Maigret's Revolver Page 7

  It was the Clermont-Ferrand businessman, who was saying forcefully:

  ‘I’m absolutely sure of that!’

  ‘What did he do next?’ Maigret asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The attacker.’

  Two voices came across again, sounding like a poorly tuned radio, two voices saying the same thing:

  ‘He ran away.’

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘Towards Boulevard de la Chapelle.’

  ‘How much money was there in the wallet?’

  ‘About thirty thousand francs. What should I do? Do you want to see him?’

  ‘The victim? No. Take his statement. Just a moment! Put him on the line.’

  The man started talking at once:

  ‘My name is Grimal, Gaston Grimal, but look, I’d rather it—’

  ‘No, of course not. I just wanted to ask you whether anything particular struck you about the attitude of the person who attacked you. Take your time to think.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking for half an hour. All my papers—’

  ‘You’ll almost certainly get them back, in my opinion. So, this attacker . . . ?’

  ‘He seemed like a young man of good background, not a ruffian.’

  ‘Were you near a streetlamp?’

  ‘Not far. About the same as from where I’m standing to the other office. He seemed as terrified as me, in fact. I almost—’

  ‘Tried to resist?’

  ‘Yes. Then I thought an accident could easily happen—’

  ‘Nothing else? What sort of suit was he wearing?’

  ‘Dark: navy blue, I think.’

  ‘Shabby?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Grimal. I’d be very surprised if one of our patrols doesn’t find your wallet on the pavement by the morning. Without the cash, of course.’

  This was a detail Maigret had overlooked, and he kicked himself. Alain Lagrange had got hold of a revolver, but he must have had very little money in his pocket, judging by the general circumstances in the Rue Popincourt apartment.

  He left his office abruptly, to go to the radio room, where there were just two men on duty.

  ‘Put out a general call to stations and cars.’

  Less than half an hour later, all the police stations in Paris received the message: ‘Report to Detective Chief Inspector Maigret any armed robbery, or attempts at such in the last twenty-four hours. Urgent.’

  He repeated the message and gave a description of Alain Lagrange:

  ‘Probably still somewhere in the district around Gare du Nord and Boulevard de la Chapelle.’

  He did not go straight back to his office, but went to the hotel surveillance department.

  ‘See if you haven’t got an Alain Lagrange registered somewhere. Probably in a cheap hotel.’

  That might be the case. Alain had not given his name to Madame Maigret, so there was a good chance he had checked in to sleep somewhere the previous night. Since no one knew his identity, he might well have written his real name on the card the authorities would collect from his hotel.

  ‘Do you want to wait, sir?’

  ‘No, let me know if anything turns up. I’ll be upstairs.’

  The crime-scene squad had returned from Rue Popincourt with their equipment, but his inspectors had stayed there. At half past midnight, Maigret received a phone call from the prefect of police.

  ‘Any new developments?’

  ‘No positive leads so far, sir.’

  ‘What about the newspapers?’

  ‘They’ll only publish the press release. But once the first edition’s on the streets, I expect the reporters will be round here in force.’

  ‘So what do you think, Maigret?’

  ‘Nothing for now. The Delteil brother badly wanted it to be classified as a political crime. I’ve tried gently to dissuade him.’

  The chief of the Police Judiciaire also phoned, as did examining magistrate Rateau. Everyone was getting a bad night’s sleep. As for Maigret, he did not intend to go to bed at all.

  It was a quarter past one when he received a more surprising call. Not from the Gare du Nord neighbourhood, or even from the city centre, but from the police station in the western suburb of Neuilly.

  Someone out there had told an officer coming in off patrol about Maigret’s message, and the officer had scratched his head and said:

  ‘Perhaps I’d better call this one in.’

  He had told his story to the duty officer at the Police Judiciaire, who had advised him to speak directly to Maigret. He was a young policeman, and had only been in uniform for a few months.

  ‘I don’t know if this will really interest you,’ he began, speaking too close to the receiver, so that his voice boomed. ‘It was this morning, or perhaps I mean yesterday morning, since it’s gone midnight now. I was on patrol on Boulevard Richard-Wallace, at the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, almost opposite the Bagatelle Gardens – tonight’s my first evening on night duty, you see. There’s a row of buildings, all looking the same. It was about ten a.m. I’d stopped to look at a big foreign car parked there, with unfamiliar number plates. And a young man came out of the house behind me, number 7a. I didn’t really pay much attention, because he was walking quite normally towards the end of the street. Then I saw the concierge come out of the building too, and she had this odd expression on her face.

  ‘Well, I happen to know her slightly; we’ve exchanged a few words now and then, if I’ve been delivering a summons to someone in the building. So she recognized me.

  ‘I said: “You’re looking worried.”

  ‘What she said back was: “I just wonder what he was doing in this house.”

  ‘She was looking at the young man, who was just turning the corner.

  ‘“He came past my lodge without asking for anyone,” she said. “He headed for the lift, first of all, then he hesitated, then he took the stairs. And as I’d never seen him before, I ran after him.”

  “‘Who did you want?’ I asked him.”

  ‘“He’d already gone up a few steps. He turned round, looking surprised and almost frightened, and he took a good moment before answering. And then all he could find to say was: ‘I must have got the wrong house!’”’

  And the policeman went on:

  ‘The concierge claims he looked at her so strangely that she didn’t dare argue. But when he came out, she followed him on to the street. I was intrigued by her story, so I went along to the corner of Rue de Longchamp myself, but there was no one in sight there any longer. The young man must have run off. And I’ve only just been shown the photo now, this evening. Although I’m not sure, I could almost swear it was him. But perhaps I was wrong to call you? The officer told me—’

  ‘No, you did the right thing.’

  And the young officer, who had his wits about him, added:

  ‘My name is Lebraz, Émile Lebraz.’

  Maigret called Lapointe.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘No, chief.’

  ‘Can you stay in my office and take all the calls? I hope to be back in three quarters of an hour. Anything urgent, ring me at number 7a, Boulevard Richard-Wallace. I’ll be with the concierge, she’ll have a telephone. In fact, it would save time if you were to phone her now, tell her I need to talk to her. That way, she’ll have a bit of notice so she can get up and put on her dressing gown before I get there.’

  His drive through the deserted streets did not take long, and when he rang the bell, he found the lights on in the lodge, and the concierge not in her dressing gown but fully dressed, waiting for him. The building was an elegant one and the lodge was furnished like a parlour. In the neighbouring room, through the open door, a sleeping child could be seen.

  ‘Monsieur Maigret!’ whispered the woman, visibly excited to be visited by him in person.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have woken you up. I just wanted you to examine these photographs and tell me whether the young man you startled yest
erday morning on the stairs looks like any of them.’

  He had taken the precaution of bringing a set of photos of young men of about the same age. The concierge did not hesitate, any more than the businessman from Clermont had, earlier on.

  ‘That’s him!’ she exclaimed, pointing to Alain Lagrange.

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘And when you caught up with him, he didn’t threaten you in any way?’

  ‘No. It’s odd you should ask me that, because I thought he might. Just an impression, you understand. I wouldn’t want to say something when I’m not sure. When he turned round, he didn’t move, but I got this funny feeling in my chest. What I mean is, it seemed as if he was considering going for me—’

  ‘How many tenants live here?’

  ‘There are two apartments on each landing. Seven floors, so fourteen apartments. But two of them are empty at the moment. One family left for Brazil three weeks ago – well, they’re Brazilian, he works at the embassy; and the gentleman on the fifth floor died twelve days ago.’

  ‘Can you give me a list?’

  ‘Yes, that’s easy, I’ve got one here.’

  Some water was coming to the boil on a gas cooker and, after handing the inspector a sheet of typed paper, the concierge set about making coffee.

  ‘I thought you might like a cup. At this time of night . . . My late husband, who passed away last year, wasn’t exactly in the police, he was in the republican guard.’

  ‘I see two names for the ground floor, Delval and Trélo.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Ah yes, the Delvals. They’re import-export people. They have offices over at Place des Victoires. But Monsieur Trélo lives alone. You don’t know him? He’s in films, he’s a comic actor.’

  ‘Anyway, it can’t have been them the young man was after, if he was going first for the lift, then up the stairs.’

  ‘First floor left, that’s Monsieur Desquiens, there on the list, but he’s away just now. He’s on holiday with his children, who live in the south.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s rich. A widower, a nice, quiet, polite man.’

  ‘And on the right? Rosetti.’

  ‘Italians. She’s very beautiful. They have three maids, plus a nanny for the baby who’s just over a year old.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘Monsieur Rosetti’s in the motor trade. It was his car the policeman was staring at when I came out after the young man.’

  ‘And on the second floor? I’m sorry to keep you standing all this time.’

  ‘Not at all. Two sugars? Milk?’

  ‘No milk. Thank you. Mettetal, who’s that?’

  ‘They’re rich too, but they can’t keep any of their domestic help because Madame Mettetal, who’s in poor health, finds fault with everyone.’

  Maigret scribbled notes in the margin of the list.

  ‘And on the same floor, I see Beauman.’

  ‘Diamond brokers. They’re travelling. It’s the season. I’m forwarding their mail to Switzerland.’

  ‘Then third floor right, Jeanne Debul. A single woman?’

  ‘A single woman, yes.’ The concierge had pronounced these words in the tone women generally use to refer to another woman of whom they disapprove.

  ‘What kind of woman?’

  ‘Hard to call her any kind, exactly. She went off to England around midday. I was a bit surprised she hadn’t mentioned it before.’

  ‘Who would she have told?’

  ‘Her maid, a good girl who tells me everything.’

  ‘And the maid’s there now?’

  ‘Yes, she was down here in the lodge some of the evening. She didn’t want to go back up, because she’s scared of sleeping on her own in the apartment.’

  ‘And you said she was surprised?’

  ‘The maid, yes. The night before that, Madame Debul came back in the small hours, as she often does. Note, I say Madame, but I don’t believe she’s ever been married.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Do you want to know her real age or the one she claims to be?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘I know what the real one is, because I saw her papers when she took the apartment.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘About two years ago. Before that, she lived in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. Well, she’s forty-nine and she pretends she’s forty. In the morning, she looks her age. But at night, well . . .’

  ‘Does she have a lover?’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’s not what you’re thinking. She wouldn’t be allowed to stay here if so. The agent’s very strict about things like that. I don’t know quite how to put it.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘She’s not from the same kind of background as the other tenants. On the other hand, she’s not disreputable either, if you follow me. She’s not a kept woman, for instance. She has money of her own. She gets letters from the bank and her stockbroker. She might be a widow or a divorcee who’s living it up a bit.’

  ‘She has visitors?’

  ‘Not gigolos, if that’s what you’ve got in mind. Her financial adviser comes sometimes. And women friends. And sometimes couples. But she’s more the kind of woman who goes out, not one who has people round. Mornings, she stays in bed until midday. Afternoons, she might go into town, always very well dressed, quite tastefully, I must say . . . Then she comes home, gets dolled up in her evening gown, and I pull the latch for her when she gets back, oh, well after midnight. It’s an odd thing too, what Georgette says – that’s her maid. She spends a lot of money. Her furs alone must cost a fortune, and she’s always wearing a diamond ring, this big. But at the same time, Georgette says, she’s close with her cash, and spends a lot of time going over her household accounts.’

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘About eleven thirty. That’s what surprised Georgette. Because at that time of day, Madame would normally be in bed. She was asleep when she got a phone call. And right away, she asked for the railway timetable.’

  ‘And that was quite soon after the young man had tried to enter the building?’

  ‘A little later, yes. She didn’t wait for breakfast, she just started packing.’

  ‘A lot of luggage?’

  ‘No, just some suitcases. No trunk. She’s travelled around a lot.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because of the labels on her cases, big hotels in Deauville, Nice, Naples, Rome, foreign places.’

  ‘And she didn’t say when she’d be back?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me. Georgette doesn’t know either.’

  ‘She didn’t ask to have her mail forwarded?’

  ‘No, she just telephoned Gare du Nord to book a seat on the express to Calais.’

  Maigret was struck by the way the words ‘Gare du Nord’ kept turning up in this investigation. It was in Gare du Nord’s left luggage that François Lagrange had deposited the trunk containing the politician’s body. And it was in that neighbourhood that his son had robbed the businessman from Clermont-Ferrand.

  And the same Alain had tried to sneak up the stairs of a building on Boulevard Richard-Wallace, shortly after which one of the tenants had left for Gare du Nord. Was it merely coincidence?

  ‘You know, if you want to ask Georgette any questions, she’ll be only too pleased. She’s so afraid of being alone at night that she’d love to have some company . . .’

  And the concierge added:

  ‘. . . especially your company!’

  But Maigret’s priority was to finish going through the list of tenants and he patiently pointed to them, one after the other. On the fourth floor, there was a film producer, a genuine one this time, whose name could be seen on posters all over Paris. Above him, lived a director who was also well known and, as if by chance, a screenwriter lived on the seventh floor and did his fitness exercises on the balcony every morning.

  ‘
Should I go and tell Georgette?’

  ‘I need to make a phone call first.’

  He called Gare du Nord.

  ‘Maigret here, from the Police Judiciaire. Tell me, is there a train that leaves for Calais around midnight?’

  It was at about eleven thirty that the businessman had been threatened in Rue Maubeuge.

  ‘The 00.13, yes.’

  ‘The express?’

  ‘It connects with the Dover ferry at 5.30 a.m. It’s non-stop to Calais.’

  ‘Do you remember whether a ticket for that train was sold to a young man travelling alone?’

  ‘The clerks who were at the ticket office then have all gone home to bed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He called the harbour police at Calais and gave them Alain Lagrange’s description.

  ‘He’s armed,’ he added, just in case.

  Then, after finishing his cup of coffee, he announced, without too much hope:

  ‘I’ll go up and see Georgette, then.’

  To which the concierge replied with a knowing smile:

  ‘Watch out! She’s a pretty girl!’

  And she added:

  ‘Who likes good-looking gentlemen!’

  5.

  In which the little housemaid is pleased with herself, but Maigret, by six in the morning, is less so

  She was rosy-complexioned, with full breasts, and was wearing candy-pink crepe pyjamas which had been washed so often that her outlines could be seen through the transparent fabric. Her body, with bouncing curves in every direction, had an unfinished look: too fresh-faced for Paris, she made you think of a duckling that had not yet lost its fluffy down. When she opened the door, he caught a whiff of bed and armpits.

  He had let the concierge telephone ahead to wake her and let her know that he was on his way up. It must have been difficult to get through at once, since when he had arrived on the third floor the telephone was still ringing inside the apartment.

  He had waited. The phone was too far from the landing for him to hear the maid’s voice. Then came footsteps on the carpeted floor and she opened the door, showing no embarrassment, and without having troubled to put on a dressing gown. Perhaps she didn’t own one? When she got up in the morning, it was to start work, and when she undressed at night, it was to go to sleep. Her blonde hair was tousled and there were traces of lipstick on her lips.