Maigret 51 Maigret Travels Page 3

  The telephone rang again. The manager picked up the receiver after a glance at Maigret, as if asking his permission.

  ‘Hello? … Yes, speaking … Is he coming up?’

  Everyone was looking at him, and he was searching for something to say, an anxious expression on his face, when the door to the corridor was pushed open.

  A man of about fifty, with silvery hair, suntanned, wearing a light grey end-on-end suit, looked from one to another of the figures gathered in the room and at last spotted Monsieur Gilles.

  ‘Ah, there you are! What’s happened to David? Where is he?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Arnold.’

  He pointed towards the bathroom then, quite naturally, started speaking English.

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘I phoned five times this morning,’ Arnold replied in the same language.

  That was another detail that increased Maigret’s irritation. He could understand English, with a degree of effort, but was far from fluent in it. Now the doctor, too, took up that language.

  ‘I’m afraid, Mr Arnold, there’s no doubt that he’s dead.’

  The newcomer had moved to the doorway of the bathroom and now stood there for a while looking at the body in the bath. His lips moved as if he were saying a silent prayer.

  ‘A stupid accident, don’t you think?’

  For some reason, he had reverted to French, which he spoke with hardly any trace of an accent.

  It was at that exact moment that the incident took place. Maigret was near the chair on which the dead man’s trousers had been thrown. There was a thin platinum chain hanging from a button at the height of the belt, a chain that was probably attached at the other end to an object in the pocket, a key or a watch.

  Mechanically, out of pure curiosity, Maigret reached out his hand to grab the chain and, just as he was doing so, the man named Arnold turned and threw him a stern look, as if reprimanding him for inappropriate or tactless behaviour.

  It was all much subtler than words. Just a glance, not even especially emphatic, a barely perceptible change of expression.

  But Maigret let go of the chain and assumed an attitude of which he was immediately ashamed, because it was the attitude of a guilty man.

  Had Lapointe really noticed and had he deliberately turned his head away?

  There were three officers at headquarters – it had become a subject for much humour – whose admiration for Maigret verged on worship: Lucas, who had been there the longest, Janvier, who had once been as inexperienced and passionate as Lapointe, and ‘young Lapointe’ himself, as everyone called him.

  Had he been disillusioned, or merely embarrassed, on seeing his chief caught out, as he himself was, by the atmosphere in which they found themselves immersed?

  Maigret reacted by turning harsher. He was well aware that that, too, might have been tactless, but he couldn’t do otherwise.

  ‘I need to ask you a few questions, Monsieur Arnold.’

  The Englishman did not ask him who he was, but turned to Monsieur Gilles, who explained:

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, from the Police Judiciaire.’

  A vague, barely polite nod.

  ‘May I ask you who you are and why you came here this morning?’

  Once again, Arnold looked at the manager in some bewilderment, as if the question was surprising to say the least.

  ‘Monsieur John T. Arnold is—’

  ‘Would you mind letting him answer for himself?’

  ‘Do we think we could move into the sitting room?’ the Englishman asked.

  Before they did so, he went and took another look at the bathroom, as if once again paying his respects to the dead man.

  ‘Do you still need me?’ Dr Frère asked.

  ‘As long as I know where to find you …’

  ‘My secretary always knows where I am. And the hotel has my telephone number.’

  Arnold said in English to Monsieur Gilles:

  ‘Could you have them bring me up a scotch, please?’

  Before resuming the interview, Maigret picked up the telephone.

  ‘Could you get me the prosecutor’s office, mademoiselle?’

  ‘What office is that?’

  They didn’t speak the same language here as at Quai des Orfèvres. He gave the number.

  ‘I’d like to speak to the prosecutor or one of his deputies … Detective Chief Inspector Maigret … Yes …’

  While he was waiting, Monsieur Gilles found time to say in a low voice:

  ‘Could you please ask those gentlemen to act with discretion, to come into the hotel as if everything’s normal and …’

  ‘Hello? … I’m at the Hôtel George-V, sir. We’ve just found a dead body in a bathroom here, Colonel David Ward … Ward, yes … The body’s still in the bath and there are indications that it wasn’t an accidental death … Yes, so I’ve been told.’

  The prosecutor had just said, at the other end of the line:

  ‘You know that David Ward is a very important man?’

  Maigret nevertheless continued listening patiently.

  ‘Yes … Yes … I’ll be here … Something else happened last night in the same hotel. I’ll tell you about it later … Yes … See you soon, sir.’

  While he’d been speaking, a waiter in a white jacket had put in a brief appearance, and Monsieur Arnold had settled into an armchair, slowly and carefully cut the end of a cigar and lit it.

  ‘I asked you—’

  ‘Who I am and what I’m doing here. Let me ask you a question: do you know who my friend David Ward is – or, as I suppose I must say now, was?’

  It might not have been rudeness after all, just an innate self-confidence. Arnold was at home here. The manager was reluctant to interrupt him, and when he finally did so it was rather in the manner of a schoolboy in class asking permission to go to the toilet.

  ‘Please excuse me, gentlemen. I’d like to know if I can go down and give a few instructions.’

  ‘We’re still waiting for the prosecutor.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that.’

  ‘We’re going to need you. I’m also waiting for the technicians from Criminal Records and the photographers, as well as the pathologist.’

  ‘Could I let at least some of those gentlemen in through the service entrance? I’m sure you understand, inspector. If there are too many comings and goings in the lobby and—’

  ‘I do understand.’

  ‘I’m very grateful … Your whisky will be right up, Monsieur Arnold. Will you have something, gentlemen?’

  Maigret shook his head and then regretted doing so: he could have done with a stiff drink.

  ‘I’m listening, Monsieur Arnold. You were saying …?’

  ‘I was saying that you’ve probably seen my friend David’s name in the newspapers, like everyone else. Most often, it’s preceded with the word billionaire. The “English billionaire”. If you count in francs, it’s correct. Not in pounds.’

  ‘How old was he?’ Maigret cut in.

  ‘Sixty-three … David wasn’t a self-made man. As we say in England, he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father already owned the biggest wireworks in Manchester, which was founded by his grandfather. Are you following me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the business ran itself and that David didn’t need to have anything to do with it, but it didn’t demand much of him, the occasional conversation with his directors, board meetings, papers to sign …’

  ‘He didn’t live in Manchester?’

  ‘Almost never.’

  ‘If the newspapers are to be believed …’

  ‘The newspapers have permanently adopted two or three dozen celebrities and report the slightest thing they do. That doesn’t mean that everything they report is accurate. A lot of inaccurate things have been printed about David’s divorces, for example … But that’s not what I’m trying to convey to you … As far as most people were concerne
d, David, having inherited a large fortune and a well-established business, had nothing else to do but go gallivanting around Paris, Deauville, Cannes, Lausanne or Rome, frequenting nightclubs and race-courses, surrounded by pretty women and people as well known as he was. But it wasn’t so.’

  Arnold took his time, gazed for a moment at the white ash of his cigar and signalled to the waiter, who had just come in.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said, taking the glass of whisky from the tray. Then, settling comfortably in his armchair: ‘The reason David didn’t stay in Manchester and live the usual life of a big English industrialist was precisely because his position there was all mapped out for him and he simply had to continue the work of his father and grandfather, which didn’t interest him. Can you understand that?’

  From the way he looked at Maigret, then at young Lapointe, it was clear that he considered the two men incapable of understanding such a feeling.

  ‘The Americans have a word we English don’t use much. They talk about a “playboy”, which means a rich man whose sole aim in life is to have a good time, play polo, practise winter sports, attend regattas, haunt nightclubs in pleasant company—’

  ‘The prosecutor will be here soon,’ Maigret said, looking at his watch.

  ‘I’m sorry to inflict this speech on you, but you asked me a question that can’t be answered in just a few words. And perhaps I’d like to save you making any blunders … Far from being a “playboy”, David Ward was involved in a number of different businesses – involved personally, not as the owner of the Ward Wireworks in Manchester. Only, he didn’t think his work required him to shut himself away in an office for eight hours a day. Please believe me when I tell you that he had a brilliant business brain. He could make incredible deals in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times.’

  ‘Could you give me an example?’

  ‘One day, we were driving together in his Rolls on the Italian Riviera and had a breakdown that forced us to stop at a fairly modest tavern. As they were making us a meal, David and I went for a walk in the surrounding area. This was twenty years ago. By that evening, we were in Rome, but a few days later, on David’s behalf, I bought two thousand hectares of land partly covered in vines. Today, there are three big hotels there, plus a casino and one of the prettiest beaches on the coast, lined with villas … In Switzerland, near Montreux—’

  ‘In other words, you were his business associate.’

  ‘His friend and his business associate, if you want to put it that way. His friend first of all. Before I met him, I’d never been involved in anything commercial or financial.’

  ‘Are you also staying at the George-V?’

  ‘No, at the Hôtel Scribe. You may think it strange, but in Paris and elsewhere, we almost always stayed at different hotels. David was very protective of his privacy.’

  ‘Is that the reason Countess Palmieri had a suite at the other end of the corridor?’

  Arnold turned slightly red.

  ‘That reason and others …’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘It’s a delicate matter …’

  ‘Wasn’t everyone aware of their relationship?’

  ‘Certainly everyone talked about it.’

  ‘And was it true?’

  ‘I suppose so. I never asked any questions.’

  ‘And yet you were close.’

  It was Arnold’s turn to be irritated. He, too, must be thinking that they didn’t speak the same language, that they weren’t on the same level.

  ‘How many times was he married?’

  ‘Only three. The papers said it was more than that, because whenever he met a woman and went out with her a few times, they’d say he was getting married again.’

  ‘Are his three wives still alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘Two. With his second wife, a son named Bobby, who’s sixteen and in Cambridge, and with his third wife, a daughter named Ellen.’

  ‘Was he on good terms with them?’

  ‘With his ex-wives? On excellent terms. He was a gentleman.’

  ‘Did he ever see them?’

  ‘He’d occasionally run into them.’

  ‘Are they wealthy?’

  ‘The first one, Dorothy Payne, is. She belongs to an important textile-manufacturing family in Manchester.’

  ‘What about the other two?’

  ‘He’s made sure they’re well taken care of.’

  ‘So none of them would benefit from his death?’

  Arnold seemed shocked, frowning like a man who doesn’t quite understand.

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘What about Countess Palmieri?’

  ‘He would almost certainly have married her once his divorce from Muriel Halligan became final.’

  ‘Who, in your opinion, would benefit from his death?’

  The reply was as rapid as it was unambiguous.

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Do you know if he had any enemies?’

  ‘As far as I know, he had only friends.’

  ‘Was he planning to stay at the George-V for much longer?’

  ‘Wait. It’s October 7th now …’

  He took a red notebook from his pocket, a handsome notebook with a soft leather cover and gold corners.

  ‘We got here from Cannes on the 2nd. Before that we were in Biarritz, after leaving Deauville on 17 August … We were due to leave on the 13th for Lausanne.’

  ‘On business?’

  Once again, Arnold looked at Maigret with a kind of despair, as if this thick-headed man was permanently incapable of understanding the most basic things.

  ‘David has a suite in Lausanne. In fact, that’s his official address.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘He has this suite all year round, too, just as he has one in London and another at the Carlton in Cannes.’

  ‘What about Manchester?’

  ‘He owns the Ward family house, which is a huge Victorian building. I don’t think he slept there more than twice in thirty years. He always hated Manchester.’

  ‘Do you know Countess Palmieri well?’

  Arnold didn’t have time to answer the question. Footsteps and voices were heard from the corridor. Monsieur Gilles, more impressed than he had been by Maigret, led in the prosecutor and a young examining magistrate Maigret hadn’t yet worked with. His name was Calas, and he looked like a student.

  ‘Let me introduce Monsieur Arnold—’

  ‘John T. Arnold,’ the Englishman said, getting up from his chair.

  ‘The dead man’s close friend and business associate,’ Maigret said.

  As if delighted to finally be dealing with somebody important, perhaps somebody from the same world as him, Arnold said to the prosecutor:

  ‘I had an appointment with David at ten o’clock this morning, or to be more precise, I was due to phone him at that time. That’s how I learned of his death. Now I’m told it may not have been an accident, and I assume the police have good reasons for saying that. What I’d like to ask you, monsieur, is to avoid this matter causing too much of a stir. David was an important man, and I can’t tell you all the repercussions his death will have, not only on the stock exchange, but in many different circles.’

  ‘We’ll be as discreet as possible,’ the prosecutor said. ‘Isn’t that so, inspector?’

  Maigret bowed his head.

  ‘I assume,’ Arnold went on, ‘that you have questions to ask me?’

  The prosecutor looked at Maigret, then at the examining magistrate.

  ‘Later, perhaps, I don’t know yet. For the moment, I think you can go.’

  ‘If you need me, I’ll be downstairs in the bar.’

  Once the door had closed behind him, they looked at each other anxiously.

  ‘Nasty business, isn’t it?’ the prosecutor said. ‘Any ideas yet?’

  ‘No, none. Except that a certain Countess Palmieri, who was Ward’s mistress and who had a su
ite at the end of the corridor, tried to kill herself last night. The doctor had her taken to the American Hospital in Neuilly, where she was given a private room. The nurse looked in on her every half hour. Not long ago, she found the room empty.’

  ‘You mean the countess has disappeared?’

  Maigret nodded, adding:

  ‘I’m having the railway stations, the airports and the roads out of Paris watched.’

  ‘Curious, don’t you think?’

  Maigret shrugged. What could he say? Everything in this case was curious, from the dead man, who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and who did business while spending time at race-courses and in nightclubs, to the urbane business associate who had spoken to him like a teacher addressing an obtuse pupil.

  ‘Do you want to see him?’

  The prosecutor, a highly dignified magistrate from an old noble family, said:

  ‘I’ve phoned the Foreign Ministry. David Ward really was an important figure. He was a colonel because of his war service at the head of a branch of Intelligence. Do you think that may have a connection with his death?’

  Footsteps in the corridor, a knock at the door, and at last Doctor Paul appeared, carrying his instrument case.

  ‘I thought for a minute they were going to make me come in through the service entrance. They’re doing that right now to the people from Criminal Records. Where’s the body?’

  He shook hands with the prosecutor, then Calas, the new examining magistrate, and finally Maigret.

  ‘So what is it, my friend?’

  He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.

  ‘A man or a woman?’

  ‘A man.’

  Maigret pointed the doctor to the bathroom and heard him let out a cry. The men from Criminal Records now arrived with their equipment, and Maigret had to deal with them.

  At the George-V as elsewhere, for David Ward as for any crime victim, they had to follow procedure.

  ‘Can we open the shutters, chief?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t bother with this glass. It was just brought up for a witness.’

  By now, the sun was flooding not only the sitting room but the huge, bright bedroom, too, revealing a large number of personal belongings, almost all rare or valuable.

  The alarm clock on the bedside table, for instance, was made of gold and came from Cartier’s, as did the cigar box on the chest of drawers, while the manicure set bore the brand name of a leading company based in London.