Maigret and the Loner Read online

  Maigret couldn’t accept the idea that the man was mad.

  The telephone rang again. Since the publication of the photographs Maigret had been expecting it, and it was what he wanted.

  ‘Hello? Inspector Maigret?’

  ‘Yes. Who am I speaking to?’

  Like his earlier caller, this one, also a woman but clearly not young, did not answer him but, as if by chance, she asked the same question.

  ‘Does he have a scar on the top of his skull?’

  ‘Do you know someone like that who looks like him?’

  Silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘Why don’t you answer?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question either.’

  ‘He does have a scar, about six centimetres long, on the upper part of his head.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She, too, hung up, just like the first woman. So there were two women who had known His Lordship but weren’t in communication with each other – if they were, a single telephone call would have sufficed.

  How to track them down in a population of five million? And why were they both determined to remain anonymous?

  It put Maigret in a bad mood, and he left the Police Judiciaire muttering to himself. And yet he had learned something: his loner hadn’t always been quite such a loner.

  Two women had known him. Two women remembered him but didn’t want to be questioned.

  Why?

  It was a little cooler now, even though the storm hadn’t broken. A light wind had sprung up, pushing little pink clouds across the sky as if in an opera set.

  He indulged in a glass of beer. He had promised Dr Pardon he wouldn’t overdo it from now on. But could it be called excessive to drink three glasses of draught beer in a whole day?

  He was trying his best to stop thinking about His Lordship. He wondered who could have discovered the strange place where he had sought refuge and why that person had killed him.

  He shrugged bad-temperedly. He was wrong, he knew, as in every investigation, to want to know everything immediately. Each time, he would grumble as if fate was being unfair to him.

  Then, in the days that followed, the truth came to light. Would that happen this time, too?

  He made an effort to whistle as he climbed the stairs of his apartment building.

  2.

  The following morning, Maigret had shed his bad mood and once again walked from home to Quai des Orfèvres. The municipal sweepers travelled down the almost empty streets in slow motion, leaving behind them wide strips of wetness, and a warm mist rose from the Seine.

  He was climbing the staircase to the Police Judiciaire when he saw a photographer waiting, laden with cameras. He knew him well. He was always here when there was a case on. He worked for an agency and often waited hours for something to happen. He had red hair and looked like an overgrown schoolboy. If you threw him out one door, he’d come back in through another or through a window.

  His colleagues called him Coco. His name was Marcel Caune.

  Just in case, he took a photograph of Maigret on the stairs. It might have been the two hundredth he had taken of him.

  ‘Have you summoned any witnesses?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s one waiting in the corridor.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it.’

  There was indeed a man on a bench. He was very elderly but still held himself erect and stood up briskly.

  ‘Might I have a few words with you, inspector?’

  ‘Is it about what happened in Les Halles?’

  ‘Yes. The murder in Impasse du Vieux-Four.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a moment.’

  First, as he always did, he popped his head round the door of the inspectors’ room. They were all in their shirt-sleeves, and the window was wide open. Torrence was there, glancing though a newspaper whose headline read:

  Detective Chief Inspector Maigret on the trail

  The truth was, he didn’t yet have a trail to follow.

  ‘Anything new, boys?’

  ‘The usual anonymous letters. A couple of letters from madmen, too. Regulars.’

  From his office, Maigret telephoned the hairdressing school.

  ‘Monsieur Joseph? … I’d like to ask you a favour … Could you send one of your young people to the Forensic Institute to shave His Lordship’s moustache and goatee? Naturally, I’ll pay for the work.’

  ‘I’d rather go myself, it’s a delicate task.’

  He next called Criminal Records and got Moers on the line.

  ‘Is Mestral there?’

  ‘He’s just arrived.’

  ‘Could you send him to the Forensic Institute? There, he’ll find a barber shaving our unknown man’s moustache and beard. As soon as that’s been done, I’d like a few good photographs taken from different angles. It’s quite urgent.’

  He had only just hung up when the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello? Inspector Maigret?’

  He thought he recognized the voice.

  ‘I’m the person who called you yesterday about the murder in Les Halles.’

  The young voice. Not the other.

  ‘I assume you want to ask me the same question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not the only one.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Another woman called me and said precisely the same thing as you.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘I’ll tell you if you come and see me or if you give me your name and address.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  This time, it was Maigret who hung up, muttering:

  ‘Little cow!’

  Basically, at least three people knew the identity of His Lordship: the two women who had telephoned about the scar and, of course, the murderer.

  Maigret went and opened the door. His visitor, who was short and thin, leaped to his feet and came towards him.

  ‘I was a little afraid you wouldn’t see me.’

  In the way he walked, held himself and spoke, there was something that struck Maigret, although he didn’t know what.

  ‘My name’s Émile Hugon and I live in Rue Lepic, in the same apartment my parents were living in when I was born.’

  ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘You may not think so by looking at me, but I’m eighty-five years old.’

  He seemed very proud to have reached that age in such good condition.

  ‘I came down here from Montmartre on foot and every day I walk at least two hours.’

  Maigret could see there was no point in bombarding him with questions.

  ‘Locally, they call me the Colonel. Not that I was ever a colonel, only a captain … When war broke out in 1914, I was in training as a non-commissioned officer … I was at Verdun and the Chemin des Dames … I got through Verdun unscathed, but on the Chemin des Dames I got a piece of shrapnel in my leg, which still makes me limp … When the second war started, I was too old, they didn’t want me.’

  He seemed very pleased with himself, and Maigret summoned his patience, hoping the Colonel wasn’t going to tell him his whole life story.

  Instead of which, the man asked abruptly:

  ‘Have you identified him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Unless I’m mistaken, though that would surprise me, his name is Marcel Vivien.’

  ‘Did you know him personally?’

  ‘He had his workshop in the courtyard just below my apartment. Whenever I went out, I’d always go and say hello to him.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Almost immediately after the second war, in 1945.’

  ‘How old was he then?’

  ‘About thirty-five. He was a tall, strong young man, with an intelligent, open face.’

  ‘What was his profession?’

  ‘He was a cabinetmaker. He’d also done classes in decorative arts. His speciality was restoring old furniture. I saw some really ex
cellent furniture there, full of inlay work.’

  ‘Did he live in the same building as you?’

  ‘No. All he had was the glass-fronted workshop. He’d come in the morning and leave again in the evening.’

  ‘Did he really look like the photograph you saw in the papers?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t have a beard or moustache in those days, but I’d swear it’s him.’

  ‘Do you know if he was married?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A woman the same age as him who’d sometimes come and meet him when he’d finished for the day. He had a little girl of seven or eight who often came in to say hello to him on her way home from school.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘At the end of 1945 or the beginning of 1946. One fine morning, he didn’t come to the workshop, or the next day, or the days after that. At first I thought he was ill. Then his wife came. She had the key. She went to the workshop and stayed there for a very long time, as if she was making an inventory.’

  ‘Have you seen her since?’

  ‘She still lives in the neighbourhood and quite often does her shopping at the market in Rue Lepic. For several years, I still saw her daughter in the street. She’d grown up. I assume she got married.’

  ‘What happened to the furniture that was in the workshop?’

  ‘An upholsterer got it. A locksmith eventually took over the space.’

  Maigret showed the different photographs he had of the man in Impasse du Vieux-Four. The Colonel inspected them carefully.

  ‘My opinion hasn’t changed. I’m almost certain it’s him. I retired a long time ago. In the summer, I like to sit on a park bench or a café terrace and watch people passing by. I try to guess what job they do, what kind of life they lead. It’s made me observant.’

  ‘As far as you know, did the man ever have an accident?’

  ‘He didn’t own a car.’

  ‘There are other kinds of accidents. Did he ever hurt his head?’

  The Colonel struck himself on the forehead. ‘Yes, of course! It was the middle of summer. Very hot, just as it is now. He was in the courtyard, working on a chair that was missing a leg. I was watching him from my window, and I saw a pot of geraniums fall on his head. Mademoiselle Blanche, the tenant on the third floor, had accidentally knocked it over while watering her flowers. He didn’t want to go to hospital, or see a doctor. He disinfected the wound and went to the pharmacy opposite to have it bandaged.’

  ‘Was the scar visible?’

  ‘He wore his hair quite long and very thick, so it was hidden.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else? Did you ever see him again in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘But you say his wife and daughter still lived there? So they didn’t move out with him.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Do you know if he drank?’

  ‘Definitely not. Every morning at about ten, he’d close his workshop for a few minutes and go to the little bistro next door for a coffee.’

  ‘Are there still any tenants in your building who were there in 1945?’

  ‘Let me think … The concierge … Yes, she’s still the same. Her husband was a policeman, he’s dead now. She’s aged a lot … Mademoiselle Blanche, whom I mentioned, is still alive but she can’t leave her wheelchair. Apparently, she’s no longer in her right mind … On the other floors … The Trabuchets on the third floor. He used to work for the tax office. He’s retired, too. Everyone’s older, of course.’

  ‘Do you think they’d recognize Marcel Vivien?’

  ‘It’s possible, but the Trabuchets’ windows look out on the street. They didn’t have the opportunity I had to see what was happening in the courtyard.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Monsieur Hugon. I think your statement will be very useful to us. I’ll have one of my inspectors take you to a small office at the end of the corridor. I’d like you to repeat to him what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘Will I be called as a witness when the case comes to trial?’

  He was already quite excited.

  ‘Hold on! We have to get our hands on the murderer first and establish the identity of the victim.’

  Maigret opened the door to the inspectors’ room and chose Lourtie, who was the fastest typist.

  He told him what he expected of him, and Lourtie came and took charge of the Colonel.

  They seemed to have a lead now. Maigret was waiting for the photographs before going to Rue Lepic. He knew that Mestral was a fast worker and he killed time by going through his mail.

  At ten thirty, the photographer was there with a whole batch of proofs in his hand.

  ‘It makes him look younger, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes. Though apparently he wasn’t very old. The pathologist reckons fifty-five at the most. How many copies did you print?’

  ‘Look, there are five of each pose, if you can use that word talking about a dead man. By the way, that barber of yours was so upset, I expected him to pass out.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d like you to make some more prints, we need them for all the newspapers.’

  Maigret stuffed two copies of each photograph in his pocket and took another, which he gave to Coco, the most stubborn photographer in Paris.

  ‘Here. We’ve done part of your work for you. These are pictures of our man with his beard off. Your agency can reproduce them and send them to whichever newspapers you choose.’

  Maigret also gave two to Leduc, one of the youngest inspectors.

  ‘Take these to the two main evening papers. We just about have time, they go to press early in the afternoon. Make sure you hand them over to the editor or his secretary.’

  Last but not least, he walked to the end of the corridor, where Lourtie was typing up what the Colonel was telling him. As before, the old man sprang to his feet.

  ‘It’s all right, don’t get up. I just wanted to show you these.’

  And he held out the new photographs. From the very first glance, the ex-officer’s face lit up.

  ‘It’s him. Now I’m sure I wasn’t mistaken. Obviously he’s older here, but that’s definitely Vivien.’

  Maigret made a sign to Lourtie to continue and walked back to the inspectors’ room.

  ‘Get your hat, Torrence.’

  ‘Are we going far?’

  ‘Montmartre. Rue Lepic, to be precise.’

  He showed Torrence the photographs.

  ‘I see you had him shaved.’

  ‘Yes, this morning. I’ve just had a visit from a retired army captain who’s now eighty-five and who claims to recognize him, even though he hasn’t seen him for twenty years.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Apparently a cabinetmaker who used to have his workshop in Rue Lepic and who disappeared overnight.’

  ‘Twenty years ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he have family?’

  ‘It seems he had a wife and daughter.’

  ‘Did they also go missing?’

  ‘No. They still lived in the neighbourhood for some years.’

  They took one of the Police Judiciaire’s little black cars and drove straight to Rue Lepic, which was filled with market stalls selling fruit and vegetables.

  65A was at the top of the street, on the left.

  ‘Try to find a parking space and then join me. I’ll probably be with the concierge.’

  The concierge was still young and appealing. She looked at Maigret through the glazed door of the lodge. He knocked, and she opened.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Police Judiciaire.’

  ‘Is it about one of my tenants?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘It’s about someone who used to be your tenant.’

  ‘So I was right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yesterday, when I saw the photograph in the paper, I immediately thought of Monsieur Vivien. I even told the dairywoman, but then I said
, “It can’t possibly be him. Such a nice young man, so hard-working. I can’t believe he ended up as a tramp.”’

  Maigret showed her the new photographs just as Torrence came into the lodge.

  ‘One of my inspectors … Take a good look at these photographs.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t need to look too long. It’s him. What confused me a bit yesterday was the moustache and beard. You’ve had him shaved.’

  She added, staring at the photographs:

  ‘I’m still flabbergasted.’

  ‘Do you remember the way he left here? Did he give notice? Did he send back to his customers the items of furniture he was working on?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that at all. He just didn’t show up one day, and nobody around here ever saw him again.’

  ‘Wasn’t he reported missing?’

  ‘I don’t know if his wife did that. She didn’t often come to see him during the day. His daughter, yes, almost every day. She’d drop by and say hello. They lived not far from here, in Rue Caulaincourt, I don’t know the number, but it was next door to a dry cleaner’s.’

  ‘Have you seen his wife since?’

  ‘Quite often, in the market. She still does her shopping in Rue Lepic. Her hair’s grey now and she’s very thin. She used to be quite plump.’

  ‘Have you ever spoken to her?’

  ‘She looked at me a few times but didn’t seem to recognize me.’

  ‘Is it a long time since you last saw her?’

  ‘A good few months. Maybe a year.’

  ‘And what about the girl? She must be twenty-eight by now.’

  ‘Somebody told me, I can’t remember who, that she was married with children.’

  ‘Does she live in Montmartre?’

  ‘Apparently. I don’t know where.’

  ‘Could I have a look at the workshop?’

  ‘Just go along the corridor and open the door to the courtyard. Monsieur Benoît the locksmith works there now.’

  He was a very affable man in his thirties.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  Maigret told him who he was.

  ‘I assume you’re here because of the man who was shot three times in the chest? They were talking about it this morning in the bistro where I have a drink every day.’

  ‘Did you know him?’