Maigret's Pickpocket Page 7

  He took a handful from the till and gave them to Maigret without counting them.

  ‘Hello. Inspectors’ office? … Who’s that? … Torrence? … Anything to report? No one’s been asking for me? … Moers? … I’ll call him when I’ve finished talking to you …

  ‘You got a call from Janvier? … Still at the Hotel des Cigognes? The kid’s sleeping? … Good … Yes … Good. You’re going to take over from him? … That’s fine. Good-night. But keep an eye on him all the same …

  ‘If he wakes up, who knows what ideas he’ll get into his head. One moment … Can you phone the River Squad? … Tomorrow morning they should take some frogmen to the Pont de Bir-Hakeim. A little way upstream, about forty metres, they should find a pistol that’s been thrown in from the bank … Yes … Tell them it’s me who wants to know.’

  He hung up and dialled the number of the laboratory.

  ‘Moers? … You were asking for me? … You’ve found the bullet in the wall? … What? … Probably the 6.35? … Send it off to Gastinne-Renette … It’s possible that by tomorrow we’ll have a gun to show them … Fingerprints? … Yes, I thought so … All over the place … Both of them … And several other people’s … Men and women? … Doesn’t surprise me, they don’t seem to have cleaned the place very often … Thanks, Moers … See you tomorrow.’

  François Ricain was lying fast asleep, worn out, in a little room in the Ile Saint-Louis, while Maigret was going to eat a very tasty regional dish, the chaudrée, in the restaurant where the young couple had often met their group of friends.

  Coming out of the telephone cabin, he could not help smiling, since Fernande, suddenly waking up again, was talking animatedly to Lapointe, who didn’t know where to look.

  4.

  It was a strange evening, full of sidelong glances, whispers and movements to and fro in the cramped space under the pink lamplight, surrounded by the seductive aromas of the Vieux-Pressoir’s cuisine.

  Maigret had installed himself near the entrance with Lapointe, in a sort of alcove with a small table for two.

  ‘That’s the table where Ricain and Sophie sat, when they weren’t with the others,’ Bob Mandille had told them.

  Lapointe had his back to the room, and sometimes, when Maigret pointed out something interesting to him, he would crane his head round as discreetly as possible.

  The chaudrée was delicious, and came accompanied by a modest little wine from the Charentes region not often found for sale, a dry uncompromising wine which is used to make cognac.

  The former stuntman was acting the genial host, receiving his customers as if they were guests, greeting them as they arrived. He cracked jokes with them, kissed the ladies’ hands, saw them to their tables, and before the waiter took over, gave them the menu.

  Almost every time, he would then come towards Maigret.

  ‘An architect and his wife … They’re here every Friday, sometimes with their son, who’s studying law.’

  After the architect, two doctors and their wives appeared, also regulars, who took a table for four. One of the doctors was presently called to the telephone and, a few minutes later, he was picking up his bag from the cloakroom and apologizing to his fellow-diners.

  Maki, the sculptor, was eating alone in a corner, displaying a healthy appetite and helping himself with his fingers rather more than good manners would allow.

  It was half past eight when a dark young man with a sickly face came in and shook the sculptor’s hand. He did not sit at the same table, though, but took his place on a banquette, spreading out a typescript in front of him.

  ‘That’s Dramin,’ Bob announced. ‘He usually works while he’s eating. This is his latest screenplay and they’ve already made him rewrite it three or four times.’

  Most of the diners knew each other, at least by sight, and greeted one another discreetly from a distance.

  From the descriptions he had been given, Maigret immediately recognized Carus and especially Nora, who would not pass unnoticed in any company.

  This evening, she was not wearing lamé trousers, but a dress, made from a fabric almost as transparent as cellophane, and so tight-fitting that she appeared to be almost naked.

  In her face, under a mask of white make-up like a Pierrot’s, her coal-dark eyes were the outstanding feature, outlined not only in black and green but with glitter that sparkled when caught by the lights.

  There was something ghostly in her silhouette, her expression, her way of standing, making the contrast even greater with the vitality of Carus, who was a well-built and sturdy man with a healthy, beaming face.

  As she followed Bob to their table, Carus went round shaking hands, Maki’s, then Dramin’s, then those of the remaining doctor and the two wives.

  When he had sat down in turn, Bob leaned over to whisper a few words to him, and the producer searched the room for Maigret, his eyes alighting on him with curiosity. It looked as if he was about to stand up and come over to shake hands with the inspector too, but he began by examining the menu he had been handed, and discussing his choice with Nora.

  When Mandille returned to Maigret’s corner, the latter expressed surprise.

  ‘I thought the gang would sit round the same table.’

  ‘They do now and then. But other evenings, they each stay in their own corner. They might meet up for coffee afterwards. Some nights they sit down all together. Our regulars feel at home here. We have hardly any passers-by dropping in and we like it that way.’

  ‘Do they all know the news?’

  ‘They will have seen the paper or heard the radio bulletin, of course.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Not a word. They’re all shocked. Your presence here must be worrying for them … What will you have after the chaudrée? My wife recommends the leg of lamb, authentic saltmarsh.’

  ‘Lamb for you, Lapointe? Yes, for us both.’

  ‘And a carafe of red? I’ve got a nice little Bordeaux.’

  Through the curtains, they could see the lights on the boulevard, people walking past quickly or slowly, sometimes a couple who stopped to embrace or exchange loving looks.

  Dramin, as Bob had told them, was eating while reading through the typescript, taking a pencil from his pocket from time to time to correct something. He was the only one of Ricain’s friends not to look as if he was concerned by the presence of the policemen.

  He wore a dark, off-the-peg suit and an ordinary tie. He could have been taken for an accountant or a bank teller.

  ‘Carus is wondering whether he will come over and talk to me or not,’ Maigret announced, as he observed the couple. ‘I don’t know what advice Nora is giving him with that stern expression, but he doesn’t agree.’

  He imagined how, on other nights, François Ricain and Sophie would have come in, looked around for their friends, wondering if they would be invited to a table or whether they would be eating alone in their corner. They would surely have seemed like poor relations.

  ‘Are you going to question them, chief?’

  ‘Not just now. After the leg of lamb.’

  It was very warm in the restaurant. The doctor who had been called away to a patient’s bedside was already back, and it could be guessed from his gestures that he was complaining at having been disturbed to no purpose.

  Where had Fernande gone, the tall girl, worse the wear for drink, who had been clinging to the bar? Bob must have got rid of her. He was now chatting to three or four male customers who had taken her place. They were talking to each other with familiarity and good humour.

  ‘The ghost-woman is giving her husband instructions.’

  Indeed, she was speaking to him guardedly, not taking her eyes off Maigret, and apparently giving Carus advice. But what kind of advice?

  ‘He’s still hesitating. He’s dying to come over here, but she’s holding him back. I think I’ll take myself across.’

  Maigret heaved himself to his feet after patting his lips with his napkin, and made his
way through the tables. The couple watched him approach, Nora impassively, Carus with visible satisfaction.

  ‘I’m not disturbing you?’

  The film producer stood up, wiped his lips in turn and held out his hand.

  ‘Walter Carus … My wife …’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘I know. Please do sit down. Can I offer you a glass of champagne? It’s the only thing my wife drinks, and I don’t blame her. Joseph! A glass for the inspector.’

  ‘Please don’t interrupt your meal.’

  ‘No point pretending I don’t know why you are here. I heard the news just now on the radio, when I went back to my hotel for a shower and change of clothes.’

  ‘Did you know the Ricain couple well?’

  ‘Quite well … Here we all know each other. He more or less worked for me, in the sense that I had some money invested in the film he was employed on.’

  ‘Did his wife not also get a bit part in another of your films?’

  ‘I’d forgotten that. She was more like an extra.’

  ‘Did she want to work in films?’

  ‘Not seriously. I don’t think so. But most girls that age like to see themselves up on the screen.’

  ‘Was she talented at all?’

  Maigret had the impression that Nora had given a little kick to Carus’ ankle as a warning.

  ‘I must say I really don’t know. I don’t even think she’d been given a screen test.’

  ‘What about Ricain?’

  ‘Are you asking me if he’s talented?’

  ‘What sort of man is he professionally?’

  ‘What would you say, Nora?’

  And she let fall in an icy tone:

  ‘Nothing.’

  This had the effect of being a conversation stopper and Carus hastened to explain.

  ‘Don’t be surprised. Nora is something of a medium. She possesses a sort of fluid that makes her immediately able to make contact with some people, but with others it works the other way. Believe it or not, this fluid – sorry that’s the only word I can find for it – has often helped me in business, even on the Stock Exchange.’

  The foot was hard at work under the table once more.

  ‘With Francis, she never really found it possible to make contact. Personally I find him intelligent and gifted, and I’d be willing to bet he has a successful career in front of him.

  ‘Take Dramin, over there, for instance, deep in his screenplay. He’s a serious young fellow who does his work as efficiently as possible. I’ve read some excellent dialogues he’s written. But still, unless I’m completely mistaken, he’ll never be a great director. He needs someone not only to tell him what to do, but to add that indispensable spark.’

  He was delighted with the word he had found.

  ‘Yes, the spark! That’s what’s lacking most of the time, and it’s essential whether you’re in cinema or television. Hundreds of professionals can turn out a good piece of work, a solidly constructed plot, some dialogue that flows along nicely. But almost always something’s missing, and the result is grey and boring. The spark, you understand?

  ‘Well, you can’t count on Francis to provide you with something solid – his ideas are often fantastical. He’s described to me God knows how many scenarios that would completely ruin me. But on the other hand, from time to time, he’s got that spark.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  Carus scratched his nose, comically.

  ‘Now that is the question. You’re talking like Nora. One evening, at the end of dinner, he will launch into something with such conviction and passion that you feel sure you’re in the presence of a genius. Then next day, you realize that what he said didn’t stand up. He’s young. Things will settle down …’

  ‘Is he working for you at the moment?’

  ‘Apart from his reviews, remarkable critical articles, though a bit too ferocious, he doesn’t work for anyone in particular. He’s bubbling with plans, prepares several film outlines at a time without finishing any of them.’

  ‘Does he ask you for advances?’

  The feet were continuing their silent conversation under the table.

  ‘Well, you see, inspector, our profession’s not like other spheres. We’re always on the lookout for talent, whether in performers, writers or directors. It’s not profitable to keep hiring the same well-known director who will keep on turning out the same old film for you, and as for the stars, well, you need new faces.

  ‘So we have to take a chance on a certain number of promising youngsters. A very modest chance, or we’d soon be ruined. A thousand francs here and there, a screen test, a little encouragement …’

  ‘So, if you were quite willing to lend Ricain money, it was because you thought it would pay off one day?’

  ‘Not that I was holding my breath.’

  ‘And Sophie?’

  ‘I wasn’t involved in her career.’

  ‘But she was hoping to become a star?’

  ‘Don’t put words in my mouth. She was always in her husband’s company and didn’t say much. I think she was shy.’

  An ironic smile appeared on Nora’s pale lips.

  ‘My wife thinks differently, and since I’m more confident in her judgement than my own, you shouldn’t attach much importance to my opinion.’

  ‘What was the relationship like between Francis and Sophie?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He was pretending to be surprised.

  ‘Did they seem attached to each other?’

  ‘You rarely saw one without the other, and I can’t recall them quarrelling in my presence.’

  The smile had returned, enigmatically, to Nora’s lips.

  ‘Perhaps she was getting a little impatient.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He believed in his star, his future, a brilliant future just round the corner. I suppose that when she married him, she imagined she was going to be the wife of a famous man. Famous and rich. But after three years, they were still stony broke, and she had hardly a dress to put on her back.’

  ‘Did she blame him for it?’

  ‘Not in company, to my knowledge.’

  ‘Did she have lovers?’

  Nora turned towards Carus with the air of waiting with curiosity for his reply.

  ‘Ah now, you’re asking me a question that …’

  ‘Why don’t you tell the truth?’

  For the first time, she was no longer content to make signs under the table, but had opened her mouth to speak.

  ‘My wife is referring to a trivial incident …’

  Nora, bitingly, let fall:

  ‘That depends for whom.’

  ‘One night, when we had all had a lot to drink …’

  ‘And this was where?’

  ‘At the Hotel Raphaël. We’d been here. Maki was with us, Dramin, and a photographer, Huguet, who works for an advertising company. I think Bob had come along too.

  ‘In the hotel, I had room service bring us champagne and whisky. Later, I went to the bathroom, which meant going through our bedroom, where only the bedside lamps were lit.

  ‘I found Sophie lying on one of the beds. Thinking she was unwell, I leaned over her …’

  Nora’s smile was becoming more and more sarcastic.

  ‘She was crying. I had a hard time getting a word out of her. She said she was in despair, wanted to kill herself.’

  ‘And what were you doing when I found the pair of you?’

  ‘I did automatically take her in my arms, it’s true, but to comfort her, as one would a child.’

  ‘I asked you whether she had lovers. I wasn’t thinking of you in particular.’

  ‘She posed naked for Maki, but I’m sure Maki would never lay a finger on a friend’s wife.’

  ‘Was Ricain jealous?’

  ‘You’re asking me too much, Monsieur Maigret … Your good health! … It all depends what you mean by jealousy. He wouldn’t have wanted to lose h
is influence with her, or see another man become more important to her than he was. In that sense, he was jealous of his friends as well. If, for instance, I asked Dramin to come over to our table for coffee without inviting him too, he would sulk for a week.’

  ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘You aren’t having a dessert?’

  ‘No, I don’t often have one.’

  ‘Nora doesn’t either. Bob, what do you advise for dessert?’

  ‘Crêpe flambée with maraschino?’

  Carus looked down comically at his stomach and protruding belly.

  ‘Why not? What the hell! OK, a crêpe, then. Two or three, in fact. But with Armagnac rather than maraschino.’

  All this time, poor Lapointe was twiddling his thumbs at his table, his back to the room. Maki was picking his teeth with a matchstick, and no doubt wondering whether it would presently be his turn to find the inspector sitting down in front of him.

  The doctors’ table was the most animated, and one of the women from time to time let out a shrill laugh that made Nora wince.

  Rose left her stove for a moment to come round the tables, wiping her hand on her apron before holding it out. She too, like the doctors, was in a good mood, which the news of Sophie’s death did not seem to have affected.

  ‘Well, Walter, you old rogue? How come we haven’t seen you since Wednesday?’

  ‘I had to catch a plane to Frankfurt to see a business associate and then I went on to London.’

  ‘And did you go with him, my dear?’

  ‘Not this time. I had a fitting session.’

  ‘And you’re not afraid of letting him gad about on his own?’

  She moved away with a laugh, stopping at one customer, then another. On a table alongside the Caruses, Bob was flambéing the crêpes.

  ‘So now I understand why Ricain looked for you in vain half the night,’ the former stuntman said to Carus.

  ‘Why was he looking for me?’

  ‘The inspector told me just now. He urgently needed two thousand francs. On Wednesday he came in here and was asking for you.’

  ‘My plane left at five o’clock.’

  ‘He came back twice. He wanted me to lend it to him, but that was too much money for me. He went off to the club.’