Maigret's Anger Page 4

  ‘Never. No horses, no cards; he didn’t gamble at all.’

  ‘Did he talk to you about Mazotti’s death?’

  ‘He told me he expected to be called in for questioning and asked me to ring the maître d’ at the Lotus to see if the police had come by.’

  Maigret turned to Lucas, who understood his unspoken question.

  ‘Two inspectors from the ninth went round,’ he said.

  ‘Did Boulay seem worried?’

  ‘He was afraid of bad publicity.’

  It was Antonio’s turn to join in the conversation.

  ‘That was always his big worry. He often told me to mind the reputation of my place …’

  ‘ “Just because we earn our living from showing naked women doesn’t mean we’re gangsters,” he used to say. “I am a reputable businessman and I want everyone to know that.” ’

  ‘It’s true. I heard him say that too … Aren’t you drinking, detective chief inspector?’

  Despite not feeling like Chianti at eleven thirty in the morning, he took a sip to be polite.

  ‘Did he have friends?’

  Ada looked around, as if that was a sufficient answer.

  ‘He didn’t need friends. This was his life.’

  ‘Did he speak Italian?’

  ‘Italian, English, a little Spanish … He’d learned languages on the cruise ships, then in the United States.’

  ‘Did he talk about his first wife?’

  Marina didn’t seem remotely embarrassed as her sister answered:

  ‘He went to her grave every year, and her picture is still on the bedroom wall.’

  ‘One other question, Mademoiselle Ada. When he died Boulay had a chequebook in his pocket. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘Yes. He always had it on him but didn’t use it much. Monsieur Raison made the big payments. Émile always had a wad of notes in his pocket too. You have to in this job.’

  ‘Your brother-in-law was called in to the Police Judiciaire on 18 May.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Did you go to Quai des Orfèvres with him?’

  ‘To the door. I waited for him outside on the pavement.’

  ‘Did you take a taxi?’

  ‘He didn’t like taxis, or cars in general. We went by Métro.’

  ‘He then received another summons for 23 May.’

  ‘I know. He was worried about that.’

  ‘Again because it might lead to bad publicity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, on 22 May he withdrew quite a sizeable sum, half a million francs, from the bank … Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Weren’t your responsible for his chequebook?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Didn’t he let you see it?’

  ‘It wasn’t that. It was his personal chequebook; it never occurred to me to take a look at it. He didn’t lock it away; he left it on the chest of drawers in his bedroom.’

  ‘Was he in the habit of withdrawing large sums of money from the bank?’

  ‘I doubt it. There was no need. If he needed money, he’d take it out of the till at the Lotus or one of the clubs and leave a note in its place.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he took out that money?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Do you have any way of finding out?’

  ‘I’ll try. I’ll ask Monsieur Raison. I’ll look in the correspondence.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you could do that today and give me a call if you find anything.’

  When they were out on the landing, Antonio asked in a slightly embarrassed voice:

  ‘What shall we do with the clubs?’

  Maigret looked at him uncomprehendingly, so he went on:

  ‘Shall we open them regardless?’

  ‘I don’t see any reason to … But I suppose it’s a matter for your sister to decide, isn’t it?’

  ‘If we shut, people are going to wonder.’

  The lift arrived, and Maigret and Lucas got in, leaving the Italian to his confusion.

  3.

  Maigret lit his pipe on the pavement, blinking in the sunshine. He was about to say something to Lucas when a typical little Montmartre scene unfolded in front of them. The Train Bleu was not far away, with its neon sign turned off, its shutters closed. Directly opposite the Boulays’ building, a young woman rushed out of a little hotel wearing a black evening dress, with a tulle scarf thrown over her bare shoulders. In the daylight, the roots of her dyed hair were showing, and she hadn’t stopped to fix her make-up.

  She was tall and slim, like a chorus girl. Hurrying across the road on precariously high heels, she went into a little bar, where she was probably going to have coffee and croissants.

  Another person came out of the hotel almost on her heels, a Scandinavian businessman type in his mid to late forties, who glanced left and right, then headed to the corner of the street and hailed a taxi.

  Maigret reflexively looked up at the windows on the third floor of the building he had just left, at the apartment where three women had re-created a little Italy with two children at its heart.

  ‘It’s eleven fifteen. I want to go and see Monsieur Raison in his office. You could ask around the neighbourhood in the meantime, especially the shops – the butcher’s, the cheese shop, you know …’

  ‘Where shall I find you, chief?’

  ‘At Chez Jo’s?’

  That was the bar where Mazotti had been shot. Maigret wasn’t following any fixed plan. He didn’t have any ideas. He was a bit like a gundog running around, sniffing left and right. And the truth was, he didn’t mind being exposed to this Montmartre air for the first time in years.

  He turned the corner of Rue Pigalle, stopped at the Lotus’ metal gate, looked unsuccessfully for a bell. The door behind the gate was locked. There was another club next door, smaller and shabbier, its front painted an aggressive purple, and beyond that a lingerie boutique, its narrow window filled with gaudy bras and knickers.

  On the off-chance he went into a block of flats and found a surly concierge in her lodge.

  ‘The Lotus?’ he asked.

  ‘Didn’t you see it was shut?’

  She studied him suspiciously, possibly sensing a policeman.

  ‘I want to see the book-keeper, Monsieur Raison.’

  ‘The staircase on the left, in the courtyard.’

  It was a dark, narrow courtyard crowded with dustbins and overlooked by mainly curtainless windows. A brown door was open a crack, revealing an old, even darker staircase which creaked under Maigret’s weight. One of the doors on the mezzanine bore a zinc plate with The Full Moon stamped on it in crude letters. That was the name of the club next to Émile’s.

  On the door opposite a cardboard sign read: The Lotus.

  Maigret had the disappointing impression of entering a theatre by the stage door. Drab and dusty, almost seedy, the setting hardly conjured up visions of evening gowns and bare flesh, champagne and music.

  He knocked, heard nothing, knocked a second time, then finally decided to turn the enamel door handle. He found himself in a narrow corridor, where the paint was flaking off the walls. There was a door at the far end and another to his right. He knocked on the latter and, as he did so, heard a scuffling sound. Whoever was inside kept him waiting for a fair while before saying:

  ‘Come in.’

  He was greeted by the sight of sunshine falling through dirty windows, a fat man straightening his tie – his age was hard to determine but, with a few grey hairs combed over his bald head, he must have been getting on – and a young woman in a flowery dress standing around, trying to look casual.

  ‘Monsieur Raison?’

  ‘That’s me,’ answered the man without looking him in the face.

  Maigret had obviously interrupted them.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret …’

  It was stiflingly hot, and there was a heady perfume in the air.

  ‘I’ve got to b
e off, Monsieur Jules … Don’t forget what I asked you.’

  He opened a drawer with an embarrassed look and took two or three notes from a worn, bulging wallet, which he handed to the girl. In the twinkling of an eye the money was transferred to her bag and she was gone on her stiletto heels.

  ‘They’re all the same,’ sighed Monsieur Raison, mopping his face with a handkerchief, possibly in case it still had some lipstick on it. ‘They’re paid on Saturdays and the minute Wednesday comes around they’re here asking for an advance.’

  Strange office and strange little fellow! It was hard to believe that they were behind the scenes at a cabaret rather than in a slightly shady den of some sort. There were none of the photographs of performers on the walls you’d expect, just a calendar, some metal filing cabinets, a few shelves crammed with files. The furniture might have come from a flea market, and one of the legs of the chair Monsieur Raison pointed Maigret to was mended with string.

  ‘Have you found him?’

  The book-keeper hadn’t entirely recovered his composure. His hairy hand shook a little as he lit a cigarette, and Maigret noticed that his fingers were brown from nicotine.

  In that office overlooking the courtyard, it was almost impossible to hear any noise from the street, apart from a vague murmur. It was another world. Monsieur Raison was in shirt-sleeves, with large patches of sweat under his arms, and his unshaven face was running with sweat too.

  Maigret would have bet money that he wasn’t married, didn’t have a family and lived alone in a dark apartment in the neighbourhood, where he cooked his meals on a spirit stove.

  ‘Have you found him?’ he repeated. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Dead …’

  Monsieur Raison let out a sigh and piously lowered his gaze.

  ‘I knew it. What happened to him?’

  ‘He was strangled.’

  The book-keeper looked up with a jerk, as surprised as Maigret had been at Quai de la Rapée.

  ‘Does his wife know? What about Antonio?’

  ‘I’ve just come from Rue Victor-Massé. Antonio has identified the body. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I’ll answer them as best I can.’

  ‘Do you know if Émile Boulay had any enemies?’

  Monsieur Raison’s teeth were yellow. He must have had bad breath.

  ‘That depends what you call enemies … Competitors, yes. He was too successful for some people’s liking. It’s a hard profession, no quarter asked or given.’

  ‘How do you explain the fact that Boulay was able to buy four clubs in a matter of years?’

  The book-keeper was starting to feel better and was back on familiar ground now.

  ‘If you want my opinion it’s because Monsieur Émile ran them the way he would have run a chain of grocer’s, say. He was a serious-minded individual.’

  ‘Meaning he didn’t sample the merchandise?’ Maigret couldn’t help remarking sarcastically.

  The book-keeper smarted at the dig.

  ‘If you’re thinking of Léa, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick … I could be her father. Almost all the girls come and confide in me, tell me their troubles …’

  ‘And ask you for an advance.’

  ‘They always need money.’

  ‘So, if I understand you correctly, Boulay’s only relations with them were those of an employer with his employees?’

  ‘Of course. He loved his wife, his family … He wasn’t a tough guy, he didn’t have a car, a place in the country or by the sea. He didn’t throw his money around, didn’t try to impress anyone. That’s rare in this business. He would have been successful whatever he did.’

  ‘So his competitors resented him.’

  ‘Not enough to kill him. And as far as the underworld was concerned, Monsieur Émile had earned people’s respect.’

  ‘With his dockers.’

  ‘You mean the Mazotti case? I can assure you he had nothing to do with that man’s murder. He refused to pay up, simple as that, and to take the wind out of his sails, he called in a few strapping lads from Le Havre. That did the trick.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘They went home a couple of weeks ago. The inspector in charge said they could.’

  He was referring to Lucas.

  ‘Boulay insisted on doing things by the book. You can ask your colleague in Vice, who’s in Montmartre almost every night and is a good judge of people.’

  A thought crossed Maigret’s mind.

  ‘Is it all right if I make a telephone call?’

  He rang the home number of Doctor Morel, whom he had forgotten to ask something that morning.

  ‘I was wondering, doctor: is it possible before you get the results of the tests to tell me roughly how long after his dinner Boulay was killed? What? No, I’m not asking for an exact answer. Within an hour, yes … I know that based on the contents of his stomach … He ate at eight in the evening. What’s that? Between midnight and one in the morning? Thank you.’

  One little box ticked off.

  ‘I assume you don’t work at night, Monsieur Raison?’

  The book-keeper with the lonely air shook his head almost indignantly.

  ‘I never set foot in a club. It’s not my job.’

  ‘I imagine your employer kept you informed about his business affairs?’

  ‘In principle, yes.’

  ‘Why in principle?’

  ‘Because he didn’t talk to me about forthcoming plans, for instance. When he bought the Paris-Strip to set up his brother-in-law, I only found out the day before he signed the papers. He wasn’t much of a talker.’

  ‘Did he say anything about a meeting on Tuesday evening?’

  ‘No, nothing. I’ll try to explain how the office has always worked. I’m here mornings and afternoons. In the morning I’m more or less on my own. In the afternoon the boss used to come in with Ada, his secretary.’

  ‘Where’s his office?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  It was at the end of the corridor, a room barely larger or more luxurious than the one the two men had left. A typist’s desk with a typewriter in one corner. A few filing cabinets. Some photographs of Marina and the two children on the walls. Another photograph of a woman, with blonde hair and melancholy eyes, who Maigret presumed was Boulay’s first wife.

  ‘He only called me when he needed me. I just placed the orders and settled the bills.’

  ‘So you saw to all the payments, including the ones in cash?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Maigret may not have worked in Vice, but he still knew how things worked after dark.

  ‘I imagine some payments were cash in hand, off the books, if only to dodge the taxman.’

  ‘No offence, Monsieur Maigret, but you’re wrong there. I know it’s what everyone thinks about this business, and it sounds easy. But that was what made Monsieur Boulay different from everyone else, as I’ve already said, the fact that he insisted on everything being legitimate …’

  ‘Did you do his tax returns?’

  ‘Yes and no. I kept his accounts up to date and when the time came I handed them over to his lawyer.’

  ‘Let’s suppose that at a certain moment Boulay needed quite a large amount of money, half a million francs …’

  ‘That’s simple. He would have taken it out of the till at one of the clubs and left a note in its place.’

  ‘Did he ever do that?’

  ‘Not for such large amounts. A hundred thousand … Two hundred thousand francs …’

  ‘So he had no reason to go and withdraw money from the bank?’

  Intrigued by the question, Monsieur Raison took his time answering.

  ‘Wait … In the mornings I’m here and there’s always plenty of cash in the safe. I don’t go and put the previous day’s takings in the bank until about midday. In any case, I don’t think I ever saw him in the office in the morning because he was always still asleep. In the evenings, as I’ve told yo
u, he could just take it from the till at the Lotus, the Train Bleu or the Saint-Trop’. Afternoons are another matter. If he’d needed half a million in the middle of the afternoon, he probably would have gone to the bank …’

  ‘Which he did on 22 May. Does that date mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Do you have any record of a payment being made on that date or the following day?’

  They had gone back into Monsieur Raison’s office. The book-keeper studied a black clothbound ledger.

  ‘None,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Are you sure your boss wasn’t having an affair?’

  ‘That’s completely farfetched, in my opinion.’

  ‘He wasn’t being blackmailed, was he? Can you check the bank statements to see if Boulay cashed any other similar cheques?’

  The book-keeper fetched a file from one of the cabinets, ran his pencil down the columns.

  ‘Nothing in April … Or March … Or February … Nothing in January either …’

  ‘That’ll do …’

  So Émile Boulay had only gone to the bank and withdrawn money once in the last few months. That cheque was still bothering Maigret. He sensed he was missing something, probably something important, and his thoughts were going round in circles. He came back to a question he had already asked.

  ‘Are you sure your boss didn’t pay anyone cash in hand?’

  ‘I can’t think who he would have. I know it may be hard to believe, but you can ask Maître Gaillard. Monsieur Émile was almost obsessive about this. He used to say that people in slightly marginal professions are the ones that have to be most above board.

  ‘Don’t forget that everyone’s suspicious of us, the police are on our backs the whole time, not just Vice, the Fraud Squad as well … Oh, that’s right, talking of the Fraud Squad, I remember a story. Two years ago at the Saint-Trop’ an inspector found some counterfeit whisky in branded bottles.

  ‘It goes without saying that that’s common practice in lots of places. Naturally Customs and Excise started proceedings. Monsieur Émile swore it was the first he’d heard of it. His lawyer took it in hand, and they were able to prove that the barman was switching the alcohol for his own profit.

  ‘The boss settled up anyway, but I need hardly tell you that the barman was shown the door.