Maigret and the Loner Read online

  ‘Do you have any idea why he might have become a tramp?’

  ‘None at all. And before yesterday, I would never have believed it.’

  ‘Was he a Catholic?’

  ‘No. He didn’t have any religion and never taught me about it. Not that he was against religion. He was indifferent to it, that’s all.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m the same.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘In her youth, she was quite mystical, but she’d dropped all that by the time she got married. All the same, they had a church wedding, I suppose to follow tradition.’

  ‘Do you often go to see your mother?’

  ‘No. But she comes here almost every Sunday, to see the children.’

  ‘Does she bring them sweets?’

  ‘That’s not her style.’

  ‘Does she try to entertain them?’

  ‘No. She just sits stiffly on her chair – she refuses to sit in an armchair – and watches them play. My husband and I sometimes take advantage of her being there to go to the cinema.’

  ‘Thank you for your help. Do you have anything else to tell me?’

  ‘No. I’d like to avoid the reporters and photographers.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but when your mother goes to identify the body it’ll be hard to stop the papers from mentioning it.’

  ‘But you will try, won’t you?’

  Just as he was reaching out for the door handle, she said:

  ‘Is it possible to see him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  Unlike her mother, she had lost her stiffness. She had very likely been the kind of daughter who worshipped her father.

  3.

  At 2.30, Maigret knocked at the door of the examining magistrate’s office. In the long corridor, people were waiting on all the benches, some between two gendarmes, a few handcuffed. A monastic silence prevailed.

  ‘Come in.’

  Examining Magistrate Cassure’s office was located in the part of the building that had not yet been modernized. It was like being in a novel by Balzac. The black-painted desk had gashes on it, just like in an old school, and files were piled up on the floor in a corner of the room. The clerk may not have been wearing black oversleeves, but he still appeared to have been there since the previous century.

  ‘Take a seat, Maigret.’

  Cassure was no more than thirty. In the old days, it would have been unthinkable for someone his age to already have a position in Paris.

  Usually, Maigret was suspicious of young magistrates full of theories they had only just assimilated and were determined to put into practice immediately. On the outside, Cassure was just like them. He was a tall, thin, supple young man, perfectly dressed, who still had the air of a schoolboy.

  ‘I assume you’ve asked to see me because you have something new to tell me.’

  ‘I’d like to bring you up to date on the progress of the investigation, yes.’

  ‘Usually, the police wait until the last moment to get in touch with us, unless they need a detention order.’

  He smiled, with a hint of nostalgia.

  ‘You have the reputation, Maigret, of going everywhere yourself, questioning concierges in their lodges, artisans in their workshops, housewives in their kitchens or dining rooms.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘We’re not allowed to do that. By tradition we’re confined to our offices, except when the prosecutor’s office is called to the scene of a crime, and even then we’re lost among all the technicians, so it’s really just a formality … I read in the papers that our tramp is a man named Vivien who used to be a cabinetmaker.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why he left his family and his workshop to become a tramp?’

  ‘I’ve talked to his wife and daughter. Neither of them had an answer to that question. I came across a similar case once. And I also remember a very well-known English banker in London who did exactly the same thing.’

  ‘When did our man disappear?’

  ‘In 1945.’

  ‘Did he have another woman, a second family?’

  ‘So far, it’s impossible to know. My men are combing the neighbourhood. What complicates things is that the only people we can turn to are of a certain age. This morning, I questioned a number of local artisans, shopkeepers and pensioners, but in vain. That was in the bistro where Vivien used to go every morning to have his coffee. They all knew him but knew almost nothing about him, because he didn’t make friends with anyone.’

  ‘Odd that twenty years later someone should suddenly have decided to kill him.’

  ‘That’s why I’m desperate to find out about his past. Unless we assume that a maniac suddenly attacked a random tramp, which doesn’t seem very likely.’

  ‘What’s his wife like?’

  ‘Not very pleasant. Admittedly, she hasn’t had an easy time of it. Overnight, she was left with nothing, and with a little girl of eight to bring up. Fortunately she could sew a little. She started by working for her neighbours, then gradually built up her clientele.’

  ‘She never moved?’

  ‘No. She’s still living in the same building in Rue Caulaincourt that she was living in when her husband was around. She only changed floors to move into a smaller, less expensive apartment. You’d find it hard to put an age to her, she seems to have lost any reason for living. She has the fixed stare and faded eyes of a woman who’s suffered a lot.’

  ‘And she doesn’t know why her husband left?’

  ‘I couldn’t get much out of her. If she does know something, she’s keeping it to herself, and nothing will make her change her attitude.’

  ‘What about her daughter?’

  ‘She’s twenty-eight now. She’s married to the head of a department at Bon Marché, whom I haven’t seen. She’s a little more forthcoming than her mother but also quite defensive. She has two children, six and four, a girl and a boy.’

  ‘Is she on good terms with her mother?’

  ‘More or less. They see each other almost every Sunday, because of the children, but I don’t think there’s much warmth between them. Odette – that’s the daughter’s name – worshipped her father and still does. I think this afternoon or tomorrow they’ll be going to the Forensic Institute to identify the body.’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘I’d be surprised. No, they’ll go separately. I told both of them they could see about the funeral as soon as they like. They’re very afraid of reporters and photographers. If you agree with me, I’ll make sure that side of the case doesn’t get made public.’

  ‘Of course. I understand these two women. And you still have no idea who might have committed the murder?’

  ‘So far there are no leads. I don’t think I’ve come across such a solitary man in my entire career. Not only was he living alone in a disused building without any water or electricity, but it’s almost impossible to find out how he spent his days.’

  ‘What does the pathologist say? Was he in good health?’

  ‘Excellent health. On the outside, he looked sixty-five but apparently he was only fifty-five, and all his organs were in perfect condition.’

  ‘Thank you for bringing me up to date. If I understand correctly, this could be a long investigation.’

  ‘Unless we get a lucky break. If Madame Vivien decided to be a bit more talkative, I think she could tell us a lot of things.’

  Maigret went back to his office and asked to be put through to the Forensic Institute.

  ‘Hello? Could you tell me if a Madame Vivien has been to identify her husband’s body?’

  ‘She left half an hour ago.’

  ‘Is there any doubt it’s him?’

  ‘She identified him immediately.’

  ‘Did she cry?’

  ‘No. She stood there for a while, not moving, quite stiff, looking at him. She asked me how soon she could arrange the funeral, and I
advised her to speak to you. Dr Lagodinec doesn’t need the body any more. He got what he could from it.’

  ‘Thanks. You’ll probably also receive a visit from a young woman today. She’s the daughter.’

  ‘I’ll be ready for her.’

  Maigret went and opened the door to the inspectors’ room and called Torrence.

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘As you asked, six men are covering the neighbourhood of Rue Lepic and Rue Caulaincourt, questioning the shopkeepers, the customers in bars and cafés, even people in the street who are old enough to have known Vivien before he disappeared.’

  There was nothing to indicate that, having left his family and his workshop without a trace, he had become a tramp overnight. He might have moved to a different neighbourhood, or perhaps lived for a number of years in the provinces.

  Since he couldn’t cover the whole of France, Maigret was keeping to Montmartre, he couldn’t have said exactly why.

  A little later, he telephoned Madame Vivien, whose number he found in the directory. She was back home by now. She responded to his call like someone who always expects bad news and is constantly suspicious.

  ‘Hello? Who is this?’

  ‘Maigret. I just heard that you’ve identified the body. Is it definitely your husband?’

  She replied with a curt ‘yes’.

  ‘Had he changed much in twenty years?’

  ‘The same as anybody else.’

  ‘I’ve just been to see the examining magistrate. I mentioned the funeral to him. He’s happy for the body to be returned to you so that you can make the arrangements. He’s also happy for the press to be kept out of it as much as possible.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I assume you aren’t planning to transfer the body to Rue Caulaincourt?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘When do you think the funeral can take place?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow. I was waiting to hear from you before I called an undertaker.’

  ‘Do you have a plot in one of the Paris cemeteries?’

  ‘No. My parents weren’t rich people.’

  ‘In that case, he’ll probably be buried in the cemetery in Ivry.’

  ‘My mother’s already there.’

  ‘Have you been in touch with your daughter?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Could you please keep me informed of the time of the funeral?’

  ‘Are you planning to be there?’

  There was no friendliness in the question.

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t even notice I’m there.’

  ‘Unless some reporters latch on to you and follow you.’

  ‘I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘I can’t prevent it, can I?’

  She was bitter. She had been bitter for twenty years. Was it in her character? Had she already been like that when she was living with her husband?

  Maigret was asking himself every possible and imaginable question, including those that might seem ridiculous. He was trying in vain to reconstruct in his mind the personality of Marcel Vivien, the most solitary of men.

  Most people, however strong they are, need human contacts. He hadn’t. He had moved into a large, empty building that might be knocked down at any moment and collected the most useless, most unlikely objects in his room.

  The other tramps had only known him by sight. Some had tried to talk to him, but he had gone on his way without replying. At Monsieur Joseph’s hairdressing school, where he went two or three times a week to earn a five-franc coin, he didn’t talk either, just looked straight in the mirror in front of him.

  ‘The funeral will take place the day after tomorrow,’ Maigret told Torrence. ‘I promised we’d do our utmost to make sure the press doesn’t mention it.’

  ‘There are reporters phoning two or three times a day.’

  ‘Just tell them there’s no news.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been doing, and so have the other inspectors when I’m not in the office. They aren’t pleased. They’re convinced we’re hiding something from them.’

  And it was true, of course. Wouldn’t an enterprising reporter manage to discover what Maigret had discovered?

  The next day, the men of the Police Judiciaire continued showing the photographs of Marcel Vivien and asking questions, but to no avail.

  Maigret had telephoned Odette Delaveau. She, too, had identified her father.

  ‘Do you know when the funeral is taking place?’

  ‘Hasn’t my mother told you?’

  ‘The last time I was in touch with her, by phone, she hadn’t yet seen the undertaker.’

  ‘The funeral will be held at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Will there be a service?’

  ‘No. We won’t be bothering with the church. There’ll only be my mother, my husband and I following the hearse to Ivry.’

  It was a pity that Maigret had had to promise that the newspapers would not be kept informed. The murderer might have loitered around the Forensic Institute or in the cemetery, as often happens.

  Had he really known Vivien twenty years earlier? There was nothing to indicate that. The tramp could just as easily have aroused someone’s hatred more recently.

  Or might another tramp have thought that he was hiding savings in his room?

  It was unlikely. A tramp rarely if ever owns a firearm, let alone a .32 calibre pistol.

  But how many things could have happened in twenty years? And yet, Maigret kept coming back to Vivien’s disappearance, to the day he had left home as he did every morning and had never shown up in his workshop in Rue Lepic.

  Was it because of a woman? Why, in that case, would he have subsequently left her and become a tramp? Among the letters received at the Police Judiciaire after the publication of the photographs and the articles, not one mentioned an unknown woman in Vivien’s life.

  That evening, to avoid constantly mulling over the same problem, which was starting to sicken him, Maigret watched a western on television. After washing the dishes, Madame Maigret came and sat down next to him, taking care not to bother him with questions.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, wake me up half an hour earlier than usual.’

  She didn’t ask why. It was he who went on:

  ‘I’m going to a funeral.’

  She knew at once whose funeral it was, and she brought him his first cup of coffee at seven in the morning.

  He had asked Torrence to pick him up at 8.30 in one of the little cars of the Police Judiciaire. Torrence was punctual.

  ‘I assume we’re going to the Forensic Institute first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The hearse was already parked at the kerb, along with another car provided by the undertaker. The two women and Odette’s husband were in this car, and Torrence stopped far enough away not to be noticed. There were no reporters or photographers. Four men brought out the coffin, which looked very heavy, and a few minutes later the cortège set off for Ivry.

  Since the day before, the sky had grown overcast, and it wasn’t as hot as before. The weather reports forecast rain in the west and in Paris by the end of the day.

  Torrence kept his distance from the car occupied by the family. Maigret smoked his pipe without saying a word, looking straight ahead of him, his thoughts unreadable.

  Torrence respected his silence, which wasn’t easy for him, being the most talkative inspector in the Police Judiciaire.

  The hearse drove through half the cemetery and stopped at last in front of an open grave in a new area where there were still many gaps. Maigret and Torrence remained more than a hundred metres away. Madame Vivien, her daughter and Delaveau stood motionless by the grave as the coffin was lowered into it. The two women were holding bouquets of flowers.

  The shovel was offered to Madame Vivien so that she could be the first to throw earth into the grave, but, to Maigret’s surprise, she shook her head and simply threw in the flowers she was holding. Odette did the sam
e, and in the end it was only Delaveau who threw in the first earth.

  He had never met Marcel Vivien. He was too young. Maigret put him at no more than thirty or so. He was dressed in black, which was probably what he wore at the Bon Marché store. He was quite a handsome man, and his moustache was almost black, like his hair.

  It was over. The ceremony, if it could be called a ceremony, had lasted only a few minutes. The car reserved for the family set off again. Maigret had scanned the surrounding area and seen no suspicious figures lurking. It seemed to him that, now that his tramp was buried, the truth had receded even further.

  He was in quite a bad mood. He remained silent, as if constantly going over the problem with which he had been presented.

  Why kill Marcel Vivien without even gutting his straw mattress, which is where poor people usually hide their money?

  Despite himself, Maigret kept going back twenty years, and that was why he had sent six inspectors to Montmartre.

  He had a pleasant surprise when he got back to headquarters. One of his six inspectors was waiting for him in a state of some excitement.

  ‘What have you found out?’

  ‘What was the date Vivien went missing?’

  ‘The 23rd of December.’

  ‘And nobody’s seen him since?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did he buy his daughter a Christmas present?’

  ‘I didn’t think of asking his wife.’

  ‘Do you know Cyrano’s, the brasserie on Place Blanche?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I showed the photographs to one of the waiters, who’s in his sixties, and he recognized Vivien.’

  ‘When did he meet him?’

  ‘After the 23rd of December. It was the end of January the following year.’

  ‘How can he be sure after so long?’

  ‘Because he didn’t start at Cyrano’s until January.’

  ‘Did he see Vivien more than once?’

  ‘At least ten times, in January and February 1946. He wasn’t alone. He was with a very young woman, a little brunette who kept putting her hand in his.’

  ‘What time did the two of them come to Cyrano’s?’

  ‘About eleven or eleven thirty, when the cinemas closed.’

  ‘Is the waiter sure he recognizes Vivien?’