Maigret's Childhood Friend Page 6

  He stepped inside and leaned on the bar.

  ‘What sort of wine is it?’

  ‘Sancerre. It’s where I’m from, and I bring it in from my brother-in-law’s.’

  It was both dry and fruity. The counter was a real zinc counter, and there was sawdust on the red tiles.

  ‘Same again, please.’

  What a strange job he had! He still had three men to see, three of the lovers of Joséphine, who seemed to have been a seller of dreams.

  François Paré would have difficulty finding anyone else to pour his old heart out to. Florentin was reduced to his studio in Montmartre and a mattress on the floor in a windowless room.

  ‘Onwards,’ he sighed, leaving the bistro and heading for the Police Judiciaire.

  Another creature doomed to be disappointed, to be stripped of his illusions.

  When Maigret reached the top of the stairs, and then the long corridor of the Police Judiciaire, he glanced instinctively at the glazed waiting room that the inspectors facetiously called ‘the aquarium’.

  He was quite surprised to see Léon Florentin, sitting on one of the uncomfortable green velvet chairs next to a stranger. This man was quite small and fat and had a round face and blue eyes; under ordinary circumstances he must have enjoyed the good life.

  Right now, however, while Florentin talked to him in a low voice, he clutched a rolled-up handkerchief in his hand and dabbed his eyes every now and again.

  In front of them, Inspector Dieudonné indifferently scanned the racing pages of a newspaper.

  Neither of them spotted him, and, once he was in his office, Maigret rang his bell. Old Joseph half-opened the door almost immediately.

  ‘Is there someone to see me?’

  ‘Two people, inspector.’

  ‘Who came first?’

  ‘That one.’

  He showed him Florentin’s card.

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘He turned up about ten minutes ago and seemed very emotional.’

  It was Fernand Courcel, of Courcel Brothers, ball-bearings, in Rouen. The card also bore the address of the offices on Boulevard Voltaire.

  ‘Who shall I show in first?’

  ‘Bring me Monsieur Courcel.’

  He sat down at his desk and glanced through the open window at the shimmering air outside.

  ‘Please come in. Do take a seat.’

  The man was very small and very fat but appeared to be in good health. He gave off a pleasing vitality, an unfeigned cordiality.

  ‘You don’t know me, inspector …’

  ‘If you hadn’t come this morning, I would have gone to your office, Monsieur Courcel.’

  The man’s blue eyes looked at him with surprise, but without fear.

  ‘So you know?’

  ‘I know that you were a great friend of Mademoiselle Papet, and that you must have had a shock this morning when you listened to the radio and read the paper.’

  Courcel’s lips quivered as if he was about to burst into tears, but he managed to restrain himself.

  ‘Please forgive me … I’m upset … I was more than a friend to her …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘In that case I haven’t got much else to tell you, because I haven’t the slightest idea what could have happened … She was the sweetest, most discreet woman …’

  ‘Do you know the man who was with you in the waiting room?’

  The factory-owner, who seemed so little like a ball-bearings manufacturer, looked at him with surprise.

  ‘You didn’t know she had a brother?’

  ‘Did you first meet him a long time ago?’

  ‘About three years ago. More or less at the time when he came back from Uruguay.’

  ‘Did he live there for a long time?’

  ‘You haven’t questioned him?’

  ‘I’m curious to learn what he told you.’

  ‘He’s an architect and was employed by the Uruguayan government to draw up the plans for a new town.’

  ‘Was he at Joséphine Papet’s?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Did you turn up early, or on the spur of the moment?’

  ‘I confess that I can’t remember.’

  The question shocked him, and he frowned, furrowing his very blond eyebrows. His hair was blond too, almost white, like the hair that some babies have, and his skin was a tender pink.

  ‘I don’t see what you’re trying to get at.’

  ‘Did you see him again?’

  ‘Three or four times …’

  ‘Always at Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette?’

  ‘No … He came to my office to talk to me about a plan for a modern beach resort, with hotels, villas and bungalows, between Le Grau-du-Roi and Palavas.’

  ‘And he wanted to get you involved?’

  ‘Exactly. I admit that his project was a good one, and that it will probably turn into something. Unfortunately, I can’t withdraw any money from our company, which belongs to my brother as much as it does to me.’

  ‘You didn’t give him anything?’

  He blushed. He was startled by Maigret’s attitude.

  ‘I gave him a few thousand francs to print up the plans.’

  ‘Was it printed? Were you given a copy?’

  ‘I told you I wasn’t interested.’

  ‘And did he scrounge off you again after that?’

  ‘Last year, although I don’t like the word. Pioneers always encounter obstacles. His office in Montpellier—’

  ‘He lives in Montpellier?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  They were talking at cross-purposes, and Fernand Courcel was growing impatient.

  ‘Why don’t you call him and ask him these questions?’

  ‘It will be his turn in due course.’

  ‘You seem ill disposed towards him.’

  ‘Not at all, Monsieur Courcel. I will even confess that he’s an old schoolmate.’

  The little man had taken a cigarette from a gold case.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do. How many times did you give him money?’

  He had to think.

  ‘Three times. The last time, he had left his chequebook in Montpellier.’

  ‘What was he talking to you about, a few minutes ago, in the waiting room?’

  ‘Do I have to give you an answer?’

  ‘It would be better.’

  ‘It’s such an awkward subject … Well!’

  He sighed, stretched his little legs and blew out the smoke from his cigarette.

  ‘He doesn’t know anything about what his sister did with her money. And neither did I, because it has nothing to do with me. At the moment he’s short of money, he’s invested everything in his project, and he’s asked me to contribute to the costs of the funeral.’

  Courcel was outraged to see Maigret smiling broadly. It was really too much!

  ‘Forgive me. You will understand. First of all, you should be aware that the one you know by the name of Léon Papet is really called Léon Florentin. He’s the son of a pastry-chef in Moulins, and we went to the Lycée Banville together.’

  ‘He’s not the brother of …’

  ‘No, my dear sir. He’s not her brother, or her cousin, which doesn’t stop him living with her.’

  ‘You mean …’

  He had got to his feet, unable to stay in his chair.

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s impossible, Josée couldn’t possibly have …’

  He paced back and forth, spilling the ash from his cigarette on the carpet.

  ‘Don’t forget, inspector, that I’ve known her for ten years. I lived with her, at first, before I was married. I was the one who found her the apartment on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette and decorated it in accordance with her tastes.’

  ‘She was twenty-five?’

  ‘Yes. I was thirty-two. My father was still alive, and I wasn’t very involved with our company, because my brother Gaston ran the Paris office.’

  ‘Where
and how did you meet her?’

  ‘I was expecting that question, and I know what you’re going to think. I got to know her in Montmartre, in a nightclub that no longer exists, called the Nouvel Adam.’

  ‘Did she perform there?’

  ‘No. She was a “hostess”. That doesn’t mean that she went to bed with every customer who asked her to. I found her alone at a table, melancholy and wearing hardly any make-up, in a simple black dress. She was so shy that I was reluctant to speak to her.’

  ‘Did you spend the evening with her?’

  ‘Of course. She told me about her childhood.’

  ‘Where did she tell you she came from?’

  ‘From La Rochelle. Her father, who was a fisherman, died in a shipwreck and she has four younger brothers and sisters.’

  ‘What about her mother? I’m guessing she’s dead.’

  Courcel gave him a furious look.

  ‘If you want me to go on …’

  ‘I’m sorry. You see, none of that exists.’

  ‘She hasn’t got four brothers and sisters?’

  ‘No. And she didn’t need to work in a cabaret in Montmartre to help to bring them up. Because that’s what she told you, isn’t it?’

  Courcel sat down again, hesitantly, head lowered.

  ‘I find it hard to believe you. I loved her passionately.’

  ‘And yet you got married?’

  ‘I married one of my cousins, it’s true. I felt I was getting older. I wanted to have children.’

  ‘You live in Rouen?’

  ‘For most of the week.’

  ‘But not Thursdays.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘On Thursdays you went for dinner with Josée and then, after going to the cinema or the theatre, you went back to spend the night in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.’

  ‘That’s right. I wanted to split up with her but I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Does your wife know?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘I had to let Gaston in on it, because I’m supposed to be visiting our office in Marseille.’

  The little man added with a certain candour:

  ‘He treats me like an idiot.’

  Maigret managed not to smile.

  ‘When I think that even just now I was ready to weep in front of that man who …’

  ‘Florentin isn’t the only one.’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘If she had died in some other way I would have left you in your ignorance, Monsieur Courcel. But she was murdered. My task is to find the person who killed her, and that can only happen in a climate of truth.’

  ‘Do you know who fired the gun?’

  ‘Not yet. There were four of you, apart from Florentin, who regularly paid her visits.’

  He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

  ‘At one point I was tempted to marry her. If it weren’t for Gaston, it’s likely that …’

  ‘Wednesday was the day of a senior civil servant who didn’t spend the night in the apartment.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Did he confess?’

  ‘He didn’t hide his secrets from me, or their nature.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Fifty-five. Have you ever met a man with a limp, either in the lift or in the apartment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because there was a man with a limp as well, a middle-aged man whom I will soon track down if my inspectors haven’t done so already.’

  ‘And then?’ sighed the man, in a hurry to get it all over with.

  ‘And then a redhead, younger than the rest of you. He’s only about thirty, and works for an insurance company.’

  ‘I don’t imagine you knew her when she was alive?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘If you had known her, you would understand my dismay. You would have sworn that she was frankness personified. A frankness so intense that it spilled over into naivety.’

  ‘Did you give her something to live on?’

  ‘I had to press her to accept it. She wanted to work in a shop, a lingerie boutique, for example. And yet she didn’t have a robust constitution. She sometimes had dizzy spells. She always thought I was giving her too much money.’

  An idea came to him at last, one that he hadn’t imagined until then.

  ‘And the others? Did they also …?’

  ‘I fear so, Monsieur Courcel. Each of you kept her, except perhaps the redhead, as I shall shortly find out. It’s true, in any case, of the civil servant I met this morning …’

  ‘So what did she do with the money? Her tastes were so simple.’

  ‘She began by buying herself a house on Rue du Mont-Cenis. And when she died they found forty-eight thousand francs in her apartment. Now, try to overcome your distress and think. I won’t ask you where you were yesterday between three and four in the afternoon.’

  ‘I was in my car, on the way back from Rouen, and I must have been passing through the Saint-Cloud tunnel at about a quarter past three.’

  He stopped short and looked at Maigret with amazement.

  ‘Does that mean that you suspect me?’

  ‘I don’t suspect anyone, and my question is purely a matter of routine … At what time did you get to your office?’

  ‘I didn’t go there straight away. I stopped for a while in a bar on Rue de Ponthieu where I usually bet on the horses. In fact, I got to Boulevard Voltaire at about five fifteen. On paper I’m my brother’s business partner. I go to the factory twice a week. I have an office and a secretary on Boulevard Voltaire, but the firm would get along just as well without me.’

  ‘Isn’t your brother angry with you?’

  ‘On the contrary. The less I do, the more satisfied he is, because that way he feels that he’s the only boss.’

  ‘What make is your car, Monsieur Courcel?’

  ‘Jaguar. A convertible. I’ve always had convertibles. Pale-blue bodywork. You want the registration?’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘When I think that not only Josée but her so-called brother … What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Florentin. His father made the best cakes in Moulins.’

  Courcel clenched his little fists.

  ‘Calm down. Unless there are any unexpected developments, your name will not be published, and all of this will remain confidential. Is your wife jealous?’

  ‘Probably, but not in a particularly fierce way. She suspects me of having affairs from time to time, in Marseille or Paris.’

  ‘And do you, apart from Josée?’

  ‘It happens. I’m curious, like all men.’

  He looked for his hat, which he had left in the waiting room. Maigret went with him, worried that he would pick a fight with Florentin.

  Florentin looked at both of them lugubriously as if to discover whether Courcel had taken the bait.

  When the factory-owner had disappeared, Inspector Dieudonné, who had got up when Maigret came in, asked:

  ‘Shall I give you my report?’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No. After having breakfast at the bistro on the corner he went home and didn’t take the Métro to come here until nine thirty. He asked to see you. The other person arrived, and they shook hands. I didn’t hear what they said to each other.’

  ‘That’s enough for today.’

  Maigret gestured to Florentin.

  ‘Come here.’

  He brought him into his office and, once the door was closed, he looked at him for a long time. Florentin kept his head low, and his big bony body seemed softer, as if it were about to cave in.

  ‘You’re even more of a crook than I thought.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘I didn’t know I was going to meet him.’

  ‘What did you come to do here?’

&nb
sp; He raised his head and gave Maigret a pitiful look.

  ‘How much money do you think I’ve got left in my wallet?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘On the contrary, it does matter. I’ve got exactly one fifty-centime coin left. And there isn’t a shop, a bistro or a restaurant in the district that would give me credit.’

  It was Maigret’s turn to be bewildered, almost as much as the chubby man had been a little earlier.

  ‘Did you come to ask me for money?’

  ‘Who else would you expect me to ask, in my position? I suppose you told that idiotic stuffed shirt Paré that I’m not Josée’s brother.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘It must have been quite a shock, being disillusioned like that.’

  ‘In any case, he has a serious alibi … He was in his office yesterday, between three and four.’

  ‘When I saw that suckling pig coming into the waiting room, I told myself I still had a hope.’

  ‘The price of the funeral! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’

  Florentin shrugged.

  ‘Well, you know, it’s out of shame that … Bear in mind that I suspected he would talk to you. Since I got here first, I still hoped that you would see me before him.’

  He fell silent, while Maigret went and stood by the window. The air from outside had seldom seemed so pure.

  ‘What are they going to do with the forty-eight thousand francs?’

  The inspector gave a start. Wasn’t it incredible that Florentin should have thought of that money at just that moment?

  ‘Don’t you realize that I have no means of earning a living? The antiques bring in the odd banknote from time to time. I’ll be straight with you. It was a façade.’

  ‘I’d worked that out.’

  ‘So while I’m waiting to sort myself out …’

  ‘What do you think you’ll do?’

  ‘If need be, I’ll unload vegetables at les Halles.’

  ‘I should warn you that you’re forbidden to leave Paris.’

  ‘I’m still a suspect?’

  ‘Until the murderer is behind bars. Do you really know nothing about the man with a limp?’

  ‘Josée only knew him by his first name, Victor. He never talked to her about his wife, or his children. She didn’t know what he did for a living, but he gave the impression of being well off. His clothes were well cut, his shirts made to measure. One detail comes back to me. Once, taking out his wallet, he dropped a season ticket for the Paris–Bordeaux line.’