The Hotel Majestic Page 6

  He came to where the carpet ended. The third class compartments. People were dozing six to a side. Others were eating. Children stared into space.

  In a compartment with two sailors from Toulon who were going “up” to Paris, and an old couple who were nodding off, mouths agape, the woman clutching her basket on her lap, he found Gigi, huddled in a corner.

  He hadn’t noticed, earlier, in the corridor, how she was dressed. He had been so surprised that he had only taken in that it wasn’t the Gigi of the Brasserie des Artistes, with her wandering gaze and slack mouth.

  Wrapped in a cheap fur coat, her legs crossed, revealing down-at-heel shoes and a large ladder in her stocking, she stared straight ahead of her. Had she succeeded, on her own, in dragging herself out of the comatose state in which she had been that afternoon? Had someone given her something to take? Or possibly a new dose of cocaine had revived her?

  Maigret made no move. He watched her for a while, trying to sign to her; she still took no notice. So he opened the door.

  “Would you come out for a minute?”

  She hesitated. The two sailors were staring at her. Make a scene? She shrugged and got up to join him, and he shut the door.

  “Haven’t you had enough?” she hissed at him. “You should be pleased with yourself, shouldn’t you! You should feel proud of yourself! You took advantage of the fact that a poor girl was in the state I was in . . .”

  He saw that she was about to cry, that her garishly painted mouth was trembling, and turned away.

  “And you didn’t lose any time in locking him up, did you!”

  “Tell me, Gigi. How do you know Prosper has been arrested?”

  A weary gesture.

  “Haven’t you heard? I thought the telephone tapping would see to that . . . It doesn’t matter if I tell you, because you’ll soon know . . . Charlotte telephoned Jean . . . Prosper had just got back from work when a taxi full of cops arrived and took him away . . . Charlotte’s in a terrible state . . . She wanted to know if I’d talked . . . And I did talk, didn’t I? I told you enough to . . .”

  A violent jolt of the train made her fall against Maigret, and she recoiled in horror.

  “I’ll be even with you yet! I swear! Even if Prosper did kill that dirty bitch Mimi . . . I’ll tell you something, superintendent . . . On my honour, the honour of a prostitute, a slut who has nothing to lose, I swear to you that if he’s condemned to death, I’ll find you and plug you full of holes . . .”

  She paused for a moment, scornfully. He didn’t say anything. He felt it wasn’t an empty threat, that she was just the type, in fact, to wait for him on some lonely street corner and empty her automatic into him.

  The two sailors were still watching them from the compartment.

  “Goodnight,” he sighed.

  He went back to his compartment, got undressed at last and lay down.

  The dimmed light was shedding a vague blue glow on the ceiling. Maigret lay there with his eyes shut, frowning.

  One question kept worrying him. Why had the examining magistrate ordered Prosper Donge’s arrest? What had the magistrate, who had not left Paris, and who did not know Gigi, or the Brasserie des Artistes, learnt? Why arrest Donge rather than Jean Ramuel or Zebio?

  He felt vaguely apprehensive. He knew the magistrate.

  He hadn’t said anything when he saw him arrive at the Majestic with the public prosecutor, but he had made a face, because he had worked with him in the past.

  He was a man of integrity, certainly, a good, family man even, who collected rare editions of books. He had a fine square-cut, grey beard. Maigret had once had to make a raid on a gambling den with him. It was in the daytime, when the place was empty. Pointing to the large baccarat tables shrouded under dust-covers, the magistrate had asked ingenuously: “Are those billiard tables?”

  Then, with the same naïveté of a man who has never set foot in a low dive, he had been amazed to discover three exits into three different streets, one of them leading via the basement to another building. He was even more astonished to learn from the account books that certain players were given large advances, because he didn’t know that in order to make people play, you have first to get them hooked.

  Why had the magistrate, whose name was Bonneau, suddenly decided to have Donge arrested?

  Maigret slept badly, waking up each time the train stopped, the noise and jolting of the carriages becoming mixed with his nightmares.

  When he got out of his compartment, at the Gare de Lyon, it was still dark and a fine, cold rain was falling. Lucas was there, with his coat collar turned up, stamping his feet to keep himself warm.

  “Not too tired, chief?”

  “Have you got someone with you?”

  “No . . . If you need a police inspector, I saw one of our men in the railway office . . .”

  “Go and get him . . .”

  Gigi got out, shook hands in a friendly way with the two sailors, and shrugged as she went past the superintendent. She had gone a few steps when she suddenly came back.

  “You can have me followed if you want . . . I can tell you in advance that I’m going to see Charlotte . . .”

  Lucas came back.

  “I couldn’t find the inspector . . .”

  “Never mind . . . Come on . . .”

  They took a taxi.

  “Now, let’s hear what’s happened . . . Why has the magistrate . . .”

  “I was going to tell you . . . He summoned me as soon as the second crime had been committed and he had sent some men to arrest Donge . . . He asked me if we had any news, if you’d telephoned and so on . . . Then he handed me a letter, with a nasty smile . . . An anonymous letter . . . I can’t remember the exact words . . . It said that Mrs. Clark, who was once a chorus girl called Mimi, had been Donge’s mistress, that she had a child by him and that he had often threatened her . . . You look as though you’re put out, chief?”

  “Go on . . .”

  “That’s all . . . the magistrate was delighted . . .

  “So you see it’s a straightforward story!” he concluded. “Common blackmail . . . And as Mrs. Clark no doubt didn’t want to pay up . . . I’ll go and interrogate Donge shortly in his cell . . .”

  “He’s there already?”

  But the taxi had pulled up at the Quai des Orfèvres. It was half past five in the morning. A thick yellow mist rose from the Seine. Maigret slammed the car door.

  “He’s at the station? . . . Come with me . . .”

  They had to go round the Palais de Justice to get to the Quai de l’Horloge; they went on foot, without hurrying.

  “Yes . . . The magistrate telephoned me again at about nine in the evening to say that Donge had refused to speak . . . It appears that he said he would only talk to you . . .”

  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “I got two hours, on a sofa . . .”

  “Go and get some rest . . . Be at Headquarters at about midday . . .”

  And Maigret went into the Central Police Station. A police van was coming out. There had been a raid at the Bastille and about thirty women had been brought in, some of them new ones without identity cards, and they were sitting round the vast, badly lit room. There was a barrack-room smell, and the air was thick with raucous voices and obscene jokes.

  “Where is Donge? . . . Is he asleep?”

  “He hasn’t slept a wink . . . You’ll see for yourself . . .”

  The separate boxes were shut by doors with bars, as in a stable. In one of them a man sat, with his head in his hands—a barely discernible figure silhouetted against the darkness.

  The key turned in the lock. The hinges creaked. The tall, drooping man got up, as though coming out of a dream. His tie and shoelaces had been taken away. His red hair was unkempt.

  “It’s you, superintendent . . .” he whispered.

  And he rubbed his eyes with his hand, as if to make sure that it was really Maigret who was there.

  “I gather you wa
nted to speak to me?”

  “I thought it would be best . . .”

  And he asked, with a childish innocence: “The magistrate isn’t cross? . . . What could I have told him? . . . He was sure I was guilty . . . He even showed my hands to his clerk, saying they were strangler’s hands . . .”

  “Come with me . . .”

  Maigret hesitated a moment. What was the point of making him wear handcuffs? They must have put them on to bring him to the station. The marks were still on his wrists.

  One behind the other, they went along strange corridors, which had little resemblance to those in the Majestic basement. Under the vast Palais de Justice to the Judicial Police building, where they suddenly emerged in a brightly lit passage.

  “In here . . . Have you had anything to eat?”

  The other indicated that he hadn’t. Maigret, who was hungry too, and also thirsty, sent the man on duty to fetch beer and sandwiches.

  “Sit down, Donge . . . Gigi is in Paris . . . She must be with Charlotte, by now . . . Cigarette?”

  He didn’t smoke them, but he always kept cigarettes in his drawer. Prosper clumsily lit one, like someone who has suddenly, in the space of a few hours, lost all his self-assurance. He was troubled by his gaping shoes, the absence of a tie, and the smell which, after only one night in the cells, emanated from his clothes.

  Maigret stirred up the fire. All the other offices had central heating, which he loathed, and he had managed to keep the old iron stove which had been there for twenty years.

  “Sit down . . . they’re bringing us something to eat . . .”

  Donge was hesitating as to whether to tell him something, and when he finally decided to speak, stammered in an anguished voice: “Did you see the little boy?”

  “No . . .”

  “I saw him for a moment in the foyer of the hotel . . . I can swear to you, superintendent, he’s . . .”

  “Your son. I know.”

  “You should see him! His hair’s as red as mine. He has my hands, my large bones . . . They used to laugh at me, when I was a child, because of my big bones . . .”

  The beer and sandwiches arrived. Maigret ate standing up, pacing to and fro across his office, while outside, the sky over Paris began to grow lighter.

  “I can’t . . .” Donge finally sighed, timidly putting his sandwich back on the plate. “I’m not hungry . . . Whatever happens, they won’t take me back at the Majestic now, or anywhere else . . .”

  His voice shook. He was waiting for Maigret to help him, but the superintendent let him flounder on.

  “Do you think I killed her, as well?”

  As Maigret didn’t answer, he nodded miserably. He wanted to explain it all now, persuade his interrogator; but he didn’t know where to begin.

  “You see I never had much to do with women . . . In our trade . . . And always working down in the basement . . . Some of them burst out laughing when I showed I was fond of them . . . With a face like mine, you see . . . Then, when I knew Mimi, at the Brasserie des Artistes . . . There were three of them . . . You know about that . . . And it’s odd how it turns out, isn’t it? If I had chosen one of the other two . . . But no! I had to fall in love with her! Crazily in love! Superintendent . . . Madly in love! She could have done anything she liked with me! . . . And I thought she’d agree to marry me one day . . . Well, do you know what the magistrate said to me last night? . . . I can’t remember what he said, exactly . . . It made me feel ill . . . He said that what I had really been interested in was the money she brought in . . . He took me for a . . .”

  Maigret looked out of the window, to spare him further embarrassment, watching the Seine turn palely silver.

  “She left with this American . . . I hoped that he’d desert her when he returned to America and that she’d come back to me . . . Then one day we heard that he’d married her . . . The news made me ill . . . It was Charlotte who out of the goodness of her heart, looked after me . . . I told her I couldn’t live in Cannes any longer . . . Every street brought back memories . . . I looked for a job in Paris . . . Charlotte offered to come with me. And you may find it hard to believe, but for a long time we lived together as brother and sister . . .”

  “Did you know that Mimi had had a child?” Maigret asked, emptying his pipe into the coal bucket.

  “I didn’t know anything, except that she was living somewhere in America . . . It was only when Charlotte thought I was better . . . In time, you see, we had become a real couple . . . One evening, a neighbour burst into our house; he was beside himself . . . His wife was about to have a baby, much earlier than had been expected . . . He was frantic . . . He asked us to help . . . Charlotte went over . . . The next day, she said to me, ‘Poor old Prosper . . . What a state you would have been in, if . . .’

  “And then, I don’t know quite how it happened . . . bit by bit, she told me that Mimi had a child . . . Mimi had written to Gigi to tell her . . . She had explained that she had used the child as an excuse to make him marry her, although it was definitely mine . . .

  “I went to Cannes . . . Gigi showed me the letter, because she’d kept it, but she refused to give it to me and I think she burnt it . . .

  “I wrote to America . . . I begged Mimi to give me my son, or at the very least to send me a photograph of him . . . She didn’t reply . . . I didn’t even know it was the right address . . .

  “And I kept thinking: Now my son will be doing this . . . Now he’s doing that . . .”

  He was silent, choking with emotion, and Maigret pretended to be busy sharpening a pencil, while doors began to bang in the corridors.

  “Did Charlotte know you’d written?”

  “No. I wrote the letter at the hotel . . . Three years passed . . . One day I was looking at some of the foreign magazines guests leave on their tables . . . I got a shock seeing a photograph of Mimi with a little boy of five . . . It was a newspaper from Detroit, Michigan, and the caption said something like: ‘The elegant Mrs. Oswald J. Clark and her son who have just returned from a cruise in the Pacific . . .’

  “I wrote again . . .”

  “What did you say?” Maigret asked, in an even tone.

  “I don’t remember. I was going mad. I begged her to reply. I said . . . I think I said I’d go over there, that I’d tell everyone the truth or that if she refused to give me my son, I’d . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I swear I wouldn’t have done it . . . Yes, I may have threatened to kill her . . . When I think that for a week she was living over my head, with the boy, and that I never suspected . . .

  “I only discovered by chance . . . You saw the guests’ servants’ hall . . . Names don’t exist for us, down in the basement . . . We know that Room no. 117 has chocolate in the morning and that no. 452 has eggs and bacon . . . We know the maid from Room no. 123 and the chauffeur from no. 216 . . .

  “It was silly . . . I went into the guests’ servants’ hall . . . I heard a woman speaking English to a chauffeur and she said the name Mrs. Clark . . .

  “As I don’t speak English, I got the bookkeeper to ask her . . . He asked her if she was talking about a Mrs. Clark from Detroit, and if she had her son with her . . .

  “When I learnt they were there, I tried, for a whole day, to catch sight of them, either in the foyer, or in the corridor on their floor . . . But it’s difficult for us to go where we want . . . I didn’t succeed . . .

  “Don’t get me wrong . . . I don’t know if you’ll understand . . . If Mimi had asked to come and live with me again, I couldn’t have . . . Don’t I love her any more? . . . That may be it . . . I only know that I wouldn’t have the heart to leave Charlotte, who’s been so kind to me.

  “Well, I didn’t want to upset things for her . . . I wanted her to find a way to give me back my son . . . I know Charlotte would be only too happy to bring him up . . .”

  Maigret looked at him at that moment, and was struck by the intensity of Prosper Donge’s emotion. If he hadn’t known he had only
drunk a half litre—and had not even finished that!—he would have thought he was drunk. The blood had rushed to his face. His eyes shone—great, protruding eyes. He wasn’t crying, but he drew great sobbing breaths.

  “Have you got any children, sir?”

  It was Maigret’s turn to turn away, because it was Madame Maigret’s great sorrow that she hadn’t got children. It was something he tried not to talk about, himself.

  “The magistrate talked all the time . . . According to him, I had done this and that, for such and such a reason . . . But it wasn’t like that . . . After spending all my free time for the whole day prowling along the corridors of the hotel, in the vain hope of seeing my son . . . I didn’t know what I was doing any longer . . . And the telephone ringing all the time, and the serving-lifts, and my three helpers, and the coffee-pots and milk-jugs to fill . . . I sat down in a corner . . .”

  “In the still-room, you mean?”

  “Yes. I wrote a letter . . . I wanted to see Mimi . . . I remembered that at six o’clock in the morning I was nearly always alone downstairs . . . I begged her to come . . .”

  “You didn’t threaten her?”

  “Possibly, at the end of the letter . . . Yes, I must have written that if she didn’t come within three days, I would do what was necessary . . .”

  “And what did you mean by ‘what was necessary’?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Would you have killed her?”

  “I couldn’t have done it.”

  “You would have kidnapped the child?”

  He gave a pathetic, almost half-witted smile.

  “Do you think that would be possible?”

  “Would you have told her husband everything?”

  Prosper Donge’s eyes opened wide in horror.

  “No! . . . I swear to you! . . . I think . . . Yes I think that if it had come to the worst, I would have killed her rather than do that, in a moment of anger . . . But that morning, I had a puncture when I got to the Avenue Foch . . . I got to the Majestic nearly quarter of an hour late . . . I didn’t see Mimi . . . I thought that she had come and that, as she couldn’t find me, she had gone back to her suite . . . If I had known her husband had left, I would have gone up by the back stairs . . . But there again, we in the basement know nothing about what’s going on above our heads . . . I was worried . . . That morning, I can’t have seemed myself . . .”