Maigret and the Apparition Page 3

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  Chapter 2: Lunch at Chez Manière

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  One might have been forgiven for thinking that the man had chosen this particular moment in order to create the maximum dramatic effect. Had he, perhaps, been listening at the door? Scarcely had the word “apparition” been spoken when the doorknob was seen to turn, the door to open a crack, and a head without a body to appear through the gap.

  The face was pale, the features indeterminate, the eyelids and mouth drooping. It took Maigret a second or two to realize that the man’s lugubrious expression was largely due to the absence of dentures.

  “Why aren’t you asleep, Raoul?”

  And, as if they didn’t know, she introduced him:

  “My husband, Chief Superintendent.”

  He was much older than she, and was wearing a hideous purple dressing gown over crumpled pajamas.

  In his gold-braided uniform, behind his desk at the Palace Hotel, he might pass muster, but here and now, unshaven, his body slumped, and wearing the peevish look of one who has been deprived of sleep, he seemed both ludicrous and pathetic.

  With a cup of coffee in his hand, he acknowledged Maigret’s presence with a vague nod, and then turned his gaze toward the lace window curtains, beyond which could be seen a mass of dark shapes, gathered together in the still-persistent rain, in spite of the efforts of the uniformed policemen to hold them back.

  “How long is this going on?” he groaned.

  Sleep, which he needed and had a right to, was being denied him, and, to look at him, one might have supposed that he was the true victim in the case.

  “Why don’t you take one of those pills the doctor prescribed?”

  “They give me stomach-ache.”

  He retired into a corner, sat down, and began drinking his coffee, his slipper dangling from one bare foot. During the remainder of the interview, he never once opened his mouth, except to emit a sigh.

  “I’d be grateful, madame, if you would try to remember in detail exactly what happened from the time when you were asked to release the catch.”

  Why such an attractive woman should have married a man at least twenty years older than herself was no concern of Maigret’s. Presumably, at that time she had never seen him without his dentures.

  “I heard someone call out:

  “ ‘Please release the catch.’

  “And then the same voice, which I knew well, added:

  “ ‘Fourth floor!’

  “As I have already told you, I looked at the clock automatically. It is a habit with me. It was half past two. I put out my hand to press the button. There’s no cord to pull nowadays, as there used to be, just an electrically operated catch.

  “It was just then that I thought I heard a car engine, as if a car had drawn up, not in front of this building but the one next door, leaving the engine running. I actually thought it was the Hardsins, who live next door, and often get home very late.

  “It all happened so quickly, you see. I heard Monsieur Lognon’s footsteps in the hall. Then the door banged. Immediately after that the engine revved up, the car moved off, and three shots were fired, one after the other…

  “The third shot seemed to go off right inside the lodge itself, what with the shock of the impact on the shutter, the shattering of the glass, and the strange noise above my head…”

  “What happened to the car? Did it drive on? You’re sure there was a car?”

  The husband, with lowered head, looked at each of them in turn, while at the same time absently stirring his coffee.

  “I’m quite sure. The street is on a slope. To go up it, cars have to accelerate. That particular car roared away at full tilt, in the direction of Rue Norvins…”

  “Do you remember hearing anyone cry out?”

  “No. At first, I was so scared I couldn’t move. But you know what we women are. We just have to know, to find out what’s going on. I switched on the light, grabbed my dressing gown, and rushed out into the hall.”

  “Was the street door shut?”

  “I told you, I heard it slam. I pressed my ear against it, but I could hear nothing but the rain. Then I opened it a crack, and saw the body lying barely six feet away.”

  “What way was it facing? Up or down the steet?”

  “It looked as if he’d been making for Rue Caulain-court. The poor soul was clutching his stomach with both hands, and his fingers were dripping with blood. His eyes were open, and he stared at me fixedly.”

  “And you went out and bent over him, and it was then that you heard or thought you heard the word ‘apparition.’ Is that right?”

  “I could swear that was what he said. Windows were flung open. There are no private telephones in the apartments. All the tenants have to use the one in the lodge. Two of them have been on the waiting list for a phone of their own for over a year.

  “I went indoors and looked up the police emergency number in the telephone book. One ought to carry a number like that in one’s head, but one doesn’t think of these things, especially in a respectable place like this…”

  “Was there a light on in the hall?”

  “No. Only in my lodge. The policeman asked me several questions, to satisfy himself that it wasn’t a hoax, so that it took some time…”

  The telephone was fixed to the wall. Anyone using it would not be able to see out into the hall.

  “Some of the tenants had come downstairs… But I’ve told you all that… It wasn’t until I had replaced the receiver that I thought of Marinette, and rushed up to the fourth floor…”

  “I’m much obliged to you. I wonder if I might use your telephone?”

  Maigret called headquarters.

  “Hello! Is that you, Lucas?… I daresay you’ve seen Lapointe’s note about Lognon?… No, I’m not calling from the hospital… They can’t say for sure yet whether he’s going to pull through… I’m on Avenue Junot… I want you to go to Bichat… Yes, in person, if you can manage it… You’d better pull rank for all you’re worth, because the people there haven’t much time for interlopers.

  “Try to have a word with the house surgeon who was present during the operation. I don’t suppose Professor Mingault will be available at this hour… I presume they’ve extracted at least one bullet, if not both… Yes… I’d like to have as many details as possible, in advance of the official report… As to the bullets, you’d better get them straight off to the lab…”

  Formerly, this sort of work was done by an outside consultant, a man named Gastienne-Renette, but the Department of Criminal Investigation now had their own ballistics expert in the Forensic Laboratory, up in the attics of the Palais de Justice.

  “I’ll be seeing you later this morning or in the early afternoon…”

  The Chief Superintendent turned to Lapointe.

  “Don’t you think you really ought to go home to bed?”

  “I don’t feel in the least sleepy, Chief…”

  The night porter of the Palace Hotel gave him a look of mingled envy and reproof.

  “In that case, off with you to Avenue Matignon. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate the beauty salon where Marinette Augier works. There’s can’t be all that many of them… I shouldn’t think there’s much hope of finding her there… Try to find out all you can about her.”

  “Very well, Chief.”

  “As for me, I’m going upstairs…”

  Maigret was a little annoyed with himself for not having thought of the bullets earlier, when he was actually at the hospital. But this was not just any ordinary case.

  Somehow, because it concerned Lognon, it had assumed the character almost of a private investigation.

  While he was there, his thoughts were almost wholly occupied with the inspector, and he had allowed himself to be overawed by the matron, the doctor, and the wards full of rows of watching patients.

  There was no elevator in the building on Avenue Junot. There was no stair carpet either, but the wooden treads, worn smooth by use, were well polished, and the banisters gleamed. There were two apartments to each floor, and beside some of the doors brass plates could be seen, inscribed with the names of the tenants.

  When he reached the fourth floor, he found the door ajar. He pushed it open and crossed a rather dark entrance hall leading to a living room, where he found Inspector Chinquier smoking a cigarette in an armchair covered with flowered chintz.

  “I’ve been expecting you… Has she told you all about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she mention the car?… That’s what struck me the most… Take a look at this…”

  He stood up and took from his pocket three shining spent cartridges, which he had wrapped in a scrap of newspaper.

  “We found these in the road… If the shots were fired from a moving car, as seems likely, then the man who fired them must have held his arm out through the window…As you will have noticed, they’re .763’s.”

  Chinquier was a conscientious police officer, and knew his job.

  “The weapon was probably a Mauser automatic—a heavy gun, that—which couldn’t be slipped into a hand-bag or a trouser pocket… Do you see what I’m getting at? Everything points to a pro, and he must have had at least one accomplice, because he couldn’t possibly drive and aim at the same time. A jealous lover wouldn’t be likely to rope in a pal to help him get rid of a rival… And besides, Lognon was shot in the stomach.”

  A marksman would indeed stand a better chance by aiming at the stomach rather than the chest, for the victim seldom recovers with his intestines perforated in a dozen places by a large-caliber bullet.

  “Have you been round the apartment?”

  “I’d be glad if you would have a look round yourself.”

  There was anothe
r aspect of this case that made Maigret uneasy. It was the local inspectors themselves who had handled it in its early stages. They might not have thought much of Lognon when he was able to stand on his own two feet, but he was still their colleague, and now the victim of attempted murder. In such circumstances, the Chief Superintendent could scarcely elbow them out of the way and take charge himself.

  “Quite a pleasant room, don’t you think?”

  On a bright day, no doubt, it would be even pleasanter. The walls were painted a bright yellow; the floor was highly polished and spread with a paler yellow carpet The furniture, more or less contemporary in design, was tastefully chosen. The room, which served as both a sitting room and a dining room, was equipped with every comfort, including a television set and a record player.

  The first thing Maigret had noticed on coming in was the table in the center of the room, on which stood an electric percolator, a cup with a little coffee left in it, a sugar bowl, and a bottle of brandy.

  “Only one cup,” he mumbled. “You haven’t touched it, have you, Chinquier? You’d better call the Quai and ask them to send along some of the forensic fellows…”

  He had not taken off his coat, and he now put his hat back on his head. One of the armchairs was turned to face the window, and beside it stood a small occasional table, with an ashtray containing seven or eight cigarette stubs.

  There were two doors opening off the living room. One led into the kitchen, which was clean and neat, and looked more like an Ideal Homes setup than the sort of kitchen usually to be found in old buildings in Paris.

  The other door opened into the bedroom. The bed was unmade. The pillow, the only pillow, still showed the dent where a head had lain.

  A pale-blue dressing gown was carelessly thrown over the back of a chair, the jacket of a matching pair of women’s pajamas lay in a heap on the floor, and the trousers were against the wardrobe.

  Chinquier was back already.

  “I’ve had a word with Moers on the phone. His men are on their way. Have you had time to look around? Have you seen inside the wardrobe?”

  “Not yet…”

  He opened it. There were five dresses on hangers, a fur-trimmed winter coat, and two tailored suits, one beige, the other navy.

  There were suitcases stacked in a row on the top shelf.

  “Do you see what I’m getting at? It doesn’t look as if she’s taken any luggage with her. And if you look in the chest of drawers, you’ll find all her underwear tidily folded away.”

  From the window could be seen quite an extensive view of Paris, but today in particular the gray sky, dripping rain, dominated the buildings. Beyond the bed was a door leading to a bathroom. Nothing was missing there either, not even a toothbrush or any beauty preparations.

  If the apartment was anything to go by, Marinette Augier was a home-loving girl, with excellent taste and a liking for her creature comforts.

  “I forgot to ask the concierge whether she did her own cooking, or went out for her meals,” admitted Maigret.

  “I asked about that. She almost always had her meals here…”

  The refrigerator contained, among other things, half a cold chicken, a quantity of butter and cheese, some fruit, two bottles of beer and one of mineral water. There was another bottle, opened, on the bedside table.

  But of greater interest to the Chief Superintendent was an ashtray, also on the bedside table, containing two cigarette stubs stained with lipstick.

  “She smoked American cigarettes…”

  “Whereas the stubs in the living room are all Caporals. Is that what you’re getting at?”

  The two men exchanged glances. They had both been struck with the same thought.

  “If the state of the bed means anything, it couldn’t have been used for any amorous frolics last night.”

  In spite of the tragic circumstances, Maigret had difficulty in suppressing a smile at the thought of Inspector Grumpy in a clinch with a lovely young beauty consultant.

  Had they quarreled? Had Lognon stumped off into the other room to sulk and chain-smoke, leaving his mistress alone in bed?

  There was something that didn’t quite ring true in all this, and, once again, Maigret was reminded that from the beginning he had not approached the problem with his usual clearheadedness.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask you to go downstairs again, Chinquier, but there’s just one thing I forgot to ask the concierge. Could you find out whether, when she came up here, she found the light on in the living room?”

  “I can tell you that. The bedroom door was open, and there was a light on in there, but the rest of the apartment was in darkness.”

  Together, they went back into the living room, with its two French windows opening onto a balcony which ran around the building, a common feature of the top stories of so many old buildings in Paris.

  In spite of the overcast sky, it was just possible to see, in misty outline, the EiffelTower above the gleaming wet slates of hundreds of rooftops, with a smoking chimney here and there.

  Maigret remembered Avenue Junot as it had been at the start of his career. It had scarcely been an avenue then, with only a few buildings in multiple occupation, interspersed with gardens and patches of waste ground. The first person to build a private house there had been a painter, and daringly modern it had seemed at the time!

  Others followed his lead, among them a novelist and an opera singer, and before long Avenue Junot had developed into a fashionable address.

  Standing at the French windows, the Chief Superintendent looked down, and observed that many of the houses below were squeezed right up against each other. The one opposite, judging from the architecture, must have been about fifteen years old. It had three floors.

  Was it the home of a painter? The top floor, almost entirely glass, seemed to suggest it. Dark curtains had been drawn across the picture windows, leaving a gap of no more than eighteen inches.

  If anyone had asked the Chief Superintendent what he was thinking about, he would have been hard put to it to reply. He was simply registering impressions. Haphazardly, as they struck him. At times he stared out the windows, at other times he roamed about the apartment. Sooner or later, he knew, all these impressions would coalesce and become meaningful.

  He could hear sounds, traffic in the streets, heavy footsteps on the stairs, voices, banging. The team from the Forensic Laboratory had arrived with its equipment, led by Moers, who had taken the trouble to come in person.

  “Where’s the body?” he asked, his blue eyes, as usual, looking a little puzzled behind the thick lenses of his spectacles.

  There is no body. Hasn’t Chinquier put you in the picture?”

  “I didn’t want to waste time,” explained the local inspector apologetically.

  “It concerns Lognon. He was shot just as he was leaving this building…”

  “Is he dead?”

  “He’s been taken to BichatHospital. There’s just a chance that he may pull through. He spent part of last night in this apartment with a woman. I’d very much like to know whether he left any prints in the bedroom, besides those you will find in here. Fingerprint everything you can. Are you coming down with me, Chinquier?”

  He waited until they were in the hall on the ground floor to murmur softly:

  “It might be as well to find out what the other tenants and the neighbors have to say. It’s not very likely that any of them were leaning out of their windows when the shots were fired. Not in this weather. But you never can tell.

  “The girl, Marinette, may have taken a taxi, in which case it shouldn’t be too difficult to trace the driver. She probably went down the street toward Place Constantin-Pecqueur, where there are more taxis than there are at the top of the hill… You and your colleagues know the district better than I do…”

  Shaking Chinquier by the hand, he sighed.

  “The best of luck to you!”

  And he pushed open the glass door of the lodge. The husband, it seemed, had at last decided to go to bed, judging from the sound of steady breathing coming from behind the curtain.

  “Is there anything more I can do to help?” murmured Angèle Sauget.

  “No. I want to make a phone call, but I won’t do it from here. I don’t want to disturb his sleep.”

  “You mustn’t think too badly of him. When he doesn’t get his regular hours of sleep, he’s impossible. I’ve given him a sleeping pill, and it’s just started to work.”