Maigret and the Dead Girl Read online

  ‘Are you going home?’

  Janvier made up his mind. ‘I’ll go with you.’

  It was 4.30 by the time they got to the Forensic Institute. Dr Paul, who had only just arrived, was putting on his white coat, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip as always when he was about to conduct a post-mortem.

  ‘Have you examined her, doctor?’

  ‘I’ve had a quick look.’

  The body was naked on a marble slab and Maigret turned his eyes away.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’d say she was between nineteen and twenty-two. She was in good health but I suspect she was malnourished.’

  ‘A nightclub hostess?’

  Dr Paul looked at him with wicked little eyes.

  ‘You mean a girl who sleeps with the customers?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Then the answer is no.’

  ‘How can you be so categorical?’

  ‘Because this girl has never slept with anyone.’

  Janvier, who had been mechanically looking at the body under the spotlight, now blushed and turned his head away.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain.’ He put on his rubber gloves and got his instruments ready on an enamelled table. ‘Are you staying?’

  ‘We’ll go next door. Will you be long?’

  ‘Less than an hour. It depends on what I find. Would you like an analysis of the stomach contents?’

  ‘Preferably. You never know.’

  Maigret and Janvier went into an adjoining office, where they sat down, as formally as in a waiting room. Both still had the image of the white young body on their retinas.

  ‘I wonder who she is,’ Janvier murmured after a long silence. ‘You don’t put on an evening gown except to go to the theatre, some kinds of nightclub or a party.’

  They must both have had the same idea. Something didn’t feel right. There weren’t many parties for which evening dress was required, and you wouldn’t see a gown as cheap and faded as the one worn by the unknown girl at that kind of party anyway.

  On the other hand, after what Dr Paul had said, it was getting harder to imagine the girl working in a Montmartre nightclub.

  ‘A wedding?’ Maigret suggested, although he wasn’t really convinced.

  That was another occasion people dressed up for.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘No.’ Maigret sighed as he lit a pipe. ‘Let’s just wait.’

  They had been silent for ten minutes when he said to Janvier:

  ‘Do you mind going and fetching her clothes?’

  ‘Do you really want them?’

  Maigret nodded. ‘Unless you can’t stand it.’

  Janvier opened the door, was gone for barely two minutes, and when he returned he was so pale that Maigret thought he was going to vomit. He was holding the blue gown and some white underwear.

  ‘Has Paul nearly finished?’

  ‘I don’t know. I preferred not to look.’

  ‘Pass me the gown.’

  It had been washed often. He moved the hem aside, revealing that the colour had faded. A label bore the words ‘Mademoiselle Irène, 35b Rue de Douai’.

  ‘That’s not far from Place Vintimille,’ Maigret said.

  He examined the stockings – one of the feet was soaking wet – the knickers, the brassiere and a thin suspender belt.

  ‘Is this all she had on her body?’

  ‘Yes. The shoe comes from Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.’

  Local again. If it hadn’t been for Dr Paul’s assertion, it would have precisely matched what a nightclub hostess or a young woman looking for adventure in Montmartre would have worn.

  ‘Maybe Lognon will discover something?’ Janvier suggested.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  They were both equally uncomfortable, unable to stop themselves from thinking about what was happening on the other side of the door. Three-quarters of an hour went by before the door opened. When they looked into the next room, the corpse had gone, and an employee was closing one of the metal drawers in which the bodies were kept.

  Dr Paul was taking off his coat and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘I didn’t find much,’ he said. ‘Death was caused by a fracture of the skull. There wasn’t just one blow, but several, at least three quite violent blows. It’s impossible to establish what object was used. It could as easily have been a tool as a brass poker or a candlestick, anything heavy and blunt. She fell to her knees first and tried to grab on to someone. I found some strands of dark wool under the nails. I’ll send them to the lab in a while. The fact that it was wool seems to indicate that they were a man’s clothes she clutched on to like that.’

  ‘So there was a struggle.’

  Dr Paul opened a cupboard, where, along with his white coat, his rubber gloves and various miscellaneous objects, he kept a bottle of liqueur brandy.

  ‘Like a drink?’

  Maigret accepted without any false shame. Janvier, seeing this, also nodded.

  ‘What I’m going to add is only a personal opinion. Before being struck with some kind of instrument, she was hit in the face, either punched or slapped. I’d opt for a couple of good slaps. I don’t know if that was when she fell to her knees, but I’m inclined to think it was, and that it was then that they decided to finish her off.’

  ‘In other words, she wasn’t attacked from behind?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘So it wasn’t some thief who surprised her on a street corner?’

  ‘In my opinion, no. And there’s nothing to prove it happened outdoors.’

  ‘Did you learn anything from the stomach contents?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And from an analysis of the blood, too.’

  ‘What?’

  There was a slight smile on Dr Paul’s lips, a smile that seemed to be saying:

  ‘Sorry, I’m going to disappoint you.’

  He took his time, like when he told one of those anecdotes he specialized in.

  ‘She was at least three-quarters drunk.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘In my report tomorrow, you’ll find the percentage of alcohol found in her blood. I’ll also send you the results of the complete analysis I’ll be making of the stomach contents. Her last meal was eaten about six to eight hours before she died.’

  ‘What time did she die?’

  ‘Around two in the morning. Before two rather than after.’

  ‘That puts her last meal at six or seven in the evening.’

  ‘But not her last drink.’

  It was unlikely that the body could have lain there on Place Vintimille for a long time before being discovered. Ten minutes? A quarter of an hour? Certainly no longer than that.

  Which meant that at least three-quarters of an hour had elapsed between the time of death and the time the body had been dumped on the pavement.

  ‘Any jewellery?’

  Paul went into the adjoining room to fetch it. There was a pair of gold earrings, decorated with very small jewels in the shape of flowers, and a ring, also decorated with a slightly larger ruby. They weren’t fake, but they weren’t of any great value either. Judging by their style, the three items were about thirty years old, maybe more.

  ‘Is that all? Did you examine her hands?’

  One of Dr Paul’s specialities was determining people’s professions from the telltale marks of wear on the hands, which had several times made it possible to identify persons unknown.

  ‘She probably did a bit of housework, not much. She wasn’t a typist or a seamstress. Three or four years ago, she was operated on for appendicitis by a second-rate surgeon. That’s all I can tell you right now. Are you going home to bed?’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Maigret murmured.

  ‘Goodnight, then. I’m staying here. You’ll get my report about nine in the morning. Another drink?’

  Maigret and Janvier found themselves outside again. The barges moored by the quayside were starti
ng to stir into life.

  ‘Can I drop you at home, chief?’

  Maigret said yes. They passed Gare de Lyon, where a train had just arrived. The sky was getting paler. It was colder now than during the night. A few windows were lit, and every now and again a man passed on his way to work.

  ‘I don’t want to see you in the office before this afternoon.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m probably going to bed as well.’

  ‘Goodnight, chief.’

  Maigret climbed the stairs noiselessly. As he was trying to insert the key in the lock, the door opened, and Madame Maigret, in her nightdress, switched on the light and looked at him with dazzled eyes.

  ‘You’re back late! What time is it?’

  Even when she was fast asleep, he could never climb the stairs without her hearing him.

  ‘I don’t know. After five.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come to bed soon. A cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He undressed and slipped into the warm bed. Instead of falling asleep, he kept thinking about the dead girl on Place Vintimille. Outside, he could hear Paris gradually waking up, isolated sounds, some far, some near, infrequent at first then forming a kind of familiar symphony. The concierges were starting to drag the dustbins to the kerb. The footsteps of the dairy maid putting bottles of milk outside the doors echoed on the stairs.

  Finally, Madame Maigret got out of bed with infinite care, and he had to make an effort not to smile and give himself away. He heard her in the bathroom, then in the kitchen, where she switched on the gas, and he soon smelled the aroma of coffee wafting through the apartment.

  He wasn’t deliberately trying not to sleep. Sleep just wouldn’t come, maybe because he was too tired.

  His wife jumped when he came into the kitchen in dressing gown and slippers while she was having her breakfast. The light was still on even though it was already day outside.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘As you can see.’

  ‘Would you like some breakfast?’

  ‘If there’s some going.’

  She didn’t ask him why he had been out for most of the night. She had noticed that his coat was wet.

  ‘I hope you didn’t catch cold.’

  When he had drunk his coffee, he picked up the telephone and called the second district.

  ‘Is Inspector Lognon there?’

  The nightclubs had long since closed their doors, and Lognon could have gone to bed. But he was at his desk all the same.

  ‘Lognon? Maigret here. Anything to report?’

  ‘Nothing. I visited all the clubs and questioned the taxi-drivers parked outside.’

  Because of Dr Paul’s words, Maigret had expected this.

  ‘I think you can go home to bed.’

  ‘What about you?’

  In Lognon’s language, that meant:

  ‘You’re sending me to bed so that you can continue the investigation as you see fit. And later they’ll say, “That idiot Lognon didn’t find a thing!” ’

  Maigret thought of Madame Lognon, thin and mournful, prevented by her disabilities from leaving the apartment on Place Constantin-Pecqueur. Whenever the inspector got home, it was only to hear her moaning and complaining, and to have to do the housework and shopping.

  ‘Are you sure you cleaned under the sideboard?’

  He felt sorry for Inspector Hard-Done-By.

  ‘I have one small lead. I’m not sure if it’ll get us anywhere.’

  Lognon was silent at the other end of the line.

  ‘If you really don’t want to sleep, I’ll pick you up in an hour or two.’

  ‘I’ll be at the station.’

  Maigret telephoned Quai des Orfèvres and asked for a car to be sent to him, stopping first at the Forensic Institute to pick up the girl’s clothes.

  It wasn’t until he got into his bath that he almost fell asleep, and for a moment he was tempted to phone Lognon and tell him to go and see Mademoiselle Irène in Rue de Douai without him.

  It had stopped raining. The sky was white, with a certain yellowish glow that raised hopes that the sun would come out some time during the day.

  ‘Will you be back for lunch?’

  ‘Probably. I don’t know.’

  ‘I thought your investigation was supposed to be over last night.’

  ‘It is over. This is another one.’

  He waited until he saw the little car from the Police Judiciaire pull up at the kerb. The driver hooted his horn three times. Maigret signalled to him through the window that he was coming.

  ‘See you soon.’

  Ten minutes later, as the car was driving along Faubourg Montmartre, he had already forgotten that he hadn’t slept all night.

  ‘Stop somewhere so that we can have a glass of white wine!’ he said.

  2.

  In which Inspector Hard-Done-By meets an old acquaintance, and Lapointe is entrusted with an unusual task

  Inspector Lognon was waiting by the kerb in Rue de La Rochefoucauld, and even from a distance it looked as if his shoulders were stooped beneath the burden of fate. He invariably wore mouse-grey suits that were never ironed, and his coat was grey, too, his hat an ugly brown. It wasn’t because he had been up all night that his complexion this morning was bilious and that he seemed to have a head cold. This was the way he looked every day, and he was probably just as distressing a sight as soon as he got out of bed.

  Maigret had said on the phone that he would pick him up but hadn’t asked him to wait outside. Lognon was deliberately standing at the kerb as if he had been there for hours. Not only was his case being stolen from him, but he was being made to waste his time and, after a sleepless night, he was being forced to hang about in the street.

  As he opened the car door for him, Maigret glanced at the front of the police station, its faded flag hanging in the still air: it was in that building that he had started his career, not as an inspector, but as the secretary to the local chief.

  Lognon sat down in silence, avoiding asking where he was being taken. The driver, who had his instructions, turned left and headed for Rue de Douai.

  It was always awkward to talk to Lognon because, whatever you said, he always somehow made it seem as if he was being humiliated.

  ‘Have you read the newspaper?’

  ‘I haven’t had time.’

  Maigret, who had just bought it, took it from his pocket. The photograph of the unknown girl appeared on the front page, just the head, with the bruises on her eye and lip. Nevertheless, she ought to be recognizable.

  ‘I hope they’re starting to get a few phone calls at headquarters by now,’ Maigret went on.

  Lognon was probably thinking: ‘In other words, I’ve been up all night for nothing, going from one nightclub to another, one taxi-driver to another. All you have to do is put a photograph in a newspaper and wait for the phone calls to come in!’

  He didn’t laugh. It was hard to explain. His face had assumed a glum, resigned expression, as if he had decided to be a living reproach to the cruelty and unfairness of mankind.

  He didn’t ask any questions. He was merely a humble cog in the police machine, and you don’t explain anything to a cog.

  Rue de Douai was deserted. Only one concierge was in her doorway. The car stopped outside a mauve-painted shop above which could be read in copperplate, ‘Mademoiselle Irène’ and below it, in smaller lettering, ‘High Fashion’.

  In the dusty window, there were only two dresses, a white gown with sequins and a more casual black silk dress. Maigret got out, motioned to Lognon to follow him, asked the driver to wait and grabbed the brown paper package he had been given by the Forensic Institute.

  When he tried to open the door, he saw that it was closed and that the handle had been removed. It was after 9.30. Maigret looked through the window and glimpsed light in a room beyond the shop. He started knocking.

  Sev
eral minutes went by, as if there was nobody inside to hear the noise he was making. Beside him, Lognon waited without moving, without saying a word. He wasn’t smoking: he had stopped smoking years before, when his wife, in the early stages of her illness, had claimed that smoke made her choke.

  A figure at last appeared from the door at the back. A girl, quite young, in a red dressing gown that she held folded over her chest, looked at the two of them. She disappeared, no doubt to go and talk to someone, came back, crossed the shop, which was crammed full of dresses and coats, and at last made up her mind to open the door.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, looking suspiciously at Maigret, then at Lognon, then at the package.

  ‘Mademoiselle Irène?’

  ‘I’m not her.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  ‘The shop isn’t open.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to Mademoiselle Irène.’

  ‘Who shall I say?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Police Judiciaire.’

  She didn’t appear either surprised or frightened. From close up, it was clear that she was no older than eighteen. Either she hadn’t yet woken up properly, or apathy was her natural state.

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ she said, walking back to the other room.

  They heard her talking in a low voice to someone. Then there were noises as if this someone was getting out of bed. It took Mademoiselle Irène two or three minutes to comb her hair and put on a dressing gown.

  She was a woman of a certain age, with a pale face, big blue eyes and sparse blonde hair verging on white close to the roots. She put her head round the door to look at them, and when she at last approached she was holding a cup of coffee in her hand.

  It wasn’t Maigret she addressed, but Lognon:

  ‘You again. What do you want this time?’

  ‘I don’t know. The inspector wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Irène?’ Maigret asked.

  ‘Is it my real name you’re after? If it is, I was born Coumar, Élisabeth Coumar. Irène sounds better for my business.’

  Maigret, who had approached the counter, unwrapped his package and took out the blue gown.