Maigret and the Saturday Caller Read online

  The legal offices were solemn and sumptuous compared with those of the police. Strict etiquette was required and people spoke in low voices.

  ‘I’ll announce you to Deputy Prosecutor Méchin. He’s the only one free at the moment.’

  He had to wait a long time, just as other people waited in the glass cage of the Police Judiciaire. Finally a door opened on to an Empire-style office and his feet were treading on a red carpet.

  The deputy prosecutor was tall and fair-haired and his dark suit was beautifully cut.

  ‘Do sit down. What is this about?’

  He glanced at the platinum watch at his wrist, like a man to whom moments are precious, and it was easy to imagine he was expected for afternoon tea in some aristocratic salon.

  It seemed vulgar, almost in bad taste here, to describe the little house-painter in Rue Tholozé, his Saturday evening recital punctuated by two or three glasses of plum brandy, his tears, and his passionate outbursts.

  ‘As yet, I don’t know whether this is simply a missing person, a suicide or a crime.’

  He summed up the situation as best he could. The lawyer listened, contemplating his own exquisitely manicured hands. Very fine hands with long slender fingers.

  ‘So what do you propose to do?’

  ‘I’d like to be able to question the wife’s lover, this Roger Prou. And perhaps too the three or four workmen who are employed in the Rue Tholozé painting business.’

  ‘Is the man you mentioned someone who might complain and give us trouble?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is.’

  ‘Then is it really necessary?’

  Even more than in his chief’s office, the case was taking on a different complexion here, and Maigret was tempted to give up, to wipe from his memory the little man with the hare-lip who had so grotesquely intruded on life in Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.

  ‘What’s your idea about this?’

  ‘I don’t have one. Anything’s possible. It’s precisely because I need a better idea that I’d like to call Roger Prou in.’

  He had almost given up hoping to receive permission when the deputy prosecutor rose, after once more looking at his watch.

  ‘Send him a summons to come and provide information. But take care. As for the workmen, well, if you insist.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Maigret was filling in an administrative form in his office. Then he called Lucas back.

  ‘I want the names and addresses of the workmen employed at Planchon’s business, on Rue Tholozé. You can ask the social security office, they must have the lists on file.’

  An hour later he was filling in three more forms, since apart from Roger Prou there were only three workmen, one of whom was a young Italian, Angelo Massoletti.

  After which, until nine in the evening, he listened to the accounts of witnesses about the jewel thefts, mainly staff from the hotels where the thefts had occurred. He dined on sandwiches, went home, and had another grog with a couple of aspirins before going to bed.

  At nine next morning, a stocky man with white hair and pink cheeks was already waiting in the antechamber, and after a few minutes he was shown into Maigret’s office.

  ‘Jules Lavisse, is that right?’

  ‘Also known as Granddad. Some of them call me St Peter too, maybe on account they think my hair’s my halo.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Thank you kindly. I’m more often up a ladder than on a chair.’

  ‘Have you worked a long time for Léonard Planchon?’

  ‘I was working with him when he was just a whippersnapper. The boss was called Lempereur back then.’

  ‘So you know what’s happening in the house in Rue Tholozé.’

  ‘Now, that depends.’

  ‘Depends on what?’

  ‘On what you’re going to do with anything I say.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If it means you’re going to talk to the boss’s wife or Monsieur Roger, I’m just a workman who knows nothing. Specially if there’s any question of saying it in court.’

  ‘What makes you think this is a matter for the courts?’

  ‘Because when you call people in here, means something’s not right, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And you get the feeling that something’s not right in Rue Tholozé?’

  ‘You’ve not answered my question.’

  ‘There’s every chance that this conversation will remain between ourselves.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What were relations like between your boss and his wife?’

  ‘She didn’t tell you? I saw you coming through the yard yesterday and you stayed an hour with her.’

  ‘Has Prou been her lover for long?’

  ‘Lover, I couldn’t say. But he’s been sleeping in the house for nearly two years now.’

  ‘And how did Planchon take that?’

  The old painter smiled knowingly.

  ‘Well, like a man whose wife’s cheating on him, eh!’

  ‘You mean he accepted the situation willingly?’

  ‘Willing or not, didn’t have much choice, did he?’

  ‘But it was his own house.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought he was in his own house, but really he was in hers …’

  ‘When he married her, she didn’t have anything …’

  ‘Yes, I remember … All the same, first time I set eyes on her, I knew he’d be led by the nose …’

  ‘You think Planchon’s weak-willed?’

  ‘Maybe that’s the word … I’d say he’s a good fellow who’s had bad luck. He could have been happy with any woman … And he had to pick that one.’

  ‘But they were happy for a few years …’

  The old man nodded, looking sceptical.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You don’t agree?’

  ‘Maybe he was happy … And then again, maybe she was happy for herself. But they weren’t happy together.’

  ‘She was cheating on him?’

  ‘I think she was already cheating on him before they moved to Rue Tholozé. I didn’t see her then, of course. Soon as she was Madame Planchon anyway …’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Anything in trousers. Practically all the workmen he hired. If I’d been younger myself …’

  ‘And Planchon didn’t suspect anything?’

  ‘Do husbands ever suspect anything?’

  ‘What about Prou, then?’

  ‘Ah, well, there she’d picked on a tough guy, with his own ideas. He wasn’t going to be satisfied like the others with a quickie behind the door.’

  ‘You think he was planning to take the boss’s place from the start?’

  ‘Well, in bed, to begin with. Then running the business. But now, if you’re going to repeat what I say, I’ll be looking for a new job. Not to mention he could be waiting for me round some street corner.’

  ‘He’s violent?’

  ‘Never seen him strike no one, but I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him.’

  ‘When did you last see Planchon?’

  ‘Getting there, are we? You took your time. I had my answer all ready, thought it’d be the first thing you’d ask me. So, Monday, five thirty in the afternoon.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Rue Tholozé. I wasn’t working on the same job as him. I was painting a kitchen for this old lady in Rue Caulaincourt. The boss and all the others were working on a new house, Avenue Junot. Very big job. Three weeks at least … I called back at Rue Tholozé at half past five, like I said, and I was in the workshop when the van came in. The boss was driving, Prou was with him, and Angelo and Big Jef behind.’

  ‘And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No. They unloaded the gear and the boss, he went into the house as usual, to change his clothes. He always changed after work.’

  ‘You know how he spent the evenings?’

  ‘I sometimes met him out.’

  ‘Whe
re?’

  ‘In bars. Since Prou got his feet under the table, the boss has taken to hard drinking, specially evenings.’

  ‘You didn’t get the impression he was thinking of killing himself?’

  ‘No, never crossed my mind.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because when you’ve put up with something like that for two years, no reason you won’t go on doing it for ever.’

  ‘You hadn’t heard people saying he wasn’t really the boss any more?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long time since he was the boss of the outfit. They let him think so, but really …’

  ‘Nobody’s told you that Prou has bought him out of the business?’

  The old man known as Granddad stared at him with his sharp little eyes, then nodded.

  ‘So they got him to sign a bit of paper?’

  And as if talking to himself, he went on:

  ‘Ah, they were smarter than I thought, then.’

  ‘Prou didn’t tell you?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it. But it doesn’t surprise me. Is that why he’s away? They finally kicked him out the door?’

  Though that seemed to displease him:

  ‘What I don’t get is why he didn’t take his daughter with him. I thought it was because of her he put up with it.’

  ‘Were you told anything on Tuesday morning?’

  ‘Prou told us Planchon had left.’

  ‘He didn’t say what the circumstances were?’

  ‘Only that he was sloshed when he came to pick up his stuff.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Why not? Wasn’t that what happened?’

  His gaze became suspicious.

  ‘You’ve got some idea about this, haven’t you?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, me, ideas, you know …’

  ‘You weren’t surprised?’

  ‘What I said to my wife when I got home that night was, I didn’t think Planchon would last long. If ever a man loved his wife, you could say he did. To the point of being daft. As for his daughter, well, she was the holy sacrament …’

  ‘And you took the van out on Tuesday morning?’

  ‘Yes, we all got in, Prou drove us. He dropped me off at Rue Caulaincourt, by the old lady’s place.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Cans of paint like always, rolls of wallpaper, brushes, sponges, stuff like that, what do I know?’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Lavisse.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  The old man looked disappointed.

  ‘You want me to ask you some more questions?’

  ‘No. Just I thought it’d take longer. It’s the first time I’ve been here.’

  ‘If anything else comes to mind, don’t hesitate to come and see me or telephone.’

  ‘Prou’s going to ask me what we talked about.’

  ‘Tell him I was trying to find out about Planchon, how he had been behaving, and what the possibility was of his having committed suicide.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘I don’t know any more than you do.’

  The old man went out and a few moments later the young Italian, Angelo, took his seat while it was still warm. He had been in France only six months and Maigret was obliged to repeat every question two or three times.

  One of them seemed to surprise him.

  ‘Did the boss’s wife ever make advances to you?’

  Because he was a beautiful youngster with large soulful eyes.

  ‘Advances?’

  ‘She didn’t try to get you into the house?’

  That made him laugh.

  ‘And Monsieur Roger?’ he protested.

  ‘He’s jealous?’

  ‘I think …’

  He mimed plunging a dagger into someone’s chest.

  ‘And you haven’t seen Monsieur Planchon since Monday?’

  That was all for him, while the third workman, called in for eleven o’clock, the one the others called Big Jef, simply replied: ‘I dunno’ to most of the questions.

  He had no desire to get mixed up in anyone else’s business and apparently had no friendly feelings towards the police. Indeed, Maigret later discovered that he had been arrested two or three times for causing an affray, and once for grievous bodily harm, after breaking a bottle over the head of another man in a bar.

  Maigret lunched at the Brasserie Dauphine with Lucas, although his sergeant had no more to tell him. The circular to the taxi-drivers had produced no result. That meant nothing, because some of them avoided contact with the police as much as possible. They were well aware that it meant time wasted, facing questions at Quai des Orfèvres, then from the examining magistrate, and sometimes two or three days hanging about in the witnesses’ waiting room outside the court.

  As for the Hotel Agency, which was one of the most efficient services, it had found no trace of Planchon. And yet, as far as could be guessed, he was not the kind of man to get himself a false identity card. If he had checked into a hotel or furnished lodgings, it would have been under his own name.

  The last sighting of him that Maigret could envisage was of a little man, lugging two suitcases down Rue Tholozé at midnight. He could of course have taken a bus to one of the railway stations, where probably no one would have noticed him.

  ‘What are you thinking, chief?’

  ‘He promised to phone me every day. He didn’t on Sunday, but then he did call me on Monday.’

  Well, he hadn’t killed Renée and her lover. Had he suddenly decided to go away? He had left the tobacconist’s on Place des Abbesses at about eight p.m. and had already had a few brandies. It was highly likely he had then gone into other bars. By investigating the neighbourhood, it should be possible to trace his movements.

  Once he was well and truly drunk, what kind of ideas would have gone through his head?

  ‘If he threw himself in the Seine, it could be weeks before we fish him out,’ Lucas muttered.

  It was indeed a grotesque thought to imagine the man with the hare-lip packing his suitcases with all his clothes and personal effects, then hauling them through the streets before throwing himself in the Seine.

  Maigret, who still felt a cold coming on, although it had not quite declared itself, took a cognac with his coffee and was back in his office at two o’clock.

  Roger Prou did not arrive until a good ten minutes later, and Maigret in turn, as if playing tit for tat, left him twiddling his thumbs in the waiting room until a quarter to three. Lucas had peered at him a few times through the glass.

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Difficult.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Reading a newspaper, but he keeps glancing up at the door.’

  Finally, Joseph ushered him in and Maigret remained seated, pipe between his teeth, scrutinizing documents which seemed to have his full attention.

  ‘Sit down,’ he muttered, waving to one of the chairs.

  ‘I haven’t got all afternoon to waste …’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  But he went on reading, and striking out certain sentences with his red pencil. This lasted another full ten minutes, after which he opened the door into the inspectors’ office and gave some instructions in a low voice.

  Only then did he look in the face the man sitting on one of the green velvet upholstered chairs. And in the most neutral voice he could manage, he said as he regained his place behind the desk:

  ‘Your name is Roger Prou?’

  6.

  ‘Roger Étienne Ferdinand Prou,’ he replied, pronouncing every syllable, ‘born in Paris, Rue de la Roquette.’

  Lifting himself up slightly on the chair, he pulled a wallet from his hip pocket, and brought out an identity card, which he put on the desk, saying:

  ‘I presume you want me to confirm that.’

  He was freshly shaved, and wearing a dark blue suit which must be his Sunday best
. Maigret had not been wrong in imagining him with bristling eyebrows and thick dark hair, growing low down on his forehead.

  He was a fine male of the species, just as Renée was a fine female, and in their aggressive tranquillity, they made him think of wild beasts. Although he had protested a little on principle about the waste of his own time and that of his men, Prou did not allow himself to be disconcerted by Maigret’s classic little gambit, and his gaze was more ironic than anything.

  In the countryside, he would have been cock of the walk, the one who on Sundays would drag his friends off to have a fight with the lads in the next village, and who would casually get local girls in the family way.

  In a factory, he would have been a troublemaker, standing up to the foreman and creating incidents deliberately, to impress his workmates.

  The way he looked and with the character Maigret guessed at, he could equally well have been a pimp, not in the west end of Paris but at the Porte Saint-Denis or in the Bastille neighbourhood: it was easy to imagine him playing cards all day long in a café, keeping a sharp eye on the pavement.

  And possibly too, he could have been a gang leader, not necessarily violent, but organizing night-time burglaries, for example in the warehouses round the Gare du Nord or in the inner suburbs.

  Maigret pushed back to him the identity card, which was perfectly in order.

  ‘Have you brought the document I asked you for?’

  Prou had kept his wallet in his hand and, remaining quite calm, his thick fingers showing no sign of shaking, he pulled out the paper signed by Léonard Planchon, which made him the co-owner, with his mistress, of the decorating business.

  He held it out to the inspector, continuing to display the same disdainful patience.

  Maigret stood up, and went back to the inspectors’ office, positioning himself between the two rooms, so as not to lose sight of his visitor.

  ‘Lapointe!’

  And then quietly:

  ‘Go and show this to Monsieur Pirouet; he knows about it.’

  That would be up in the attics, under the roof of the Palais de Justice, where the police forensic lab was situated. Monsieur Pirouet was a fairly recent addition to the team, an odd fellow, plump and jolly, who had been regarded with some suspicion when he was appointed assistant chemist, because he looked more like a travelling salesman. It was facetiously that they had taken to calling him Monsieur Pirouet, stressing the ‘Monsieur’.