Maigret's Dead Man (2 page)

‘Hello! We were
interrupted earlier. He came in. He could have heard through the door of the phone booth. I was
scared …'

‘Where are you now?'

‘In the Tabac des Vosges, on the corner of
Place des Vosges and Rue des Francs-Bourgeois. I tried to give him the slip. I don't know
if I managed to. But I swear I'm not mistaken, that he really is out to kill me. It would
take too long to explain. I thought the others wouldn't take me seriously, but that you
…'

‘Hello?'

‘He's here … I … Sorry
…'

The commissioner stared at Maigret, who was
wearing his irritated look.

‘Something wrong?'

‘I don't know. This is a very strange
business. Do you mind if …?'

He picked up another phone.

‘Get me the Tabac des Vosges at once
… The owner, yes …'

Then, to the commissioner:

‘Provided this time he didn't forget
to hang up.'

The phone rang almost straight away.

‘Hello … Is that the Tabac des
Vosges? Am I speaking to the owner? … Is the customer who just phoned still there? …
What was that? … Yes, you go and check … Hello? … Just left? … Did he
pay? … Tell me – did another customer come in while he was on the phone? … No?
… On the terrace? … Go and look if he's still there … He left too?
… And without waiting for the
drink he'd ordered? … Thanks
… No … Who am I? … Police … No, nothing for you to worry about
…'

It was at this point that he decided not to go to
the Brasserie Dauphine with the commissioner. When he opened the door of the inspectors'
office, he found Janvier, who was back and waiting for him.

‘Come into my office. Tell me
everything.'

‘He's an oddball, sir. Shortish and
nondescript, wore a raincoat, a grey hat and black shoes. He rushed into the Caves du Beaujolais
and made straight for the phone booth, telling the man behind the counter to serve him a drink.
He said, “Anything'll do”. Through the window of the booth, the bar owner saw
him talking animatedly and waving his arms about. Then, when the other customer walked in, the
first one shot out of the booth like an imp out of a bottle, without saying a word and headed
off quickly towards Place Saint-Michel …'

‘What about the second man?'

‘He was short too … Anyway not very
big, but strong, jet black hair.'

‘What about the uniformed officer in Place
du Châtelet?'

‘It did happen. The man in the raincoat
approached him, out of breath, looking wild-eyed. He waved his arms about and asked him to
arrest someone who was following him but he couldn't point him out in the crowd. The
officer decided to make a note of it in his report, just in case.'

‘I want you to go to Place des Vosges.
There's a tobacconist's on the corner of Rue des Francs-Bourgeois.'

‘Got it …'

A shortish man, waves his
arms about, wears a beige raincoat and a grey hat
. That was the sum total of all that was
known about him. There was nothing else to do now but stand by the window and watch the crowds
stream out of offices and invade the bars, the pavement cafés and the restaurants. Paris
was all light and life. As always happens, more pleasure was taken around the middle of February
in the first gusts of spring than when spring finally arrived. And the newspapers would
doubtless soon be talking of the famous chestnut tree on Boulevard Saint-Germain, which would be
in flower a month from now.

Maigret phoned down to the Brasserie
Dauphine.

‘Hello? … Joseph? … Maigret
… Can you bring me up a couple of beers and some sandwiches? … That's right,
for one …'

Before the sandwiches arrived, the phone rang. He
recognized the voice at once: he had told the switchboard to put these calls through
immediately, without wasting a moment.

‘Hello? This time I think I've well
and truly given him the slip …'

‘Who are you?'

‘Nine's husband. But that's not
important. There are at least four of them, not counting the woman … Someone absolutely
must come at once and …'

This time, he hadn't had time to say where
he was phoning from. Maigret called the woman at the exchange. It took a few minutes. The call
had come from the Quatre Sergents de la Rochelle, a restaurant on Boulevard Beaumarchais, at no
distance from the Bastille.

This location wasn't
very far from Place des Vosges either. It was possible to track the meanderings of the shortish
man in a raincoat within, or almost, the same neighbourhood of Paris.

‘Hello? Is that you Janvier? … I
thought you might still be there …'

Maigret was phoning him at the bar in Place des
Vosges.

‘Go to the Quatre Sergents de la
Rochelle
…
Yes … Keep the taxi …'

An hour went by without a single phone call,
without anything more being learned about Nine's husband. When the phone did ring, it
wasn't him at the other end of the line but a café waiter.

‘Hello? Am I speaking to Detective Chief
Inspector Maigret? … Inspector Maigret in person? … I am the waiter at the Café
de Birague in Rue de Birague. I'm speaking on behalf of a customer who asked me to call
you.'

‘How long ago was this?'

‘Maybe a quarter of an hour. I was supposed
to phone straight away but it's our busy time.'

‘A shortish man, wearing a
raincoat?'

‘Yes. Right. I was afraid it was some sort
of practical joke. He was in a terrible hurry. He kept looking out into the street … Wait,
I want to get this right … As I remember, in his own words, he said to tell you that
he'd try to lead the man to the Canon de la Bastille. Do you know it? It's the
brasserie on the corner of Boulevard Henri IV. He wanted you to send somebody pronto …
Wait, that's not all. I expect you'll understand. He said, and these are his
exact words: “It's a different man. Now it's the tall one
with red hair, he's the worst.”'

Maigret went there himself. He got into a taxi,
which took less than ten minutes to reach Place de la Bastille. The brasserie was a great barn
of a place and quiet. Its customers were mostly regulars who ordered the dish of the day or a
plate of charcuterie. He looked round for a man in a raincoat, then toured the coat racks hoping
to spot a beige raincoat.

‘Tell me, waiter …'

There were six waiters plus the woman at the till
and the man who owned the place. He questioned them all. No one had seen his man. So he took a
seat in a corner by the door, ordered a beer and waited, smoking his pipe. Half an hour later,
sandwiches notwithstanding, he ordered a plate of sauerkraut and frankfurters. He watched people
pass by on the pavement. Every time a raincoat appeared, he gave a start, and there were many of
them, for the shower now falling was the third since that morning. The rain was translucent,
transparent, the plain, innocent kind of rain which does not prevent the sun from shining.

‘Hello? … Police Judiciaire? …
It's Maigret. Has Janvier got back? Let me speak to him … Is that you, Janvier?
… Jump in a taxi and meet me in the
Canon de la Bastille …
You're right, today's the day for bars. I'll wait for you here … No,
nothing new …'

Too bad if the man with the windmill arms was a
hoaxer. Maigret left his inspector to keep an eye on the Canon de la Bastille and used the taxi
to go back to his office.

The chances that Nine's husband had been
murdered since half past twelve were slim, because he did not seem keen to venture down
backstreets. On the contrary, he chose busy parts of town and main thoroughfares. Even so,
Maigret contacted the emergency services, which kept constantly up to date about any trouble
that happened in Paris.

‘If you are informed that a man in a
raincoat has had an accident or been involved in an argument or whatever, give me a ring
…'

He also gave instructions for one of the Police
Judiciaire's squad cars to be kept available for him in the courtyard of Quai des
Orfèvres. This was perhaps excessive, but he was merely stacking the odds on his side.

He talked to people who came to his office,
smoked many pipes and stoked his stove from time to time, while keeping his window open, and
occasionally aimed a reproachful look at his phone, which remained resolutely silent.

‘You used to know my wife …'
the man had said.

He tried idly to remember a Nine. He must have
met many of that name. He had known one, a few years before, who ran a small bar in Cannes, but
she had been an old lady even then and was probably dead by now. There was also a niece of his
wife's whose name was Aline, but everybody called her Nine.

‘Hello? Detective Chief Inspector
Maigret?'

It was four o'clock. It was still broad
daylight but the
inspector had switched on his desk lamp with the green
shade.

‘I am the postmaster at 28, Rue du Faubourg
Saint-Denis. I'm sorry to bother you. It's probably some sort of hoax. A few minutes
ago a customer approached the counter that deals with registered parcels … Hello? …
The counter-clerk, Mademoiselle Denfer, told me that he seemed to be in a great hurry. He kept
turning round. He pushed a piece of paper under her nose. He said: “Don't try to
understand. Phone this message through to Inspector Maigret at once.” Then he vanished
into the crowd.

‘The member of staff concerned reported
this to me. I have the piece of paper in front of me. It's written in pencil, a terrible
scrawl. Looks like the man wrote the note while he was walking along.

‘This is what it says: “I
couldn't make it to the Canon”. Does that mean anything to you? It's
meaningless to me. But no matter. Then there's a word I can't read. “Now
there's two of them. The small dark one has come back.” It's the word
“dark” I'm not sure of … Say again? … Fair enough, if that's
what you think it says … There's more: “I'm sure they've decided
to get me today. I'm not far from the Quai. But they're cunning. Warn your officers
to be on their guard.”

‘That's it. If you want, I'll
send the note by telegram messenger … By taxi? Most certainly. Provided that you bear the
cost, because I cannot undertake …'

‘Hello? … Janvier? … You can
come back now.'

Half an hour later the two of them sat smoking in
Maigret's office, where a small round patch of red showed under the
stove.

‘I expect you managed to find time to have
lunch?'

‘I had sauerkraut and frankfurters at the
Canon …'

Him as well! Meantime, Maigret had alerted
cycle-mounted patrols as well as the municipal police. Parisians who walked into department
stores, jostled each other on pavements, flocked into cinemas or hurried down the steps of
Métro stations, did not notice a thing. But hundreds of eyes scrutinized the crowds,
pausing on anyone wearing a beige raincoat or sporting a grey hat.

There was another sharp shower at about five
o'clock, when the number of pedestrians in and around the Châtelet reached its peak.
The pavements glistened, a halo surrounded every streetlamp and along every kerb, at intervals
of ten metres, people stood and raised their arms every time a taxi drove past.

‘The landlord of the Caves du Beaujolais
reckons he's thirty-five or forty. The man who runs the Tabac des Vosges puts him at about
thirty. He's clean-shaven, rosy-cheeked and blue-eyed. As to what kind of man he is, I
didn't manage to form any idea. I was told that
you see lots like him about
…'

Madame Maigret, who was having her sister to
dinner, phoned at six to make sure her husband wouldn't be home late and to ask him to
call in at the pâtisserie on his way home.

‘Can you keep an eye on things here until
nine? I'll get Lucas to replace you after that …'

Janvier was willing. There was nothing to do but
wait.

‘I want to be phoned
at home if there are any developments.'

He did not forget to call in at the
pâtisserie in Avenue de la République, the only one in Paris, said Madame Maigret,
capable of making a decent mille-feuille. He kissed his sister-in-law, who as always smelled of
lavender. They ate dinner. He drank a glass of calvados. Before walking Odette to the
Métro, he rang the Police Judiciaire.

‘Lucas? … Any news? … Are you
still in my office?'

Lucas, ensconced in Maigret's own chair,
probably had his feet propped up on the desk, reading.

‘Just carry on as you are. Good
night.'

As he walked back from the Métro station,
Boulevard Richard-Lenoir was deserted, and his footsteps were loud on the pavement. Hearing
other footsteps behind him, he stiffened, turned instinctively because he was thinking about his
man who even now was perhaps still wandering through the streets, fearful, avoiding dark places,
seeking safety in bars and cafés.

He fell asleep before his wife – so she
said at least, as she always did, just as she also claimed that he snored – and the
alarm-clock on the bedside table registered 2.20 when the phone dragged him from his sleep. It
was Lucas.

‘Maybe I'm disturbing you for
nothing, sir. I haven't got many details yet. But the duty desk of the Police Emergency
Service has just let me know that the body of a man has been found in Place de la Concorde. Near
Quai des Tuileries. That's the jurisdiction of the first
arrondissement
.
I've asked the main station there not to touch
anything … What?
… Fine. If you wish. I'll send a taxi for you.'

Madame Maigret sighed as she watched her husband
who got into his trousers but couldn't find his shirt.