Maigret's Dead Man (18 page)

‘Because of Maria, of course! She's
still there! Is he seriously hurt?'

‘The bullet got him in the left knee.
They'll be operating on him now, as we speak.'

‘What about his pockets?'

On Maigret's desk were two small
collections of objects which had been carefully laid out.

‘The first one is the contents of
Carl's pockets. The other one is what was in Pietr's.'

‘Is Moers upstairs?'

‘He rang down to let
us know that he'll be in his lab all night.'

‘Ask him to come here. And I want someone
to go up to Records. I need the card and the whole file on a man named Jean Bronsky. I
haven't got any prints for him, but he's been up in court twice and was probably
given an eighteen-month jail sentence.'

He also sent men out to Rue de Provence, opposite
the Folies-Bergère
,
with strict instructions to keep out of sight at all times. He
told them:

‘Before you go wait until you see a photo
of Bronsky. Only if he attempts to get on a train or a plane is he to be apprehended. But I
don't think that will happen.'

Carl Lipschitz's wallet contained forty-two
thousand-franc notes, an identity card made out in his name and a second card in an Italian
name: Filipino. He didn't smoke, for he wasn't carrying cigarettes, a pipe or a
lighter, but he had a pocket torch, two handkerchiefs, one filthy, a cinema ticket bearing that
day's date, a penknife and an automatic revolver.

‘You see?' Maigret remarked to
Colombani. ‘And there we were, imagining that we had thought of everything.'

He pointed to the cinema ticket.

‘They had the same thought. Buying a cinema
ticket is better than wandering around the streets. You can spend hours in the dark. You can
even get some sleep in one of the boulevard cinemas that stay open all night.'

In Pietr's pockets there were just
thirty-eight francs in coins. A wallet contained two photographs, one of Maria, a small passport
photo which must have been taken the
previous year when she had done her
hair differently, and a picture of two country people, a man and a woman, sitting by their front
door, in central Europe, insofar as could be judged by the style of the house.

No identity papers. Cigarettes, a lighter, a
pocket notebook, of which a number of pages were covered by fine handwriting in pencil.

‘Looks like poetry.'

‘Actually, I'd say that's
exactly what it is.'

Moers was over the moon to have the two sets of
objects which he could rush off with to his lair under the eaves. Soon after this, an inspector
deposited Bronsky's file on the desk. The photo, hard and cruel as anthropometric
photographs always are, did not match exactly the description Marchand had given for this man,
who was still young, looked drawn and had a two-day beard and a prominent Adam's
apple.

‘Has Janvier phoned?'

‘He said everything was quiet and that you
can reach him on Passy 62-41.'

‘Get me the number.'

He began to read half aloud. According to his
file, Bronsky had been born in Prague and was now thirty-five years old. He had studied at the
University of Vienna, after which he lived in Berlin for two years. There he married a Hilda
Braun but when he entered France at the age of twenty-eight he was alone. His papers were in
order. He was already giving his profession as ‘film director', and his first
address was a hotel on Boulevard Raspail.

‘Janvier on the phone, sir.'

‘Is that you, young
man? Have you eaten? … Listen carefully. I'm going to send you a car with two
men.'

‘There are two of us here already,'
protested Janvier in an aggrieved voice.

‘Never mind that now. Listen to what I say.
When they get there, leave them outside. They mustn't show themselves. It is vital that
anyone going into the building or getting out of a taxi should not suspect that they are there.
I want you and your colleague to go inside. Wait until the lights have been turned off in the
concierge's lodge. What's the building like?'

‘New, modern, very smart. A tall white
façade and a wrought-iron and glass front door.'

‘Right. Mumble some name or other and go
upstairs.'

‘How will I know which apartment?
…'

‘You're right. Look, there must be a
dairy somewhere near which delivers milk. Get the dairyman out of bed if you have to. Tell him a
tale, preferably involving a woman.'

‘Got it.'

‘Can you remember how to pick a lock? Go
in. Don't put any lights on. Lie low in a corner so you'd both be able to intervene
if the need arises.'

‘Understood, sir,' sighed poor
Janvier who would probably be spending many hours keeping very still in a dark, strange
apartment.

‘And especially, no smoking!'

He even permitted himself a sadistic little
smile. Then he chose the two men for the stake-out in Rue de Longchamp.

‘Take your guns. We can't be sure how
all this will turn out.'

He glanced at Colombani. The
two men understood each other perfectly. This was no ordinary crook they were dealing with but
the leader of a gang of killers. They had no right to take any risks.

An arrest in the bar of the Folies-Bergère,
for example, would have been easier. But no one could predict how Bronsky would react. There was
a good chance that he was armed and it was probable that he was the kind of man who would defend
himself and even shoot into the crowd so that he could make the most of the ensuing panic.

‘Who'll volunteer to go out and order
beers to be brought up from the Brasserie Dauphine? And sandwiches!'

It was a sign that one of the Police
Judiciaire's memorable nights was about to begin. The atmosphere of both offices in
Maigret's section started to feel like that of a field HQ. Everybody was smoking,
everybody was on edge. The phones were silent.

‘Give me the
Folies-Bergère.'

It took some time before Marchand came to the
line. He had to be fetched from off the stage, where he was sorting out an argument between two
exotic dancers.

‘Yes, old son,' he began before he
even knew who was on the line.

‘Maigret.'

‘Well?'

‘Is he there?'

‘I saw him a few moments ago.'

‘Good. Don't say anything to him.
Give me a ring only if he leaves by himself.'

‘Will do. Don't knock him about too
much will you?'

‘It'll probably
be someone else who'll take care of him,' replied Maigret enigmatically.

It was only a few minutes before Francine Latour
would walk on to the stage of the Folies with the comic actor Dréan, at probably the same
time as her lover would step into the overheated auditorium, stand for a moment at the back like
a regular attender and listen with only half an ear to an exchange of dialogue which he knew by
heart and to the laughter which surged from all sides.

Maria was still lying in her hospital room, tense
and furious because in accordance with the rules her baby had been taken away for the night and
because two policemen were standing outside, guarding the corridor. There was a further officer,
just one, in another wing of the Laennec, where Pietr had just been taken after he emerged from
the operating theatre.

Coméliau, in apprehensive mood, was with
friends in Boulevard Saint-Germain. He had left them briefly to call Maigret.

‘Still nothing?'

‘A few small items. Carl Lipschitz is
dead.'

‘Was the shot fired by one of your
men?'

‘No. By one of his. The kid, Pietr, was
shot in the knee by one of my inspectors.'

‘So that means there's only one still
on the loose?'

‘Serge Madok, yes. And the leader of the
bunch.'

‘Whom you still haven't
identified.'

‘His name is Jean Bronsky.'

‘Say again?'

‘Bronsky.'

‘Isn't he a
film producer?'

‘I don't know if he's actually
a producer but he does dabble in cinema.'

‘Just under three years ago, I had him sent
down for eighteen months.'

‘That's our man.'

‘Are you getting close to him?'

‘At this moment he's at the
Folies-Bergère.'

‘Where?'

‘I said: at the
Folies-Bergère
.
'

‘Aren't you going to arrest
him?'

‘In a while. We've got plenty of time
now. I'd rather limit any damage, if you follow me.'

‘Take a note of this number. I'll be
here with friends until about midnight. After that I'll be at home waiting for your
call.'

‘I think you'll probably be able to
get some sleep.'

Maigret was right. Jean Bronsky and Francine
Latour first took a taxi to Maxim's for a quiet supper. It was from his office at Quai des
Orfèvres that Maigret continued to follow their progress. By now it was the second time
that the waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine had come up with his tray. There were dirty glasses
all over the office together with half-eaten sandwiches, and the smell of tobacco smoke caught
in the throat. But despite the heat, Colombani had not removed his camelhair coat, which he
regarded as a kind of uniform. He also kept his hat tilted on the back of his head.

‘Aren't you going to bring the woman
in?'

‘What woman?'

‘Nine. Albert's
wife.'

Maigret shook his head and looked irritated. Was
this or was this not any of his business? He was quite prepared to collaborate with the people
from Rue des Saussaies, provided they did not interfere.

Actually he was, for the moment, like a man
feeling his way. As Monsieur Coméliau had just pointed out, he was free to arrest Jean
Bronsky whenever he liked. He remembered something he had said right at the start of the
inquiry, to whom he no longer remembered, with unaccustomed solemnity: ‘This is a very
nasty business. They are killers …'

Killers who all knew they had nothing to lose, so
much so that if they were arrested in the middle of a crowd, and if the crowd got to know that
these men were the Picardy gang, the police would not be able to prevent a lynching.

After what they had done on those farms, any jury
would sentence them to death, and they knew it. Maria might, because of her child, have a slight
hope of obtaining mercy from the president of the Republic.

Would she get it? It was doubtful. There was the
testimony of the little girl who had survived and the evidence of the burned feet and breasts.
There was the arrogance of the female, even her untamed beauty, which would weigh against her in
the minds of the jury. Civilized men fear wild creatures, especially wild creatures of their own
kind who remind them of life in the primeval forests of past ages. Jean Bronsky was an even more
dangerous wild animal, a brutish beast dressed by the best tailor in Place Vendôme, a
savage in a silk shirt who had been to university and was
primped and
preened every morning by a hairdresser like some peacock.

‘You're playing it careful,'
observed Colombani at one point, as Maigret sat patiently in front of one of the phones.

‘I'm playing it careful.'

‘What if he slips between our
fingers?'

‘I'd rather that than have one of my
men gunned down.'

And thinking of which, what was the point of
leaving Chevrier and his wife in their bistro out at Quai de Charenton? Phone them? They were
probably in bed now. Maigret smiled and gave a shrug. Who knows? Maybe their brief masquerade
was giving them a thrill, and there was no reason why they shouldn't go on playing at
running a bar for another few hours.

‘Hello? … Is that you, sir? …
They've just gone into the Florence.'

It was the smartest club in Montmartre.
Champagne
de rigueur
. Doubtless Francine Latour was wearing a new dress and had new
diamonds to show off. She was very young, not yet weary of that kind of life. Are there not old
women who are rich and titled and own private mansions in Avenue du Bois or in Faubourg
Saint-Germain who have been going to the same nightspots for forty years?

‘It's time!' said Maigret
decisively.

He took his revolver out of the drawer and
checked that it was loaded. Colombani looked at him and gave a faint smile.

‘Want me to come along with you?'

This would be generous of Maigret. The action was
taking place in his jurisdiction. It was he who had rooted out the Picardy
gang. He could have kept the job to himself and his men and thus Quai des Orfèvres would
have put yet another one over on the Rue des Saussaies.

‘Got your gun with you?'

‘It lives in my pocket.'

Maigret's didn't. He rarely needed
it.

As they crossed the courtyard, Colombani gestured
towards one of the police cars.

‘No. I prefer a taxi. Attracts less
attention.'

He chose one carefully, one with a driver he
knew, though in truth almost all the taxi-drivers knew him.

‘Rue de Longchamp. Drive down it at walking
speed.'

The building where Francine Latour lived stood
relatively tall in the street, not far from a famous restaurant where Maigret recalled having
eaten a number of good lunches. Everywhere was closed. It was now two in the morning. They
needed to find a place to park. Maigret was serious, peevish and silent.

‘Drive round again. Stop when I tell you
to. Keep just your sidelights on, as if you're waiting to pick up a fare.'

They were less than ten metres from the apartment
block. They could just make out an inspector lurking in the shadow of a carriage entrance. There
had to be another officer somewhere and, up in the apartment, Janvier and his colleague were
still waiting in the dark.