Maigret's Pickpocket Page 9

  He had so far only skimmed the surface of this small world: thousands of similar circles, tens of thousands even, must exist in Paris, made up of friends, relations, colleagues, lovers and mistresses, fellow-regulars of a café or restaurant, circles that form, grow close for a while, then break up to form other more or less parallel little worlds.

  What was the name of the photographer who had been married twice, with children from both wives, and who had now got his new mistress pregnant?

  He was still at the stage of mixing up some of their names and situations. And yet Sophie’s murder had been committed by someone who knew the couple well – or perhaps only the young woman. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have opened the door.

  Unless someone else had a key?

  He was pacing up and down, as Torrence had been doing all night long, but Maigret had the good fortune to be walking in the sunshine. The street was busy with housewives who turned round to look at this gentleman coming and going, hands behind his back, like a schoolmaster in the playground. Yes, there were plenty more questions to ask Francis. And no doubt, just like yesterday, he would be faced with a twitchy creature, bridling every now and then before calming down, suspicious, impatient, prone to sudden outbursts.

  ‘Here I am. I’m ready.’

  Maigret pointed to the coal and wood merchant’s café.

  ‘You wouldn’t like a drink of something?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Pity, since Maigret would willingly have started this nice spring day with a little glass of white wine.

  5.

  It was a tough moment to get through. In almost all his investigations, Maigret experienced this more or less long period of uncertainty, in the course of which, his colleagues whispered, he seemed to be ruminating.

  During the first phase of a case, that is when he was suddenly faced with a new milieu and people about whom he knew nothing, it was as if he was breathing in the life around him, absorbing it like a sponge.

  That was what he had done the previous evening in the Vieux-Pressoir, his memory registering, without consciously doing so, the smallest details of the atmosphere, the gestures and facial expressions of everyone there.

  If he hadn’t been feeling so tired, he would have gone on to Club Zéro, which was frequented by some members of the little gang.

  And now, he had taken in a huge number of impressions, a jumble of images, of sentences spoken, of words that might or might not mean something, of surprised expressions, but he was still undecided what he would do with it all.

  His close colleagues knew that it was best not to ask him any questions, or even to look at him inquiringly, since he would very likely turn crotchety.

  As he had been expecting, a note on his desk asked him to call the examining magistrate Camus.

  ‘Hello. Maigret here.’

  He had only occasionally worked with this magistrate, whom he regarded neither as a complete pain in the neck, nor among those who wisely allowed the police to get on with their job.

  ‘If I asked you to call me, it was because I’ve had a call myself from the public prosecutor. He’s impatient to know what stage the investigation has reached.’

  Maigret almost muttered ‘Nowhere’.

  Which was true. A crime isn’t like an algebra problem. It has to do with human beings about whom nothing was known yesterday, who were just passers-by like anyone else. Then suddenly, every one of their gestures, every word they speak, takes on significance and their whole life is examined with a fine-tooth comb.

  ‘The investigation is ongoing,’ he preferred to say. ‘Within an hour or so, we shall probably have the murder weapon. The police divers are looking for it in the Seine.’

  ‘What have you done with the husband?’

  ‘He’s here, in the icebox.’

  He checked himself, since this was a term that could be understood only by the inspectors in his squad. When they did not know what to do with a witness but wanted to keep him in sight, or when they had a suspect not yet ready to be charged, they put him in ‘the icebox’.

  They would say, as they took the individual concerned into the glass-panelled waiting room, looking on to the long corridor:

  ‘Wait here for a moment.’

  There were people there permanently: anxious women, some crying and dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs, small-time crooks trying to brazen it out, and now and then solid citizens who remained patiently waiting, looking at the pale-green painted walls, and wondering if the authorities had forgotten their existence.

  An hour or two in the icebox was generally enough to make people ready to talk. Even witnesses determined not to say a word became easier to deal with.

  It sometimes happened that they were ‘forgotten’ for half a day, so they kept looking at the door, half-rising every time the usher approached, hoping that it was at last their turn.

  They would see the inspectors go off at midday, and pluck up their courage to go and ask Joseph:

  ‘Are you sure the chief knows I’m here?’

  ‘He’s still in a meeting.’

  For want of any other possibility, Maigret had put Ricain in the icebox.

  He translated for the benefit of the examining magistrate:

  ‘He’s in the waiting room. I’ll question him again when I have more information.’

  ‘What’s your impression of him? Guilty?’

  Another question the magistrate would not have asked if he had worked for longer with Maigret.

  ‘I don’t have any impression yet.’

  This was true. He always waited as long as possible before forming an opinion. And even then he did not really form the opinion. He kept an open mind until the moment when something became evident to him, or until the interviewee cracked.

  ‘Do you think this is going to take long?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Have we ruled out the possibility that it is money-related, a robbery gone wrong?’

  As if all crimes weren’t money-related. In the Palais de Justice and the Police Judiciaire, people did not have the same view of human character or speak the same language.

  It was difficult to imagine that some unknown individual looking for money might have turned up after ten at night in Rue Saint-Charles, and that Sophie Ricain, already in her nightclothes, would have let him or her into the flat without suspecting anything.

  Either the murderer had a key, or it was someone whom she knew and trusted. Especially if the killer had had to open the drawer in the chest in her presence, to take the gun out.

  ‘Could you kindly keep me informed? Don’t make me wait too long. The prosecutor’s office is getting impatient.’

  Of course! The prosecutor’s office is always impatient. These gentlemen who sit comfortably in their offices and whose only acquaintance with crime is through legal papers and statistics. A phone call from the minister’s office has them shaking in their shoes.

  ‘Why hasn’t anyone been arrested yet?’

  The minister, in turn, is driven by the impatience of the newspapers. For the press, a good crime is one that delivers a juicy development every day. If the reader is left too long without news, he’ll forget all about the case. One scandal displaces another, and you lose your chance for a good headline.

  ‘Very well, sir … Yes, sir … I’ll call you back.’

  He winked at Janvier.

  ‘Go into the corridor now and then to see what he’s doing. He’s the kind of man who might throw a fit, or try to force my door.’

  He nevertheless went through his mail, and attended the morning briefing, the daily occasion to meet his colleagues and discuss current cases dispassionately.

  ‘Nothing to report, Maigret?’

  ‘Nothing to report, chief.’

  Here, people didn’t insist. They were all professionals who knew their job.

  When Maigret returned to his office a little before ten, the River Squad was calling him.

  ‘You’ve found the gun
?’

  ‘We got lucky, the current’s quite weak at the moment, and the Seine was dredged at this point last autumn. My men found it almost at once, about forty metres upstream from the bridge, and ten metres from the left bank. A 6.35 automatic, made in Belgium. The magazine still had five rounds in it.’

  ‘Can you send it to Gastinne-Renette, please?’

  And to Janvier:

  ‘Can you look after this? He’s already been sent the bullet.’

  ‘Right, chief.’

  Maigret almost telephoned to Rue de Bassano, then decided not to give advance notice, and headed for the main staircase, avoiding turning towards the waiting room.

  His departure would not go unnoticed by Ricain, who would no doubt be wondering where he was off to. On his way, he met young Lapointe just arriving, so instead of taking a taxi as he had intended, he asked Lapointe to drive to the building where Carus had his offices.

  He took the time to look at the brass plates under the archway, noting that there was a firm connected to the cinema on virtually every floor. The one that interested him was called Carossoc and its premises were on the mezzanine landing.

  ‘Shall I come up with you?’

  ‘Yes, I’d prefer that.’

  Not only was it his method, but it was also recommended in the rulebook for officers of the Police Judiciaire.

  The entry hall was rather dark, its only window giving on to the courtyard where a chauffeur could be seen polishing a Rolls-Royce. A red-headed secretary was sitting in front of the switchboard.

  ‘Monsieur Carus, please.’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s arrived yet.’

  As if anybody could reach the other offices without walking past her!

  ‘Who shall I say? You have an appointment?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  She stood up and made as if to take them to the waiting room, putting them in an icebox too.

  ‘No thanks, we’ll wait here.’

  Visibly, she was not best pleased at this. Instead of telephoning through to her boss, she opened a padded door and left the room for three or four minutes.

  The first person to emerge was not the secretary but Carus in person, wearing a light grey pinstripe suit and freshly shaved, spreading a smell of lavender around him.

  He had clearly just come from his barber’s, and had no doubt also had a face massage, being the kind of man who probably spent a good half-hour every morning in the swivel chair.

  ‘My dear friend, how are you?’

  He extended a cordial hand to the dear friend, of whose existence he had been unaware at six the previous evening.

  ‘Do come in. And you too, young man. I suppose this is one of your colleagues?’

  ‘Inspector Lapointe.’

  ‘You may leave us, mademoiselle. If anyone asks, I’m not here, and I won’t take any call, unless it’s from New York.’

  He explained with a smile:

  ‘I hate being interrupted by phone calls.’

  There were nevertheless three telephones on his desk. The room was immense, the walls covered in padded beige leather like the armchairs, while the deep-pile carpet was a pastel chestnut colour.

  As for the huge rosewood desk, it was laden with enough files to keep a dozen secretaries employed.

  ‘Do sit down. What can I offer you?’

  He headed for a low sideboard which turned out to be a well-stocked bar.

  ‘It’s a little early for an aperitif, but I imagine you are a connoisseur of beer. And so am I. I have some excellent stuff here. I get it delivered directly from Munich.’

  He was being more amiable than the night before, perhaps because he had no need to worry about Nora’s reactions.

  ‘Yesterday, you took me a bit by surprise … When I went out to have dinner, as I often do, at my old friend Bob’s place, I wasn’t expecting to meet you. I’d had two or three whiskies beforehand, and what with the champagne … Not that I was drunk. I never am. But this morning, I only have a very vague memory of what we talked about. My wife told me off for talking too much and too emotionally. Your good health, inspector! … I hope that wasn’t the impression I gave you.’

  ‘You seem to consider François Ricain as a worthwhile young man, who has every chance of becoming a leading film director.’

  ‘I may have said that, yes. I make a habit of trusting young people and, of course, I often make a show of my enthusiasm.’

  ‘But you don’t think the same thing this morning?’

  ‘Oh yes, I do. Yes indeed. More or less … The kid’s a bit disorganized. A bit anarchic. Half the time he’s over-confident and the other half he’s completely unsure of himself.’

  ‘If I remember correctly what you said, the Ricains’ marriage was, in your view, quite a close one.’

  Carus had seated himself in one of the leather armchairs, crossing his legs, a glass in one hand, a cigar in the other.

  ‘Did I say that?’

  He suddenly decided to stand up, put the glass down on a surface, puffed on the cigar a few times, and paced across the carpet.

  ‘Look here, detective chief inspector, I was hoping you’d come round this morning.’

  ‘That’s what I understood.’

  ‘Nora is an exceptional woman. Although she never sets foot in the office, I could sincerely say she is my best collaborator.’

  ‘You mentioned her gift as a medium …’

  He waved his hand as if wiping out some words on a blackboard.

  ‘That’s what I say in front of her, because she likes it. The truth is she has excellent common sense, and she’s rarely wrong in her judgements of other people. I get too enthusiastic. I trust them too easily.’

  ‘So she’s a sort of safety catch for you.’

  ‘If you like. I’m determined, as soon as I can get my divorce, to make her my legal wife. She practically is already.’

  It was clear that the conversation was getting more difficult for him, and he was searching for words, staring at the ash on his cigar.

  ‘How shall I put it? Nora is indeed a superior being, but she can’t help being jealous. That’s why in her presence, last night, I was obliged to lie to you.’

  ‘The scene in the hotel bedroom?’

  ‘Exactly. It didn’t happen the way I told it, of course. It’s true that Sophie had taken refuge in the bedroom to cry, after some cruel words spoken by Nora to her, I don’t know what exactly, because we had all had a lot to drink.

  ‘So, long story short, I went in there to comfort her.’

  ‘And you ended up making love to her?’

  ‘If you want to put it that way. She fell into my arms, one thing led to another, and we were very indiscreet. Very indiscreet.’

  ‘And your wife witnessed it?’

  ‘Well, a police officer would not have hesitated to regard it as evidence of adultery.’

  He was smiling a rather satisfied smile.

  ‘Tell me, Monsieur Carus. I imagine that you have a procession of pretty girls coming into your offices every day. And most of them would do anything to get a part in a film.’

  ‘Very true.’

  ‘And I’m guessing that you may sometimes take advantage of your visitor.’

  ‘I don’t hide it.’

  ‘Even from Nora?’

  ‘Let me explain. If now and then I take advantage, as you put it, of a pretty girl, Nora doesn’t worry too much, as long as it doesn’t last. It comes with the job. All men do the same thing, though they don’t all have the same opportunity. Yourself, chief inspector …’

  Maigret looked at him forbiddingly, without smiling.

  ‘Oh, please forgive me if I shocked you. Where was I? I know that you have been questioning some of our friends, and that you will be doing so again. I prefer to be perfectly frank with you. You heard the way Nora referred to Sophie.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you, after that, to get the wrong idea about the poor girl.

  ‘She was
n’t ambitious, on the contrary, and she wasn’t the kind of girl to sleep around.

  ‘When she was very young, almost a child still, she fell for Ricain, which was inevitable, because he has a certain magnetism. Women are impressed by tortured souls, men who are ambitious, bitter and violent …’

  ‘Is that how you see him?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’

  ‘So, she married him. She trusted him. She followed him round like a well-trained little dog, keeping her mouth shut when he didn’t want her to speak, taking up as little room as possible, so as not to bother him, and accepting the precarious living she had with him.’

  ‘Was she unhappy?’

  ‘She was suffering from the life they led, but she didn’t let him see it. And while he needed her, or rather needed her passive presence, there were moments when he was irritable towards her, calling her a dead weight, an obstacle to his career, and accusing her of being as stupid as a dumb animal.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  ‘I’d already guessed it from hearing some exchanges between them in front of me.’

  ‘And she began to confide in you?’

  ‘If you like. Not that I wanted her to, let me assure you. She felt quite lost in a world that was too hard-bitten for her, and she didn’t have anyone to cling to.’

  ‘When did you become lovers?’

  ‘Another word I don’t like. It was really mostly pity and affection I felt for her. My intention was to help her.’

  ‘To have a career in films?’

  ‘This will surprise you, but I did have that idea, and she was the one who was less keen. She wasn’t a raving beauty like Nora, one of those women who make heads turn in the street.

  ‘But I have a good idea of what the public likes. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be in this job. With her girl-next-door looks and her delicate, slim little body, Sophie was almost exactly the image of a young girl that most people have in mind. Parents would have been able to identify her with their daughter, young men with their cousin, or girlfriend. Do you see what I’m getting at?’