Maigret's Dead Man (10 page)

‘Which neighbourhood?'

‘Roi-de-Sicile.'

It was the turn of the commissioner of the Police
Judiciaire to scowl. Maigret went straight to the office where
the
inspectors were based, picked out several and gave them their orders.

Then he went off to find the detective chief
inspector who headed up the Vice Squad.

‘Could you let me have on temporary
secondment an inspector who knows Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, Rue des Rosiers and the streets round
about like the back of his hand? There must be a fair number of girls on the game
thereabouts.'

‘Too many.'

‘In half an hour or so, he'll be
given a photo.'

‘Another stiff?'

‘Unfortunately, yes. But this time his face
wasn't rearranged for him.'

‘I see.'

‘There must be several of them hiding up
around there. Take care. They're killers.'

Next he went down to the Hotel Agency. He asked
for more or less the same favour.

Speed was of the essence. He checked to make sure
that the inspectors had left to begin patrolling in and around the neighbourhood. Then he phoned
forensics.

‘Have you got those photos?'

‘You can send someone round for them in a
few minutes. The body has arrived. We're working on it.'

He had a feeling that there was something he was
forgetting. He remained where he was, ready to be off, scratching his head, and suddenly the
face of Coméliau, the examining magistrate, sprang in to his mind.

And a good job it did!

‘Hello! Good evening,
sir. It's Maigret.'

‘Ah, Detective Chief Inspector! And how are
you getting on with the man you reckoned ran a small bar?'

‘Actually he did run a small café,
sir.'

‘Have you identified him?'

‘Identified him one hundred per
cent.'

‘Are you making progress with your
investigation?'

‘We've already managed to come up
with a second corpse.'

He pictured the examining magistrate suddenly
straightening up at the other end of the line.

‘What did you say?'

‘We've got another body. But this
time, it's a member of the opposing group.'

‘You mean it was the police who killed
him?'

‘No. This other lot took care of it
themselves.'

‘What “other lot” are you
talking about?'

‘His cronies, probably.'

‘Have they been arrested?'

‘Not yet.'

He lowered his voice.

‘I'm afraid, sir, that it's
going to be a long and difficult investigation. This is a very nasty business. They are killers,
you know.'

‘Am I to conclude that if they hadn't
killed anybody there wouldn't have been a case to investigate?'

‘You misunderstand me. They kill, in cold
blood, to defend themselves. That's quite rare, you know, despite what the general public
believes. They won't hesitate to gun down one of their own.'

‘Why?'

‘Probably because his cover was blown and
might have led us to them. Also, it's a dangerous neighbourhood, one of the most dangerous
in the whole of Paris. It's full of foreigners with no or false papers.'

‘What are you proposing to do?'

‘I'll follow procedure, because I
have to, because I am personally accountable. We'll stage a raid tonight, but it
won't come up with anything.'

‘I hope at any rate that it won't
result in further casualties.'

‘I hope so too.'

‘What time are you proposing to go ahead
with it?'

‘Usual time. About two in the
morning.'

‘I have a bridge party tonight. I'll
make it last for as long as I can. Phone me as soon as the raid is over.'

‘Very well, sir.'

‘When will you let me have your
report?'

‘As soon as I have time to write it up.
Probably not before tomorrow evening.'

‘How's the bronchitis?'

‘What bronchitis?'

He had forgotten all about it.

Lucas walked into his office, holding a red card
in his hand. Maigret could see what it was. It was a trade union membership card made out in the
name of Victor Poliensky, a Czech national, an unskilled worker in the Citroën
factories.

‘What's the address,
Lucas?'

‘132, Quai de Javel.'

‘Wait a moment. The address is vaguely
familiar. I think
it's probably that insalubrious rooming house on
the corner of the Quai and a street whose name I've forgotten. We raided it about two
years ago. Check and see if they have a telephone.'

The property was located further along the Seine,
not far from the dark mass of the factory buildings, a run-down nest of furnished rooms full to
overflowing with newly arrived foreigners who often slept three to a room despite police
regulations. What was surprising was that the place was run by a woman and that she was quite
capable of holding her own against all her tenants. She even cooked for them.

‘Hello? Is that 132, Quai de
Javel?'

A woman's husky voice.

‘Is Poliensky there just now?'

She said nothing, taking her time before she
answered.

‘I mean Victor …'

‘So? …'

‘Is he there?'

‘What's it to you?'

‘I'm a friend of his.'

‘You're a cop, that's
what.'

‘Let's suppose for argument's
sake that this is the police. Does Poliensky still live at this address? I needn't add
that anything you say will be checked.'

‘I know how you operate.'

‘Well?'

‘He hasn't been here for more than
six months.'

‘Where did he work?'

‘He worked for Citroën.'

‘Has he been in
France for long?'

‘No idea.'

‘Did he speak French?'

‘No.'

‘How long did he live under your
roof?'

‘About three months.'

‘Did he have any friends? Did he get
visitors?'

‘No.'

‘Were his papers in order?'

‘Probably, because your hotel snoopers
didn't mention anything to me.'

‘Another question. Did he used to have his
meals with you?'

‘Usually.'

‘Did he bother with women?'

‘Listen, you dirty-minded swine, do you
think I'm interested in that sort of thing?'

He hung up. Turning to Lucas, he said:

‘Get on to Immigration.'

The Préfecture of Police had no record of
the man in their files. This meant that the Czech was there illegally, like so many others, like
the thousands who gravitate to the shadier parts of Paris. Most probably, like most of them, he
had acquired a false identity card. There were many back-street operators in and around the
Faubourg Saint-Antoine who supplied them for a set price.

‘Find out from Citroën!'

The photos of the dead man had arrived and he
distributed them to the inspectors from the Vice Squad and the Hotel Agency.

He went upstairs himself to
Records to check progress on the fingerprinting.

There were no matches.

‘Isn't Moers here?' he asked,
putting his head round the laboratory door.

Moers ought not to have been there, because he
had worked all night and through the day. But he didn't need much sleep. He had no family,
no known girlfriend and no passion except his laboratory.

‘Over here, chief!'

‘I've got another corpse for you. But
first, come to my office.'

They went down together. Lucas had spoken to the
accounts department at Citroën.

‘That old girl was right. He worked for
them as an unskilled labourer for three months. He hasn't been on their books for six
months.'

‘Was he a good worker?'

‘Not many absences. But they employ so many
people that they don't know them individually. I asked if we came tomorrow and saw the
foreman he worked under, would we get more information. It's no good. With skilled
workers, yes. But the unskilled labourers, who are almost all foreigners, come and go, and no
one gets to know them. There are always a few hundred of them waiting at the gates hoping to be
taken on. They may work for three days, three weeks or three months and then they are never seen
again. They get moved from site to site as and when they're needed.'

‘Anything in his pockets?'

On his desk was a battered
wallet. The leather must once have been green. In addition to the union membership card, it had
contained a photo of a young woman. Round, fresh face with heavy plaits piled over the top of
her head. Very probably Czech, a country girl.

‘Two thousand-franc notes and three
hundreds.'

‘That's quite a lot,' said
Maigret.

A long flick-knife with a narrow blade as sharp
as a razor.

‘Wouldn't you say, Moers, that this
knife might well have been the one that killed Albert?'

‘It's possible, chief.'

The handkerchief was greenish too. Victor
Poliensky must have liked green.

‘So you might think! It's not a
cheerful thought, but you never know what your tests will show.'

A packet of Caporal cigarettes and a German-made
lighter. Some small change. No keys.

‘Are you sure, Lucas, that there
weren't any keys?'

‘Certain, sir.'

‘Did they remove all his
clothes?'

‘Not yet. They're waiting for
Moers.'

‘Best be off, then! On this occasion, I
don't have time to come with you. You're going to have to spend a part of tonight
again working. You'll be dead beat.'

‘I can easily manage two nights on the
trot. It won't be the first time …'

Maigret asked to be put through to the Petit
Albert.

‘Anything new, Émile?'

‘Nothing, sir. Much the same.'

‘Had many
customers?'

‘Fewer than this morning. Some for an
aperitif, but we've had hardly any takers for dinner.'

‘Is your wife still enjoying playing
landladies?'

‘She's in her element. She's
cleaned the bedroom from top to bottom, changed the sheets and we'll be snug up there.
What about the man with red hair?'

‘Dead.'

‘What?'

‘One of his low-life pals decided to put a
bullet in his hide just because he thought he'd like to go home.'

He called in again at the inspectors' room.
He couldn't afford to overlook anything.

‘Anything come up on the yellow
Citroën?'

‘Nothing new. But there have been a few
sightings of it around Barbès-Rochechouart.'

‘Really! We've got to follow up on
that lead.'

And again for geographical reasons. The
Barbès district lies next to Gare du Nord, and Albert had worked for a long time as a
waiter in a brasserie somewhere near the station.

‘Hungry, Lucas?' asked Maigret.

‘Not particularly. I can wait.'

‘What about your wife?'

‘I can phone home.'

‘Right, I'll just phone home too and
then I'll keep you with me.'

Even so, he was feeling rather tired and he
didn't much feel like working by himself, especially since the night to come promised to
be exhausting.

They both stopped off at the
Brasserie Dauphine for an aperitif. It always came as a surprise when they were deep in an
investigation to observe that life around them continued normally, that people still went about
their lawful occasions and joked and laughed. What did it matter to them if a Czech had been
shot on the pavement of Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? It was worth just a short paragraph in the
papers.

Then one fine day they would learn that the
murderer had been arrested. No one, save those directly involved, knew that a raid was being
organized in the most densely populated and most combustible parts of Paris. Could they pick out
the plainclothes police officers posted on the corner of every street, trying to look as
inconspicuous as possible?

A few tarts, maybe, lurking in recesses from
which they emerged from time to time to clutch at the arm of a possible customer, would flinch
as they recognized the tell-tale figure of a member of the Vice Squad. They immediately assumed
that they would be spending part of the night in the cells of the Préfecture. They were
used to it. It happened to them at least once a month. Provided they were clean, they would be
released at about ten o'clock the next morning.

Nor did the people who ran rented accommodation
like it when officers came at unusual hours to check their registers. Of course, everything was
all in order. Everything was always in order.

A photo would be thrust under their noses. They
would make a show of looking at it very carefully, even making a point of going off to fetch
their glasses.

‘Do you know this man?'

‘Never saw him
before.'

‘Do you have any Czechs staying
here?'

‘Some Polish, Italians, an Armenian, but no
Czechs.'

‘That's it.'

Routine. Further out, at Barbès, one of the
inspectors whose job was making inquiries exclusively about the yellow car, was questioning
garage owners, mechanics, officers on the beat, shopkeepers, concierges.

Routine.

Chevrier and his wife were playing at running a
café down on Quai de Charenton and would shortly, after putting up the shutters, sit and
chat by the large stove before going upstairs to settle into the bed that had belonged to
Li'l Albert and wall-eyed Nine.

She was someone else who had to be traced. She
was not known to the Vice Squad. What could have become of her? Did she know that her husband
was dead? If she knew, why had she not come forward to identify his body after his picture had
appeared in the papers? Other people had been unable to recognize him. But surely she
…?