Maigret's Patience Read online

  He hesitated just for a moment. He realized that Maigret was in the know and that it would be pointless to lie.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Who did you buy the place from?’

  ‘From Aline, of course.’

  ‘How long had Aline been the real owner?’

  ‘I can’t remember the date. More than two years.’

  ‘Was the sale handled by a lawyer?’

  ‘It was all completely above board.’

  ‘Who was the lawyer?’

  ‘Maître Desgrières, Boulevard Pereire.’

  ‘The price?’

  ‘Two hundred grand.’

  ‘New francs, I take it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Paid in cash?’

  ‘Yes, even though it took ages to count all the notes.’

  ‘Did Aline take them away in a bag or a briefcase?’

  ‘I don’t know. I left first.’

  ‘Did you know that the building on Rue des Acacias was also owned by the late Manuel’s mistress?’

  The two men were feeling more and more ill at ease.

  ‘There are always rumours going round. Listen, inspector, I’m an honest man, and so is Justin. We both have families. Because the restaurant is in Montmartre we have all sorts among our clientele. By law, we’re not allowed to kick them out unless they are blind drunk, which is rarely the case.

  ‘We hear rumours, but we prefer to forget them. Isn’t that so, Justin?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Maigret murmured, ‘whether Aline had a lover.’

  Neither of them flinched, neither said yes or no, which surprised Maigret somewhat.

  ‘Did she ever meet men here?’

  ‘She didn’t even stop at the bar. She came straight to my office on the mezzanine, went through the accounts like a businesswoman, then took the money that was owing to her.’

  ‘Don’t you find it strange that a man like Palmari had, so it seems, transferred all, or at least a good part, of what he owned to her name?’

  ‘Lots of tradesmen and businessmen sign over their property to their wives if they are worried it might be repossessed.’

  ‘Palmari wasn’t married,’ Maigret pointed out. ‘And there were thirty-five years between them.’

  ‘That crossed my mind too. Look, I think Manuel was really crazy about Aline. He had complete faith in her. He loved her. I’d swear he’d never really been in love before he met her. He felt diminished in his invalid’s wheelchair. More than ever, she became his life, the only being who connected him to the outside world.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, she loved him. It happens to girls like her too. Before she knew him she had only ever come across men who used her for their pleasure without seeing her as a human being, do you understand? The Alines of this world are more susceptible than respectable women to the attention you show them, to affection and to a life of security.’

  The fat, ruddy man at the other end of the bar ordered another crème de menthe.

  ‘Coming right up, Monsieur Louis.’

  Maigret whispered:

  ‘Who is this Monsieur Louis?’

  ‘A customer. I don’t know his surname, but he comes in here quite often to drink a menthe or two with water. I presume he must live around here.’

  ‘Was he in here for an aperitif before lunch?’

  ‘Was he here, Justin?’ Pernelle repeated quietly.

  ‘Hold on. I think so. He asked me if I had a tip for a race – can’t remember which one.’

  Monsieur Louis mopped his brow as he stared mournfully at his glass.

  Maigret took his notebook out of his pocket, wrote a few words and showed them to Lapointe:

  If he goes out, follow him. Meet me back here. If I’m gone, phone me at home.

  ‘Since you aren’t too busy yet, Pernelle, would it bother you if we went up to the mezzanine for a while?’

  It was an invitation that a restaurant owner can hardly refuse.

  ‘This way …’

  He had flat feet and waddled like a duck, like most maître d’s of a certain age. The staircase was narrow and dark. Up here, there was none of the luxury and comfort of the restaurant. Pernelle pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket, opened a door that had been painted brown, and they found themselves in a small room overlooking the courtyard.

  The roll-top desk was covered in bills, brochures, two telephones, pens, pencils and letterheaded documents. On the white-wood shelves were rows of green filing cases, and on the opposite wall there were framed photographs of Madame Pernelle looking twenty or thirty years younger, of a young man of about twenty and a young girl leaning forward pensively, her chin resting in her hand.

  ‘Sit down, Pernelle, and listen to me. Shall we be straight with one another?’

  ‘I’ve always been straight.’

  ‘You know that’s not true, that you can’t allow yourself to be, otherwise you wouldn’t be the owner of the Clou Doré. To put you at your ease I will tell you something that is now no longer of consequence for the person concerned.

  ‘When Manuel bought what was then just a bistro, twenty years ago, I used to pop in for a drink in the morning, at a time when I was fairly sure of finding him alone.

  ‘He would also phone me or pay discreet visits to Quai des Orfèvres.’

  ‘An informer?’ murmured Pernelle without a great deal of surprise.

  ‘Did you suspect him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe. I guess that’s why they shot him three years ago?’

  ‘Possibly. Only, Manuel was smart, and if he occasionally fed me information on some small fry, he was also involved in serious stuff that he was very careful not to breathe a word about.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a bottle of champagne brought up?’

  ‘It’s more or less the only drink that doesn’t tempt me.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  Pernelle was clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘Manuel was very clever,’ Maigret continued, still holding the other man’s gaze. ‘So clever we could never find anything on him. He knew that I knew at least a good part of the truth. He didn’t bother to deny it. He would look at me calmly, with a hint of irony, and when it was necessary he would surrender up one of his confederates.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? I’ve never worked for Manuel, except here, as his maître d’, then as his manager.’

  ‘Nevertheless, by lunchtime today you already knew what had happened to him. As you said, you hear a lot of things at the bar or in the restaurant. What do you think about the jewellery thefts, Pernelle?’

  ‘What they say in the newspapers: amateurs trying it on, who will all get caught in the end.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They say that there is this old guy who always hangs around nearby to guard against all eventualities.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing. I swear to you that I don’t know anything else.’

  ‘All right! I’ll elaborate, in the knowledge that I’m not telling you anything you don’t know already. What is the biggest risk run by jewel thieves?’

  ‘Getting caught?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When they sell the jewels.’

  ‘Good. We’re getting somewhere. All stones of a certain value have an ID, as it were, and are well known to people in the trade. Whenever there is a theft, a description of the jewels is circulated, not just in France, but abroad.

  ‘A receiver, if the thieves know one, will only pay around ten or fifteen per cent of the value of the haul. Almost always, when he puts the stones back in circulation, a year or two later, the police will identify them and trace them back to their source. Agreed?’

  ‘I assume that’s how it works. You know more about these things than I do.’

  ‘Now, for years, jewels have regula
rly been going missing following some hold-up or smash-and-grab and disappearing without trace. What does that imply?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Come on, Pernelle. You don’t do your trade for thirty or forty years without knowing the ropes, even if you aren’t directly involved.’

  ‘I haven’t been in Montmartre long.’

  ‘The first task is not only to remove the diamonds from their settings, but also to transform them, which requires the assistance of a diamond cutter. Do you know any?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Few people do, for the good reason that there aren’t that many of them, not just in France, but in the world as a whole. There are no more than about fifteen of them in Paris, largely grouped in the Marais, in the streets around Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, and they are a tightly knit community. Besides, the brokers, the diamond dealers and the big jewellers who give them work all have their eye on them.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  There was a knock at the door. It was the barman, who handed Maigret a slip of paper.

  ‘Someone just brought this for you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The waiter from the tabac on the corner.’

  Lapointe had scribbled in pencil on a page from a notebook:

  He went into the phone booth to make a call. Through the glass, I could see that he was asking for Étoile 42.39. Not sure about the last digit. He sat down in a corner and read a newspaper. I’m still here.

  ‘Would you allow me to use one of your phones? By the way, why do you have two lines?’

  ‘I only have one. The second phone is just connected to the restaurant.’

  ‘Hello? Directory Inquiries? Detective Chief Inspector Maigret from the Police Judiciaire. I would like to know as quickly as possible which subscriber has the number Étoile 42.39. Some doubt over the last digit. Would you be so kind as to ring me back on this number?

  ‘Right,’ he said to Pernelle, ‘I wouldn’t mind that glass of beer.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know more than you have told me about Monsieur Louis?’

  Pernelle hesitated, realizing that he was in deep water now.

  ‘I don’t know him personally. I see him at the bar. I sometimes serve him when Justin isn’t there, and we’ve chatted about the weather.’

  ‘Is there ever anyone with him?’

  ‘Rarely. I’ve seen him with young guys once or twice and wondered if he was queer.’

  ‘Do you know his surname or his address?’

  ‘I’ve only ever heard him referred to as Monsieur Louis, and always with a certain respect. He must live in the neighbourhood, as he never comes by car.’

  The telephone rang. Maigret picked up.

  ‘Inspector Maigret? I think I have the information that you were looking for,’ said the Directory Inquiries operator. ‘Étoile 42.39 suspended his subscription six months ago when he went abroad. The subscriber to Étoile 42.38 is called Fernand Barillard and he lives …’

  Maigret knew the rest. The luxury packaging salesman who lived on the same floor as Palmari!

  ‘Thank you, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Don’t you want the preceding numbers?’

  ‘Why not? Just in case …’

  The other names and addresses were unknown to him. Maigret hauled himself to his feet, dazed by the heat and a tiring day.

  ‘Think about what I said, Pernelle. Now you’re your own boss and own a successful restaurant, it would be a shame to have problems to deal with, wouldn’t it? I have an idea I’ll be seeing you again before too long. A word of advice: don’t speak too much about the conversation we’ve just had, either on the telephone or otherwise. By the way, does luxury packaging ring any bells with you?’

  The new owner of the Clou Doré looked at him with genuine surprise.

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Some packagers specialize in chocolate boxes, sweet cones, etcetera. And among this etcetera might be included boxes used by jewellers instead of proper cases.’

  He went down the dark and dirty staircase and crossed the restaurant, where there were now a couple sitting in the corner and four slightly inebriated diners around a table.

  He went back up the street to the bar-tabac, spotted Lapointe sitting abstemiously in front of an aperitif and, in the corner, Monsieur Louis, who was reading the evening paper. Neither of them saw him, and a few moments later, Maigret was climbing into a taxi.

  ‘Rue des Acacias, on the corner of Rue de l’Arc-de-Triomphe.’

  The sky was turning a flaming red, colouring the faces of the passers-by. There wasn’t a breath of wind, and Maigret could feel his shirt sticking to his body. During the journey, he seemed to doze, and perhaps actually did doze off, since the driver gave him a start when he said:

  ‘We’re here, boss.’

  He raised his head and looked from top to bottom at the light-brick building with white-stone window surrounds, which must have been built around 1910. The lift took him to the fourth floor, and he almost, out of habit, rang the doorbell to the left.

  Outside the door to the right he was left waiting for a while, until the blonde woman he had questioned that afternoon opened to him, with her mouth full and a hand holding a napkin.

  ‘You again!’ she said, not bad-temperedly, but with surprise. ‘My husband and I are having dinner.’

  ‘I’d like to have a few words with him.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The living room resembled the one opposite, though it was less luxurious and had a cheaper carpet. They then entered not a little room as at Palmari’s, but a bourgeois dining room with rustic furniture.

  ‘It’s Inspector Maigret, Fernand.’

  A man of about forty, his face bisected by a dark moustache, stood up, he too with a napkin in his hand. He had taken off his jacket, unknotted his tie and opened the collar of his shirt.

  ‘I’m honoured,’ he murmured, looking at his wife and the visitor in turn.

  ‘The inspector has already been this afternoon. I didn’t have time to tell you. Because of the tenant who died he has been going round the building, ringing at all the doors.’

  ‘Please, carry on with your meal,’ said Maigret. ‘I have plenty of time.’

  On the table there was some roast veal and noodles in tomato sauce. The couple returned to their seats, feeling somewhat embarrassed while the inspector sat down at the end of the table.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

  There was a carafe of white wine fresh from the refrigerator and misty with condensation; Maigret couldn’t resist. He was right not to, for it was a local wine from Sancerre, dry and fruity at the same time, which surely hadn’t been bought from a corner grocery shop.

  There was an awkward silence as the Barillards resumed eating with their guest observing them vaguely.

  ‘All I could tell him was that we didn’t know Palmari. For my part, I’ve never seen him and until this morning I didn’t even know his name. As for his wife …’

  Her husband was a good-looking man, slim and well built, who was no doubt popular with women, and his moustache accentuated his full lips and his perfect teeth, which were revealed whenever he smiled.

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘No. But let the inspector speak. I’m listening, Monsieur Maigret.’

  There was a hint of irony about him, and aggression lurking just under the surface. He was a handsome male, very self-confident, up for a fight, sure of both his charm and his strength.

  ‘Finish your meal first. Did you have a lot of calls to make today?’

  ‘I was in the Lilas district.’

  ‘In a car?’

  ‘In my car, yes, of course. I have a Peugeot 404, which suits me fine and which looks the part. In my line of work, these things matter.’

  ‘I suppose you carry a case full of samples?’

  ‘Like all my colleagues.’

  ‘When you have eaten your
fruit, I will ask you to show it to me.’

  ‘That’s an odd thing to be interested in, isn’t it?’

  ‘It all depends on your point of view.’

  ‘May I ask you if you have made requests of a similar nature on the other floors of the building?’

  ‘Not yet, Monsieur Barillard. I should add that you have the right to refuse, in which case I will telephone a very helpful examining magistrate, who will send an orderly with a search warrant and, if necessary, an arrest warrant. Perhaps you would rather we carried on this conversation in my office at Quai des Orfèvres?’

  Maigret couldn’t fail to notice the contrasting reactions of the couple. The woman was wide-eyed, surprised by the unexpected turn the conversation had taken and the way the two men were squaring up to each other.

  Placing her hand on her husband’s, she asked:

  ‘What’s going on, Fernand?’

  ‘Nothing, darling. Don’t worry. Shortly, Inspector Maigret will be apologizing to me. When the police find themselves at a loss with a crime, they tend to go on wild goose chases.’

  ‘Madame, did you receive a telephone call a little less than an hour ago?’

  She glanced at her husband as if asking him how she should reply, but he didn’t look at her. Instead, he seemed to be sizing up Maigret, trying to guess where he was going with this.

  ‘I took the phone call.’

  ‘Was it a friend?’

  ‘A client.’

  ‘A chocolate-maker? Confectioner? Perfumer? That’s your clientele, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘Unless it was a jeweller? May I ask you to tell me his name, Monsieur Barillard?’

  ‘I confess I didn’t make a note of it, because his business wasn’t of interest to me.’

  ‘Really! A client who rings you after work. What did he want from you?’

  ‘Our current prices.’

  ‘Have you known Monsieur Louis long?’

  That struck home. Handsome Fernand frowned, and his wife noticed he looked suddenly ill at ease.

  ‘I don’t know Monsieur Louis. Now, if you feel it is necessary to continue this conversation, let us go to my study. I’m not in favour of bringing women into business matters, on principle.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘My wife, if you prefer. Will you excuse us, dear?’