Maigret and the Saturday Caller Read online

  ‘Well, Roger was within earshot.’

  ‘So what happened the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘Already, through the door, I’d heard him talking to himself and he seemed to be laughing. When I went in, he just looked me up and down and laughed again.’

  ‘Was he very drunk?’

  ‘He wasn’t drunk in the usual way. He didn’t threaten me. He didn’t start acting up, and he wasn’t crying. Do you see what I mean? He seemed pleased with himself, and you’d have thought he was going to play a good trick on us.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything?’

  ‘Well, first he said:

  ‘ “Now then, old lady!” and he showed me the two cases.’

  Just as she did not take her eyes off Maigret, he too was attentive to the slightest quiver of her face. She must have realized that, but it did not appear to trouble her.

  ‘And that was all?’

  ‘No. He muttered something along the lines of:

  ‘ “Go on, search them if you want, to see I’m not taking anything of yours.”

  ‘He was stumbling over the words, and talking to himself more than to me.’

  ‘And you say he looked pleased with himself?’

  ‘Yes, like I said. It was as if he was going to play some kind of trick on us. I asked him:

  ‘ “Where are you going?”

  ‘And he waved his arm around and almost fell over.

  ‘ “Have you got a taxi waiting?”

  ‘He just looked at me and laughed again, without answering me. He’d picked up his cases, and I pulled his coat-sleeve.

  ‘I said:

  ‘ “That’s all very well, but I’ll need your address to get started on the divorce.” ’

  ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘I remember exactly what he said, because I repeated it afterwards to Roger:

  ‘ “Oh, you’ll have it, my beauty. And sooner than you think!” ’

  ‘He didn’t mention his daughter?’

  ‘No, he didn’t say anything else.’

  ‘He didn’t go up to kiss her goodbye?’

  ‘We’d have heard him if he had, because Isabelle’s room is directly over our heads and the floorboards creak.’

  ‘So he went off with his two cases. Did they look heavy?’

  ‘I didn’t pick them up. A bit heavy perhaps, but not very, because he would only have taken his clothes, his underwear, his shaving things, and so on.’

  ‘And did you go to the door with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it would have seemed like I was seeing him out.’

  ‘You didn’t watch him cross the courtyard?’

  ‘The shutters were closed. All I did was wait a bit and then bolt the front door.’

  ‘You weren’t afraid he’d take the van?’

  ‘I’d have heard the engine if he had.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear any vehicle? There wasn’t a taxi outside on the street?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I was only too glad to see him leave the house at last. I ran back into the bedroom, and if you want to know, I rushed into Roger’s arms. He’d got up and heard everything through the door.’

  ‘And all this was Monday evening?’

  ‘Monday, that’s right.’

  It was only on the Tuesday that Maigret had asked his colleagues in the eighteenth to keep a discreet eye on the house. If Renée Planchon was to be believed, it was already too late by then.

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he could be?’

  Maigret could still hear Planchon’s last words to him over the phone that same Monday at about six o’clock, when he had been in a café on Place des Abbesses.

  ‘Well, thank you, anyway.’

  It had seemed to him at the time that there was something in the man’s voice, a certain bitterness or even irony. He had felt so sure of it that he would have called him back if that had been possible.

  ‘Your husband hasn’t got any relatives in Paris?’

  ‘No, or anywhere else either. I know that for a fact, because his mother was from the same village as me, Saint-Sauveur in the Vendée.’

  She couldn’t have known that Planchon had been to see Maigret and taken him into his confidence. Everything she said corresponded to what he already knew.

  ‘Do you think he might have gone back there?’

  ‘What for? He hardly knew it, he’d just been there a few times with his mother when he was a child, and if there was any family left, it’d be some vague cousins that have never been in touch.’

  ‘And you don’t know of any friends he might have?’

  ‘When he was a more normal man, he was shy and timid, so I still wonder how he ever found the courage to speak to me.’

  Maigret tried a little test:

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘Just down the street, in the Bal des Copains. It was the first time I’d set foot there. I’d just arrived in Paris and I worked nearby. I should have been more suspicious.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Of a man with an infirmity.’

  ‘What would that have to do with his character?’

  ‘I don’t know. But yes, I do have this feeling that people like that think about it all the time; they feel different from other people. They get it in their heads everyone’s staring at them, and making fun of them. So it makes them more touchy, they’re jealous, bitter …’

  ‘Was he already bitter when you married him?’

  ‘I don’t remember. But he didn’t want to see people, we hardly ever went out. We lived in here like prisoners. He liked it that way. He was quite happy.’

  She paused and looked at him as if to say that the questions had been going on long enough.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, for now. But I’d like you to let me know if you have any news of him. I’ll leave you my telephone number.’

  She took the card he gave her and put it on the table.

  ‘My daughter’ll be home in a few minutes.’

  ‘She wasn’t surprised that her father has gone away?’

  ‘I told her he’s gone on a trip.’

  She accompanied him to the door and it seemed to Maigret that now she was more worried, that she was the one who wanted to keep him longer, to ask him questions. But about what?

  ‘Goodbye, inspector.’

  He didn’t feel at ease either as, hands in pockets and collar turned up, he walked down the street, meeting on the way a little girl with long blonde plaits. He turned round and watched as she went into the courtyard. He would have liked to be able to put questions to Isabelle too.

  5.

  Planchon’s wife had not invited him to take off his coat, so Maigret had been wearing it for more than an hour in the overheated house. Now, in the fine rain made up of invisible icy crystals, the cool air struck into him. Since his Sunday afternoon walk in the same neighbourhood, he had felt he was getting a cold in the head, which was what gave him the idea of turning left into Place des Abbesses, instead of going down Rue Lepic to find a taxi on Place Blanche. It was from there that Planchon had telephoned him on Monday evening, which had been their last contact.

  Much more than the Place du Tertre, now a tourist trap, this other square, Place des Abbesses, with its Métro station, its own playhouse – the Atelier, looking like a toy theatre or a stage set – its shops and its bistros, was to Maigret’s eyes the real Montmartre, the people’s Montmartre, and he remembered that when he had first come across it, on a chilly but sunlit spring morning shortly after arriving in Paris, he had thought he had walked into a Utrillo painting.

  The square was thronged with ordinary folk, local residents, coming and going as they might in a small town on market day, and it was possible to detect a sort of kinship among them, as in a village.

  He knew from experience that some of the older inhabitants would hardly ever have set foot outside the eighteenth arrondissement, and t
here were still some small shops that had been handed down from father to son for several generations.

  He peered through the windows of two or three cafés before he noticed on the counter of a tobacconist’s a small cash register that looked new.

  This was the one he chose to enter, remembering the background noises overheard during his conversation with Planchon.

  He was greeted by a welcome warmth, and a familiar smell of cooking and wine. The tables, seven or eight at most, were covered with paper cloths, and a slate announced that the lunchtime special was andouillette with mashed potatoes.

  Two builders in overalls were already eating at the back of the room. The owner, a woman in black, was seated at the till, in front of a display of cigarettes, cigars and national lottery tickets.

  A waiter, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and wearing a blue apron, was serving wines and aperitifs at the counter.

  About ten people were standing there to drink, and all eyes turned towards him. It was quite some time before the conversation started up again.

  ‘A grog!’ he ordered.

  Hadn’t Madame Maigret confirmed that very morning that his voice sounded unusual? It was probably hoarse.

  ‘With lemon?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  At the back of the room on the left, near the kitchen, he could see a telephone cabin with a glass door.

  ‘Tell me, does a customer come in here who has a hare-lip?’

  He knew that his neighbours were listening, even the ones with their backs to him. He was almost sure they had all guessed he was from the police.

  ‘A hare-lip …’ the waiter with rolled-up shirt-sleeves repeated, as he put the grog down in front of him on the counter, then began pouring wine from one bottle to another.

  He was reluctant to answer, perhaps out of some sort of solidarity.

  ‘A little fellow, fair to reddish hair,’ Maigret insisted.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  One of the drinkers, who looked like a travelling salesman, broke in.

  ‘Oh, come on, Léon! If you think Detective Chief Inspector Maigret is going to tell you that …’

  There was a burst of laughter. Not only had people guessed he was from the police, they knew who he was.

  ‘He’s gone missing,’ Maigret murmured.

  ‘Who, Popeye?’

  And Léon explained:

  ‘We call him Popeye, because we don’t know his name, and he looks like Popeye in the cartoon.’

  Putting his hand to his mouth so as to press it into two halves, he said:

  ‘The gap looks just right for a pipe.’

  ‘And he’s a regular?’

  ‘Not really, because we don’t know who he is, though he must live round here. But he’s often been in, practically every evening.’

  ‘Did he come here this Monday?’

  ‘Wait a minute, let’s see, it’s Thursday … Tuesday, I was away to a funeral, Nana’s, that’s the old woman who sold newspapers here … Monday … Yes. He was in here Monday …’

  ‘He asked me for a token for the telephone,’ the woman at the till broke in.

  ‘At about six p.m.?’

  ‘A bit before dinner time.’

  ‘And he didn’t speak to anyone else?’

  ‘He never spoke to anyone. He’d just stand at the end of the counter, about where you are now, and order his first cognac. And he’d stay there, with his own thoughts. They can’t have been too happy. He looked pretty down in the mouth.’

  ‘Were there a lot of people in on Monday evening?’

  ‘Not as many as now. We don’t do food in the evening. Some customers were playing belote at the left-hand table.’

  That was the one where the two builders were eating their grilled andouillette, piquing Maigret’s appetite. Some dishes always taste better in a restaurant, especially a little café like this, than they do at home.

  ‘How many cognacs did he drink?’

  ‘Three or four, I’m not sure. Do you know, Mathilde?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘That was about what he usually had. He’d sometimes stay for a bit, sometimes not. He might come back again about nine or ten, and if he did that, he’d be looking pretty rough … I suppose he’d done the rounds of the bars in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘And he never joined in conversations?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Anyone here talk to him?’

  The travelling salesman spoke up again:

  ‘I did try once, and he just looked at me as if I wasn’t there. It’s true he’d already sunk a few.’

  ‘Did he ever get rowdy?’

  ‘No, that wasn’t his style. The more he drank, the quieter he seemed to get. I could swear I’ve seen him crying all alone at the end of the counter.’

  Maigret ordered a second grog.

  ‘So who is he?’ the waiter asked him.

  ‘He’s a painter and decorator from Rue Tholozé.’

  ‘I told you he must be from round here. Do you think he’s committed suicide?’

  Maigret didn’t think anything, especially not at the moment, after his long talk with Renée. As Janvier had said, or was it Lapointe, she made him think not so much of a woman as of a female of the species clinging to her mate and prepared to defend him fiercely.

  She had not seemed anxious. She had answered all his questions, and if she had sometimes hesitated, that might be because she wasn’t very intelligent, and was trying to understand what he meant.

  The less sophisticated people are, the more distrustful they appear, and she had probably not changed a great deal since leaving her village in the Vendée.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  As he left, all eyes followed him, and no doubt as soon as the door had closed, they would be talking about him. He was used to that. He spotted a taxi almost at once and went straight home.

  He ate his roast veal without appetite, and his wife wondered why he suddenly said:

  ‘Tomorrow, let’s have andouillette.’

  By two o’clock, he was back at Quai des Orfèvres. Before going up to his office, he looked in on the Hotel Agency, the police squad checking out hotels and lodging houses.

  ‘I’d like you to see if you’ve got anything on Léonard Planchon. He’s a painter-decorator, aged thirty-six, home address Rue Tholozé. It’s possible that on Monday night, quite late, he checked into a hotel, probably a cheap one, and probably in the Montmartre area. He was carrying two suitcases. Quite short, fair to reddish hair, and he has a hare-lip.’

  They would check their registration cards and visit lodging houses in the area.

  A few minutes later, sitting in front of his pipe-rack wondering which one to choose, he called Lucas in.

  ‘Can you put out a message to taxi-drivers? I want to know if anyone picked up a customer with two suitcases about midnight on Monday, in the area of Rue Lepic, or Place Blanche.’

  He repeated the description, mentioning once more the famous hare-lip.

  ‘And while you’re at it, you could send it to the railway stations, just in case.’

  It was routine and Maigret did not look as if he expected much from it.

  ‘Your Saturday caller’s gone missing?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  For a good hour, he managed not to think about it, as he dealt with other matters. Then he stood up to light the lamps, as the sky was growing darker.

  Suddenly, he decided to go to see the chief of police.

  ‘I need to talk to you about something that’s been worrying me.’

  He felt a little ridiculous to be attaching such importance to it and, as he talked, describing the interview in his apartment on Saturday night, he realized that his account was not very convincing.

  ‘You don’t think this is someone who’s deranged, or at least a bit unbalanced?’

  The police chief had also seen his fair share of such people because certain among them, by persistence or deception, managed to make their
way through to him. Sometimes it was only at the end of their monologue that you realized the whole thing made no sense.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve interviewed his wife.’

  And he summarized his conversation with Renée.

  The chief of the Police Judiciaire, as he had expected, did not see things in the same light as he did, and seemed surprised at Maigret’s concern.

  ‘You’re afraid he’s committed suicide?’

  ‘That’s one possibility.’

  ‘You just said he’d talked about killing himself. But if so, I don’t see why he’d bother to collect his belongings, and go off lugging a couple of suitcases around.’

  Maigret puffed on his pipe without speaking.

  ‘Perhaps he meant to leave Paris. But he could have just gone to the first hotel he came to,’ the chief went on.

  Maigret nodded.

  ‘I’d like to know a bit more about it,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘I wanted to ask your permission to summon the wife’s lover to come in to my office.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘I’ve never met him, but from what I know of him, he’s rather a difficult character … And I’d like to ask the workmen a few questions too.’

  ‘Given our current relations with the public prosecutor’s office, I’d prefer it if you could have a word with him first.’

  Always the same antagonism, more or less latent and concealed, between the Police Judiciaire and the lawyers in the Palais de Justice. Maigret could recall the time when he was able to conduct an investigation through to the finish without having to consult anyone, making contact with the examining magistrate only when the case was over.

  But, since then, there had been new laws and endless decrees, and to stay within legal limits, he had to take care what he said or did. Even his visit in the morning to Rue Tholozé, if Renée Planchon took it into her head to complain, would attract a severe reprimand.

  ‘You’re not going to wait for results from the searches?’

  ‘I’ve got a feeling they won’t help.’

  ‘Go ahead, then, if you insist. Good luck.’

  So it was that at five p.m. Maigret went through the small door separating the Police Judiciaire from the very different world lodged inside the same Palais de Justice.

  On this side were the prosecutors, the examining magistrates, the courtrooms, the vast corridors thronged with lawyers whose black gowns looked like wings flapping.