Maigret and the Headless Corpse Page 3

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret here, sir.’

  ‘Hello, there, Maigret. Have you just come from the canal?’

  ‘From the Forensic Institute.’

  ‘Is Dr Paul there?’

  ‘He’s working on the organs as we speak.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the body has been identified yet?’

  ‘We can hardly count on it in the absence of the head. Unless we have a stroke of luck …’

  ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. In an ordinary case, where the victim’s identity is known, we know more or less where we’re going. Are you following me? In this case, on the contrary, we have no idea who we may be dealing with tomorrow, the day after tomorrow or in an hour. Anything is possible, even the most unpleasant of surprises, and we have to be extremely cautious.’

  Coméliau enunciated his words carefully, as if listening to the sound of his own voice. Everything he did, everything he said, was ‘extremely’ important.

  Most examining magistrates practically never take over a case until the police have sorted it out. Coméliau, on the other hand, insisted on being in charge of operations as soon as the investigation started, which may have been due above all to his fear of complications. His brother-in-law was a prominent politician, one of those rare parliamentarians who had been involved in almost all the ministries.

  ‘As I’m sure you’ll understand,’ Coméliau liked to say, ‘because of him my situation is more delicate than that of any other magistrate.’

  Eventually, Maigret got away with a promise to call him every time there was the slightest new development, even at home in the evening. He went through his mail, looked in on the inspectors’ office and sent some of them off in connection with a number of current cases.

  ‘Today is Tuesday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, chief.’

  If Dr Paul’s first estimate had been correct, and the body had been in the Canal Saint-Martin for about forty-eight hours, that meant the murder had taken place on Sunday, or probably Saturday night, because it wasn’t very likely that somebody would have thrown in those sinister packages in broad daylight, less than 500 metres from a police station.

  ‘Is that you, Madame Maigret?’ he said to his wife in a jokey tone when he had her at the other end of the line. ‘I won’t be back for lunch. What had you made?’

  Lamb and bean stew. He didn’t have any regrets: it was too heavy for a day like today.

  He called Judel.

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Right now, Victor is having a bite to eat on board his boat. We now have the whole body apart from the head. He’s asking if he should continue his search.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘My men are at work, but don’t yet have anything specific. There was a fight on Sunday evening in a bar in Rue des Récollets. Not at Popaul’s. Further away, near Faubourg Saint-Martin. There’s a concierge complaining that her husband is missing, but he hasn’t been home for a month, and the description doesn’t match.’

  ‘I’ll probably be over there this afternoon.’

  On his way out to lunch at the Brasserie Dauphine, he opened the door to the inspectors’ office.

  ‘Coming, Lapointe?’

  It struck him, as they were walking beside the river in silence, that he didn’t really need the young inspector in order to eat at his usual table in the little restaurant on Place Dauphine. A smile hovered over his lips at the memory of a question he had been asked about this. It was his friend Pardon, the doctor in Rue Popincourt he had got into the habit of having dinner with once a month with his wife, who had asked him in a perfectly serious tone one evening:

  ‘Could you tell me, Maigret, why plainclothes policemen always go around in twos, just like plumbers?’

  It had never struck him before, and he had to admit that it was true. He himself rarely handled an investigation without being accompanied by one of his inspectors.

  He had scratched his head.

  ‘I suppose the first reason goes back to the time when the streets of Paris weren’t safe and it was better to be with someone rather than alone when you ventured into certain neighbourhoods, especially at night.’

  That remained valid in some cases, in that of an arrest, for example, or a raid on some seedy premises or other. All the same, Maigret had continued to give it some thought.

  ‘There is a second reason, which also holds true for interrogations at Quai des Orfèvres. If only one police officer takes a testimony, the suspect, who might have talked reluctantly, can always deny his confession subsequently. Two statements have more weight than one in front of a jury.’

  That made sense, but he still hadn’t been satisfied.

  ‘From a practical point of view, it’s almost a necessity. During a stakeout, for example, you may need to make a phone call without taking your eyes off the person you’re watching. Or the person may have gone into a building with several exits.’

  Pardon, who was also smiling, had objected:

  ‘Whenever I’m given several reasons, I tend to think that none of them is sufficient by itself.’

  To which Maigret had replied:

  ‘In that case, I’ll speak for myself. The reason I almost always make sure I’m accompanied by an inspector is because, if I was on my own, I’d be afraid of getting bored.’

  He didn’t tell this story to Lapointe, because you should never display scepticism in front of the young, and Lapointe still burned with zeal. The lunch was pleasant and quiet, with other inspectors and detective chief inspectors standing at the bar, four or five eating in the restaurant.

  ‘Do you think the head was thrown in the canal? Will we find it?’

  Maigret caught himself shaking his head. Actually, he hadn’t yet thought about it. His response was instinctive. He would have been incapable of saying why he had the impression that Victor the diver would search in vain through the sludge of the Canal Saint-Martin.

  ‘What could they have done with it?’

  He had no idea. Maybe deposit it, inside a suitcase, in the left luggage office at Gare de l’Est, which was quite close, for example, or Gare du Nord, which wasn’t much further away. Or else send it to some address in the provinces in one of those huge express lorries he had seen parked in one of the streets leading to Quai de Valmy. He had often seen those red and green lorries crossing the city in the direction of the main roads and he had never known where they had their home base. It was right there, near the canal, in Rue Terrage. At a certain point during the morning, he had counted more than twenty of them parked at the kerb, all bearing the words ‘Zenith Transport: Roulers and Langlois’.

  This indicated that he wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. The case interested him without fascinating him. His interest came above all from the fact that he hadn’t worked in the area of the canal for a long time. There was a period, early in his career, when every one of the streets in the neighbourhood had been familiar to him, as well as a good many of the figures creeping past the houses at night.

  They were still at the table, having coffee, when Maigret was called to the telephone. It was Judel.

  ‘I don’t know if I did the right thing disturbing you, chief. It’s not exactly a lead yet. About an hour ago, one of my men, Blancpain, who I put on guard duty near the diver’s boat, noticed a boy on a delivery tricycle. He thought he’d already seen him in the morning, then half an hour later, and so on, several times throughout the morning. Other onlookers stayed on the quayside for a while, but this one, according to Blancpain, kept his distance and seemed more interested than the others. Usually, a delivery boy has his rounds to do and no time to waste.’

  ‘Did Blancpain question him?’

  ‘He intended to. He walked up to him as calmly as possible in order not to scare him. He’d only gone a few metres when the young man, giving every indication that he was scared, jumped on his tricycle and sped off in the direction of Rue des Récollets. Blancpain didn’t
have a car or any means of transport at his disposal. He tried in vain to catch up with the fugitive, while passers-by turned to look at him and the tricycle vanished in the traffic on Faubourg Saint-Martin.’

  The two men fell silent. Obviously, it was flimsy. It might mean nothing, but equally it might constitute a point of departure.

  ‘Does Blancpain have his description?’

  ‘Yes. The young man was between eighteen and twenty, and looked like he’s from the country, to judge by his ruddy face. He had long fair hair and was wearing a leather jacket over a roll-neck sweater. Blancpain couldn’t read the word on the delivery tricycle. A word ending in “ail”. We’re just checking the list of local merchants who might use a delivery boy on a tricycle.’

  ‘What does Victor say?’

  ‘That as long as he’s paid, he doesn’t care if he’s in the water or out of it, but he’s convinced he’s wasting his time.’

  ‘Nothing on the patches of waste ground?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘I hope to have a few details on the dead man soon, when I get the pathologist’s report.’

  He received them in his office, about 2.30, by telephone. Paul would send him his official report later.

  ‘Are you taking notes, Maigret?’

  Maigret drew a pad towards him.

  ‘These are just estimates, but they’re quite close to reality. First of all, here’s a description of your man, in so far as it can be established without the head. He isn’t tall: about 1 metre 67. The neck is short and thick, and I have reason to think the face is broad, with a solid jaw. Dark hair, with perhaps some white hair at the temples, not much. Weight: 75 kilos. He was probably a thickset man, more square than round, more muscular than fat, though he’s put on weight recently. The liver indicates a regular drinker, though I don’t think we’re dealing with a drunk. More likely the sort who has a drink every hour or half-hour, especially white wine. In fact, I found traces of white wine in the stomach.’

  ‘Food, too?’

  ‘Yes. We’re lucky it was something hard to digest. His last lunch or dinner consisted mostly of roast pork and beans.’

  ‘How long before his death?’

  ‘I’d say between two and two and a half hours. I lifted the material under his fingernails and toenails and sent it to the lab. Moers will give you his verdict himself.’

  ‘What about scars?’

  ‘I haven’t changed my opinion from this morning. The appendectomy was performed five or six years ago, by a good surgeon to judge by the quality of the work. The marks from shotgun pellets date from at least twenty years ago, and I’m tempted to double that figure.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Fifty to fifty-five.’

  ‘So he would have been fired at with a shotgun when he was a child?’

  ‘That’s my opinion. General health satisfactory, apart from the clogging of the liver that I mentioned. Heart and lungs in good condition. The left lung bears the scar of a very old and mild bout of tuberculosis. Children or babies sometimes have a mild bout of tuberculosis without even noticing. Now, Maigret, if you want more than this, bring me the head and I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘They haven’t found it.’

  ‘In that case, they won’t.’

  He confirmed Maigret in his opinion. At Quai des Orfèvres, there are a certain number of beliefs that have ended up being considered axiomatic. One is that it’s almost invariably low-class prostitutes who are cut into pieces. Another is that a certain number of pieces might be found, but more rarely the head.

  No one can back it up, but everyone believes it.

  He went into the inspectors’ office.

  ‘If anyone calls me,’ he said, ‘I’m upstairs in the lab.’

  He slowly climbed to the upper floors of the Palais de Justice, where he found Moers bent over test tubes.

  ‘Are you working on “my” corpse?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m studying the specimens Paul sent us.’

  ‘Any results?’

  Other specialists were working in the huge room, where, in a corner, stood the tailor’s dummy that was used for reconstructions, for example to check that a blow with a knife could only have been delivered from such and such an angle.

  ‘I have the impression,’ murmured Moers, who always spoke in a low voice, as if in a church, ‘that your man didn’t get out much.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve examined the material extracted from the toenails, which means I can tell you that the last socks he wore were navy blue wool. I’ve also found traces of the kind of felt they make carpet slippers from. From which I conclude that the man must have spent a lot of his time in his slippers.’

  ‘If that’s correct, Paul should be able to confirm it, because living in slippers for years ends up deforming the foot, at least if I’m to believe my wife, who’s always telling me …’

  He didn’t finish his sentence. He tried the Forensic Institute, was told that Dr Paul had left and managed to get hold of him at home.

  ‘This is Maigret. One question, doctor, based on something Moers just told me. Do you have the impression that our man spent more time in slippers than in shoes?’

  ‘Congratulate Moers for me. I almost mentioned it earlier but I thought it was a bit flimsy and might have ended up as a false lead. It occurred to me, when I examined the feet, that we might be dealing with a waiter. In waiters, especially head waiters, and in … well, in policemen, traffic cops in particular, the soles of the feet tend to collapse, not because of walking a lot but because of standing a lot.’

  ‘You told me the fingernails weren’t well looked after.’

  ‘That’s right. Most likely, a head waiter wouldn’t leave his nails in such a bad state.’

  ‘Or a waiter in a respectable café or restaurant.’

  ‘Has Moers discovered anything else?’

  ‘Not so far. Thank you, doctor.’

  Maigret spent almost another half an hour prowling the lab, peering over everyone’s shoulders.

  ‘It may interest you to know that he also had a mixture of earth and saltpetre under his nails.’

  Moers knew as well as Maigret where such a mixture was most often found: in cellars, especially damp cellars.

  ‘Is there a little? A lot?’

  ‘That’s what strikes me. The man doesn’t seem to have dirtied himself like that on only one occasion.’

  ‘In other words, he was in the habit of going down into a cellar?’

  ‘It’s only a hypothesis.’

  ‘And the hands?’

  ‘I’ve found similar material under the fingernails, but mixed with something else, small fragments of red wax.’

  ‘Like the kind used to seal bottles of wine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maigret was almost disappointed: this was becoming too easy.

  ‘In other words, a bistro!’ he muttered.

  At that moment, he wondered if the case might not be wrapped up by this evening. The image of the thin, brown-haired woman who had served them their drinks this morning came back into his mind. He had been very struck by her and had thought two or three times about her during the day, not necessarily in connection with the dismembered man, but because she was no ordinary character.

  There was no lack of colourful individuals in a neighbourhood like Quai de Valmy. But he had seldom encountered the kind of inertia he had seen in that woman. It was hard to explain. When most people look at you, there is some sort of exchange, however small. A contact is established, even if that contact is a kind of defiance.

  With her, on the contrary, there was nothing. She had shown no surprise, no fear as she served them; her face was unreadable, displaying nothing but a weariness that probably never left her.

  Unless it was indifference?

  Two or three times, while drinking his wine, Maigret had looked into her eyes and had discovered nothing, had provoked no flicker, no reaction.

  This wasn’t the p
assivity of an unintelligent person. She wasn’t drunk either, or on drugs, at least at the time. Already that morning, he had vowed to go back and see her, if only to get an idea of the kind of customers who frequented the establishment.

  ‘Any ideas, chief?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You say that as if it bothered you.’

  Maigret preferred not to insist. At four o’clock, he summoned Lapointe, who was busy with paperwork.

  ‘Do you mind driving me?’

  ‘To the canal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope they’ve had time to disinfect the car.’

  The women were already wearing light-coloured hats, and this season it was red that dominated, a bright poppy red. The striped or orange awnings had been lowered on the café terraces, where almost all the tables were occupied, and people had more of a spring in their step than a week earlier.

  When they reached Quai de Valmy, they got out of the car close to where the crowd stood, indicating the place where Victor was still searching the bottom of the canal. Judel was there.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No clothes either?’

  ‘We looked at the string. If you think it’s useful, I’ll send some to the lab. At first sight, it’s ordinary thick string, the kind used by most shopkeepers. It took quite a bit of it to make the different packages. I sent someone to question the local ironmongers. So far, no results. As for the newspaper, I put out the scraps to dry. Most are from last week.’

  ‘When’s the last one from?’

  ‘Saturday morning.’

  ‘Do you know the bistro that’s just past Rue Terrage, next to a pharmaceuticals laboratory?’

  ‘Calas’?’

  ‘I didn’t look at the name above the door: a dark little room, below street level, with a big coal stove in the middle and a black pipe crossing almost the whole room.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Omer Calas’ place.’

  The local inspectors knew these places better than the people from headquarters.

  ‘What kind of place is it?’ Maigret asked, watching the bubbles that indicated Victor’s comings and goings at the bottom of the canal.