The Grand Banks Café (19 page)

‘Headed towards Boulevard Arago. Dufour and Janvier are on his tail.'

‘You can go home now.'

Maigret, his mind elsewhere, shook the officer's hand, moved off with his stolid tread, head down, lighting his pipe as he went.

It was four in the morning when he pushed open the door of his office on Quai des Orfèvres. With a sigh he took off his overcoat, swallowed half the contents of a glass of warm beer which had been left among his papers and sat heavily into his chair.

In front of him was a fat manila file on which a police clerk had written in a flowery hand:
Heurtin Case
.

He waited for three hours. The bare electric bulb was surrounded by a cloud of smoke, which stirred at the slightest movement of air. From time to time, Maigret got up to poke the stove then returned to his seat but not before removing first his jacket, then his collar and finally his waistcoat.

The phone was within easy reach, and at around seven o'clock he lifted the receiver just to make sure that they had not forgotten to give him an outside line.

The buff-coloured file was open. Reports, newspaper cuttings, witness-statements and photographs had spilled out on to the desk, and Maigret stared at them distantly, sometimes reaching for a document not so much to read it as to confirm a train of thought.

The whole collection was topped by a newspaper cutting with a forceful headline spread over two newspaper columns:

Joseph Heurtin, killer of Madame Henderson and her maid, sentenced to death this morning.

Maigret was smoking continuously, keeping an anxious eye on the telephone, which remained obstinately silent.

At ten past six, it rang, but it was a wrong number.

From where he sat, the inspector could read parts of various documents, though he now knew them by heart.

Joseph Jean-Marie Heurtin, 27, born Melun, a delivery man for Monsieur Gérardier, a florist in Rue de Sèvres …

The man's photograph was visible. It had been taken a year before in a fairground booth at Neuilly. A big man with unusually long arms, triangular-shaped head, washed-out complexion and clothes which denoted a vulgar dress sense.

Brutal Killing at Saint-Cloud

Rich American stabbed to death along with her maid

It had happened in July.

Maigret pushed away the gruesome shots from Criminal Records: both corpses, seen from different angles, blood everywhere, faces convulsed, night clothes disordered, stained, torn …

Detective Chief Inspector Maigret of the Police Judiciaire has cleared up the Saint-Cloud tragedy. The murderer is behind bars.

He ruffled through the papers spread out in front of him and found the cutting, which was dated ten days earlier:

Joseph Heurtin, killer of Madame Henderson and her maid, sentenced to death this morning …

In the courtyard of the Préfecture, a police van was disembarking the previous night's haul, who were mostly women. The first footsteps of the day could be heard in the corridors, and the mist above the Seine was dispersing.

‘That you, Dufour?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Well?'

‘Nothing … That is … If you want, I'll go down there myself … But for the moment, Janvier can manage on his own …'

‘Where is he?'

‘At the
Citanguette.'

‘Say again, the what?'

‘A bistro, not far from Issy-les-Moulineaux. I'll get a taxi and join you so I can put you in the picture.'

Maigret paced up and down, sent out an office junior to order coffee and croissants for him at the Brasserie Dauphine.

He had just begun to eat when Inspector Dufour, a small man neatly turned out in his grey suit and very high, very stiff detachable collar, came in with his usual air of mystery.

‘First thing: what's this Citanguette?' growled Maigret. ‘Sit down.'

‘A bistro used by boatmen on the bank of the Seine between Grenelle and Issy-les-Moulineaux.'

‘Did he make straight for it?'

‘Not at all. And it was a miracle he didn't manage to give Janvier and me the slip.'

‘Have you had breakfast?'

‘Yes, at the Citanguette.'

‘Very well, tell me what happened.'

‘You saw him get away, didn't you? At first he ran as if he was scared of being recaptured. He didn't stop being jittery until he got to the Lion de Belfort. He halted and stared at it. He seemed bewildered.'

‘Did he know he was being tailed?'

‘Definitely not! He never turned round once.'

‘And then?'

‘I think a blind man, or somebody who'd never been to Paris before, would have behaved just as he did. He suddenly turned into the avenue that runs through Montparnasse cemetery. I forget what it's called. There wasn't a soul about. It was pretty gloomy just there. He couldn't have known where he was because when he walked through the iron gates and saw the tombstones he started running again.'

‘Go on.'

Maigret, his mouth full, seemed more relaxed.

‘We got to Montparnasse. The big cafés were closed, but a few clubs were still open. I remember that he stopped at one of them. There was the sound of jazz coming from inside. Then this little street-seller went up to him with her basket of flowers, and he ran off again.'

‘Which way did he go?'

‘No particular way, really. He went down Boulevard Raspail. Then he doubled back down a side street and came out again outside the entrance to Montparnasse station.'

‘How did he seem?'

‘He didn't seem like anything. The same as when he was being investigated, as when he was in court. Very pale. And a scared, unfocused look in his eyes. Half an hour later, we were at Les Halles.'

‘And no one had tried to speak to him?'

‘No one.'

‘And did he post anything in a letterbox?'

‘I'm positive he didn't. Janvier was following him on one side of the road, and I was on the other. We didn't miss a thing he did. Wait! He did stop for a moment at a stand selling hot sausages and fries. He hesitated and then he was off again, perhaps because he'd caught sight of a uniformed officer.'

‘Did you get the impression he was looking for a particular address?'

‘I didn't. You'd have thought he was a drunk who goes in whatever direction God points him. Then we were back at the Seine, at Place de la Concorde. He decided he was going to walk along the riverbank. He stopped and sat down two or three times.'

‘Sat on what?'

‘Once on the stone parapet and another time on a bench. I couldn't swear to it but I think the second time he was crying. Anyway, he was holding his head in both hands.'

‘No one else on the bench?'

‘Nobody. Then we walked some more. Imagine how far, all the way to Moulineaux! Now and then he'd stop and look down at the water. The tugs were beginning to move around. Then the factory workers started filling the streets. He still kept going, like a man who has no idea what he's going to do next.'

‘Anything else?'

‘That's about it. Oh, one thing. When he got to Pont Mirabeau, he put both hands in his pockets and took something out of them …'

‘Five-franc notes.'

‘That's what Janvier and I both thought we saw. At that point, he started looking round him for something. Obviously a bistro! But nothing was open on the Right Bank. He crossed over. He went into a small bar full of stokers and ordered a coffee and a tot of rum.'

‘The Citanguette?'

‘Not yet. Janvier and I had legs like jelly. And unlike him we couldn't buy a drink to warm us up! Off he went again. He led us this way and that. Janvier, who took a note of all the streets, will give you a full report … In the end, we got back to the river, came out near a large factory. Down that way, it's pretty deserted.

‘There are a few bushes and grass like in the country among all the heaps of spoil. Barges are moored up near a crane. Maybe twenty of them.

‘The Citanguette is an inn you wouldn't expect to find there. A small bistro where they serve food. On the right is an extension with a mechanical piano and a sign saying: “Dancing Saturdays and Sundays”.

‘Our man drank another coffee and more rum. They brought him a plate of sausages after making him wait a long time for it. He spoke to the landlord, and a quarter of an hour later we saw them both disappear upstairs.

‘When the landlord came back, I went in. I asked him point-blank if he had let any rooms.

‘He said: “Why? Has
he
been up to something?”

‘Clearly a man used to having dealings with the police. There was no point trying to bluff it out. I preferred to scare him. I told him that if he breathed one word to his customer, his place would be shut down.

‘He doesn't know him, I'm sure of that. The clientele is mostly men from the barges, and, as soon as it's midday, the workers from the factory nearby all troop in for an aperitif.

‘Apparently when Heurtin got inside his room, he threw himself on the bed without taking his shoes off. The landlord told him off, so he dropped them on the floor and immediately fell asleep.'

‘Has Janvier stayed on?'

‘He's still there. You can call him because the Citanguette has a telephone on account of the bargemen. They often need to get in touch with their owners.'

Maigret picked up the phone. A few moments later, Janvier was on the other end of the line.

‘Hello? What's our man doing now?'

‘Sleeping.'

‘Anything suspicious to report?'

‘Nothing. All quiet as quiet. You can hear him snoring from the foot of the stairs.'

Maigret hung up and ran his eyes over the small figure of Dufour from head to foot.

‘You won't let him give you the slip?' he asked.

The officer was about to protest, but Maigret put one hand on his shoulder and went on in a sober voice:

‘Listen, son. I know you'll do everything you can. But my job is on the line here! And a lot else besides. Fact is, I can't go myself. The wretch knows me.'

‘Sir, I swear …'

‘Don't swear, just go.'

And with a curt movement of his hand, Maigret swept the various documents into the manila folder, which he placed in a drawer.

‘And if you need more men, don't hesitate to ask.'

Joseph Heurtin's picture was still on the desk, and Maigret gazed briefly at his bony head, flapping ears and wide, bloodless lips.

Three medics had examined the man. Two had said:

Low intelligence. Fully responsible for his actions.

The third, quoted by the defence, had coyly ventured:

Troubled atavism. Diminished responsibility.

And Maigret, who had arrested Joseph Heurtin, had told the chief of police, the public prosecutor and the examining magistrate:

‘He's either insane or innocent!'

And he had undertaken to prove it.

From the corridor came the receding sound of Inspector Dufour's footsteps as he went trippingly on his way.

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