My Friend Maigret (14 page)

“With Bébé?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He calls her Bébé. She must have arrived this morning. You want me to repeat his words?

“He said to her: ‘How goes, Bébé? I'm fine, thanks. I've got to stick around here a few more days and I'd like a little bit of fun. So come on over.'”

“And she came,” Maigret finished. “Thank you very much, mademoiselle. I'm on the bench outside, with my friend, and I'm waiting for my call from Paris.”

Three-quarters of an hour was passed watching the boules; the young married couple came to send off postcards; the butcher in turn came to make his daily call to Hyères. Mr. Pyke looked at the church tower from time to time. Occasionally he opened his mouth as well, perhaps to ask a question, but each time he changed his mind.

They were both of them oppressed by the heavily scented heat. From afar they could see the men gathering for the big boules match, the one between about ten players, fought out across the entire square until time for apéritifs and dinner.

The dentist was taking part. The
Cormorant
had left the island for Giens Point from whence it would bring back Inspector Lechat and Ginette.

Finally Aglaé's voice summoned him in.

“Paris!” she announced.

It was the good Lucas who must, as usual during Maigret's absences, have taken over the latter's office. Through the window Lucas could see the Seine and the Pont Saint-Michel, while the chief inspector was looking vaguely at Aglaé.

“I've got part of the information, chief. I'm expecting the rest from Ostend presently. Who shall I start with?”

“Whichever you like.”

“Right, the Moricourt fellow. That wasn't difficult. Torrence remembered the name through having seen it on the cover of a book. It's his real name all right. His father, who was a cavalry captain, died a long while ago. His mother lives at Saumur. As far as I could gather they haven't any private means. Several times Philippe de Moricourt tried to marry heiresses, but didn't succeed.”

Aglaé was listening unashamedly, and through the glass, was winking at Maigret, to underline the bits she liked.

“He passes himself off as a man of letters. He published two volumes of poetry with a publisher on the Left Bank. He used to frequent the Café de Flore, where he was fairly well known. He has also worked occasionally on several newspapers. Is that what you want to know?”

“Go on.”

“I've hardly any other details as I did it all by telephone, to save time; but I sent someone to find out and you'll have some more snippets this evening or tomorrow. There's never been any charge against him, or rather there was one, five years ago, but it was withdrawn.”

“I'm listening.”

“A woman, who lives in Auteuil, whose name I should be able to get, had given him a rare edition to sell, after which she waited for several months without hearing of him. She lodged a complaint. It was found that he had sold the book to an American. As for the money, he promised to pay it back in monthly instalments. I got its former owner on the telephone. Moricourt was habitually two or three payments behind, but he paid up in the end, bit by bit.”

“Is that all?”

“Almost. You know the type. Always well dressed, always impeccably correct.”

“And with old women?”

“Nothing definite. He had dealings of which he made a great mystery.”

“And the other one?”

“Did you know they knew one another? It seems de Greef is quite somebody; some people claim that, if he wanted, he could be one of the best painters of his generation.”

“And he doesn't want to be?”

“He ends by quarrelling with everybody. He went off with a Belgian girl of very good family.”

“I know.”

“Good. When he arrived in Paris, he held an exhibition of his works in a small room in the Rue de Seine. On the last day, as he hadn't sold anything, he burned all the canvases. Some say veritable orgies took place on board his boat. He has illustrated several erotic works which are sold under the counter. It's mainly off this that he lived. There you are, chief. I'm waiting for Ostend to call. Everything all right, down there?”

Through the glass, Mr. Pyke was showing Maigret his watch, and as it was five o'clock, he went off in the direction of the major's villa.

The chief inspector felt quite light-headed about it, regarding it like a spell of holidays.

“Did you convey my congratulations to Janvier? Ring up my wife and tell her to go and see his and take something along, a present or some flowers. But not a silver mug!”

He found himself back with Aglaé, separated from her by the grilled partition. She seemed very amused. She admitted without shame:

“I'd like to see one of his books. Do you think he has some on board?”

Then, without stopping:

“It's strange! Your job's a lot simpler than people think. Information pours in from all sides. Do you think it's one of those two?”

There was a large bunch of mimosa on her desk, and a bag of sweets, which she offered to the chief inspector.

“Things happen so seldom here! About Monsieur Philippe, I forgot to tell you that he writes a lot. I don't read his letters, naturally. He shoves them in the box and I recognize his writing and his ink, as he always uses green ink. I don't know why.”

“Who does he write to?”

“I forget the names, but it's nearly always to Paris. Now and then he writes to his mother. The letters to Paris are much thicker.”

“Does he get much post in return?”

“Quite a lot. And reviews, and newspapers. Every day there's printed matter for him.”

“Mrs. Wilcox?”

“She writes a lot as well, to England, Capri, Egypt. I particularly remember Egypt because I took the liberty of asking her for the stamps for my nephew.”

“Does she telephone?”

“She has been along to telephone two or three times from the box, and each time it was London she was calling. Unfortunately I don't understand English.”

She added:

“I'm going to shut up. I should have shut at five. But if you want to wait for your call…”

“What call?”

“Didn't Monsieur Lucas say he would call back about Ostend?”

She probably wasn't dangerous; yet Maigret would have preferred, if only because of the people nearby, not to remain too long alone with her. She was all curiosity. She asked him, for example:

“Aren't you going to telephone your wife?”

He told her he would be on the square, not far from the Arche in case a call came for him, and he went down quietly, smoking his pipe, in the direction of the boules match. He no longer needed to watch his behavior, as Mr. Pyke was not there to observe him. He really wanted to play boules and several times he asked about the rules of the game.

He was extremely surprised to discover that the dentist, whom everyone familiarly addressed as Léon, was a first-class player. At twenty yards, after three bounding strides he would strike his opponent's ball and send it rolling away into the distance, and each time he at once affected a little modest air as though he considered the achievement to be quite natural.

The chief inspector went to have a glass of wine and found Charlot busy working the fruit machine while his companion on the bench was engrossed in a film magazine. Had they had their “little bit of fun”?

“Isn't your friend with you?” asked Paul in surprise.

For Mr. Pyke as well, it must have been like a holiday. He was with another Englishman. He could speak his own language, use expressions which only meant something to two men from the same school.

It was easy to foretell the arrival of the
Cormorant
. Each time the same phenomenon took place. Outside there was a sort of downward current. People could be seen passing by, all making for the harbor. Then, once the boat was moored, the ebb would begin. The same people would pass by in the opposite direction, with, in addition, the new arrivals carrying suitcases or packages.

He followed the downward current, not far from the mayor who was pushing his eternal wheelbarrow. On the boat deck he at once saw Ginette and the inspector, who looked like a couple of friends. There were also fishermen coming back from the funeral and two old ladies, tourists for the Grand Hôtel.

In the group of people watching the disembarkation, he recognized Charlot, who had followed him and who, like him, seemed to be going through a ritual without really believing in it.

“Nothing new, chief?” asked Lechat, no sooner had he set foot on land. “If you knew how hot it was over there!”

“Did it go off all right?”

Ginette stayed with them, quite naturally. She appeared tired. Her look betrayed a certain anxiety.

The three of them set off toward the Arche, and Maigret had the feeling that he had been taking this walk daily for a very long time.

“Are you thirsty, Ginette?”

“I could do with an apéritif.”

They drank together, on the terrace, and Ginette was uncomfortable every time she felt Maigret's gaze fall upon her. He looked at her dreamily, heavily, like a person whose thoughts are far away.

“I'll go up and wash,” she announced when her glass was empty.

“May I come with you?”

Lechat, who sensed something new in the air, was trying to guess. He didn't dare question his chief. He remained alone at the table, while the latter, behind Ginette, climbed the stairs.

“You know,” she said, when they were finally in the bedroom, “I really want to change my life.”

“That doesn't worry me.”

She pretended to joke.

“And supposing it worried me?”

Nonetheless she removed her hat, then her dress, which he helped her to unfasten at the back.

“This has sort of done something to me,” she sighed. “I think he was happy here.”

On the other evenings Marcellin, at this hour, would have been taking part in the game of boules on the square, in the setting sun.

“Everyone's been very kind. He was well liked.”

She hastily removed her corsets, which had left deep marks on her milky skin. Maigret, facing the attic window, had his back to her.

“Do you remember the question I asked you?” he said in a neutral voice.

“You repeated it enough times. I would never have believed you could be so hard.”

“On my side I would never have believed that you would try to hide anything from me.”

“Have I hidden something from you?”

“I asked you why you had come here, to Porquerolles, when Marcel's body was already in Hyères.”

“I answered you.”

“You told me a lie.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Why didn't you tell me about the telephone call?”

“What telephone call?”

“The one Marcellin made to you the day before he died.”

“I didn't remember it.”

“Nor the telegram?”

He didn't have to turn round to discover her reaction, and kept his gaze fixed on the game of boules in progress opposite the terrace, from where there came a murmur of voices. The clink of glasses could be heard.

It was very soft, very reassuring, and Mr. Pyke wasn't there. As the silence continued, behind him, he asked:

“What are you thinking about?”

“I'm thinking that I was wrong, as you know perfectly well.”

“Are you dressed?”

“Just going to put on my dress.”

He went and opened the door, to make sure there was nobody in the corridor. When he came back to the middle of the room, Ginette was busy rearranging her hair in front of the mirror.

“You didn't mention the
Larousse
?”

“Who to?”

“I don't know. Monsieur Émile for example. Or Charlot.”

“I wasn't so stupid as to mention it.”

“Because you were hoping to step into Marcel's shoes? Do you know, Ginette, you are a terribly calculating woman.”

“That's what people always say about women when they try to provide for the future. And they fall on them when misery drives them into a job they haven't chosen.”

There was a sudden bitterness in her voice.

“I thought you were going to marry Monsieur Émile?”

“On condition Justine makes up her mind to die and doesn't make last-minute arrangements preventing her son from marrying. Perhaps you think that makes me feel happy!”

“In short, if Marcel's tip was a good one and you succeeded, you wouldn't marry?”