Maigret's Mistake Page 2

  ‘Did he come last night?’

  ‘Yes, about ten.’

  ‘Did you open the door for him?’

  ‘No. Until I go to bed at eleven, I leave the door open.’

  ‘But you see who comes in?’

  ‘Most of the time. The tenants are quiet. Most of them are important people.’

  ‘You say the musician in question went up at about ten?’

  ‘Yes. He only stayed about ten minutes, and when he left he seemed to be in a hurry. I heard him stride off towards Place de l’Étoile.’

  ‘You didn’t see his face, whether he looked upset or …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Louise Filon have any other visitors last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So if the doctor discovers that the murder was committed between ten and eleven, for example, it’d be more or less certain that …’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said she didn’t have any other visitors.’

  ‘Do you think the musician was her lover?’

  She didn’t reply at once.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured at last.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I was thinking of the cost of the apartment.’

  ‘You mean he wasn’t the kind of musician who could afford to keep his girlfriend in a place like this?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to surprise you, Madame Cornet, that your tenant has been murdered.’

  ‘I didn’t expect it, but it doesn’t surprise me either.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No particular reason. I have the feeling women like that are more exposed than others. At any rate, that’s the impression you get from reading the papers.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to make me a list of all the tenants who came in or went out after nine o’clock last night. I’ll pick it up on my way out.’

  ‘That’s easy.’

  He left the lodge in time to see the prosecutor and his deputy getting out of a car, together with the court clerk. All three looked cold. The fog had not yet cleared, and the steam from all their breaths mingled with it.

  Handshakes. The lift. Apart from the third floor, the building was still as quiet as it had been when Maigret arrived. The people here weren’t the kind to watch out for comings and goings behind their half-opened doors, or to gather on the landings because a woman had been killed.

  Moers’ technicians had set up their equipment all over the apartment, and the doctor had finished examining the body. He shook hands with Maigret.

  ‘What time?’ Maigret asked.

  ‘Between nine and midnight, roughly speaking. My guess would be eleven at the latest rather than midnight.’

  ‘I assume death was instantaneous?’

  ‘You saw her. The shot was fired at close range.’

  ‘From behind?’

  ‘From behind, and a little to the side.’

  ‘She seems to have been smoking a cigarette when it happened,’ Moers said. ‘It fell on the carpet and burned itself out. It’s lucky the carpet didn’t catch fire.’

  ‘What exactly are we dealing with?’ asked the deputy, who knew nothing yet.

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe a straightforward crime, though I’d be surprised.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘None whatever. I’m going to have another word with the cleaning lady.’

  Before reaching the kitchen, he telephoned Quai des Orfèvres and asked Lucas, who was on duty, to join him immediately. After that, he ignored the prosecutors and the technicians, who were continuing with their usual tasks.

  Madame Brault had not moved. She was no longer drinking coffee, but was smoking a cigarette, which, given her physique, seemed strange.

  ‘I guess I’m allowed?’ she said, following the direction of Maigret’s gaze.

  He sat down facing her.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Everything you know.’

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘How did Louise Filon spend her days?’

  ‘I can only talk about what she did in the morning. She’d get up about ten. Or rather, she’d wake up but wouldn’t get up straight away. I’d bring her coffee, and she’d drink it in bed, and smoke and read.’

  ‘What kind of thing did she read?’

  ‘Magazines and novels. She often listened to the radio. You probably noticed one on her bedside table.’

  ‘Did she make any phone calls?’

  ‘At about eleven.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Almost every day.’

  ‘To Pierrot?’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes at midday she’d dress and go out to eat, but that was quite rare. Most of the time, she’d send me to the pork butcher’s to buy cold meats or ready-made dishes.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how she spent her afternoons?’

  ‘I assume she went out. She must have gone out because in the morning I’d find dirty shoes. I suppose she did the rounds of the shops, like all women.’

  ‘Did she have dinner at home?’

  ‘There weren’t usually any dirty dishes.’

  ‘Do you suppose she went to meet Pierrot?’

  ‘Him or another man.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ve never seen him?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Did you ever see any other men?’

  ‘Only the man from the gas company or a delivery boy.’

  ‘When was the last time you were in prison?’

  ‘Six years ago.’

  ‘Have you lost the taste for shoplifting from department stores?’

  ‘I’m not as fast as I used to be … They’re taking away the body.’

  There were noises from the living room, and it was indeed the men from the Forensic Institute.

  ‘She didn’t get to enjoy it for long!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean she lived in poverty until she was twenty-four and then had barely two good years.’

  ‘Did she confide in you?’

  ‘We chatted like human beings.’

  ‘Did she tell you where she was from?’

  ‘She was born in the eighteenth arrondissement, practically in the street. She spent most of her life around La Chapelle. When she moved here, she thought it was going to be the good life.’

  ‘Wasn’t she happy?’

  The cleaning lady shrugged, looking at Maigret with a kind of pity, as if surprised that he seemed to show so little understanding. ‘Do you think it was fun for her to live in a building like this, where people didn’t even condescend to look at her when they passed her on the stairs?’

  ‘Why did she come here?’

  ‘She must have had her reasons.’

  ‘Was it her musician who kept her?’

  ‘Who told you about the musician?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Is Pierrot a saxophone player?’

  ‘I think so. I know he plays in a dance hall.’

  She was only saying what she wanted to say. Now that Maigret had a clearer idea of the kind of girl Louise Filon had been, he felt certain that in the mornings the two women had chatted away to their hearts’ content.

  ‘I don’t think a dance-hall musician would be in a position to pay the rent of an apartment like this,’ he said.

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there must have been someone else,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Pierrot came to see her last night.’

  She didn’t start, continued looking him in the eyes. ‘And I assume you’ve jumped to the conclusion that he was the one who killed her? There’s only one thing I can tell you: they loved each other.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘Not only did they love each other, but their one dream was to get married.’

  ‘Why didn’t they?’

  ‘Maybe because they didn’t have any money. Maybe also be
cause the other man wouldn’t let her go.’

  ‘The other man?’

  ‘You know perfectly well I’m talking about the one who paid. Do I have to draw you a picture?’

  An idea occurred to Maigret, and he went to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. From it, he took a pair of men’s slippers in frosted kidskin, made to measure by a bootmaker in Rue Saint-Honoré, one of the most expensive in Paris. Taking down the dressing gown, which was of thick maroon silk, he found that it bore the label of a shirt maker in Rue de Rivoli.

  Moers’ men had already left. Moers himself was waiting for Maigret in the living room.

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Prints, obviously, some old, some more recent.’

  ‘Men’s prints?’

  ‘One man, at least. We’ll have some pictures in an hour.’

  ‘Pass them on to Records. I’d like you to take these slippers and this dressing gown. When you get to headquarters, hand them over to Janvier or Torrence. I’d like them to be shown to the shopkeepers who supplied them.’

  ‘For the slippers, it’ll be easy, I assume, because they have an order number on them.’

  It was quiet again in the apartment, and Maigret went back to the cleaning lady in the kitchen.

  ‘You don’t need to stay here any more.’

  ‘Can I clean?’

  ‘Not yet, not today.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘You can go home. But don’t leave Paris. It may be that—’

  ‘All right, got it.’

  ‘Are you sure you have nothing else to tell me?’

  ‘If I remember anything, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘One more question: are you sure that, from the time you found the body to the time Inspector Dupeu arrived, you didn’t leave the apartment?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘And nobody came in?’

  ‘Not a soul.’

  She went and took down a shopping bag she probably always carried with her, and Maigret made sure there was no gun in it.

  ‘Search me, if you feel like it.’

  He didn’t search her, but to set his mind at rest, and not without a touch of embarrassment, he passed his hands over her loose dress.

  ‘That would have given you a thrill in the old days.’

  She left, probably passing Lucas on the stairs. His hat and coat were wet.

  ‘Is it raining?’

  ‘It started ten minutes ago. What do you want me to do, chief?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I’d like you to stay here. If anyone phones, try to find out where the call is coming from. There may be a call at about eleven. Tell the office to put a tap on the line. Apart from that, keep searching here. It’s been done, but you never know.’

  ‘What exactly are we dealing with?’

  ‘A girl who used to walk the streets in Barbès and was set up in her own place by someone. As far as we know, she was in love with a dance-hall musician.’

  ‘Was he the one who killed her?’

  ‘He came to see her last night. The concierge says nobody else came up here.’

  ‘Do we have a description of him?’

  ‘I’m going down to question the concierge again.’

  The concierge was busy sorting through the second post. According to her, Pierrot was a fair-haired, well-built man of about thirty who looked more like a butcher’s boy than a musician.

  ‘Do you have anything else to tell me?’

  ‘No, nothing else, Monsieur Maigret. If I remember anything, I’ll let you know.’

  It was strange. The same answer, or almost, as the cleaning lady. He was convinced that both women, doubtless for different reasons, were avoiding telling him all they knew.

  As he would probably have to walk all the way to Place de l’Étoile to find a taxi, he turned up the collar of his coat and set off, his hands in his pockets like the people Madame Maigret had seen from the window that morning. The fog had turned into a fine, chilly rain of the kind associated with head colds, and he went into a little bar on the corner of the street and ordered a toddy.

  2.

  It was Janvier who was dealing with Pierrot the musician, reconstructing his movements up until the time he decided to vanish.

  Just before 11.30, Lucas, having a quiet poke around the apartment on Avenue Carnot, had at last heard the telephone ring. He had picked up the receiver, taking care not to say anything, and at the other end a man’s voice had murmured:

  ‘Is that you?’

  Before growing suspicious of the silence that greeted him, Pierrot had added:

  ‘Is there someone with you?’

  Finally, in a worried tone:

  ‘Hello? This is Carnot 22-35, isn’t it?’

  ‘Carnot 22-35, yes.’

  Lucas could hear the man’s breathing on the line. He was calling from a public booth, probably in a bar, because there had been the telltale noise of a token falling into the metal box.

  At last, after a while, the musician hung up. Then it was only a matter of waiting until the man in the listening room called. It took barely two minutes.

  ‘Lucas? Your man phoned from a bistro called Chez Léon, on the corner of Boulevard Rochechouart and Rue Briquet.’

  Immediately, Lucas phoned the Goutte d’Or police station, which was not far from Boulevard Rochechouart.

  ‘May I speak to Inspector Janin?’

  As luck would have it, he was in his office. Lucas provided him with a rough description of Pierrot and the name of the bar.

  ‘Do nothing until Janvier joins you.’

  He finally got through to Janvier. Meanwhile, it was still raining on this world of stone, brick and concrete through which wove dark figures and umbrellas. Maigret was in his office, his tie loosened, four filled pipes in front of him, finishing a report that had to be handed in by midday. Janvier half opened the door of the office.

  ‘He phoned, chief. We know where he is. Lucas alerted the Goutte d’Or, and Janin should already be there. I’m on my way now. What should I do with him?’

  Maigret looked at him with large, tired eyes.

  ‘Bring him to me, and be nice about it.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to lunch?’

  ‘I’ll have some sandwiches brought up.’

  Janvier used one of the little black cars of the Police Judiciaire, getting the driver to stop some distance from the bar. It was a narrow bistro, longer than it was wide, with so much steam on the windows that you couldn’t see inside. When he opened the door, he glimpsed Janin waiting for him over a vermouth-cassis. Apart from him, there were only four customers. The tiled floor was covered in sawdust, the walls were a dirty yellow, and the phone booth was next to the toilets.

  ‘Gone?’

  Holding out his hand, Janin nodded. The owner, who clearly knew the local officer, asked Janvier in a somewhat ironic voice:

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘A beer.’

  The customers were also looking at them. Janin must have already asked his questions.

  ‘We can talk,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He came in at a quarter to eleven, as he does every day.’

  ‘Does the owner know his name?’

  ‘All he knows is that he’s called Pierrot, that he’s a musician and probably lives in the area. He comes here every morning at a quarter to eleven to have his coffee. Almost always, he receives a phone call at eleven o’clock. This morning, he didn’t get one. He waited half an hour and then went into the booth. When he came out, he looked worried. He stayed a while longer at the counter, then paid and left.’

  ‘Do we know where he has lunch?’

  ‘The owner claims he doesn’t know. Do you still need me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s go outside.’

  Once outside, Janvier glanced along Rue Briquet, which was very short, and where you could see the signs of two hotels that were clearly used by prostitutes.

  If Pierrot was in the habit of having his
morning coffee in the little bar, there was a good chance he lived nearby.

  ‘Shall we take a look?’

  The first hotel was called the Hôtel du Var. To the right of the corridor, there was an office, with an old woman in it.

  ‘Is Pierrot at home?’

  As she probably also knew Janin, he took care not to show himself, while of all those at the Police Judiciaire, Janvier was probably the one who looked least like a policeman.

  ‘He went out more than an hour ago.’

  ‘Are you sure he hasn’t come back?’

  ‘Positive. I haven’t left the office. And besides, his key’s on the board.’

  She finally saw Janin, who had stepped forwards.

  ‘So that’s it! What do you want with the boy?’

  ‘Can I see the register? How long has he been living here?’

  ‘More than a year. He pays monthly.’

  She went and fetched the book and leafed through it.

  ‘Here you are. You know this house is above board.’

  Pierrot’s real name was Pierre Eyraud; he was twenty-nine years old and had been born in Paris.

  ‘What time does he usually get back?’

  ‘Sometimes he comes back early in the afternoon, sometimes not.’

  ‘Does he have women visitors?’

  ‘Like anyone else.’

  ‘Always the same one?’

  She did not hesitate for long. She knew that if she didn’t toe the line, Janin would have a hundred opportunities to catch her out.

  ‘You must know her, too, Monsieur Janin. She was always hanging around here. It’s Lulu.’

  ‘Lulu what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve always called her Lulu. A pretty girl, and a lucky one, too. These days she wears fur coats and all that, and comes here by taxi.’

  ‘Did you see her yesterday?’ Janvier asked.

  ‘No, not yesterday, but the day before yesterday. That was Sunday, the day before yesterday, wasn’t it? She arrived just after midday with some little packages, and they had lunch in his room. Afterwards, they left arm in arm. I assume they went to the cinema.’

  ‘Give me the key.’

  She shrugged. What was the point resisting?

  ‘Try not to make it too obvious you searched his room. He’d blame me for it.’

  To be on the safe side – to stop the old woman from phoning Pierre Eyraud and bringing him up to date, for example – Janin stayed downstairs. All the doors were open on the first floor, where the rooms that could be rented for an hour or even less were situated. Further up lived those tenants who rented by the week or the month, and noises could be heard behind the doors; there must be another musician in the hotel, because someone was playing the accordion.