Maigret's Revolver Page 6

  ‘Don’t let them hit me . . . Help, help . . . !’

  One of the inspectors must have put his hand over his mouth, or gagged him, since the voice became muffled, then stopped, and the footsteps could be heard going towards the stairs.

  The following silence was an awkward one. Maigret’s first move was to light his pipe. Then he looked at the unmade bed, one of its sheets dragged into the middle of the room. The old bedroom slippers were still there, and the dressing gown was lying on the floor.

  ‘What do you think, Pardon?’

  ‘You’re going to have a hard job.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have got you involved with this. It was an ugly sight.’

  As if a detail had come back to him, the doctor murmured:

  ‘He’s always been terribly afraid of dying.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Every week, he would complain of some new symptom, and would ask me a lot of questions about whether it was serious. He bought medical textbooks. They must be about here somewhere.’

  And Maigret did indeed find them in one of the drawers in the chest, with bookmarks at certain pages.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘The first thing is that the Special Infirmary will take charge of him. I’ll continue with my investigation. What I want most of all is to find his son.’

  ‘You think it might have been him?’

  ‘No. If Alain had already killed someone, he wouldn’t have needed to steal my automatic. In fact the crime had already been committed before he turned up at my place. The death took place at least forty-eight hours ago, so it must have been on Tuesday night.’

  ‘Are you going to stay here?’

  ‘For a few minutes. I’m waiting for the inspectors I asked Janvier to send over. And in an hour I’ll have Doctor Paul’s report.’

  It was Torrence who arrived a little later, with two colleagues and men from the crime-scene squad, armed with their equipment. Maigret gave them their instructions while Pardon stood to one side, still looking preoccupied.

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘I’m following you.’

  ‘Shall I drop you off?’

  ‘I just wanted to ask your permission to go to the Special Infirmary. But perhaps my colleagues over there wouldn’t be too happy about that?’

  ‘On the contrary. Have you got some idea about all this?’

  ‘No. I’d simply like to see him again, and perhaps have another try. It’s a worrying case.’

  It did them good to be out in the fresh air of the street. The two men arrived at Quai des Orfèvres, where Maigret knew there would be more lighted windows than usual. The powerful sports car belonging to Pierre Delteil was still parked alongside. The inspector frowned as he discovered the journalist Lombras on guard in the corridor.

  ‘The brother’s waiting for you. Still nothing for me?’

  ‘No, still nothing, sonny boy.’

  He had spoken without thinking, since Lombras was almost the same age as himself.

  4.

  The remainder of the sleepless night and some unpleasant interviews

  Pierre Delteil became aggressive straight away. For instance, while Maigret was giving instructions to young Lapointe, who had just come on duty, Delteil stood by the desk, resting his buttocks against it and drumming with his well-manicured fingers on a silver cigarette case. Then, when Maigret called Lapointe back as he reached the door to ask him to order some beer and sandwiches, he stretched his face into a deliberately ironic smile.

  It was true that he had had a bad shock, and that since then he had become ever more agitated, to the point that it was tiring to watch him.

  ‘At last!’ he cried when the door shut and Maigret sat down behind his desk.

  And, as the latter was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time:

  ‘I presume you’re going to conclude that this was some sleazy crime or some affair connected with a woman. They must have given you orders from on high to hush up the affair as much as possible. So let me tell you—’

  ‘Please sit down, Monsieur Delteil.’

  He did not sit down at once.

  ‘I hate talking to a man who’s standing up.’

  Maigret sounded tired and his voice was rather gruff. The overhead light was not switched on and the desk lamp gave only a greenish glow. Pierre Delteil eventually sat down on the chair indicated, crossed and uncrossed his legs, and opened his mouth to say something else of a disobliging nature but did not have time to begin.

  ‘Just as a simple formality,’ Maigret interposed, holding his hand out without looking at him directly, ‘would you show me your identity card?’

  He examined it carefully, like the border police, turning it over and over in his fingers.

  ‘Film producer,’ he read out finally, under the heading ‘Occupation’.

  ‘And have you produced many films, Monsieur Delteil?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Perhaps you have produced one?’

  ‘It’s not in production yet, but—’

  ‘So if I understand you correctly, you haven’t produced anything at all yet. But you were dining at Maxim’s when I reached you by phone. And a little earlier you had been at Fouquet’s. You live in a furnished apartment in a rather expensive house in Rue de Ponthieu, and you own a very splendid car.’

  He now looked at the other man from head to toe, as if to appreciate the cut of his suit, the silk shirt and the hand-made shoes.

  ‘Do you have a private income, Monsieur Delteil?’

  ‘I don’t see the point of—’

  ‘—these questions,’ Maigret finished the sentence calmly. ‘No point. What did you do before your brother was elected to the Assembly?’

  ‘I worked for his electoral campaign.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘I see. In short, for the last few years, you have been more or less running things for your brother behind the scenes. In exchange, he was taking care of your financial needs.’

  ‘Are you trying to humiliate me? Are those the instructions you’ve been given? Come clean! Your superiors know perfectly well this was a political crime, and they’ve ordered you to keep it under wraps at all costs. It’s because I understood that when I was upstairs that I waited for you. And let me tell you—’

  ‘You know who the killer was, do you?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but my brother was becoming a nuisance, and someone arranged to have him—’

  ‘You may smoke if you wish.’

  There was a silence at that.

  ‘I suppose that, as far as you are concerned, a political crime is the only possibility?’

  ‘Do you know who killed him?’

  ‘Here, Monsieur Delteil, I’m the one who asks the questions. Did your brother have mistresses?’

  ‘Everyone knew that. He didn’t keep it a secret.’

  ‘Not even from his wife?’

  ‘No great need to keep it a secret, because they were in the process of divorcing. That’s one of the reasons Pat is in the States.’

  ‘Was she the one who asked for the divorce?’

  Pierre Delteil hesitated.

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Probably because it didn’t amuse her any more.’

  ‘You mean your brother didn’t?’

  ‘Do you know what American women are like?’

  ‘I’ve met a few in my time.’

  ‘Rich ones?’

  ‘Among others.’

  ‘Well, in that case, you’ll know that getting married is a kind of game with them. Pat came on a visit to Paris eight years ago. It was her first trip to Europe. She thought it fun to stay, have her own town-house in Paris, and lead the Parisian high life.’

  ‘And to have a husband who had a starring role in that Parisian life. Did she persuade your brother to go in for politics?’

  ‘He’d always intended to.’

  ‘So he simply took advantage of
the means that his wealthy marriage put at his disposal. You’re telling me that fairly recently, his wife decided she’d had enough, and now she has returned to the United States to sue for divorce. What would have happened to your brother, then?’

  ‘He would have continued with his career.’

  ‘What about money? As a rule, American women take the precaution of making pre-nuptial arrangements.’

  ‘André wouldn’t have accepted her money. And I don’t see where these questions —’

  ‘Do you know this young man?’

  Maigret held out the photo of Alain Lagrange. Pierre Delteil looked at it uncomprehendingly and raised his head.

  ‘Is this the killer?’

  ‘I’m asking you if you’ve ever seen him.’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Do you know a man called Lagrange, François Lagrange?’

  Delteil searched his memory as if the name meant something to him and he was trying to place it.

  ‘I think in certain circles,’ Maigret added, ‘he is known as Baron Lagrange.’

  ‘Ah, now I know who you mean. Most of the time he’s just called the Baron.’

  ‘Do you know him well?’

  ‘I meet him from time to time in Fouquet’s, that kind of place. We’ve shaken hands. I may have had the odd drink with him.’

  ‘Have you had any business dealings with him?’

  ‘No, thank God!’

  ‘Your brother knew him?’

  ‘Same way I did, I expect. More or less everyone knows the Baron.’

  ‘So what do you know about him?’

  ‘Practically nothing. He’s an imbecile, a flabby fellow who tries to ingratiate himself with people.’

  ‘What’s his profession?’

  And Delteil, more naively than he would have wished to look, asked:

  ‘He has a profession?’

  ‘I suppose he must have private means.’

  Maigret almost added:

  ‘Not everyone is lucky enough to have a politician as his brother.’

  But he did not, because it was no longer necessary. The younger Delteil was now cooperating fully, without being aware of his change in attitude.

  ‘He dabbles in various businesses. At least, I presume so. He’s not the only one. He’s the kind of man who takes you by the lapels and says he’s about to launch some venture worth hundreds of millions of francs, and then ends up asking you to lend him the money for his dinner, or for the taxi home.’

  ‘He tried to extract money from your brother?’

  ‘He tried to extract money from everyone.’

  ‘You don’t think your brother could have used him for something?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because my brother didn’t suffer fools gladly. I don’t see what you’re getting at. I think you’ve got information you don’t want to tell me. And I still don’t understand how anyone knew there was a trunk, sitting in left luggage at Gare du Nord, with André’s body inside it.’

  ‘We didn’t know.’

  ‘So it was just chance?’

  Delteil started to laugh again.

  ‘Almost by chance. One more question. What reason could there be for a man like your brother to visit a man like the Baron?’

  ‘He visited him?’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem at all likely.’

  ‘At the start of an investigation, a crime never looks likely.’

  And as there was a knock at the door, Maigret called out:

  ‘Come in!’

  It was the waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine with beer and sandwiches.

  ‘Would you like some, Monsieur Delteil?’

  ‘No thank you. I was just having dinner when—’

  ‘I won’t keep you any longer. I have your telephone number. Tomorrow or later, I may need you again.’

  ‘So you’re ruling out the possibility of a political crime?’

  ‘I’m not ruling anything out. As you can see, I’m working on it.’

  He picked up the phone to indicate more clearly that the interview was at an end.

  ‘Hello! Paul? That you?’

  Delteil hesitated, but finally seized his hat and headed for the door.

  ‘Well, anyway, let me tell you that I won’t allow—’

  Waving him away, Maigret said:

  ‘Goodnight, goodnight!’

  The door closed.

  ‘Maigret here. Well? Yes, I thought so . . . And according to you he was killed some time on Tuesday evening, or perhaps during the night . . . Yes, that fits . . . more or less.’

  It had been on Tuesday too, but in the afternoon, that François Lagrange had telephoned the doctor one last time, to check that Maigret would be at dinner next day. At that point, he still wanted to meet the inspector, and more than likely his motive was not mere curiosity. So he had not been anticipating the politician’s visit, but might he perhaps have been expecting it in the coming days!

  On Wednesday morning, his son Alain had turned up at Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, looking so nervous and terrified, according to Madame Maigret, that she had felt sorry for him and taken him under her wing.

  But what had brought the young man there? Did he want advice? Had he been present at the murder? Had he discovered the body, which might not yet have been inside the trunk?

  What was clear was that the sight of Maigret’s automatic had made him change his mind: he had taken the revolver and tiptoed out of the apartment, then hurried to the first gunsmith he could find to get cartridges.

  So he must have had some intention in mind.

  Then that same evening, his father had failed to turn up at the Pardons’. Instead, he had sought out a taxi-driver, and with his help had deposited the corpse at Gare du Nord, after which he had gone to bed and declared himself sick.

  ‘What about the bullet, Paul?’

  As he expected, it had not come from his American automatic, which would indeed have been impossible, since at the time of the crime, the weapon was still in his apartment, but from a small-calibre gun, a 6.35, which might have done no great harm, had it not been that the bullet went in through the left eye and lodged in the brain.

  ‘Nothing else to report? Stomach?’

  This had contained the remains of a copious dinner, and digestion was not very far advanced. According to Doctor Paul, that placed the crime at about eleven in the evening, since Delteil was not a man to dine early.

  ‘Thanks, Paul. No, the matters I’ll be dealing with next won’t concern you.’

  He started to eat the sandwiches, alone in his office, which was still lit only by the greenish glow from the lamp. He felt harassed, ill at ease. The beer tasted warm. He had not thought to order coffee and, wiping his lips, he went to fetch the bottle of cognac he kept in the cupboard and poured himself a glass.

  ‘Hello. Special Infirmary, please.’

  He was surprised to hear Journe’s voice. The professor had turned out in person.

  ‘Have you had time to examine my customer? What do you think of him?’

  A clear reply would have relieved him somewhat, but old Journe was not a man to provide clear answers. He launched into a long speech at the other end of the line, full of technical terms, the upshot of which was that it was 60 per cent likely that Lagrange was play-acting, but unless he slipped up, it might be a few weeks before they would be able to prove this scientifically.

  ‘Is Doctor Pardon still there?’

  ‘He’s about to leave.’

  ‘What’s Lagrange doing now?’

  ‘He’s quite meek and mild. He allowed himself to be put to bed, and started talking to the nurse in a childish voice. He burst into tears and told her people had threatened to hit him, that everyone was against him, and it had been like this all his life.’

  ‘Can I see him tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, whenever you like.’

  ‘I’d just like a
quick word with Pardon.’

  And to the latter:

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘Nothing new to report. I’m not entirely of the same mind as the professor, but he’s more competent than me, and it’s years since I practised psychiatry.’

  ‘But you have your own idea?’

  ‘I’d prefer to wait a few hours before talking about it. The case is too serious to give a snap judgement. Aren’t you going home to bed now?’

  ‘Not yet. I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight.’

  ‘You don’t need me any more?’

  ‘No, my friend. And thank you. Please give my apologies to your wife for keeping you up.’

  ‘She’s used to it.’

  ‘So’s mine, luckily.’

  Maigret got to his feet with the idea of taking a stroll to Rue Popincourt to see how his men were getting on. Because of the burned papers in the fireplace, he doubted they would find any clues, but he wanted to have a poke round the apartment.

  Just as he was picking up his hat, the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello? Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? This is the Faubourg Saint-Denis police station. I was told to ring on the off-chance this might interest you. Officer Lecoeur speaking.’

  He could tell the policeman was excited.

  ‘It’s about the young man whose photo we were sent. I’ve got here this fellow—’

  He corrected himself:

  ‘—this person, who was robbed of his wallet in Rue Maubeuge.’

  The victim of the theft must have been standing nearby listening, so Lecoeur tried to choose his words carefully.

  ‘He’s a businessman up from the provinces, wait a minute . . . from Clermont-Ferrand. He was walking down Rue Maubeuge about half an hour ago when a man jumped out of the dark at him, brandishing a big automatic . . . more precisely a young man . . .’

  Lecoeur spoke again to someone behind him.

  ‘He says a very young man, almost a kid. He said his lips were trembling and he could hardly get the words out to say: “Give me your wallet, please.”’

  Maigret frowned. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a street thief would just say: ‘Wallet!’

  And simply by that difference, you could tell an amateur or a beginner from a professional.

  ‘When this gentleman told me about the young man,’ Lecoeur went on, not without a hint of pride, ‘I thought at once about the photo we were sent yesterday and I showed it to him. He recognized him at once . . . What did you say? . . .’