A Man's Head (3 page)

‘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.

It was eleven o'clock when Maigret, after a brief meeting with Coméliau, the examining magistrate, who still did not feel fully reassured, arrived at Auteuil.

The weather was dull, the streets dirty and the sky sat low over the rooftops. On Maigret's side of the river was a line of affluent blocks of flats, while the bank opposite already had an industrial zone look to it: factories, patches of
waste ground, unloading wharves littered with heaps of rubble.

Between these two townscapes flowed the Seine, grey, leaden and ruffled by the comings-and-goings of tug-boats.

The Citanguette was not hard to spot, even from a distance, an isolated structure in the middle of a piece of ground cluttered with all sorts of debris: piles of bricks, old rusting car chassis, scraps of roofing felt and even lengths of railway
track.

A two-storey building, painted an ugly red, with an outside terrace with three tables and the traditional awning bearing the words:
Wines – Snacks
. Dockers emerged. They were clearly unloading cement because they were white from head to
foot. At the door, as they left, they each shook hands with a man in a blue apron, the proprietor of the establishment, then headed off unhurriedly towards a barge moored at the quayside.

Maigret looked weary and dull-eyed, but the fact that he had just spent a sleepless night was not the problem.

It was his habit to let himself droop like this, to wilt, every time he'd pursued a quarry relentlessly and finally had him within reach.

A reaction. He would feel sickened and did not try to fight it.

He noticed a hotel just opposite the Citanguette and walked up to reception.

‘I'd like a room overlooking the river.'

‘Monthly rate?'

He gave a shrug. He was not in the mood to be crossed.

‘For as long as I want it! Police Judiciaire.'

‘We don't have anything available.'

‘Fine. Give me the register.'

‘One moment … Wait! … I'll just phone the porter upstairs to make sure number 18 …'

‘Cretin!' muttered Maigret between his teeth.

He was, of course, given the room. The hotel was luxurious. The porter asked:

‘Any bags needing to be brought up?'

‘No. Just bring me a pair of binoculars.'

‘But … I don't know if …'

‘Look, just go and get the binoculars from wherever you have to!'

He removed his overcoat with a sigh, opened the window and filled a pipe. Less than five minutes later, he was brought a pair of mother-of-pearl binoculars.

‘These belong to the manager's wife. She says to be …'

‘That's all! Now clear off! …'

By now he knew every last detail of the façade of the Citanguette
.
One upstairs window was open. Through it he could see an unmade bed with a vast red eiderdown lying sideways on it and a pair of carpet slippers on a sheepskin rug.

‘The landlord's room!'

Next to it was another window, but this one was shut. Then a third which was open and framed a fat woman in a dressing gown who was doing her hair.

‘The landlord's wife … Or maybe the maid.'

Downstairs, the landlord was wiping his tables with a cloth. At one of them, Inspector Dufour was sitting nursing a large glass of red wine.

The two men were talking, that much was obvious.

Further along, on the edge of the stone quayside, a young man with fair hair, wearing a mackintosh and a grey cap, appeared to be watching the cement being unloaded from the barge.

It was Inspector Janvier, one of the youngest officers in the Police Judiciaire.

In Maigret's room, at the head of the bed, was a phone. The inspector lifted the receiver.

‘Reception?'

‘You wanted something?'

‘Connect me to the bistro on the other side of the river. It's called the Citanguette.'

‘As you wish,' said a starchy voice.

It took some time. But eventually, from his window, Maigret saw the landlord put his cloth down and make for a door. Then the phone rang in his room.

‘You're through to the number you asked for.'

‘Hello? Is that the Citanguette? … Would you ask the customer who is there now, in your bar, to come to the phone … Yes! … There's no possible mistake since there's only one there …'

And through the window he saw the bewildered landlord speak to Dufour, who stepped into the booth.

‘Listen …'

‘Is that you, chief?'

‘I'm across the river, in the hotel you can see from your table … What's our man doing?'

‘He's asleep.'

‘You've seen him?'

‘A little while back I went up and listened outside his door … I could hear him snoring … So I opened the door a crack and I saw him … He's out cold, still in his clothes …'

‘You're sure the landlord didn't tip him off?'

‘He's too scared of the police! He's already been in trouble, some time back. He was threatened with having his licence taken away. So, he keeps his nose clean.'

‘How many exits?'

‘Two. The front door and another, which opens into a yard. Janvier's got that covered from his position.'

‘Has anyone gone upstairs?'

‘Nobody. And nobody can without passing me. The stairs are inside the bistro, behind the counter.'

‘Good … Have your lunch there … I'll phone again later … Try to look like a barge-owner's agent.'

Maigret put the receiver down, dragged an armchair to the open window, felt cold, fetched his overcoat from where it hung and put it on.

‘Have you finished your call?' asked the hotel switchboard.

‘Quite finished. I want you to send up some beer. And tobacco. Dark shag.'

‘We don't keep tobacco.'

‘Well, you'll just have to send out for some!'

At three in the afternoon, he was still in the same place, the binoculars on his knees, an empty glass within reach. A powerful smell of pipe-smoke filled the room, despite the open window.

He had dropped the morning papers on the floor. They carried the police statement:

Death Penalty Man Escapes from Santé Prison!

From time to time Maigret continued to shrug his shoulders, cross and uncross his legs.

At 3.30, he received a phone call from the Citanguette.

‘Any developments?' he asked.

‘No. He's still sleeping.'

‘So?'

‘Quai des Orfèvres have been on the line asking where you are. It seems that the examining magistrate needs to speak to you at once.'

This time, Maigret did not shrug his shoulders but spat a very blunt epithet, hung up and called the switchboard.

‘Prosecutor's office, please. It's urgent.'

He knew exactly what Monsieur Coméliau would say!

‘Ah! Is that you, detective chief inspector? At last! No one could tell me where you were. But at Quai des Orfèvres they informed me that you had men watching the Citanguette. I rang there …'

‘What's happened?'

‘First, do you have anything new?'

‘Absolutely nothing.
Our man is asleep
 …'

‘Are you sure? … He hasn't escaped, has he?'

‘If I exaggerated slightly, I'd say that at this very moment I can see him sleeping.'

‘You know, I'm starting to regret that …'

‘ … that you listened to me? But the justice minister himself agreed it …'

‘Yes, but wait a minute! The morning papers published your statement.'

‘I saw it.'

‘But have you seen the afternoon editions? … No? … Try to get hold of
Le Sifflet
 … Yes. I know it's a scandal sheet … but even so! … Will you hang on for just a
moment? … Hello? … Still there? I'll read it out … It's a short paragraph from
Le Sifflet
 … It's headed “Reason of State” … Are you listening, Maigret? … Here it is:

This morning's papers published a semi-official statement revealing that Joseph Heurtin, sentenced to death by the Assize Court of the Seine District and held on High Surveillance at the Santé prison, had escaped in baffling
circumstances.

We can add that these circumstances are not baffling for everybody.

In fact, Joseph Heurtin did not escape. He was made to escape. And it happened on the eve of the date fixed for his execution.

We are still unable to give details of the appalling charade which was played out last night at the Santé, but we can confirm that it was the police, with the collusion of the courts, who oversaw this faked escape.

Does Joseph Heurtin know?

If he doesn't, we cannot find words to describe this operation, which is probably unique in the annals of crime.

Maigret had listened to every last word without moving a muscle. At the other end of the line, the voice of the examining judge faltered.

‘Well? What do you have to say?'

‘That it proves I'm right.
Le Sifflet
didn't get hold of the story by itself. Nor was it one of the six prison and police officers in the know who gave the game away. It's …'

‘It's …?'

‘I'll tell you that this evening! So far so good, Monsieur Coméliau!'

‘You really think so? And what if the other papers take up the story?'

‘There'll be a scandal.'

‘You see …'

‘And is a man's head not worth a touch of scandal?'

Five minutes later he was on the phone to the Préfecture.

‘Sergeant Lucas? … Listen, I want you to go round to the editorial office of
Le Sifflet
. It's in Rue Montmartre. Have a quiet word with the man in charge. Put the squeeze on him. We must know where he got his
information about the escape from the Santé … I'll bet my bottom dollar that he got a letter this morning, or a pneumatic note … I want you to get your hands on it and bring it here … Got that?'

The operator asked:

‘Have you finished, caller?'

‘No, mademoiselle. Pass me back to the Citanguette.'

Moments later, Inspector Dufour was reporting:

‘He's sleeping. A while back I stayed with my ear glued to his door for a quarter of an hour. I heard him talking in his sleep; a nightmare it was, calling for his mother!'