The Cellars of the Majestic Page 9

  Judge Bonneau was upset. As if the case wasn’t already complicated enough! So far, they had managed to keep the press out of it, but, after the quarrel at the tea dance, reporters would be besieging the Palais de Justice and the Police Judiciaire …

  ‘I don’t understand, inspector, how a man like you, with twenty-five years’ experience …’

  He almost lost his temper because, instead of listening to him, Maigret was playing with a piece of paper he had taken from his pocket. It was a letter, written on blue paper.

  ‘Mr Clark clearly overstepped the mark. It has to be said, though, that you didn’t demonstrate the tact one might have expected of you in circumstances which …’

  Something had clicked. Maigret was obliged to turn his head away in order not to show his joy. Sure enough, Clark had ended up hypnotized by the scrap of paper and had stepped forwards and held out his hand.

  ‘Please …’

  Maigret seemed surprised, and gave up the paper to the American. Understanding even less than before, the judge suspected, not without reason, some manoeuvre on the inspector’s part.

  Finally Clark went up to the interpreter, showed him the letter and spoke to him volubly.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He claims to recognize his wife’s handwriting and asks how come you’re in possession of a letter from her …’

  ‘What’s this all about, Monsieur Maigret?’ Judge Bonneau asked sternly.

  ‘I beg your pardon, your honour … It’s a document that’s just been given to me … I was going to bring it to you and put it in the file … I’m sorry that Mr Clark has got hold of it before …’

  Clark was still speaking, addressing the interpreter.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ the judge asked, now also affected by the contagion.

  ‘He’s asking me to translate this letter for him … He says that, if we’ve taken the liberty of searching his wife’s things, he’ll complain to his embassy and that …’

  ‘Translate …’

  Then Maigret, his nerves on edge, began filling a pipe. He walked to the window, beyond which the streetlamps were so many stars surrounded by a halo of dampness.

  The poor interpreter, his bald pate covered in sweat, translated word for word Mimi’s letter to her friend Gigi, so horrified that he kept wondering if he would have the courage to keep going. The judge had come closer in order to read over his shoulder, but Clark, more determined than ever, had pushed him away with a gesture, murmuring:

  ‘Please …’

  It was as if he were supervising his own property, preventing anyone from taking the letter from him, trying to destroy it or skipping some sentences in the translation. He pointed at the words with his finger, demanding the exact meaning.

  Quite desperate by now, Judge Bonneau joined Maigret, who was smoking with apparent indifference.

  ‘Did you do this on purpose, inspector?’

  ‘How was I to know that Mr Clark would punch me in the face?’

  ‘This letter explains everything!’

  ‘With perfect cynicism!’

  Come on! The judge had put Prosper Donge in prison without being certain that he was guilty! And he had also been ready to put Charlotte, Gigi or any others of that bunch in prison with him!

  Clark and the interpreter were standing, both leaning over the table, where the green lampshade drew only a circle of light.

  At last Clark rose to his full height. He banged his fist on the desk and muttered something like:

  ‘Damn!’

  What happened next was very different from what might have been expected of him. He didn’t become agitated. He didn’t look at anybody. His features had hardened, his gaze was fixed. After a long moment of immobility, during which the poor interpreter seemed to be wanting to apologize to him, he turned, spotted a chair in a corner and went and sat down on it, so calmly, so simply that this very simplicity had something tragic about it.

  Maigret, who was watching him from a distance, had literally seen beads of sweat spring up on the skin above his upper lip.

  At that moment, Clark was rather like a boxer who has just received a knockout blow but remains standing by the force of inertia, instinctively looking for support before collapsing once and for all.

  Total silence reigned in the judge’s office, and a typewriter could be heard clicking in a nearby office.

  Clark still had not moved. Sitting in his corner, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, he was looking fixedly at his feet in their square-tipped shoes.

  Long after that, they heard him muttering in English:

  ‘Well! … Well! …’

  And Maigret asked the interpreter, under his breath:

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  The interpreter translated.

  Putting a brave face on things, the judge was pretending to examine some papers. The smoke from Maigret’s pipe rose slowly into the air, with a tendency to spread as it reached the bright glow of the lightbulb.

  ‘Well …’

  It came from a long way away. God knows where his thoughts were taking him. At last, he moved. Everyone wondered what he was going to do. He took a solid gold cigarette case from his pocket, opened it and extracted a cigarette. The case closed again with a snap. Then, turning to the interpreter:

  ‘Please …’

  He wanted a match. The interpreter did not smoke. It was Maigret who held out his box and, in accepting, Clark raised his eyes towards him and gave him a long, meaningful look.

  When he straightened up again, he must have felt empty, because his body was somewhat irresolute. But he was calm. His features had regained their immobility. He began by asking a question. The judge looked at Maigret as if waiting for the answer.

  ‘He’s asking if he can keep the letter.’

  ‘I’d prefer it to be photographed first. It can be done in a few minutes. It just has to be taken upstairs to Criminal Records …’

  This was translated. Clark seemed to understand, bowed and handed the paper to the clerk, who took it away. Then he spoke again. It was nerve-racking not to understand anything. The shortest speech seemed interminable, and Maigret constantly wanted to ask:

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Before anything else, he wants to consult his attorney, because he was unprepared for what he has just learned, and it changes everything …’

  Why, at that moment, was Maigret moved? This tall, vigorous man who, just three days earlier, had been riding a carousel with Ellen and who, not long before, had been dancing the tango in a bluish light … He had just received a much more direct blow than he had given the inspector … But just like the latter, he had barely flinched … A curse … A fist on the table … A few minutes’ silence …

  ‘Well! … Well! …’

  A pity they couldn’t understand each other! Maigret would have loved to have a conversation with him.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘That he’s offering a bonus of a thousand dollars to the police officer who uncovers the murderer …’

  While this was being translated, Clark looked at Maigret as if to say:

  ‘You see I’m a good sport …’

  ‘Tell him that if we win that thousand dollars, it’ll go to the police orphanage …’

  It was strange. It was as if they were now falling over each other to be polite. Clark listened to the translation and nodded.

  ‘Well …’

  Then he spoke again, this time almost in the tone of a businessman.

  ‘He assumes – although he doesn’t want to do anything before he’s seen his attorney – that an interview between him and this man … Prosper Donge, will be necessary … He asks if he’ll be able to obtain permission for that and if …’

  It was now Judge Bonneau’s turn to nod solemnly. They might even have ended up congratulating one another.

  ‘After you …’

  ‘No, please …’

  ‘Not at all! …’ />
  Finally, Clark asked a few questions, often turning towards Maigret.

  ‘He’s asking, inspector, what will happen about that punch and if it will have any repercussions … He has no idea of the consequences an act like that could have in France … In his country …’

  ‘Just tell him I have no idea what he’s talking about …’

  The judge was looking anxiously at the door. It was all too good to be true! He feared some new incident that might destroy this precious harmony. As long as the letter was brought back quickly and …

  Silence. They waited. They had nothing more to say to each other. Clark lit another cigarette, after asking Maigret for a match with a gesture.

  At last, the clerk came back with his fearsome scrap of blue paper.

  ‘It’s done, your honour … May I? …’

  ‘Give the letter back to Mr Clark, yes …’

  Clark carefully slipped it into his wallet, put the wallet back in his inside pocket and, forgetting that he had come without a hat, looked for it on the chairs. He finally remembered, smiled mechanically and wished everyone a good evening.

  Then, when the door was closed, and the interpreter had left, Judge Bonneau coughed two or three times and walked around his desk, picking up some papers he didn’t really need.

  ‘Hmm! … Is this what you wanted, inspector?’

  ‘What do you think, your honour?’

  ‘I think I was the one asking the question.’

  ‘I beg your pardon … Obviously! … You see, I have the impression that Mr Clark is going to get married again quite soon … And the child is definitely Donge’s son …’

  ‘A man who’s currently in prison and who has …’

  ‘… charges against him, of course!’ Maigret sighed. ‘Only, it’s his son! There’s nothing I can do about that …’

  He too looked for his hat, which he had left in the Majestic, and it struck him as quite odd to be leaving the Palais de Justice bareheaded. He was obliged to take a taxi to get back to Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.

  The bruise on his chin had turned blue by now. Madame Maigret spotted it as soon as she saw him.

  ‘You’ve been fighting again!’ she said, laying the table. ‘And, of course, you don’t have a hat! … Where on earth have you been? …’

  He was pleased. There was a broad smile on his face as he took his napkin out of its silver ring.

  8. When Maigret Dozed Off

  It wasn’t at all unpleasant: nicely huddled in front of his desk, with the stove humming behind his back, on the left the window, covered with morning mist as if with muslin, in front the black marble Louis-Philippe mantelpiece, the hands of the clock stopped at twelve noon for the past twenty years; on the wall, in a black and gold frame, a group photograph of gentlemen in frock coats and top hats, with improbably large moustaches and pointed beards: the association of station secretaries, from the time when Maigret was twenty-four years old!

  Four pipes arranged in order of size on the desk.

  Wealthy American woman strangled in the cellars of the Majestic.

  The headline was on the front page of an evening paper from the previous day. Of course, for reporters, American women are necessarily wealthy. What made Maigret smile more was his own picture in his coat and bowler hat, a pipe between his teeth, his head bent over something that could not be seen.

  Chief Inspector Maigret examines the victim.

  Actually, it was a photograph taken a year earlier, in the Bois de Boulogne, as he was looking at the body of a Russian who had been shot.

  More important documents in manila folders.

  Report of Inspector Torrence after investigation of Monsieur Edgar Fagonet, also known as Eusebio Fualdès, also known as Zebio, twenty-four years old, born in Lille.

  Son of Fagonet, Albert Jean-Marie, foreman at the Lecœur factories, who died three years ago … and of Jeanne, Albertine Octavie Hautbois, wife of the aforementioned, fifty-four years old, no profession.

  The following information was supplied, partly by the concierge at 57 Rue Caulaincourt, where Edgar Fagonet lives with his mother and sister, partly by neighbours and local tradesmen and partly, over the phone, by the police station near the gasworks in Lille.

  We also got in touch by phone with the Chevalet Sanatorium in Megève and spoke personally to the manager of the Imperia cinema on Boulevard des Capucines.

  Subject to further verification, the following information appears to be correct.

  The Fagonet family in Lille led a respectable life and occupied a one-storey house in the new neighbourhood near the gasworks. It seems that the ambition of the parents was for Edgar Fagonet to study, and, from the age of eleven, he did in fact enter secondary school.

  He soon had to leave it for a year in order to be admitted to a preventorium on the Ile d’Oléron. Having apparently recovered his health, he resumed his studies, but from then on they were constantly interrupted due to his weak constitution.

  At the age of seventeen, it became necessary to send him to the mountains, where he spent four years at the Chevalet Sanatorium near Megève.

  Dr Chevalet remembers Fagonet as a handsome young man who had a great deal of success with some of the female patients. He had a certain number of adventures there. It was there too that he became an accomplished dancer, because the rules of the establishment are very liberal, and the patients would seem to be generally eager for entertainment.

  Declared permanently unfit for military service by the recruitment board.

  At the age of twenty-one, Fagonet returns to Lille, just in time to see his father before he dies. The latter leaves him some savings, but they are insufficient to feed his family.

  Fagonet’s sister Émilie, then aged nineteen, suffers from a disease of the bones that makes her more or less disabled. In addition, she is of below-average intelligence and requires constant care.

  It seems that at this time Edgar Fagonet makes serious efforts to find a steady job, first in Lille, then in Roubaix. Unfortunately, he is handicapped by his interrupted education. In addition, although cured, his constitution does not allow him to do manual work.

  It is then that he arrives in Paris, where, a few weeks later, he is found in a sky-blue uniform, working as an usher at the Imperia cinema, which was the first to do away with usherettes and employ young men, including a certain number of poor students.

  It is difficult to have precise information about this, the interested parties being rather discreet, but it appears that several of these young men, taking advantage of the uniform, made some profitable conquests at the Imperia.

  Maigret smiled because Torrence had seen fit to underline the word profitable in red ink.

  The fact remains that the first concern of Fagonet, whom his friends were starting to call Zebio, because of his South American appearance, was to bring his mother and sister to Paris and to install them in a three-room rented apartment in Rue Caulaincourt.

  He is considered by the concierge and the neighbours as a particularly devoted son, and he is often the one who does the shopping locally in the morning.

  It is through his colleagues at the Imperia that he learns, a year ago, that the Majestic is looking for a professional dancer for its ballroom. He presents himself and, after a few days’ trial, is accepted. He then takes the name of Eusebio Fualdès, and the management of the hotel has no complaints about him.

  In the opinion of the staff, he is a reserved, sentimental and quite timid young man. Some say: as timid as a girl.

  He talks little, conserves his strength, being prone to relapses, and, on several occasions, has had to go and lie down on the bed in the basement, especially when special evenings kept him up late at night.

  Although he is on good terms with everyone, he does not have any friends and is unwilling to confide in anyone.

  It is assumed that his monthly income, including tips, must amount to between two thousand and two thousand five hundred francs.

  That repr
esents more or less the expenses of the household in Rue Caulaincourt.

  Edgar Fagonet does not drink, smokes little and does not take any drugs. His bad state of health would prevent him.

  His mother is a Northern woman, short and strong. She has spoken several times – to the concierge among others – of working for herself, but having to look after her daughter has always prevented her.

  We have tried to find out if Fagonet has ever spent time on the Côte d’Azur. We have no specific information about this. Some claim he spent a few days there three or four years ago, when he was still at the Imperia, in the company of a middle-aged lady. This information is, however, too vague to be taken as established fact.

  Maigret slowly filled pipe number three, stoked the stove, went to the window for a brief glance at the Seine, which was just starting to be gilded by a pale sun, then came back and sat down with a contented sigh.

  Report of Inspector Lucas regarding Ramuel, Jean Oscar Aldebert, forty-eight years old, living in rented accommodation at 14 Rue Delambre in the fourteenth arrondissement.

  Ramuel was born in Nice to a French father, now deceased, and an Italian mother, whom we have been unable to trace and who seems to have long ago returned to her country. His father worked as a shipper of fruit and vegetables.

  At the age of eighteen, Jean Ramuel is a clerk for a contractor at Les Halles in Paris, but we have been unable to gather specific information about this, because this contractor died ten years ago.

  At the age of nineteen, he volunteers for the army. At twenty-four, he leaves the army with the rank of sergeant-major and enters the service of an unofficial broker, but quits almost immediately to work as an assistant bookkeeper in a sugar refinery in Egypt.

  He remains there for three years, before returning to France, where he has a number of jobs in the business district in Paris, and tries his hand at playing the Stock Exchange.