Maigret and the Headless Corpse Page 7

  ‘She might have decided to put poison in his soup.’

  ‘Does she hate him?’

  ‘All I know is that she’s lived with him for twenty-four years and never tried to run away.’

  ‘Do you think she’s unhappy?’

  ‘You know something, inspector? I try not to think about it at all. When I was a child, my one dream was to leave. And as soon as I could, I did.’

  ‘You were fifteen, I know.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘So he hasn’t killed her.’

  She seemed to think about this, then lifted her head.

  ‘Is it him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Has she poisoned him?’

  ‘It’s not very likely. In fact, it’s by no means certain anything has happened to him at all. Your mother claims he left on Friday afternoon for the Poitiers area, which is where he apparently buys his white wine.’

  ‘That’s right. He was already making those trips when I was around.’

  ‘At the same time, a body that might be his has been fished out of the Canal Saint-Martin.’

  ‘Has it been identified?’

  ‘Not yet. What makes identification particularly difficult is that we haven’t found the head.’

  Perhaps because she worked in a hospital, this didn’t even make her retch.

  ‘What do you think happened to him?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. There seem to be quite a few men in your mother’s life. I’m sorry to talk to you about that.’

  ‘So what else is new?’

  ‘Did your father once, when he was a child or an adolescent, get shot in the stomach with a shotgun?’

  She looked surprised. ‘I never heard about that.’

  ‘Of course, you never saw any scars?’

  ‘Not if they’re on his stomach,’ she said with a slight smile.

  ‘When was the last time you went to Quai de Valmy?’

  ‘Let me see … It must have been about a month ago.’

  ‘Did you go on a visit, the way people usually visit their parents?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Was Calas there?’

  ‘I make sure I go when he isn’t there.’

  ‘In the afternoon?’

  ‘Yes. He usually plays billiards somewhere near Gare de l’Est.’

  ‘There wasn’t a man with your mother?’

  ‘Not that day.’

  ‘Did you have a particular reason to visit her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘I don’t remember. This and that.’

  ‘Did you talk about Calas?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You didn’t by any chance go to see your mother to ask for money?’

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, inspector. Rightly or wrongly, I have my pride. There have been times when I was short of money, I’ve even been hungry, but I’ve never knocked at their door and begged for help. And I certainly wouldn’t do it now that I’m earning a decent living.’

  ‘Can you remember anything that was said during your last conversation with your mother?’

  ‘Nothing in particular.’

  ‘Among the men you sometimes saw there, was there an aggressive young man who rides a delivery tricycle?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Or a middle-aged man with red hair?’

  This time, she stopped to think.

  ‘Does he have a pockmarked face?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If he does, that’s Monsieur Dieudonné.’

  ‘Who’s Monsieur Dieudonné?’

  ‘I don’t really know much more than that. He’s a friend of my mother’s. He’s been a customer there for years.’

  ‘An afternoon customer?’

  She knew what he meant. ‘Well, it was always in the afternoon that I saw him. But it might not be what you think. I really can’t say. He struck me as a quiet man, the kind you can imagine in the evening by the fire in his slippers. Actually, that’s almost always where I saw him, sitting by the stove, opposite my mother. They looked as if they’d known each other for a long time, as if they didn’t need to put themselves out for each other any more. You know what I mean? You could have taken them for an old couple.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where he lives?’

  ‘Once when he stood up to go, I heard him say, in a soft voice I’d recognize, “I have to get back to work,” so I assume he works locally, but I don’t know what he does. He doesn’t dress like a factory worker. I suspect he’s some kind of clerk.’

  They heard a bell in the corridor, and Lucette automatically sprang to her feet.

  ‘That’s for me,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’

  ‘It’s possible I may need to see you again at home.’

  ‘I’m only there in the evenings. Don’t come too late, I go to bed early.’

  He saw her shake her head as she walked along the corridor, like someone who isn’t yet accustomed to a new thought.

  ‘I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. How do I get to the exit?’

  He seemed so lost that the girl sitting at the desk smiled and led him down the corridor to a staircase.

  ‘From here on, it’s plain sailing. When you get downstairs, turn left, then left again.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He didn’t dare ask her what she thought of Lucette Calas. As for what he thought of her himself, he would have found it hard to say.

  He stopped for a moment for a white wine, opposite the Palais de Justice. By the time he got back to headquarters, Lapointe had arrived and was waiting for him.

  ‘So, what about the nuns?’

  ‘They were as nice as could be. I was afraid I’d feel uncomfortable, but they were so kind that—’

  ‘Tell me about the scars.’

  Lapointe wasn’t as delighted with the outcome.

  ‘First of all, the doctor who performed the operation died three years ago, as Madame Calas said. The nun who runs the office found the file. There’s no mention of scars, which is quite normal, but, on the other hand, I did learn that Calas had a stomach ulcer.’

  ‘Did they operate on it?’

  ‘No. Before an operation, they apparently do a complete examination and record the results.’

  ‘Was there any mention of distinguishing marks?’

  ‘Nothing like that. The nun was kind enough to ask the other nuns who might have been present at the operation. None of them remembers Calas very clearly. Just one of them thinks she remembers that before he was put to sleep he asked to be allowed time to say a prayer.’

  ‘Was he a practising Catholic?’

  ‘No. He was afraid. That’s the kind of detail the nuns don’t forget. They didn’t notice any scars.’

  So no progress had been made, and they were still dealing with a headless body it was impossible to identify with any degree of certainty.

  ‘What do we do?’ Lapointe asked in a low voice, seeing how grouchy Maigret was.

  Wasn’t Judge Coméliau right? If the dead man in the Canal Saint-Martin was Omer Calas, then there was a good chance that if they subjected his wife to a tough interrogation they would get some valuable information out of her. A sit-down with Antoine the delivery boy, when they could get their hands on him, would almost certainly pay dividends, too.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘Shall I take the car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To the canal.’

  In the meantime, he would ask the inspectors of the tenth arrondissement to look locally for a red-headed man with a pockmarked face who answered to the name Dieudonné.

  The car weaved its way between the buses and lorries and had just reached Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, not far from Maigret’s apartment, when the inspector grunted:

  ‘Go via Gare de l’
Est.’

  Lapointe looked at him as if he didn’t understand.

  ‘It may not lead to anything, but I prefer to check. We’re told that Calas left on Friday afternoon, taking his suitcase with him. Let’s say he came back on Saturday. If it was him they killed and cut into pieces, they would have had to get rid of that suitcase. I’m convinced it’s not in the house any more, and nor are the clothes he’s supposed to have taken with him on his trip.’

  Lapointe was nodding as he followed Maigret’s argument.

  ‘We haven’t found any suitcase in the canal, or any clothes, even though the corpse was undressed before being dismembered.’

  ‘And we haven’t found the head!’ Lapointe added.

  There was nothing original about Maigret’s hypothesis. It was just a matter of routine. Six times out of ten, when guilty parties want to dispose of compromising objects, they simply deposit them in a station left luggage office.

  Gare de l’Est, as it happened, was not far from Quai de Valmy. Lapointe finally managed to park the car and followed Maigret into the concourse.

  ‘Were you on duty on Friday afternoon?’ he asked the employee at the left luggage office.

  ‘Only until six.’

  ‘Was a lot of luggage deposited?’

  ‘No more than any other day.’

  ‘Among the items deposited on Friday, are there any that haven’t yet been collected?’

  The employee turned towards the racks on which stood suitcases and packages of all kinds.

  ‘Two!’ he replied.

  ‘Both belonging to the same person?’

  ‘No. The numbers aren’t consecutive. And the crate covered in canvas was left by a fat woman who I remember, because I noticed that she smelled of cheese.’

  ‘Is there cheese in it?’

  ‘I have no idea. Actually, no, it doesn’t smell any more. So maybe it really was the woman who smelled.’

  ‘And the second item?’

  ‘It’s a brown suitcase.’

  He pointed to a cheap suitcase that had clearly been much used.

  ‘Does it have a name or address on it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember the person who brought it?’

  ‘I may be wrong, but I’d swear it was a young man from the country.’

  ‘Why from the country?’

  ‘The way he looked.’

  ‘Because he had a ruddy face?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘I think he had a leather jacket and a cap.’

  Maigret and Lapointe looked at each other, both thinking of Antoine Cristin.

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘About five. Yes. Just after five, because the express from Strasbourg had just pulled in.’

  ‘If anyone comes to collect the suitcase, can you telephone the police station on Quai de Jemmapes right away?’

  ‘What if the guy takes fright and runs away?’

  ‘Even if he does, we’ll be here in a few minutes.’

  There was only one way to identify the suitcase, and that was to go and see Madame Calas and show it to her. She watched indifferently as the two men entered the bistro and walked to the counter to serve them.

  ‘We won’t be drinking anything right now,’ Maigret said. ‘We’ve come to see you because we want you to identify an object that’s not far from here. My inspector will go with you.’

  ‘Do I have to shut up shop?’

  ‘There’s no need, you’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll stay here.’

  She didn’t put on a hat, merely swapped her slippers for shoes.

  ‘Are you going to serve the customers?’

  ‘I probably won’t need to.’

  When the car drove off, with Lapointe at the wheel and Madame Calas beside him, Maigret stood for a moment in the doorway, a curious smile on his lips. It was the first time in his career that he had been alone in a bistro as if he were the owner, and the idea amused him so much that he slipped behind the counter.

  5. The Bottle of Ink

  The sunbeams formed patterns in the same places as on the morning of the previous day, including an animal-shaped one on the rounded corner of the tin counter, and another on a chromo depicting a woman in a red dress holding out a glass of foamy beer.

  As Maigret had already felt the day before, this little bistro, like many such places in Paris, had something of the atmosphere of one of those country inns that are empty for most of the week but suddenly fill up on market days.

  He might have been tempted to pour himself a drink, but it was a childish desire that embarrassed him. Hands in his pockets, pipe between his teeth, he walked to the door at the back.

  He hadn’t yet seen what was behind that door, through which Madame Calas often disappeared. As he had expected, he found a kitchen which was somewhat untidy, but less dirty than he had imagined. On a brown-painted wooden sideboard immediately to the left of the door stood an already started bottle of cognac. So it wasn’t wine that Madame Calas drank throughout the day, but brandy. There was no glass beside it, which meant she was probably in the habit of drinking it straight from the bottle.

  A window looked out on the yard, as well as a glass door which wasn’t locked and which he now opened. There were a line of empty casks in a corner, a heap of straw cases that been used to wrap bottles, buckets with holes in them, rusty iron hoops. The illusion of being a long way from Paris was so strong that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pile of manure and some chickens.

  Beyond the yard was a blind alley with windowless walls that probably led to a sidestreet.

  Mechanically, he looked up at the windows on the first floor of the bistro. They clearly hadn’t been washed for a long time, and the curtains hanging at them were faded. He might have been wrong, but he had the feeling that something had moved behind those windows. He was sure he had just seen the cat lying by the stove.

  Unhurriedly, he went back into the kitchen and began climbing the spiral staircase that led upstairs. The steps creaked. Even the vague smell of mildew reminded him of little village inns where he had sometimes spent the night.

  Two doors led off the landing. He opened one and found himself in what must be the Calas couple’s bedroom. It looked out on the quayside. The walnut double bed hadn’t been made that morning and the sheets were quite clean. The furniture was the kind he would have found in any apartment of this kind, old furniture passed down from father to son, heavy and polished smooth by time.

  In the wardrobe, a man’s clothes were hanging. Between the windows was an armchair covered in dark-red rep and beside it an old-fashioned radio. In the middle of the room, finally, was a round table covered in a cloth of an indefinable colour, flanked by two mahogany chairs.

  He wondered what it was that had struck him as soon as he came in and had to look around the room several times before his gaze came to rest again on the tablecloth. A new-looking bottle of ink stood on it, along with a penholder and one of those promotional blotting pads placed at the disposal of customers in bistros.

  He opened it, without expecting to make a discovery, and indeed he didn’t make one, finding in it only three sheets of white paper. At the same time he pricked up his ears, thinking he heard a creaking. It hadn’t come from the toilet, which led directly off the bedroom. Going back to the landing, he opened the second door and discovered another room, as big as the previous one, which served as a store room and was cluttered with furniture in poor condition, old magazines, glassware and all manner of miscellaneous objects.

  ‘Is there anybody here?’ he asked in a loud voice, almost certain he wasn’t alone in the room.

  He stood there for a moment, motionless, then silently reached out his arm to a closet and abruptly opened it.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid this time,’ he said.

  He wasn’t too surprised to recognize Antoine, who sat huddled at the back of the closet like a hunted animal.
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  ‘I thought we’d find you soon enough. Get out of there!’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  The young man was looking in terror at the handcuffs that Maigret had taken from his pocket.

  ‘I don’t know yet what I’m going to do with you, but I have no intention of letting you vanish into thin air again. Hold out your wrists.’

  ‘You have no right. I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Hold out your wrists!’

  He guessed that the boy was hesitating over whether or not to chance his luck and try to get away. Moving forwards, he used his whole bulk to pin him to the wall. After the boy had struggled a little, kicking him in the legs, he managed to close the handcuffs.

  ‘Now follow me!’

  ‘What did my mother say?’

  ‘I have no idea what your mother’s going to say about this, but we have a certain number of questions to ask you.’

  ‘I won’t answer them.’

  ‘Come anyway.’

  He made him go in front. They walked through the kitchen. When Antoine entered the bar, he was struck by the emptiness and the silence.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Madame Calas? Don’t worry. She’ll be back.’

  ‘Have you arrested her?’

  ‘Sit down in that corner and don’t move.’

  ‘I’ll move if I want to!’

  He had seen so many young people that age, in more or less similar situations, that he could have predicted everything Antoine said, the way he reacted to everything.

  Because of Judge Coméliau, Maigret wasn’t sorry to have got his hands on Antoine, but nor was he expecting the boy to clear things up for him.

  Someone opened the street door, a middle-aged man who was surprised to find Maigret standing there in the middle of the bistro, with no sign of Madame Calas.

  ‘Isn’t the lady here?’

  ‘She’ll be back soon.’

  Did the man see the handcuffs? Did he realize that Maigret was a policeman? Was that why he didn’t come any closer? He touched his cap and hurried out, stammering something like:

  ‘I’ll be back.’

  He couldn’t have got to the corner of the street before the black car stopped outside the door and Lapointe got out first, opened the car door for Madame Calas and took a brown suitcase out of the car.

  Madame Calas saw Antoine immediately, frowned and turned anxiously to Maigret.