Maigret and the Tramp Read online

  ‘29b Quai d’Orléans.’

  Maigret had given a start, but she didn’t notice.

  ‘It’s on Ile Saint-Louis. Since the island became one of the most sought-after places in Paris—’

  ‘Do you know where your father was assaulted last night?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Under Pont Marie. Three hundred metres from where your mother lives.’

  She frowned anxiously. ‘That’s on the other branch of the Seine, isn’t it? Mother’s windows face Quai de la Tournelle.’

  ‘Does she have a dog?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  During the few months that Maigret had lived on Place des Vosges, while they were renovating the building on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, he and his wife had often gone for an evening stroll around Ile Saint-Louis. That was the time of day when dog owners walked their pets along the riverbank, or got their servants to walk them.

  ‘Mother only keeps birds. She hates dogs and cats.’ She changed the subject. ‘Where has my father been taken?’

  ‘To the nearest hospital, the Hôtel-Dieu.’

  ‘I suppose you’d like me to—’

  ‘Not now. I may ask you to come and identify him, in order to be absolutely certain as to his identity, but for the moment his head and face are covered in bandages.’

  ‘Is he in a lot of pain?’

  ‘He’s in a coma and isn’t aware of anything.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that to him?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘Was there a fight?’

  ‘No. In all likelihood, he was asleep when he was assaulted.’

  ‘Under the bridge?’

  He stood up in his turn.

  ‘I assume you’re going to see my mother?’

  ‘It’s difficult for me to do otherwise.’

  ‘Do you mind if I phone and tell her the news?’

  He hesitated. He would have preferred to observe Madame Keller’s reactions, but he didn’t insist.

  ‘Many thanks, inspector. Will it be in the newspapers?’

  ‘There’s probably already a small item about the assault by now, but your father’s name certainly won’t be in it. I didn’t discover it myself until mid-morning.’

  ‘Mother will insist on it not being talked about.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  She walked him to the door while a little girl clung to her skirt.

  ‘We’re going out soon, darling. Go and ask Nana to dress you.’

  Torrence was pacing the pavement outside the house. The little black police car cut a sad figure amid the long, glossy luxury cars.

  ‘Quai des Orfèvres?’

  ‘No, Ile Saint-Louis. Quai d’Orléans.’

  The building was an old one, with a huge carriage entrance, but it was maintained like a valuable piece of furniture. The brasses, the banisters, the stairs, the walls were sparkling clean, without a speck of dust; even the concierge wore a black dress and a white apron, like a maid in an upper-class household.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No. Madame Keller is expecting me.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  The lodge was a little drawing room that smelled more of wax polish than of cooking. The concierge picked up the telephone.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘Hello, Berthe? Can you tell madame that a Detective Chief Inspector Maigret is asking to see her? … Yes, he’s here. Can he come up? … Thanks … You may go up. Second floor, on the right.’

  As he climbed the stairs, Maigret wondered if the Flemish barge was still moored at Quai des Célestins or if the statement had been signed and they were already travelling downstream towards Rouen. The door opened without his needing to ring. The maid, who was young and pretty, looked Maigret up and down as if this was the first time in her life that she had seen a police officer in the flesh.

  ‘This way. Let me take your hat.’

  The apartment, which had very high ceilings, was decorated in baroque style, with lots of gilt and extravagantly carved furniture. Even from the hall, a chatter of budgerigars could be heard, and as the door to the drawing room was open, a huge cage was visible, containing about ten couples.

  He waited some ten minutes, ending up lighting his pipe as a protest. True, he took it out of his mouth as soon as Madame Keller made her entrance. It was a shock to him to find her so slight, so frail and yet so young. She seemed barely ten years older than her daughter. She was dressed in black and white and had a fair complexion and eyes the colour of forget-me-nots.

  ‘Jacqueline phoned me,’ she said immediately, motioning Maigret to an armchair with a tall straight back, which was as uncomfortable as could be.

  She herself sat down on a stool upholstered in old tapestry, holding herself erect, as she must have been taught at convent school.

  ‘So you’ve found my husband.’

  ‘We weren’t looking for him,’ he replied.

  ‘I assume not. I can’t see why you would have been looking for him. Every person is free to live his own life. Is it true that his life is in no danger, or did you just say that to my daughter to spare her?’

  ‘Professor Magnin gives him an eighty per cent chance of recovery.’

  ‘Magnin? I know him well. He’s been here several times.’

  ‘Did you know your husband was in Paris?’

  ‘I knew it and didn’t know it. Since he left for Gabon about twenty years ago, all I’ve ever had from him was two postcards. And that was right at the beginning of his time in Africa.’

  She was making no pretence at being upset, looking him full in the face like a woman who is accustomed to all kinds of situations.

  ‘Are you at least sure it’s him?’

  ‘Your daughter recognized him.’

  He held out the identity card with the photograph. She went to fetch her glasses from a chest of drawers and looked closely at the photograph without any emotion being visible on her face.

  ‘Jacqueline’s right. Obviously, he’s changed, but I, too, would swear it was François.’ She looked up. ‘Is it true he was living very near here?’

  ‘Under Pont Marie.’

  ‘And to think I cross that bridge several times a week! I have a friend who lives just on the other side of the Seine. Madame Lambois. You probably know the name. Her husband—’

  Maigret didn’t wait to find out what important position Madame Lambois’ husband occupied.

  ‘Have you seen your husband since he left Mulhouse?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Has he ever written or telephoned?’

  ‘Apart from those two postcards, I’ve never had any news of him. Not directly, anyway.’

  ‘What about indirectly?’

  ‘Occasionally at the houses of friends I’ve met a former governor of Gabon, Pérignon, who once asked me if I was related to a doctor named Keller.’

  ‘What did you reply?’

  ‘I told him the truth … He seemed embarrassed … I had to pry information out of him. Then he admitted to me that François hadn’t found what he was looking for over there.’

  ‘What was he looking for?’

  ‘He was an idealist, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t cut out for modern life. After his disappointment in Mulhouse …’

  Maigret expressed surprise.

  ‘Didn’t my daughter tell you? True, she was very young and saw so little of her father! Instead of building up the kind of practice he deserved … Will you have a cup of tea? No? Excuse me for having mine in front of you, but it’s my teatime.’

  She rang.

  ‘My tea, Berthe.’

  ‘For one?’

  ‘Yes … What can I offer you, inspector? A glass of whisky? … Nothing? As you wish … Where was I? Oh yes. Didn’t someone once write a novel called The Doctor of the Poor? Or was it The Country Doctor? Well, my husban
d was a kind of doctor of the poor, and, if I hadn’t had that inheritance from my aunt, we would have ended up as poor as them. Not that I resent him for it. It was just the way he was. His father … Well, never mind about that. Every family has its problems.’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Will you excuse me? … Hello? … Yes, speaking … Alice? … Yes, my dear … I may be a little late … No, on the contrary, I’m fine. Have you seen Laure? … Will she be there? … I can’t say any more, I have a visitor … I’ll tell you all about it, yes … See you later.’

  She came back to her place, smiling.

  ‘That was the wife of the minister of the interior. Do you know her?’

  Maigret merely shook his head and instinctively put his pipe back in his pocket. The budgerigars were getting on his nerves, and so were the interruptions. Now, it was the turn of the maid, who came in to serve the tea.

  ‘He got it into his head to become a hospital doctor, and for two years he studied hard for the exams … If you know Mulhouse, they’ll tell you it was a flagrant injustice. François was definitely the best, the cleverest. And I think he would have felt at home there … As always, it was the protégé of a bigwig who was appointed … Not that that was any reason to give it all up.’

  ‘So it was because of that disappointment …’

  ‘I assume so. I saw so little of him! When he was at home, he would shut himself in his surgery. He’d always been a bit eccentric, but from then on it was as if he’d gone a bit crazy … I don’t want to speak ill of him. It didn’t even occur to me to get a divorce, even though he suggested it in his letter.’

  ‘Did he drink?’

  ‘Did my daughter tell you that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He started drinking, yes. Mind you, I never saw him drunk. But he always had a bottle in his surgery and he was quite often seen coming out of the kind of little bistros that a man in his position doesn’t usually frequent.’

  ‘You started telling me about Gabon.’

  ‘I think he wanted to be a kind of Dr Schweitzer, if you know what I mean. Going off to the bush to treat Negroes, building a hospital there, seeing as little as possible of white people, people of his class.’

  ‘And he was disappointed?’

  ‘From what the governor told me reluctantly, he managed to antagonize the colonial administration, and the big companies, too. Perhaps because of the climate, he drank more and more … Don’t think I’m telling you this because I’m jealous. I’ve never been jealous … He lived in a native hut, with a black woman, and apparently had children with her.’

  Maigret was looking at the budgerigars in the cage, through which a sunbeam passed.

  ‘He was given to understand that he wasn’t wanted there.’

  ‘You mean he was expelled from Gabon?’

  ‘More or less. I don’t know exactly how these things work, and the governor was quite vague about it all. But anyway, he left.’

  ‘How long ago was it that a friend of yours met him on Boulevard Saint-Michel?’

  ‘My daughter told you that, too, did she? Mind you, I can’t be certain. The man was wearing a sandwich board advertising a local restaurant. He looked like François and apparently jumped when my friend called him by his name.’

  ‘Did he speak to him?’

  ‘François looked at him as if he’d never seen him before. That’s all I know.’

  ‘As I told your daughter earlier, I can’t ask you to come and identify him right now, because his face is covered in bandages. But as soon as there’s any improvement …’

  ‘Don’t you think it’ll be painful?’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘I’m thinking of him.’

  ‘We have to be sure of his identity.’

  ‘I’m pretty much certain, if only because of the scar. It was a Sunday in August …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘In that case, I don’t see what else I could possibly tell you.’

  He stood up, anxious to be outside and no longer have to hear the chatter of the budgerigars.

  ‘I suppose the newspapers—’

  ‘The newspapers will say as little about it as possible, I promise.’

  ‘It’s not so much for me as for my son-in-law. In business, it’s always unpleasant to … Mind you, he knows all about it and has been very understanding … Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  Once out in the street, he said to Torrence:

  ‘Where can we find a nice quiet bistro? I’m incredibly thirsty!’

  A glass of cold beer, with lots of foam.

  They found the bistro, which was as quiet and shaded as they could have wished for, but unfortunately the beer was warm and flat.

  4.

  ‘The list is on your desk,’ said Lucas, who had done a meticulous job, as usual.

  There were even several lists, all typewritten. The first was of the miscellaneous objects found under Pont Marie – the specialist from Criminal Records had classified them under the heading Sundry Remains – which constituted Doc’s assets. All of it – the old crates, the pram, the blankets with holes in them, the newspapers, the frying pan, the mess tin, Bossuet’s Oraisons funèbres, and so on – was now upstairs, in a corner of the lab.

  The second list was of the clothes that Lucas had brought back from the Hôtel-Dieu. The third, and last, itemized the contents of the pockets.

  Maigret preferred not to read it. It must have been a curious sight, watching him sit there in the light of the setting sun and open the brown paper bag the sergeant had used for these small objects. Didn’t he look a little like a child opening a party bag expecting to find some treasure or other?

  The first thing he took out and placed on his blotting pad was a battered stethoscope.

  ‘It was in the right-hand pocket of the jacket,’ Lucas commented. ‘I checked at the hospital. It doesn’t work any more.’

  If that was so, why did François Keller have it on him? Was he hoping to repair it? Or was it just a last remaining symbol of his profession?

  Next came a pocket knife that had three blades and a corkscrew with a cracked horn handle. Like the rest, it had probably come from some dustbin or other.

  A briar pipe, its stem held together with wire.

  ‘Left-hand pocket,’ Lucas recited. ‘It’s still damp.’

  Maigret sniffed it mechanically.

  ‘No tobacco?’ he asked.

  ‘There are a few cigarette ends at the bottom of the bag. They were so soaked they’re only mush.’

  It was easy to imagine the man stopping on the pavement, bending down to pick up a cigarette end, removing the paper and stuffing the tobacco in his pipe. Maigret didn’t show it, but deep down he was pleased that Doc was a pipe smoker. Neither his daughter nor his wife had mentioned that.

  Nails and screws. To do what? The tramp must have picked them up on his rounds and stuffed them in his pocket without thinking what he would use them for, probably seeing them as good luck charms.

  The proof of that was that there were three more objects that would have been even less useful to someone who sleeps on the riverbank and wraps his chest in newspaper to protect himself from the cold: three marbles, the kind of glass marbles with yellow, red, blue and green filaments in them that you exchange as a child for five or six ordinary marbles and like to see glimmering in the sun.

  That was almost everything, apart from a few coins and a leather pouch containing two fifty-franc notes that the water of the Seine had stuck together.

  Maigret kept one of the marbles in his hand, rolling it between his fingers during the rest of the conversation.

  ‘Did you take his prints?’

  ‘The other patients really took an interest when I did that. I’ve been upstairs and tried to find a match.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No. Keller has never had any dealings with the law.’

  ‘Has he regained consciousness?
’

  ‘No. When I was there, his eyes were half open, but he didn’t seem to see anything. He wheezes a bit when he breathes. Occasionally, he moans.’

  Before going home, Maigret signed the mail. In spite of his anxious air, there was nevertheless a carefree quality in his mood to match the Paris sky that day. Was it inadvertently that he slipped one of the marbles in his pocket as he left his office?

  It was Tuesday, which was the day for macaroni cheese. Apart from the beef stew on Thursdays, the menu of the other days varied from week to week, but for years now, for no particular reason, Tuesday dinner had been given over to macaroni cheese with finely chopped ham and, occasionally, an even more finely cut truffle.

  Madame Maigret was also in a cheerful mood, and from the gleam in her eyes he knew that she had something to tell him. He didn’t immediately let her know that he had seen Jacqueline Rousselet and Madame Keller.

  ‘I’m hungry!’

  She was waiting for his questions. He refrained from asking them until they were both sitting at the table by the open window. The air was bluish, with still a few red streaks low in the sky.

  ‘Did your sister call you back?’

  ‘I think she did quite well. She must have spent the afternoon phoning round all her friends.’

  She had a small sheet of paper with notes beside her place setting.

  ‘Shall I tell you what she told me?’

  The noises of the city formed a background to their conversation, and the beginning of the television news could be heard from their neighbours’ apartment.

  ‘Don’t you want to catch the news?’

  ‘I’d rather listen to you.’

  Two or three times, as she spoke, he put his hand in his pocket and played with the marble.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘No reason. I’m listening.’

  ‘First of all, I know where the fortune Madame Keller’s aunt left her comes from. It’s quite a long story. Do you want me to tell you the whole thing?’

  He nodded as he ate the crunchy macaroni.

  ‘She was a nurse, still unmarried at the age of forty.’

  ‘Did she live in Mulhouse?’

  ‘No, Strasbourg. She was Madame Keller’s mother’s sister. Are you following this?’

  ‘Yes.’