Maigret's Dead Man (16 page)

‘Why?'

‘Seems he's a well-set-up sort, well
bred, always elegantly turned out. He loses most of the time but doesn't seem to mind. He
just gives a little smile. But that's not the reason why the cashier remembers him,
it's the woman who regularly accompanies him.'

Maigret gave a sigh of relief and turned to
Colombani with a delighted glance as if to say:

‘We've got them!'

‘A woman! At last!' he cried into the
mouthpiece. ‘Is she foreign?'

‘A Parisienne. Hang on! That's
precisely why I'm still at the race-course. If I'd been able to talk to the cashier
sooner, he would have pointed both of them out to me, for they were here this
afternoon.'

‘What about the woman?'

‘Well, she's very young, very
good-looking, it seems, wears the very best haute couture clothes. But that's not all,
sir. The cashier told me that she's a movie actress. He doesn't go to the cinema
very often and doesn't know the names of the stars. But he reckons she probably
isn't a star, but takes the supporting roles. I mentioned a whole list of names but got no
reaction.'

‘What time is it?'

‘Quarter to six.'

‘Since you're out at Vincennes, I
want you to go to Joinville. It's not far. Ask your cashier to go with you.'

‘He says he'll do whatever he can to
help.'

‘There are studios just after the bridge.
Generally film-producers keep photographs of actors, including those
who
play small parts, and they use their collection when they are casting a new film. Got
that?'

‘Got it. Where should I call
you?'

‘At home.'

He was relaxed when he sat down in his chair
again.

‘It might work,' he said.
‘Provided he's our Czech, obviously.'

He filled the gold-rimmed liqueur glasses,
knocked his pipe out and refilled it.

‘I have a feeling we're going to have
a busy night. Did you arrange for that little girl to be brought?'

‘She's been on the way since three
o'clock. I'll be going soon to meet her at Gare du Nord myself.'

The little girl from the Manceau farm,
miraculously the sole survivor of the carnage and the only one who saw any of the assailants:
Maria, now lying on her hospital bed with a baby by her side.

The phone rang again. From now on, he would never
know what to expect when he picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?'

Again, Maigret's eyes remained fixed on his
colleague, but this time they were filled with irritation. He spoke in a muffled voice. For some
time, he merely muttered answers at almost regular intervals.

‘Yes … Yes … Yes
…'

Colombani tried to work out what was going on.
But not being able to understand was made all the more galling by the fact that he could hear a
buzzing sound from the receiver punctuated at intervals by stray, detached syllables.

‘In ten minutes?
… Of course … Exactly as I promised …'

Why did Maigret seem as if he were holding back?
Again, his mood had changed completely. No child waiting for Christmas was ever more impatient
or excited, yet he was forcing himself to be calm and even to look grim-faced.

When he hung up, instead of saying anything to
Colombani, he opened the door which led to the kitchen.

‘Your aunt and her husband are on their
way,' he said.

‘Eh? … What are you talking about?
… But …'

He winked repeatedly at her but it did no
good.

‘I know. I was surprised too. It must be
something serious, something unexpected that's cropped up. She says she wants to talk to
us right away.'

He put his head round the door so that he could
fire off more faces at his wife. She had no idea what to make of this.

‘Well, really! This is a surprise and no
mistake. As long as nothing serious has happened …'

‘Unless it's something to do with the
inheritance?'

‘What inheritance?'

‘Her uncle's.'

When he returned to his visitor, Colombani had a
knowing smile on his face.

‘Look, I'm sorry, old son. My
wife's aunt will be here in a moment. I've just got time to get dressed. I'm
not kicking you out but I hope you understand …'

The detective chief inspector of the
Sûreté swallowed the contents of his glass, stood up and wiped his mouth.

‘Don't worry
about it. I know what it's like. Will you give me a ring if you hear anything?'

‘I promise.'

‘I have a feeling you'll be phoning
me quite soon. I'm even wondering if it's worth me going back to Rue des Saussaies.
No, I won't! If you don't object, I think I'll wander over to Quai des
Orfèvres.'

‘That's fine! I'll see you
later.'

Maigret almost pushed him out on to the landing.
Then, the moment the door was closed, he hurried across the room and looked out of the window.
To his left, further along the road than Lhoste & Pépin, there was the shop of a wine
and coal merchant who hailed from Auvergne. It was painted yellow. He fixed his eyes on its
door, beside which stood a green plant.

‘That was all a trick, wasn't
it?' asked Madame Maigret.

‘Of course! I didn't want Colombani
to meet the people who will be coming up the stairs at any moment.'

As he spoke, he happened to lay one hand on the
window-ledge, just where Colombani had been standing a few moments earlier. It landed on paper,
a newspaper. He glanced down at it and saw that it was folded open at the page carrying the
personal small ads: one had been ringed in blue.

‘Of all the …' he muttered
through gritted teeth.

Now there is a long-standing rivalry between the
nationwide Sûreté and Paris's Police Judiciaire, and joy is unconfined when
someone from Rue des Saussaies pulls a fast one on a colleague from Quai des Orfèvres.

Actually, Colombani had not taken a particularly
savage
revenge on Maigret for lying about the aunt. He had merely left
behind a clear signal that he had understood.

The advertisement which had appeared in every
newspaper that morning and also at midday in the racing papers, said, with the usual
abbreviations:

Friends of Albert, indispensable for security
contact Maigret urgent home address 132, Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. Absolute discretion
guaranteed.

It was them, they had just phoned from the
Auvergnat's shop across the way to make sure that the advert was not a hoax or a trap, and
to hear Maigret repeat his guarantee and lastly to make sure the coast was clear.

‘I need you to go out and walk around for a
while, Madame Maigret. Don't hurry back. Wear your hat with the green feather.'

‘Why my hat with the green
feather?'

‘Because soon it will be spring.'

Maigret watched them from his window as they
crossed the road, looking like two men on an important mission. But from this distance he was
only able to recognize one of them.

A few moments earlier, he had known absolutely
nothing about the men who were on their way to see him, or about their background. He would only
have bet that they too were followers of the turf.

‘Colombani is hanging around somewhere,
watching them,' he muttered.

And once Colombani got the
scent he was quite capable of blowing his cover. It was just the kind of sly practical joke that
colleagues regularly played on each other.

Especially as Colombani probably knew Jo the
Boxer better than he did.

He was short, thick-set, with a broken nose and
scarred eyelids over light-blue eyes. He invariably wore dog-tooth-checked suits and loud ties.
In the aperitif hour he was always to be found in one of the small bars on Avenue de Wagram. He
had been hauled up before Maigret in his office at least a dozen times, always for different
misdemeanours, and each time he had managed to get away with it.

Was he really dangerous? He would have liked
people to think so, for he deliberately cultivated his image as a ‘bruiser'. It was
his affectation to look as if he were part of the criminal fraternity, but members of the
criminal fraternity did not trust him and even regarded him with a certain contempt.

Maigret opened the door for them and put out
fresh glasses on the table. They entered looking awkward and remained suspicious despite the
reassurances. Their eyes darted into every corner, and they were visibly nervous about the
closed doors.

‘Nothing to be scared of here. There is no
hidden stenographer, no dictaphones. Look here, this is my bedroom.'

He showed them the unmade bed.

‘This is the bathroom, that's the
clothes cupboard, and here you have the kitchen, which Madame Maigret has just vacated in your
honour.'

The simmering soup smelled
good, and an uncooked chicken already barded with strips of fat bacon sat on the table.

‘This door? It's the last one, the
spare bedroom we keep for friends. It hasn't been aired. It smells musty for the very good
reason that our friends never sleep here. It's only used by my sister-in-law on two or
three nights a year.

‘And now, to work!'

He held out his drink to clink glasses with them.
As he did so, he looked questioningly at the man who was with Jo.

‘This is Ferdinand,' said the
boxer.

Maigret racked his brains but came up with
nothing. The man was tall and thin, and his face with the huge nose and small, quick mouse eyes
did not remind him of anyone or of any name.

‘He runs a garage not far from Porte de
Maillot. Just a small one, of course.'

It was odd to see the both of them standing
there, unsure about whether they should sit, not because they felt intimidated, but as a
precaution. Men like these never like to be too far from a door.

‘You seemed to be saying there's some
sort of danger.'

‘Actually two sorts of danger. First, that
the Czechs will spot you, in which case I wouldn't give much for your chances of
survival.'

Jo and Ferdinand eyed each other with surprise.
They thought there must be some mistake.

‘What Czechs?'

There had been no mention of any Czechs in the
papers.

‘The Picardy
gang.'

This time, they understood and suddenly became
more serious.

‘We never got on the wrong side of
them.'

‘Maybe. But we'll talk about that
later. It would be so much better to chat if you were sitting down nice and cosy.'

With his tough-man swagger, Jo settled into an
armchair, but Ferdinand, who did not know Maigret, sat on the edge of his straight-backed
seat.

‘The second danger …' said
Maigret, observing them while he lit his pipe. ‘Haven't you noticed anything
today?'

‘The place is swarming with cops … Oh
sorry! …'

‘No offence taken. Not only is the place
swarming with cops, as you say, but most of them are on the hunt, looking for a certain number
of people, and in particular a couple of men who own a yellow car.'

Ferdinand smiled.

‘I don't think for one moment,'
said Maigret, ‘that it'll still be yellow and have the same number plate. But
let's leave that for now. If Police Judiciaire inspectors had got to you first, I might
have been able to get you off the hook. But did you see the man who just left?'

Jo muttered: ‘Colombani.'

‘Did he spot you?'

‘We waited until he was safely on the
bus.'

‘It means that Rue des Saussaies is also on
the hunt. Fall into their hands and you wouldn't have avoided coming up against
Coméliau.'

It was a name to conjure
with, for both men knew, at least at second hand, the examining magistrate's reputation
for severity.

‘Whereas, by coming to see me, all
friendly, as you have done, we can have a nice little chat.'

‘We know next to nothing.'

‘What you do know will be enough. You were
friends of Albert?'

‘He was a decent sort.'

‘A joker, right?'

‘We met him at the races.'

‘I thought so.'

That put both men in their context.
Ferdinand's garage was probably not open to the public very often. Perhaps he didn't
sell stolen vehicles, because it takes a sophisticated organization plus a lot of specialized
equipment to dress them up. Moreover, these two were the sort who don't much like getting
their hands dirty. It was more likely that Ferdinand bought up old cars cheap, which he did up
just enough to make them attractive to the easily duped.

In bars, on race-courses, in hotel lobbies,
it's easy to meet gullible individuals who are always only too delighted to snap up an
amazing bargain. Sometimes the deal is clinched by a confidential whisper to the effect that the
car had been stolen from a star of the silver screen.

‘Were the two of you at Vincennes last
Tuesday?'

They had to look at each other again, not this
time to align their stories, but to help them to remember.

‘Wait a sec. Listen, Ferdinand,
wasn't it last Tuesday you backed a winner, Semiramis?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then we were there.'

‘What about Albert?'

‘Ah, now I remember! That was the day there
was a downpour during the third race. Albert was there. I saw him in the distance.'

‘You didn't speak to him?'

‘No, because he wasn't in the public
enclosures but in the paddock. The both of us always stick to the public areas. He does too,
normally, but that Tuesday he had his wife with him. It was their wedding anniversary or
similar. He'd told me about it a few days before. He was even thinking about buying a
cheapish car, and Ferdinand had said he'd look out for something for him, genuine, a nice
little runner.'