My Friend Maigret (2 page)

“What's that?”

Imagine having to explain that to a man who belongs to a race with the reputation of being the most tight-laced in the world!

“It's a sort of theft, but a theft committed in special circumstances. When a gentleman accompanies an unknown lady to a more or less disreputable hotel and then goes and complains that his wallet has been stolen, it's called inveigling. Nearly always the prostitute has an accomplice. You follow me?”

“I understand.”

There were three convictions for acting as accomplice to inveigling on Marcel Pacaud's file, and on each occasion, there was a certain Ginette in the case.

Then things became worse still, for there was an incident involving a knife wound which Pacaud was supposed to have inflicted on a recalcitrant gentleman.

“They're what you call
mauvais garçons
, I believe?” Mr. Pyke insinuated gently; his French was terribly impregnated with nuances, so much so that it became ironical.

“Precisely. I wrote to him, I recall. I don't know how you deal with them in your country.”

“Very correctly.”

“I don't doubt it. Here we sometimes knock them around. We're not always gentle with them. But the odd thing is that they seldom hold it against us. They know we're only doing our job. From one interrogation to the next, we get to know each other.”

“This is the one who called himself a friend of yours?”

“I'm convinced he was sincere. I particularly remember the girl and what I remember still better is the headed paper. If we have the chance I'll show you the Brasserie des Ternes. It's very comfortable and the sauerkraut is excellent. Do you like sauerkraut?”

“On occasion,” replied the Englishman, without enthusiasm.

“Every afternoon and evening there are a few women sitting round a table. It's there that Ginette used to work. A Breton girl, who came from a village in the St. Malo area. She started off as a maid of all work with a local butcher. She adored Pacaud, and when he talked of her, tears would come into his eyes. Does that surprise you?”

Nothing surprised Mr. Pyke, whose expression betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

“I became rather interested in them, at one time. She was riddled with TB. She hadn't wanted to have herself cured because that would have taken her away from her Marcel. When he was in prison, I persuaded her to go to see one of my friends, a specialist on consumption, and he got her into a sanatorium in Savoie. That's all.”

“That's what you wrote to Pacaud?”

“That's right. Pacaud was at Fresnes and I hadn't time to go there myself.”

Maigret gave the file back to Langlois and started down the stairs.

“How about going to eat?”

This was another problem, almost a case for his conscience. If he took Mr. Pyke for his meals into too luxurious restaurants he risked giving his colleagues from across the channel the impression that the French police spend most of their time junketing. If, on the other hand, he took him to places where only set meals are served, perhaps they would accuse him of stinginess.

Same with apéritifs. To drink them or not to drink them?

“Are you expecting to go to Porquerolles?”

Did Mr. Pyke want to make a trip to the Midi?

“It's not up to me to decide. In theory I don't operate outside Paris and the department of the Seine.”

The sky was gray, a lowering, hopeless gray, and even the word “mistral” took on a tempting allure.

“Do you like tripe?”

He took him to the Market, and made him eat
tripes à la mode de Caen
and crêpes Suzette, which were brought to them on attractive copper chafing dishes.

“This is what we call an empty sort of day.”

“So do we.”

What could the Scotland Yard man be thinking of him? He had come to study “Maigret's methods” and Maigret had no method. He found only a large, rather clumsy man who must appear to him to be the prototype of the French public servant. How long would he go on following him about like that?

At two o'clock they were back at the Quai des Orfèvres, and Caracci was still there, in the kind of glass cage that served as a waiting room. That meant they had got nothing out of him and they were going to question him again.

“Has he eaten?” Mr. Pyke asked.

“I don't know. Possibly. Sometimes they have a sandwich brought up for them.”

“And otherwise?”

“They let them fast a little to prompt the memory.”

“The chief is asking for you, inspector.”

“Will you excuse me, Mr. Pyke?”

That was something to the good. The other wouldn't follow him into the chief's office.

“Come in, Maigret. I've just had a call from Draguignan.”

“I know what that's about.”

“Lechat has of course been in touch with you. Have you much work at the moment?”

“Not too much. Apart from my guest…”

“Does he get in your way?”

“He's the soul of discretion.”

“Do you remember the man called Pacaud?”

“I remembered him when I looked up his file.”

“Don't you find the story rather odd?”

“I only know what Lechat told me on the telephone and he was so eager to explain that I didn't understand very much.”

“The commissioner talked to me at great length. He insists on your going for a trip down there. According to him it's because of you that Pacaud was killed.”

“Because of me?”

“He can't see any other explanation for the murder. For several years Pacaud, better known under the name of Marcellin, had lived at Porquerolles in his boat. He had become a popular figure. As far as I could gather he was more like a tramp than a fisherman. In the winter he lived without doing anything. In the summer he took tourists out fishing round the islands. No one had anything to gain by his death. He wasn't known to have had enemies. Nothing was stolen from him, for the very good reason that there was nothing to steal.”

“How was he killed?”

“That's just what intrigues the commissioner.”

The chief consulted several notes which he had made during his telephone conversation.

“As I don't know the place, it's difficult for me to get an accurate picture. The evening before last…”

“I thought I was told it was yesterday…”

“No, the day before. A number of people were gathered at the Arche de Noé. That must be an inn or a café. At this time of year, it seems, only the habitués are to be seen there. Everyone knows everyone else. Marcellin was there. In the course of an almost general conversation he mentioned you.”

“Why?”

“I've no idea. People talk freely about celebrities. Marcellin claimed you were a friend of his. Perhaps some people had cast doubts on your professional abilities. The fact remains that he defended you with uncommon vigor.”

“Was he drunk?”

“He was always more or less drunk. There was a strong mistral blowing. I don't know what effect the mistral has down there, but as far as I can gather, it is of some importance. It was chiefly on account of this mistral that Marcellin, instead of sleeping in his boat, as he normally did, went off in the direction of a hut which stands near the harbor, where the fishermen spread out their nets. When he was found, the next morning, he had received several shots in the head, fired at point-blank range, and one in the shoulder. The murderer emptied his gun on him. Not content with that he hit him in the face with a heavy instrument. It seems he put an extraordinary ferocity into it.”

Maigret looked at the Seine, outside, through the curtain of rain, and thought of the Mediterranean sun.

“Boisvert, the commissioner, is a pleasant fellow, whom I've known for ages. He doesn't usually get carried away. He's just arrived on the scene, but he has to leave again this evening. He agrees with Lechat in thinking it was the conversation about you which started the thing off. He's not far from saying that it was you, in a sort of way, that was being aimed at through Marcellin. See what I mean? A man who has a big enough grudge against you to go for anyone who claims to be a friend of yours and sticks up for you.”

“Are there people like that at Porquerolles?”

“That's what's puzzling Boisvert. On an island everyone is known. No one can land and go off again without it being known. So far there isn't the remotest suspect. Or else they'll have to suspect people without any grounds. What do you think?”

“I think Mr. Pyke would like a trip to the Midi.”

“And you?”

“I think I'd like it too if it was a question of going by myself.”

“When will you be leaving?”

“I'll take the night train.”

“With Mr. Pyke?”

“With Mr. Pyke!”

 

Did the Englishman imagine the French police had powerful motorcars at their disposal to take them to the scenes of crimes?

He must think, at any rate, that Police Headquarters detectives have unlimited expenses for their movements. Had Maigret done right? Alone, he would have been content with a couchette. At the Gare de Lyon he hesitated. Then at the last moment he took two wagon-lit places.

It was sumptuous. In the corridor they found de luxe travelers, with impressive-looking luggage. An elegant crowd, laden with flowers, was seeing a film star on to the train.

“It's the Blue Train,” Maigret mumbled, as if to excuse himself.

If only he had been able to know what his fellow policeman was thinking! Into the bargain they were obliged to undress in front of one another and, the next morning, they would have to share the minute washing compartment.

“Well,” said Mr. Pyke, in dressing gown and pajamas, “so a case is under way.”

Just what did he mean by that? His French had something so precise about it that he always looked for a hidden meaning.

“It's a case, yes.”

“Did you take a copy of Marcellin's file?”

“No. I confess I never thought of it.”

“Have you concerned yourself at all about what has become of the woman: Ginette, I believe?”

“No.”

Was there a reproach in the look Mr. Pyke shot at him?

“Have you brought an open arrest warrant with you?”

“Not that either. Only an interrogation permit, which entitles me to summon people and question them.”

“Do you know Porquerolles?”

“I've never set foot there. I hardly know the Midi. I was on a case there, once, at Antibes and Cannes, and I remember particularly it was overpoweringly hot and I felt permanently sleepy.”

“Don't you like the Mediterranean?”

“In general, I dislike places where I lose the desire to work.”

“That's because you like working, is it?”

“I don't know.”

It was true. On the one hand he railed every time a case came along to interrupt his daily routine. On the other hand as soon as he was left in peace for several days he would become restless, as though anxious.

“Do you sleep well on trains?”

“I sleep well anywhere.”

“The train doesn't help you think?”

“I think so little, you know!”

It embarrassed him to see the compartment filled with smoke from his pipe, the more so as the Englishman didn't smoke.

“So you don't know what line you are going to start on?”

“Quite right. I don't even know if there is a line.”

“Thank you.”

One could feel that Mr. Pyke had registered Maigret's every word, had carefully arranged them in order in his brain, for use later on. It could not have been more off-putting. One could imagine him, on his return to Scotland Yard, gathering his colleagues round him (why not in front of a blackboard?) and announcing in his precise voice:

“A case conducted by Chief Inspector Maigret…”

And what if it was a flop? If it was one of those stories where one flounders about and only finds out the solution ten years later, by the merest fluke? If it was a humdrum affair, if tomorrow Lechat rushed up to the carriage door, announcing:

“All over! We've arrested the drunkard who did it. He's confessed.”

What if…Madame Maigret hadn't put a dressing gown in his suitcase. She hadn't wanted him to take the old one, which looked like a monk's habit, and he had been meaning to buy a new one for the last two months. He felt indecent in his nightshirt.

“How about a nightcap?” suggested Mr. Pyke, offering him a silver whisky flask and cup. “That's what we call the last whisky before going to bed.”