Maigret's Dead Man (8 page)

‘So they were looking for something,
right?'

‘That's my view too.'

Something not too big, most likely some sort of
paper, because they had even opened a very small cardboard box which had contained a pair of
earrings.

Odd was the word for the dinner which Maigret and
Moers had eaten together in the bar of the café. Maigret had taken charge of serving it up.
In the pantry he had found sausage, tins of sardines and some Dutch cheese. He had gone down to
the cellar and tapped a barrel, which gave a muddy, bluish wine. There were also full bottles of
wine, but he had not touched them.

‘Are you going to stay
here, chief?'

‘Certainly. I don't suppose anyone
will show up tonight, but I don't feel like going home.'

‘Do you want me to keep you
company?'

‘Thanks, old son, but no. I'd much
rather you went straight off and started on your analyses.'

Moers missed nothing, not even the woman's
hair caught in a large-toothed comb on the dressing table upstairs. Very few sounds drifted in
from outside. Passers-by were rare. From time to time, especially after midnight, there was the
roar of a lorry coming in from the outskirts on its way to Les Halles.

Maigret had phoned his wife.

‘Are you sure you're not going to
catch another cold?'

‘Don't worry. I've lit the
stove. In a while I'll make myself a grog.'

‘Won't you get any sleep
tonight?'

‘Of course I will. I have a choice between
a bed and a couch.'

‘Are the sheets clean?'

‘There are clean ones in a cupboard on the
landing.'

In fact, it meant remaking the bed with cold
sheets and sleeping in them. He thought about it and opted for the couch.

Moers left around one in the morning. Maigret
refilled the stove to the top, made himself a stiff grog, checked that everything was in order
and, after bolting the door, climbed up the spiral staircase on leaden legs like a man on his
way to bed.

There was a dressing gown in the wardrobe, blue,
made
of soft flannel with artificial silk lapels. But it was far too small
and not broad enough for him. The slippers at the foot of the bed weren't his size
either.

He kept his socks on, wrapped himself in a
blanket and settled on the couch with a pillow under his head. The upstairs windows did not have
shutters. The light from a gas streetlamp came through the elaborately patterned curtains and
cast baroque shapes on the walls.

He looked at them through half-closed eyes as he
puffed gently on one last pipe. He was acclimatizing himself. He was trying the house for size,
just as he might have tried a new coat. The smell of the place was already becoming familiar. It
was sweet and tart at the same time and it reminded him of the country.

Why had the photos of Nine been removed? Why had
she disappeared, deserting her home, without even taking the money in the till? True, it
amounted to less than a hundred francs. Obviously Albert kept his money somewhere else, and that
was what the intruders had taken just as they had taken all his private papers.

The oddest thing was that a thorough search of
the whole building had been made without disturbing anything or producing any mess whatsoever.
The clothes in the wardrobe had been checked through but had not been removed from their
hangers. Photos had been torn from their frames but the frames had been put back on their
nails.

Maigret fell asleep and when he heard someone
knocking on the shutters downstairs he would have sworn that he had dropped off only a few
minutes before.

But it was seven
o'clock and light. The sun was shining on the Seine, where the barges were beginning to
move and tugs were sounding their hooters.

He took a moment to slip his shoes on without
doing up the laces and went down the stairs, hair uncombed, collar unbuttoned and his jacket
creased.

It was Chevrier and a rather good-looking woman
wearing a blue two-piece suit and a small red hat on her frizzed hair.

‘Here we are, sir.'

Chevrier had been with the Police Judiciaire for
only three or four years. He did not look like a goat, as his name suggested, but more like a
sheep; the contours of his face and body were soft and round. The woman tugged him by the
sleeve. He understood and stammered:

‘Sorry! Detective chief inspector, may I
introduce my wife?'

‘No need to worry,' she said
pluckily. ‘I've done this before. My mother used to run the inn in our village and
sometimes, with just a couple of serving girls to help us, we'd lay on wedding receptions
for fifty or more people.'

She walked straight to the percolator and asked
her husband: ‘Pass me your matches.'

The gas went ‘pft', and a few minutes
later a smell of coffee spread through the house.

Chevrier had taken good care to wear black
trousers and a white shirt. He too was dressed for the part. He took his place behind the
counter and moved a few things round.

‘Shall we open?'

‘Yes. It must be time.'

‘Which of us will get
the groceries?' asked the wife.

‘In a while I want you to take a taxi and
buy what you need from wherever is closest.'

‘Will fricandeau of veal with sorrel be all
right?'

She had brought a white apron with her. She was
very cheerful, very vivacious. It was as if they were preparing for a day trip, or playing a
game.

‘We can take the shutters down now,'
said Maigret. ‘If customers ask questions, say you are just standing in.'

He went back upstairs, found a razor, shaving
soap and a brush. After all, why not? Albert appeared to have been a man of clean habits and
fit. So, taking his time, he washed and shaved. When he came downstairs, Chevrier's wife
had already gone shopping. Two men were leaning on the counter, two barge men, drinking coffee
with calvados. They didn't care who owned the bar. They were probably just passing
through. They were talking about a lock which had almost had one sluice stove in by a tug the
night before.

‘What can I get you, sir?'

Maigret preferred to help himself. It was
actually the first time in his life that he had poured himself a glass of rum from the bottle
behind the counter of a bar. Suddenly, he laughed.

‘Just thinking about Monsieur
Coméliau,' he explained.

He tried to imagine the examining magistrate
walking into the Petit Albert and finding the detective chief inspector standing behind the
counter, with one of his officers.

But if anything was to be learned, there was no
other way. Wouldn't the men who had murdered the bar's owner be surprised to find
the place open as usual?

And what about Nine, if she
were still alive?

At about nine o'clock, the ancient
clairvoyant walked past then walked back again, even pressing her nose to the window before
moving off, muttering to herself, carrying a net bag full of shopping in one hand.

Madame Maigret had just phoned to find out how
her husband was.

‘Can I bring you anything? Your toothbrush,
for example?'

‘No thanks. I've asked someone to buy
me one.'

‘Monsieur Coméliau phoned.'

‘I hope you didn't give him this
number.'

‘No. I just told him you went out yesterday
evening and hadn't come back yet.'

Chevrier's wife got out of a taxi, from
which she took wooden boxes full of vegetables and provisions wrapped in paper. When Maigret
called her ‘madame', she said:

‘Oh, just call me Irma. You'll see,
it's what the customers will all call me from the word go. That's fine with you,
Émile, that he can …?'

But hardly any customers came. Three bricklayers
who were working on scaffolding in a street nearby came in for their break. They brought bread
and sausage with them and ordered two litres of red wine.

‘It's a good job this place has
reopened! Before, it was a ten-minute walk from here before we found somewhere to get a
drink!'

They weren't puzzled to see new faces.

‘The previous owner has retired,
then?'

One of them commented:

‘He was a decent sort.'

‘Had you known him long?'

‘Just for the couple of weeks we've
been working on a site round the corner. We move around a lot, you see.'

But Maigret, whom they saw prowling in the
background, made them curious.

‘Who's that, then? He looks like he
lives here.'

Without missing a breath, Chevrier replied:

‘Sh! That's my
father-in-law.'

Various pans were simmering on the kitchen stove.
The whole place was coming to life. A vinegary sun flooded in through the front windows of the
bar. Chevrier, with his sleeves rolled up and held by elastic, had swept up the sawdust.

The telephone rang.

‘It's for you, sir. Moers.'

Poor Moers had not slept all night. He
hadn't had much success with the fingerprints. Prints there were, of all kinds, on the
bottles and furniture. For the most part they were already old and overlapped each other. The
clearest, which he had forwarded to the anthropometrics lab, could not be matched with any set
on file.

‘They searched the whole place wearing
rubber gloves. Only one thing gave any result at all: the sawdust. Analysis showed up traces of
blood.'

‘Human blood?'

‘I'll know that in an hour. But
I'm virtually certain …'

Lucas, who that morning had had his own share of
the
work to do, arrived about eleven o'clock, looking bright and
breezy. Maigret noticed that he had chosen to wear a light-coloured tie.

‘An export-cassis,' he called to his
colleague, Chevrier, with a wink.

Irma had hung a slate by the door on which, under
the words ‘Today's Special', she had chalked: ‘fricandeau of veal with
sorrel'. She could be heard rushing around and on that day she would not have changed
places with anyone for anything in the world.

‘Let's go upstairs,' Maigret
said to Lucas.

They went up to the bedroom and stood by the
window, which had been opened because the weather was so mild. The crane was working by the
water's edge, lifting barrels out of the entrails of a barge. Whistles sounded, chains
clanked and on the shimmering surface of the water there was the constant bustle of panting,
fussing tugs.

‘His name is Albert Rochain. I went to the
Central Registry. He was issued with a licence four years ago.'

‘Did you manage to get the name of his
wife?'

‘No, the licence was in his sole name. I
went to the town hall, where they were unable to give me any information. If he had a wife, he
was already married when he moved into the area.'

‘You tried the local police?'

‘Nothing there. It appears that there was
never any trouble in these premises. The police were never called here.'

Maigret's eye remained fixed on the photo
of his dead
man on the chest of drawers, which showed him still smiling.

‘Chevrier will probably find out more later
from the customers.'

‘Are you staying here?'

‘We could have lunch downstairs like a pair
of casual customers. Any news from Torrence and Janvier?'

‘They're still out questioning
race-goers.'

‘If you can reach them by phone, tell them
to concentrate on Vincennes.'

Always the same old refrain: the track at
Vincennes was what might be called the ‘local' race-course. And Albert, like
Maigret, was a creature of habit.

‘Aren't people surprised to see that
the café has reopened?'

‘Not particularly. Some of the neighbours
have turned up on the pavement for a look. They probably think that Albert has sold
up.'

At noon, they were both sitting at a table by the
window, and Irma served them herself. A few customers were seated at other tables, notably crane
drivers.

‘So Albert finally hit the jackpot,
then?' one of them called out to Chevrier.

‘He's had to go out of town for a
while.'

‘And you've replaced him? Did he take
Nine with him? Maybe now we'll get something to eat with a bit less garlic in it, which
wouldn't be a bad thing! Not that there's anything wrong with garlic, except it gets
on the breath …'

The man pinched Irma's behind as she
passed. Chevrier
did not react and even bore Lucas' amused glance in
silence.

‘A good sort, right enough! Too bad he was
so mad about the races! … But listen, if he had someone to cover for him, how come he
closed the café for four days? Especially without letting his customers know? The first day
we had to traipse all the way to Charenton bridge to get a bite to eat. No thanks, dearie, I
never eat camembert. I have a small cream cheese, just one, every day. And Jules has Roquefort
…'

Even so, they were intrigued and spoke in
whispers. Irma in particular was a subject of some interest.

‘Chevrier won't be able to stand this
for too long,' murmured Lucas into Maigret's ear. ‘He's only been
married for two years. If these morons keep letting their hands stray all over his wife's
backside, they'll soon feel the weight of his fists on their chins.'

It wasn't that bad. But as he brought the
men their drinks, Chevrier said firmly:

‘That's my wife.'

‘Congratulations … But not to worry!
We're not particular!'

And they roared with laughter. They weren't
nasty characters but they sensed vaguely that Albert's stand-in was riled.

‘Albert, now, he made good and sure …
There was no danger anyone would steal Nine off him …'