Maigret and the Ghost Page 9

  ‘No … I wouldn’t have invited him here …’

  ‘What is the name of this graffiti artist?’

  ‘I only ever knew his first name—’

  ‘Which is?’

  A pause:

  ‘Pedro.’

  He was visibly lying.

  ‘A Spaniard? An Italian?’

  ‘Do you know, I didn’t bother to find out. I allowed him to use the studio and the bedroom. I gave him money to buy paints and canvases.’

  ‘And, at night, you locked him in to stop him gallivanting?’

  ‘I didn’t lock him in.’

  ‘Why, in that case, the external locks?’

  ‘They were fitted when the house was built.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘A very simple reason. It hasn’t occurred to you because you are not a collector. For a long time, in that studio I stored the paintings I had no room for on the walls … It made sense to lock them in from outside, since it wasn’t possible to do so from the inside.’

  ‘I thought the studio had been built for your painter girlfriend at the time …’

  ‘Let us say that the locks were fitted once she no longer lived here …’

  ‘Including on the bedroom door?’

  ‘I am not even certain I told the locksmith to fit one on that door …’

  ‘To return to Pedro …’

  ‘He lived in the house for several months.’

  ‘Several!’ emphasized Maigret, whereas Mirella couldn’t help smiling.

  Jonker was growing impatient and he must have had extraordinary self-control not to let his anger erupt.

  ‘Was he talented?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Did he make a career? Did he become famous?’

  ‘I don’t know … I went up to the studio a number of times and I admired his paintings—’

  ‘Did you buy any?’

  ‘How could I buy paintings from a man I was providing with board and lodging?’

  ‘So you do not own a single one of his works? … It didn’t occur to him to give you one before he left?’

  ‘Have you seen any paintings in the house that are less than thirty years old? … An art lover is often a collector … and each collector confines himself to a specific period … I, for instance, start with Van Gogh and end with Modigliani.’

  ‘Did Pedro have his meals up there?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Did Carl take them up to him?’

  ‘My wife dealt with those details.’

  ‘It was Carl,’ she replied in a hollow voice.

  ‘Did he go out a lot?’

  ‘Like all young men of his age.’

  ‘How old was he, as a matter of fact?’

  ‘Twenty-two or twenty-three. He ended up finding male and female friends. At first, he only brought one or two to the studio at a time. Then he went too far. Some nights there were twenty or so of them making a great disturbance just above my wife’s apartment, which kept her awake—’

  ‘You never had the curiosity to go up and find out what was going on, madame?’

  ‘My husband took care of it.’

  ‘And the result was?’

  ‘He threw Pedro out, not without giving him some money.’

  ‘Was that when you discovered the graffiti?’

  Jonker nodded.

  ‘You too, madame? In that case, your portrait must have revealed that Pedro was in love with you. Did he ever make a pass at you?’

  ‘If you continue in this vein, Monsieur Maigret, I will regretfully have to inform my ambassador of your way of going about things,’ said Jonker harshly.

  ‘Will you also tell him about the people who slip into the house at night and spend part or all of the night here?’

  ‘I thought I knew the French …’

  ‘I thought I knew the Dutch …’

  Mirella interrupted:

  ‘Why don’t you two stop arguing? I understand that my husband is annoyed at being asked certain questions, especially when they’re about me. I also understand the difficulty for inspector Maigret to accept our lifestyle …

  ‘As regards those women, Monsieur Maigret, I’ve always known about them, even before we were married … You would be surprised at the number of husbands in the same situation … Most of them keep it secret, especially in conventional circles … Norris prefers to be open, and I see it as a tribute to my intelligence and my affection.’

  He noted that she did not say ‘love’.

  ‘I think the fact that he has nothing to hide explains why some of his replies have been vague and the apparent contradictions—’

  ‘So I am going to ask you a very precise question. Until what time did you stay in the studio last night?’

  ‘I need to think, because I don’t bother with wearing a watch when I work, and you will have noticed there is no clock up there … At around eleven o’clock I sent my personal maid to bed—’

  ‘You were on the second floor?’

  ‘Yes. She came and asked me if she should wait up for me to help me get ready for bed—’

  ‘Were you working on the painting that is still on the easel?’

  ‘I spent a long time, charcoal in one hand, a rag in the other, trying to think of a subject.’

  ‘What is the subject of this work?’

  ‘Let’s call it a harmony … Abstract painting isn’t haphazard … Maybe it demands more reflection and trial and error than figurative painting—’

  ‘We were talking about times …’

  ‘It could have been one o’clock in the morning when I went downstairs to my apartment.’

  ‘Did you switch the studio light off?’

  ‘I think so. It’s a reflex.’

  ‘Were you wearing the same white garment and turban as you’re wearing today?’

  ‘To be honest, it’s an old bathrobe and a terry-towel. Since I only paint to amuse myself, it would have felt ridiculous buying a professional artist’s smock—’

  ‘Was your husband in bed? Did you not go and wish him good night?’

  ‘I don’t normally do that when I go to bed after him.’

  ‘For fear of finding him in the company of one of his female visitors?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I think we’re getting to the end …’

  He felt the atmosphere in the room relax, but this was an old trick of his. He slowly re-lit his pipe and appeared to be racking his brains to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  ‘Earlier, Monsieur Jonker, you pointed out, not without tact, that I know nothing about the thinking and actions of an art lover. I see, from your bookshelves, that you follow the major auctions. And you buy a lot, because at one point you had to store in the studio paintings for which you had no space anywhere else …

  ‘Should I infer that you sell the works you no longer like?’

  ‘I am going to try, once and for all, to explain. I inherited a certain number of paintings from my father, who was not only a renowned financier, but also one of the first to discover artists whose works the museums now vie with one another to purchase.

  ‘My income, although substantial, did not permit me to buy the paintings I fancied ad infinitum.

  ‘Like all collectors, I began with second-best pieces, let us call them minor works, by great artists …

  ‘Gradually, as they gained in value and my taste developed, I sold some of these works to buy more important ones—’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you. You continued until recently?’

  ‘I intend to continue until I die.’

  ‘These paintings that you sell, do you send them to the Drouot auction house, or do you entrust them to an art dealer?’

  ‘I have, on rare occasions, put a painting or two up for public auction. However, the works sold at auction generally come from an estate. A connoisseur prefers to go about things differently.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He knows the mark
et. He knows, for example, that such-and-such a museum in the USA or in South America is looking for a Renoir, a Picasso from the Blue Period. If he wants to sell a painting of that kind, he makes contacts …’

  ‘That would explain why neighbours saw paintings leaving your house …?’

  ‘Those and my wife’s …’

  ‘Can you, Monsieur Jonker, provide me with the names of some of your buyers? Let’s take only the past year, for example …’

  ‘No.’

  It was a cold, emphatic no.

  ‘Must I conclude that it is a matter of smuggling?’

  ‘I don’t like that word. Operations of this kind are carried out with discretion. Most countries, for example, regulate the export of artworks to protect their national heritage.

  ‘Not only do the museums have a right of pre-emption, but an export licence is often refused.

  ‘In the drawing room you can see one of the first works of De Chirico which was smuggled across the Italian border, as well as a Manet which, unbelievable as it may seem, came from Russia.

  ‘Do you understand why I cannot give names? Someone buys a painting from me. I deliver it to the purchaser. He pays me, and I don’t have to worry about what happens to it …’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t want to know. It’s none of my business. Any more than it is to find out about the provenance of a painting that I buy …’

  Maigret rose. He felt as if he had been in that house for ever and the muffled, almost unreal atmosphere was becoming oppressive. What was more, he was thirsty, but given the point he and Jonker had reached, he was no longer entitled to accept a drink.

  ‘I apologize, madame, for having interrupted your work and ruined your afternoon …’

  Did Mirella’s eyes not contain a question?

  ‘It’s not over, is it?’ she seemed to be saying. ‘I know police methods. You’re not going to let go of us and I wonder what trick you’ve got up your sleeve …’

  Turning towards her husband, she hesitated, opened her mouth and went back over to Maigret to murmur tritely:

  ‘Delighted to have met you.’

  Jonker, on his feet, crushing the end of his cigar in the ashtray, said:

  ‘I am sorry I did not always keep my cool … One should never forget one’s duties as a host …’

  They didn’t ring for Carl to show him out, but Jonker preceded him in person to the front door, which he opened. Outside, the cool air had a taste of damp and dust. A halo was beginning to form around the streetlamps.

  On the opposite side of the street, Marinette Augier’s windows were dark. There was no light on the first floor of the neighbouring building either, but an old man’s face was pressed to the windowpane.

  Maigret nearly gave a friendly wave to old Maclet stalwartly keeping watch. He was even tempted to go and knock on his door, but more urgent matters awaited him.

  That did not stop him, before climbing into a taxi on the corner of Rue Caulaincourt, from going into the bar he’d been in that morning and downing two beers in quick succession.

  6. The Barefoot Drunkard

  Habits form quickly in neighbourhood bars. Because he had drunk a grog that morning, the owner in his shirt-sleeves looked surprised when his customer ordered a beer. And when Maigret requested a telephone token, he asked:

  ‘Just one?’

  The person who had used the booth before Maigret had drunk a serious amount of calvados, because the air reeked of it and even the handset smelled of apple brandy.

  ‘Hello! Who’s that?’

  ‘Inspector Neveu.’

  ‘Is Lucas not in the office?’

  ‘I’ll call him … Just a moment … He’s on another line …’

  Maigret waited patiently, gazing absently at the soothing décor of the little café, its pewter counter and its familiar bottles and labels. The newspapers talked with complacency or anxiety about a world that was changing at breakneck speed but here, before his eyes, after all these years and a world war, were the same bottle labels that he used to see in the village inn as a child.

  ‘Sorry, chief …’

  ‘I want the house of a certain Norris Jonker, in Avenue Junot, put under surveillance as soon as possible. It’s opposite the building Lognon came out of when he was shot. Put at least two men and a car there …’

  ‘I’m not sure there are any left in the yard. I fear there aren’t—’

  ‘Find one … Not only must the Jonkers be followed if they leave the house, but visitors must also be tailed … Get a move on …’

  In the taxi weaving through the lights, he felt in a strange mood. He should have been pleased with himself, because he hadn’t been intimidated by the Dutchman’s arrogance and wealth, or by Mirella’s dazzling beauty.

  Rarely had he gathered so many details in a single day about a case he’d had no inkling of on getting up that morning. Not only had the art lover’s house come alive and yielded a number of little secrets, but Avenue Junot, which he thought he knew, had taken on a new countenance.

  Why did he feel dissatisfied with himself and vaguely worried? He asked himself the question and tried to answer it, but it was only as the taxi was crossing the Pont-au-Change and he glimpsed the familiar outline of the old Palais de Justice that he believed he’d identified the cause of his unease.

  Although he had spent most of his time in Norris Jonker’s study, had visited the house from top to bottom, and the most dramatic scene had taken place in the second-floor studio, his strongest memory was not of those places.

  The image that stayed with him, as obstinate as a tune on the brain, was that of the little bedroom with an iron bedstead, and he suddenly understood the reason for his concern.

  Like in a film close-up, he saw those obscene images again, drawn on the white walls, with broad brush-strokes, in red, black and blue. When he tried to picture Mirella Jonker, it was her portrait in a few hastily drawn lines that stood out most in his mind.

  Was not the person who had created that image in a frenzy, surrounding it with wild sexual symbols, mad? Did not the drawings of lunatics that he’d had the occasion to see exude that same energy and evocative power?

  The room had been occupied recently, that was beyond doubt. Why, otherwise, would it have been thoroughly scrubbed down in the past few hours? And why had they not dared repaint the walls white?

  He lumbered up the main staircase of the Police Judiciaire. Instead of going directly to his office, he first dropped into the inspectors’ room, as was his habit. Under the globe lights, each person was working at their desk, like students at an evening class.

  He didn’t look at anyone in particular, but he found it comforting to be back in touch with headquarters and its professional atmosphere.

  They did not raise their eyes any more than pupils do when the teacher walks past; yet they all knew that he was grave and anxious, that his face bore signs not just of weariness but of exhaustion.

  ‘My wife hasn’t called?’

  ‘No, chief.’

  ‘Phone her at home. If she’s not there, try Lognon’s number.’

  … Perhaps not an actual madman, not someone who should be locked up in a psychiatric hospital, but someone violent, unable to control his instincts …

  ‘Hello! Is that you?’

  She was back at their apartment and was probably busy cooking dinner.

  ‘Have you been home long?’

  ‘Over an hour. To be honest, I don’t think she particularly wants me there … She was flattered that I took the trouble, but she doesn’t feel comfortable with me … She far prefers the company of the old dear with the rosary … The pair of them can complain to their hearts’ content and count their endless woes …

  ‘I went and bought a few treats from the local shops … I slipped a banknote into the hand of the old woman, who didn’t bat an eyelid, and I promised to drop in tomorrow …

  ‘What about you? Do you plan to be here for dinner?’
/>
  ‘I don’t know yet. I doubt it.’

  ‘How’s Lognon?’

  ‘The last I heard, he was alive, but I’ve only just got back to the office …’

  ‘See you tonight, I hope …’

  ‘See you tonight …’

  He didn’t call her by her first name, nor she him. They didn’t call one another ‘darling’. What would be the point, since they felt almost like one and the same person?

  He hung up and opened the door.

  ‘Is Janvier there?’

  ‘Coming, chief …’

  And Maigret, sitting at his desk, on which he kept his pipes:

  ‘Lognon, first …’

  ‘I telephoned the hospital ten minutes ago … The matron is losing patience … Condition stable … The doctors aren’t expecting any change before tomorrow at the earliest … He’s in a coma and, even if his eyes open, he doesn’t know where he is, who is beside him or what happened to him …’

  ‘Have you seen Marinette Augier’s ex-fiancé?’

  ‘I found him at his office and he seemed frightened at the thought that his father might have found out I was from the police … The father, apparently, is a harsh man who terrifies his staff … Jean-Claude, on the other hand, is a spineless fop, a weakling … He dragged me outside and put on an act in front of the young lady in reception, passing me off as a client …’

  ‘What do they manufacture?’

  ‘Metal pipes of I don’t know what – copper, iron or cast iron. It’s a big, sinister place of the sort you find around Avenue de la République and Boulevard Voltaire … He took me to a café, a long way from the office … The afternoon papers are full of the shooting and Lognon’s injuries, but don’t mention Marinette … Jean-Claude hadn’t read them, incidentally …’

  ‘Was he cooperative?’

  ‘He’s so frightened of his father and, in general, of anything that might complicate his life, that he would have confessed all his youthful sins … I told him that Marinette had suddenly left her home and that we urgently needed her witness statement …

  ‘ “You were engaged for nearly a year …”

  ‘ “Engaged, well … That’s a bit of an exaggeration …”

  ‘ “Or an understatement, since you used to spend one or two nights a week at her place …”