A Man's Head (5 page)

‘Anything new?'

After briefly shaking the inspector's hand, Lucas perched on the edge of the bed.

‘There is something, but it's nothing special. In the end, the managing director of
Le Sifflet
handed over a letter he got at around ten this morning about the Santé story.'

‘Let me have it!'

The sergeant handed him a crumpled sheet of paper. It was covered with marks in blue pencil, because at
Le Sifflet
they had simply cut a few passages from the note and linked the remaining sentences together before sending it for
printing.

There were still typesetter's marks on it and the initials of the linotype operator who had set it up.

‘A sheet of paper with the top cut off, probably to eliminate some printed matter or other,' said Maigret.

‘Absolutely! That's what I thought straight away. And I also reckoned the letter was probably written in a café. I've seen Moers, who claims he can recognize the writing paper of most of the cafés in Paris.'

‘Did he find anything?'

‘Took him less than ten minutes. The paper comes from the Coupole on Boulevard Montparnasse. I've just come from there … Unfortunately, they get over a thousand customers through the doors every day, and more than fifty people
ask for something to write on.'

‘What did Moers make of the handwriting?'

‘Nothing yet. I'm going to have to give the letter back to him, and he'll do the usual tests on it. Meanwhile, if you want me to go back the Coupole
 …
?'

Maigret had not taken his eyes off the Citanguette. The nearest factory had just opened its gates for a crowd of workers, most on bikes, who could be seen vanishing into the grey dusk.

On the ground floor of the bistro, a single electric light had been turned on, and the inspector could follow the comings and goings of the customers.

There were half a dozen of them standing at the counter, and one or two of them were eyeing Dufour suspiciously.

‘What's he doing there?' asked Lucas when he picked out a fellow-officer in the distance. ‘Oh, it's Janvier a bit further along, watching the water flow by.'

Maigret had stopped listening. From his vantage point he could see the foot of the spiral staircase which started behind the bar. A pair of legs had just appeared. They stopped briefly, then the figure of a man walked towards the others, and the
pale head of Joseph Heurtin was lit by the full glare of the electric bulb.

With the same glance, the inspector picked out an evening paper which had just been put on a table.

‘Lucas, do you know if some newspapers follow up news items in
Le Sifflet
?'

‘I haven't seen a paper. But they must certainly recycle stories, if only to make life harder for us.'

The receiver was snatched off its cradle:

‘Hello? The Citanguette
…
As quick as you can!'

For the first time since that morning, there was a sense of urgency about Maigret. On the other side of the Seine, the landlord was speaking to Heurtin, doubtless asking him what he wanted to drink.

Would not the first priority of a man who had escaped from the Santé prison be to look at the newspaper, which he had only to reach out to take?

In the bar, Dufour had got up and was in the phone booth.

‘Hello?'

‘Listen, Dufour! There's a newspaper on that table. On no account must he see it!'

‘So what must I …?'

‘Quick, he's just sat down. The paper's there, right under his nose …'

Maigret was on his feet now, very tense. If Heurtin read the article, it would be the finish of the experiment which had been set up with so much difficulty.

Now he could see the convicted man, who had collapsed on to the bench seat that ran along the wall, sitting with his elbows on the table and holding his head in both hands.

The landlord set down a glass of spirits in front of him.

Dufour was making his way into the bar to get the paper.

Although Lucas was not aware of the details of the situation, he had guessed and was also leaning at the window. For a brief moment, their view was blocked by a passing tug which had lit its white, green and red lights and was frantically blowing
its hooter.

‘That's it!' growled Maigret as Inspector Dufour walked into the main room of the bar.

With a casual movement, Heurtin had unfolded the paper. Was the item about him on the front page? Would he see it straight away?

And would Dufour have the presence of mind to avert the danger?

It was typical of the officer that, before making his move, he felt the need to turn and look out over the Seine towards the window where his chief was watching.

He didn't seem to be the right man for the job, slender and neat and tidy in a bistro heaving with rough and ready dockers and factory workers.

But he went up to Heurtin, pointed to the newspaper and must have said something like:

‘Excuse me, that's mine.'

Customers at the bar turned round. The fugitive, taken aback, looked up at the man who had spoken to him.

Dufour did not back down, tried to grab the paper and leaned forward. At Maigret's side, Lucas muttered:

‘Ah! … Careful!'

And that did it! The stand-off did not last long. Heurtin had got slowly to his feet, like a man who does not yet know what he is going to do.

His left hand was still clutching the edge of the newspaper, which the police officer had not released.

Suddenly, with his free hand, he seized a soda-water siphon from the next table, and the glass flask smashed into the officer's skull.

Janvier was less than fifty metres away, by the river's edge. But he heard nothing.

Dufour staggered and fell against the counter, breaking two glasses.

Three men leaped on Heurtin. Two others were supporting the officer by the arms.

There must have been a noise, because Janvier finally stopped contemplating the reflections in the water, turned his head towards the Citanguette, started walking and then, after a few steps, broke into a run.

‘Quick! … Take a taxi! … I want you down there!' Maigret ordered Lucas.

The younger man didn't hurry. He knew he'd get there too late.

As would Janvier, though he was on the spot …

The fugitive was struggling, shouting something. Was he accusing Dufour of being from the police?

But regardless of this, he was momentarily left free to move and he made the most of his chance to smash the electric lightbulb with the siphon, which he was still clutching.

Maigret stood motionless, gripping the window safety rail with both hands. On the quayside below him, a taxi was just setting off. A match was struck in the Citanguette but went out immediately. Despite the distance, Maigret was ninety per cent
certain that a shot had been fired.

Those minutes were interminable. The taxi, which had crossed the bridge, was limping along the unmade, rut-scarred road which ran along the opposite bank of the Seine.

It was moving so slowly that when it was still 200 metres from the Citanguette Sergeant Lucas jumped out and started running. Perhaps he had heard the shot being fired?

The shrill blast of a whistle. Lucas or Janvier was calling for assistance.

Then inside the bistro, behind the filthy windows with their raised letters spelling out
Consume your own food here
– with the
C
and the
f
missing – a candle was lit, which illuminated figures bending over a body.

But the view was unclear. The figures, so badly lit and seen from a distance, were unrecognizable.

Without moving from his window, Maigret was speaking into the telephone in a hushed voice:

‘Hello? … Is that Grenelle police station? … I want men, now, in cars, in position around the Citanguette … And I want a man arrested if he tries to escape: tall, with a large head and pasty face … And
send for a doctor …'

Lucas was now on site. His taxi had parked outside one of the front windows and was obstructing Maigret's view of part of the interior of the bistro.

Standing on a chair, the landlord was replacing the lightbulb, and once more the room was flooded with harsh light.

The phone rang.

‘Hello? Is that you, detective chief inspector? … Coméliau here … I'm at home, yes … I have guests for dinner … But I needed to be reassured that …'

Maigret remained silent.

‘Hello? Don't hang up … Are you still there?'

‘I'm still here.'

‘Well? … I can hardly hear you … Have you seen the evening papers? … They've all picked up on the revelations in
Le Sifflet
 … I think it would be a good idea to …'

Janvier ran out of the Citanguette, sped off to the right into the shadow that shrouded the patch of waste ground.

‘That apart, is everything going along well?'

‘Everything's fine,' shouted Maigret and hung up.

He was bathed in sweat. His pipe had dropped to the floor and the still-burning tobacco was starting to singe the carpet.

‘Hello, operator? Get me the Citanguette!'

‘I've just put a call through to you.'

‘And now I'm asking you to connect me to the Citanguette … Is that clear?'

Then he could tell by the movement in the bistro that the phone was ringing.

The landlord started forwards, but Lucas beat him to it.

‘Hello? … That you, sir?'

‘Yes,' said Maigret wearily. ‘Got away, did he?'

‘Of course he did!'

‘And Dufour?'

‘I don't think it's serious … A nick on the scalp … He didn't even pass out.'

‘Reinforcements from Grenelle are on the way.'

‘It won't help … You know what it's like around here … With all these building sites and heaps of debris, factory yards and the back streets of Issy-les-Moulineaux …'

‘Was there any shooting?'

‘Someone fired a shot, but I haven't been able to establish who it was … They're all a bit dazed, quiet as lambs … They don't seem to have any idea about what happened.'

A car came round the corner of the quayside, dropped two policemen and then, a hundred metres further along, two more.

Four more officers got out when the car stopped outside the bistro, and one of them walked round to the back of the building to cover the rear exit. The usual drill.

‘What do I do now?' asked Lucas after a moment's silence.

‘Nothing … Organize a search party, on the off-chance … I'm on my way.'

‘Has a doctor been sent for?'

‘Done.'

The girl who operated the switchboard also manned the hotel's reception desk. She gave a start when she saw a large shadow loom up before her.

Maigret was so calm, so cool, and his face was so hermetically closed, that he did not seem to be made of flesh and blood.

‘How much?'

‘Are you leaving?'

‘How much?'

‘I'll have to ask the manager … How many phone calls have you had? … Just a moment.'

But as she got to her feet, the inspector grabbed her by the arm, forced her to sit down again and placed a 100-franc note on the desk.

‘That cover it?'

‘I think so … Yes … But …'

He left with a sigh, walked slowly along the pavement and crossed the bridge without ever quickening his step.

At one point, he felt his pocket for his pipe, failed to locate it and probably took it as a sign that boded no good, for his lips curved into a bitter smile.

A handful of men from the barges had gathered outside the Citanguette but showed only a mild interest. The week before, two Arabs had killed each other on the same spot. The previous month, a sack containing the legs and torso of a woman had been
fished out of the water with a boat-hook.

The rich apartment blocks of Auteuil were visible, obscuring the horizon on the other side of the Seine. The carriages of a Métro train rattled over a bridge nearby.

It was drizzling. Uniformed officers were tramping up and down, shining the pale discs of their electric torches all around them.

In the bar, Lucas was the only man standing. Customers who had seen or taken part in the scuffle were sitting in a line along the wall.

The sergeant moved from one to the other, checking their papers, while they eyed him resentfully.

Dufour had already been carried out to a police car, which drove off as smoothly as it could.

Maigret said nothing. With his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, he peered around him, slowly, and the look in his eyes was one of infinite gloom.

The landlord started to tell him something.

‘Inspector, I swear that when …'

Maigret shut him up with a gesture then went up to an Arab, whom he examined from head to foot. The man's face turned grey.

‘Are you working these days?'

‘Yes. For Citroën … I …'

‘How much longer before the court order banning you from showing your face around here is lifted?'

And Maigret nodded to a uniformed officer. It meant: ‘Take him away!'

‘Inspector!' cried the North African as he was being propelled towards the door. ‘I can explain … I haven't done nothing!'

Maigret wasn't listening. The papers of a Pole were not quite in order.

‘Take him away!'

And that was it! Dufour's revolver was found on the floor with one empty shell beside it. There were also the shattered remains of the siphon and the lightbulb. The newspaper had been torn, and there were two splashes of blood on it.

‘What do you want to do with them?' asked Lucas, who had finished examining the men's papers.

‘Let them go.'

Janvier did not reappear for another quarter of an hour. He found Maigret slumped in one corner of the bar with Sergeant Lucas. His shoes were spattered with mud, and there were dark stains on his raincoat.