Maigret Defends Himself, page 7
‘Do you know where?’
‘It’s been mentioned in the newspapers. Of course, I don’t go to places like that myself, so I’m not really up to date. It’s on Avenue de la Grande-Armée or somewhere round there. There’s a restaurant on the ground floor, anyone can eat there, if they can afford it. The club’s in the basement, and for that you apparently have to be a member … Wait, I’m trying to remember the name … It’s on the tip of my tongue …’
‘The Hundred Keys?’ Lucas suggested.
‘That’s the one. How did you know?’
‘Because, like you, I read about it in the papers. Once you’re accepted as a member, you’re given a gold key, which is like a symbol to say that you can open the doors of the club.’
Maigret stood up as the cousin was getting ready to order another round and launch into interminable reflections on the Sorbonne.
‘I’m very grateful to you. I hope you don’t mind, but I have to go.’
A little later, on Boulevard Saint-Michel, he collapsed on to the back seat of a taxi and said:
‘Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.’
‘Got it, Monsieur Maigret.’
It wouldn’t be long before the prefect of police banned taxi drivers from recognizing him!
He had seldom been so eager to get back home and see his wife’s bright, tender eyes.
5.
As soon as she recognized his steps on the stairs, she came and opened the door to him. She was in her housecoat and slippers, and the apartment smelled of floor polish.
‘Sorry I’m not dressed, but when you asked them to call and tell me that you wouldn’t be back for lunch, I assumed you were on a new case and I took the opportunity to wax the floor. What’s the matter? Is something worrying you?’
‘I am on a new case, as you put it. The Maigret case.’
He gave a forced smile. It is painful, towards the end of a career like his, to see your chiefs begin to doubt you, especially a proud, fiercely ambitious young cock of the walk like the prefect.
The morning’s indignation might have faded, but there was still a residue of bitterness, which Maigret had made an effort not to show his colleagues, particularly his good old Janvier and Lucas.
‘We may be in Meung-sur-Loire earlier than planned.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That business from last night. The phone call, the girl I went to see in Rue de Seine.’
‘Don’t tell me she was dead when you got there?’
‘From my point of view, it’s almost worse. She went home at eight in the morning. She lives on Boulevard de Courcelles, and her uncle is an important political figure.’
‘It’s funny. I’ve been thinking all day about that girl and what she told you. Something’s been bothering me.’
‘She’s accused me of approaching her in a bar where she’d stopped to phone a friend and trying to get round her by promising to let her watch me arrest someone. Taking advantage of her innocence, I supposedly got her drunk, dragged her from one bar to another and eventually, when she was barely conscious, took her to a hotel room and undressed her against her will.’
‘And people have believed that?’
‘Lots of important people, apparently, starting with the minister of the interior, and continuing with the prefect of police.’
‘Have you offered to resign?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You’re going to defend yourself, I hope?’
‘I’ve been trying to since eleven this morning. That’s one of the reasons I’m asking you out to dinner.’
‘Perfect timing. As I had no idea what time you were coming home, there are only cold cuts for dinner. What would you like me to put on?’
‘The best you’ve got.’
A few minutes later, in the shower, he tried to hear what his wife was saying to him. They were forced to speak very loudly.
‘Did you question the girl?’
‘I’m forbidden to go anywhere near her or her place of residence.’
‘Why did she do it? Do you have any idea?’
‘Not yet. I may get one this evening.’
They dressed, exchanging words full of trust. Madame Maigret hadn’t panicked, and she had been the first to mention the word ‘resignation’. Not for a moment had she doubted her husband, and she had lost none of her good humour.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To a restaurant on Avenue de la Grande-Armée that has two stars in the Michelin guide.’
These were the longest days of the year. The sun hadn’t yet set, and the whole of Paris had flung open its windows to the cooling air of evening. Men in shirt-sleeves were smoking their pipes or cigarettes and watching the passers-by, women in night attire were calling to one another from window to window, and as you walked along the street you could hear the cacophony of radios tuned to different stations.
They went down into the Métro. Some of his colleagues teased Maigret about this. He was one of the few at Quai des Orfèvres not to own a car. That was partly due to the fact that, when he’d been of an age to learn to drive and to enjoy it, he hadn’t had the wherewithal.
It was too late now. There was a risk that when he was at the wheel, he would spend his time gazing up at the sun playing in the foliage of the trees, turning to look at a passer-by or else, when he was on a case, drifting off in sullen speculation.
He thought about this ironically as he sat beside his wife in the Métro carriage, swaying backwards and forwards and from side to side like her and the other passengers.
Madame Maigret could have driven him around. Many men let their wives do the driving.
‘Can you see me responsible for a ton of scrap metal speeding away at a hundred kilometres an hour? I’d be so afraid of hurting someone! Especially as the traffic police are always urging you to go faster.’
Janvier had a 6CV. Lucas was talking of buying one. Maigret would be obliged to use a car when he lived in Meung-sur-Loire, unless he and his wife led the life of a provincial couple from the year 1900. In the country, he might get used to it and not be afraid of mistaking red lights for children’s balloons. He’d still come to Paris by train as he used to.
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing.’
Nothing and everything: life, his career, that morning’s interview in the prefect’s office, Manuel in his wheelchair, that strange girl Aline.
The restaurant, with discreet tulle curtains at the windows, was almost at the end of the avenue. It was cosy and elegant, but half empty at the moment, given that a good many of its regular customers were already in the country or by the sea. To the right of the main door, a staircase led down to the basement, where a large red curtain was drawn across the entrance.
‘Would you like a table near one of the windows?’
‘No, here.’
Maigret indicated one facing the stairs and stood aside to let his wife take her seat on the banquette. He studied the menu.
‘Would you like duck à l’orange?’
‘What else is there?’
‘A whole page …’
They finally chose a refreshing vichyssoise and the duck, which was the dish of the day. The head waiter had joined the rest of his staff and was probably whispering to them:
‘That’s Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
They were all looking at him curiously. He was used to it, but despite what the prefect said, it wasn’t a pleasant sensation.
‘Did you have a particular reason for choosing this restaurant? We’ve never been here before.’
‘I came here once a long time ago, while I was on some case or other. Unless I’m mistaken, I was on the trail of an international con man who often had lunch here.’
‘It seems like a respectable place.’
‘International con men only eat in respectable places and stay at the best hotels.’
It was nine o’clock. A young woman came in and headed down the stairs. She didn’t look like a customer, more like a cloakroom girl or lavatory attendant.
Ten minutes later, it was the turn of a weary-looking man. He wasn’t one of the gilded youth either, but was on the other side of the fence, the side of those who serve.
The club downstairs probably opened later and they were now getting things ready, the way they did in the morning in little bars and cafés.
They heard a burst of music, muffled by the red curtain, followed by others, all different: records were being tried out to check the sound level.
‘Do you think it’s better than mine?’
‘No. Nothing here is better than at home.’
She was talking about the duck. They chatted about this and that. From time to time, when she sensed he wasn’t looking at her, Madame Maigret looked gravely at her husband, trying to figure out how affected he was. He had ordered a vintage Saint-Émilion, but barely touched it.
Was she, too, wondering if he wasn’t drinking too much and if that didn’t have a good deal to do with his tiredness? Because he did seem tired. She and Pardon had had brief, surreptitious conversations about it, Maigret knew that. What had the doctor told her?
‘How about cheese? I can see a very tempting brie …’
‘I may have a small piece.’
Maigret turned to the head waiter. ‘Tell me something. The club downstairs …’
‘Yes, monsieur. The Hundred Keys.’
‘Why a hundred?’
‘That’s not my responsibility. I deal with the restaurant, not the club.’
‘Can anyone be admitted?’
‘No. It’s strictly private. You have to be a member.’
‘How does one join?’
‘Why, are you interested?’
He seemed amazed, and looked in turn at Maigret and Madame Maigret, who blushed.
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘No … Yes … It’s mainly a club for young people, who come there to dance. They’ll be here soon. Would you like me to call the master of ceremonies?’
He was already on his way down to the basement. He stayed there for quite a long time, re-emerging in the company of a young man in a dinner jacket whom Maigret thought he recognized.
‘This is Monsieur Landry. He can provide you with all the information you need.’
Landry held out his hand.
‘Good evening, detective chief inspector.’ He bowed to Madame Maigret. ‘I’m honoured, madame. Not many people in Paris have been lucky enough to meet you, as your husband doesn’t like to show you in public. Would you allow me?’
He grabbed a chair by its back, sat down on it and took a silver cigarette case from his pocket.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I smoke?’
He was about thirty-five. His dinner jacket was perfectly cut, and he wore it with the ease of someone who dresses up every evening.
He was a handsome man who might perhaps be criticized for being too sure of himself. There was something sardonic, even aggressive, in his eyes. His smile was charming, seductive even, but you sensed that at the slightest threat he would show his claws.
‘I hear you’re interested in our club?’
‘I’m tempted to join. Unless there’s an age limit?’
‘We considered it at the start. We thought thirty, which would have kept out some excellent people. So you’ve heard of the Hundred Keys, Monsieur Maigret?’
‘In a vague kind of way, and I’m rather surprised to find you here. You’re the master of ceremonies, I understand?’
‘Secretary, master of ceremonies, a bit of everything, really. It’s fashionable to use the term “master of ceremonies”.’
Maigret had met Landry when he was not much more than eighteen and had just arrived from the provinces. His father was director of postal services in Angers or Tours, one of those big towns on the banks of the Loire anyway. Anxious to make his career in Paris, he had written gossip items for the newspapers, skilfully worming his way through the crowds at receptions and cocktail parties and approaching well-known people.
One day, he had come to see Maigret at Quai des Orfèvres, oozing self-confidence and displaying a press card from a weekly paper specializing in sensational revelations.
Marcel Landry had no doubts about anything, especially not himself.
‘You understand, detective chief inspector, our readers aren’t interested in the workings of the Police Judiciaire – the daily papers have talked a lot about them – they’re interested in what happens behind the scenes. After all, if I can put it this way, all the dirty linen of Paris ends up here. I hope that expression doesn’t shock you. Obviously I’m not talking about naming names. And I think I can say that my paper would be prepared to pay a good deal of money …’
He was too young at the time for Maigret to be angry with him, and he had quite gently shown him the door. Two or three years later, he had heard his voice on the radio, presenting commercials.
Then there had been a gap. Landry was one of those characters you meet everywhere for a while, so that you grow used to shaking their hands without knowing exactly who they are, and who then disappear suddenly, for no apparent reason, until they resurface in a different guise.
What obscure professions had Landry practised during those years? If he had broken the law, it hadn’t reached the ears of the police. For a time he had been the secretary – and escort – to a female singing star.
On leaving her two or three years later, he wrote a memoir revealing the smallest details of the star’s private life, and she took him to court.
Maigret had no idea if she had won or lost the case, but now here he was again, simultaneously cheerful and nervous, sixteen or seventeen years older than the young man he had known, but still looking remarkably well-preserved.
‘The thing is, the Hundred Keys isn’t like all the other clubs that open every week in Paris. It’s a real club. You genuinely have to be a member to get through the red curtain downstairs. As for the figure of a hundred, it’s there to limit the number of members. Actually, to date, there are only eighty-five or eighty-six.’
‘Young men and women from well-to-do families, I assume?’
‘To make it more exclusive, we fixed the subscription at six hundred francs. The drinks, on the other hand, are only a little above cost price. Do you dance?’
Maigret was so surprised that he didn’t immediately grasp the meaning of the question.
‘Pardon me?’
‘I asked you if you like to dance. Modern dances, obviously – we don’t expect anyone here to dance the waltz or the polka. Do you also dance, Madame Maigret?’
Not knowing what to reply, she looked to her husband for help.
‘Yes, we both dance! Does that surprise you?’
‘A little. I’ve never seen you on a dance floor, and given your reputation …’
‘A clumsy oaf sucking grumpily at his pipe.’
‘I didn’t say that. Do you really want to join?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Do you know two members of the club who could be your sponsors? That’s another thing that shows this is a real club. Any candidate has to be proposed by two sponsors, and the application is submitted to a committee of twelve members, who have to come to a majority decision.’
‘If I could have a look at the list of members, I’m sure I’d find more than two people of my acquaintance who’d support my application.’
Marcel Landry didn’t bat an eyelid. They both knew they were playing a game. Landry gave Maigret a sharp look, intrigued rather than anxious, recovered his smile and walked to the stairs. When he returned, he was holding a register bound in red leather.
‘This book is always kept at the members’ disposal on a pedestal table behind the curtain. As you can see, it contains not only the names and addresses of the subscribers but also those of everyone’s sponsors. I’d be surprised if you found any of your clients here … Look, under A: Abouchère, the son of Senator Abouchère … The Vicomte d’Arceau. He doesn’t use his title when he comes here. His father’s a member of the Jockey Club and he’ll be a member one day, just like his grandfather and his grandfather’s father … Barillard, from the Barillard Oils people. Next month, Mademoiselle Barillard is marrying Eric Cornal – Cornal Biscuits, you know. She met him here … You could say this register is something like a young people’s Who’s Who. Some of them are students, and we don’t see much of them at this time of year, because the exams are on. Others have jobs. We also have couples …’
All of the addresses were what might be called good addresses, the kind that place people in a specific social category.
Maigret moved his lips as he ran his index finger down the page, stopping at a name.
François Mélan, 38, specialist in oral medicine: 32a, Rue des Acacias.
‘Isn’t he the dentist who has a clinic in a small mansion?’
‘I confess I’ve never been there. He comes here often, although he doesn’t dance much. Apparently, he’s a remarkably intelligent man.’
The finger descended and stopped again, Maigret making an effort not to show his interest.
Nicole Prieur, 17: 42, Boulevard de Courcelles.
The most interesting thing was further on, in the sponsors’ column. Those for Nicole were none other than Dr François Mélan and Martine Bouet.
‘Isn’t Mademoiselle Bouet a tall blonde?’
‘I see you know her. She’s one of the best dancers in the club. Great friends with Mademoiselle Prieur.’
‘Does Mademoiselle Prieur come here often?’
Landry drummed nervously on the table with his fingers. He might not have had anything to feel guilty about, but in the uncertain career he had chosen, and given his ambitions, it wasn’t a sensible idea to antagonize the police.
The prefect’s instructions hadn’t yet reached Avenue de la Grande-Armée. Madame Maigret, for her part, sat watching her husband at work with great curiosity. This was the first time she’d had the opportunity, and she was trying her best to guess what lay behind the apparently trivial dialogue the two men were conducting.
