bit on edge, you know. When you’re walking a tightrope … Listen, I’ll say this: as I see it, the rope is about to break. It’s a great shame for the kid! Still, now she’s got herself a decent wardrobe, the rest will take care of itself. She’ll have every chance of finding someone much better for herself …’

  As he talked, Marchand ate, drank, wiped his mouth with his serviette, waved familiarly to people who came in or were leaving and still managed to find a moment to summon the head waiter or ask for the wine list.

  ‘Do you know how he got started?’

  Marchand, who was constantly reminded of his own origins by the small-circulation scandal sheets, answered somewhat tersely:

  ‘Now that, old son, is a question you don’t ask a gentleman.’

  But within moments he was ready to resume where he had left off.

  ‘What I do know is that for a time he ran an agency for extras.’

  ‘Was that a long time ago?’

  ‘A couple of months. I could find out.’

  ‘There’s no point. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t mention anything about this discussion to anybody, especially tonight.’

  ‘Will you be coming to the theatre?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I prefer it that way. I would have asked you not to pursue your inquiries on my premises.’

  ‘I don’t want to run any risks, Marchand. My picture and Colombani’s have appeared in the papers too often. According to what you say about him and what I know of him, this man is clever enough to spot any of my inspectors.’

  ‘Seems to me, my friend, that you’re taking this business very seriously, aren’t you? Help yourself to more partridge.’

  ‘There’s going to be big trouble.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘There’s been trouble already. A lot of it.’

  ‘Ah! Well, don’t tell me anything. I’d rather read all about it in the papers tomorrow or the day after. It could put me in a spot if he asks me to have a drink with him tonight. Come on, eat up! What do you think of this Châteauneuf? They’ve only got fifty bottles of it left, and I’ve told them to put them aside for me. Now there are just forty-nine. Shall I ask for another?’

  ‘Better not. We’ll be working all night.’

  They went their different ways a quarter of an hour later, feeling somewhat sluggish after such a large meal liberally washed down with too much wine.

  ‘Let’s hope he keeps his mouth shut,’ said Colombani.

  ‘He will.’

  ‘By the way, Maigret, did your aunt come up with any useful leads?’

  ‘She did indeed. I now know virtually everything about Li’l Albert.’

  ‘I thought you might. There’s nothing like women for being well informed. Especially aunts who are just up from the country. Want to tell me?’

  They had a little time to kill. Any easing of the tension was welcome ahead of a night which promised to be eventful. They chatted as they walked back along the pavements.

  ‘You were right earlier. We would most probably have rounded them all up at Vincennes. Now, provided Jean Bronsky doesn’t suspect that we’re closing in on him …’

  ‘We’ll do everything we can, won’t we?’

  They reached the Police Judiciaire building at around nine thirty. There was important news. An inspector was waiting for them. He said excitedly:

  ‘Sir, Carl Lipschitz is dead! It happened virtually before my very eyes! I was standing in the shadows in Rue de Seine, a hundred metres from the hospital. For some time, I’d been hearing noises to my right. There was someone there, in the darkness, who seemed reluctant to step forwards. Then I heard the sound of running footsteps, and a shot was fired. It was so close that my first thought was that someone was shooting at me, and I automatically got out my revolver. I sensed rather than saw a falling body and the outline of someone running off. I opened fire.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘I aimed for his legs and was lucky. I got him with my second shot. This man, the one who was running away, also fell to the ground.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘The kid. The one they call Pietr. We didn’t have far to carry him because the hospital was on the other side of the street.’

  ‘So Pietr shot at Carl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were they together?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I believe Pietr was following Carl and shot him.’

  ‘What is he saying?’

  ‘The kid? Nothing. He has kept his mouth shut. His eyes are bright and feverish. He seemed happy or dead pleased with himself to be in the hospital and as he passed through the corridors he kept looking eagerly all round him.’

 
‘Because of Maria, of course! She’s still there! Is he seriously hurt?’

  ‘The bullet got him in the left knee. They’ll be operating on him now, as we speak.’

  ‘What about his pockets?’

  On Maigret’s desk were two small collections of objects which had been carefully laid out.

  ‘The first one is the contents of Carl’s pockets. The other one is what was in Pietr’s.’

  ‘Is Moers upstairs?’

  ‘He rang down to let us know that he’ll be in his lab all night.’

  ‘Ask him to come here. And I want someone to go up to Records. I need the card and the whole file on a man named Jean Bronsky. I haven’t got any prints for him, but he’s been up in court twice and was probably given an eighteen-month jail sentence.’

  He also sent men out to Rue de Provence, opposite the Folies-Bergère, with strict instructions to keep out of sight at all times. He told them:

  ‘Before you go wait until you see a photo of Bronsky. Only if he attempts to get on a train or a plane is he to be apprehended. But I don’t think that will happen.’

  Carl Lipschitz’s wallet contained forty-two thousand-franc notes, an identity card made out in his name and a second card in an Italian name: Filipino. He didn’t smoke, for he wasn’t carrying cigarettes, a pipe or a lighter, but he had a pocket torch, two handkerchiefs, one filthy, a cinema ticket bearing that day’s date, a penknife and an automatic revolver.

  ‘You see?’ Maigret remarked to Colombani. ‘And there we were, imagining that we had thought of everything.’

  He pointed to the cinema ticket.

  ‘They had the same thought. Buying a cinema ticket is better than wandering around the streets. You can spend hours in the dark. You can even get some sleep in one of the boulevard cinemas that stay open all night.’

  In Pietr’s pockets there were just thirty-eight francs in coins. A wallet contained two photographs, one of Maria, a small passport photo which must have been taken the previous year when she had done her hair differently, and a picture of two country people, a man and a woman, sitting by their front door, in central Europe, insofar as could be judged by the style of the house.