A Man's Head (9 page)

Madame Maigret sighed but said nothing when, at seven next day, her husband left her after drinking his coffee without even noticing that it was scalding hot.

He had got home at one in the morning in uncommunicative mood. He went out again in a dogged frame of mind.

As he trudged through the corridors of the Préfecture, he was very aware in the colleagues he met, not just the inspectors but the office clerks too, of a sense of curiosity, even admiration tinged, perhaps, with a hint of commiseration.

But he shook their hands as perfunctorily as he had kissed his wife on the forehead, and the moment he was in his office he began poking the stove before stretching his overcoat, which was heavy from the rain, across a couple of chairs.

Then unhurriedly, and drawing gently on his pipe, he spoke into the phone: ‘Get me Montparnasse police station.'

Mechanically he tidied the papers littering his desk.

‘Hello? … Who is that? Ah, the duty sergeant. This is Detective Chief Inspector Maigret of the Police Judiciaire. Have you let Radek go? … Say again? … An hour ago? … Did you make sure that Inspector
Janvier was there to tail him? … Hello … speaking … He didn't sleep a wink? He smoked all his cigarettes? … Thanks … No! There's no point … If I need more information, I'll come round …'

From his pocket he took the Czech's passport, which he had kept: a small, greyish document embossed with the national emblem of Czechoslovakia. Almost every page was covered with stamps and visas.

According to the visas, Jean Radek, aged twenty-five, born at Brno, father unknown, had resided in Berlin, Mainz, Bonn, Turin and Hamburg.

His papers described him as a medical student. His mother, Élisabeth Radek, had died two years earlier. Her profession was given as ‘servant'.

‘What do you live on?' Maigret had asked the previous evening in the office of the inspector in charge of Montparnasse police station.

The prisoner had replied with that jarring smile:

‘Can I ask impertinent questions too?'

‘Just answer the question.'

‘When my mother was alive she used to send enough for me to carry on with my studies.'

‘What, out of a servant's wages?'

‘Yes. I'm an only child. There's nothing she wouldn't have done for me. Does that surprise you?'

‘She's been dead for two years … Since then?'

‘Some distant relatives have been sending me small sums from time to time. And there are compatriots living in Paris who help out as and when … And sometimes I am asked to do translation work.'

‘And file copy for
Le Sifflet
?'

‘I don't understand.'

He had said this with an explicit irony which could be interpreted as: ‘Keep going! You haven't pinned me down yet!'

Maigret had chosen to leave it there. There was no sign of Joseph Heurtin anywhere around the Coupole, nor of Sergeant Lucas. They had both vanished once more into Paris, one in the footsteps of the other.

‘Hôtel Georges V,' Maigret had barked to the taxi-driver.

He had walked in just as William Crosby, wearing a dinner jacket, was changing a 100-dollar banknote at the hotel's foreign exchange desk.

‘Are you looking for me?' he had asked when he noticed the inspector.

‘No … unless you happen to know a man named Radek?'

People were walking in, through and out of the Louis XIV lobby. The clerk had counted out 100-franc notes, which were pinned together in bundles of ten.

‘Radek …?'

Maigret was looking directly into the eyes of the American, who did not flinch.

‘No … but you could ask Mrs Crosby. She'll be down any moment now. We're dining in town with friends. It's a benefit gala at the Ritz.'

And on cue Mrs Crosby had emerged from the lift, cosily wrapped in a hooded ermine cape, and stared at the policeman with considerable surprise.

‘What is it?'

‘There's no need to be concerned. I'm looking for a man named Radek.'

‘Radek? Is he staying here?'

Crosby had stuffed the notes into his pocket and held out his hand to Maigret.

‘You must excuse me, we're running rather late.'

The car waiting outside glided smoothly forwards over the asphalt.

The phone rang loudly.

‘Hello? Examining Magistrate Coméliau asking to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.'

‘Say I'm not in yet.'

At this time of day, Coméliau must be phoning from home. No doubt he was in his dressing gown, busily eating his breakfast as he skimmed through the newspapers, lips quivering as usual with that nervous tremor of his.

‘Listen, Jean. Has anyone else been asking for me? … Anyway, what did Coméliau want?'

‘He wants you to call him the moment you get in. He'll be at home until nine, then after that he'll be in the prosecutor's office … Hello? … Wait! … A call for you … Hello?
Hello? … Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? … I'll put Inspector Janvier through to you …'

A moment later, the call came through.

‘That you, sir?'

‘Disappear, did he?'

‘Vanished, yes. I don't get it. I wasn't twenty metres behind him …'

‘And …? Out with it!'

‘I'm still wondering how it could have happened. Especially since I'm certain he hadn't spotted me.'

‘Carry on.'

‘First he just ambled round the streets of Montparnasse. Then he walked into the station. It was the time of day when the suburban trains were arriving, and I closed up on him because I was afraid of losing him in the crowd.'

‘But he went missing all the same!'

‘Yes, but not in the crowd. He got into a train that had just arrived. He didn't buy a ticket. In the time it took me to ask a porter where the train was going while I kept one eye on his carriage, he had disappeared from his
compartment. He must have got out of the other side of the train …'

‘Good grief!'

‘What do you want me to do now?'

‘Go back to the Coupole and wait for me there … Don't be surprised by anything … And above all, stay calm!'

‘I swear, sir …'

From the other end of the line, the voice of Inspector Janvier, who was only twenty-five, sounded like that of a small boy who was about to burst into tears.

‘Right, then. I'll see you shortly.'

Maigret put the receiver down and then picked it up again.

‘Hôtel Georges V? … Hello? … Yes … Has Monsieur William Crosby returned? … No … No need to bother him … What time did he get in? … Three o'clock? … And
Madame Crosby was with him? … Thank you … Yes? … What's that? … He left instructions that he was not to be disturbed before eleven? … Thanks … No, there's no message … I'll see him myself.'

The inspector took a few moments to fill his pipe and even to check that there was enough coal on the fire.

At that moment, to anyone who did not know him closely, he would have given the impression of a man oozing confidence, striding unhesitatingly towards a certain goal. He thrust out his chest and blew the smoke from his pipe at the ceiling. When the
office clerk brought him the morning newspapers, he was in a joky, cheerful mood.

But suddenly, the minute he was alone, he grabbed the telephone receiver:

‘Hello? Has Lucas been asking for me?'

‘Nothing yet, sir.'

Maigret's teeth bit hard in the stem of his pipe. It was 9 a.m. Joseph Heurtin had been missing since five in the afternoon of the previous day, having disappeared from Boulevard Raspail with Sergeant Lucas on his tail.

Was it likely that Lucas had been unable to find some way of phoning or of writing a note to give a passing uniformed officer?

Maigret expressed what he had at the back of his mind by asking the switchboard to connect him with Inspector Dufour. Dufour himself answered.

‘Feeling better?'

‘I'm already walking around the apartment. Tomorrow I hope to come into the office … But just wait until you see the scar it'll leave! … The doc took the bandage off last night, and I managed to get a glimpse
of it … It makes you wonder how I didn't have my skull sliced open … But I assume that you've found the man at least?'

‘Don't worry about that … Listen, I'm going to hang up now because I can hear someone ringing the switchboard and I'm expecting a call …'

It was stifling in the office. The stove was glowing white hot.

Maigret had been right. The moment he replaced the receiver, his phone rang. He heard Lucas' voice.

‘Hello! Is that you, chief? … Don't cut me off, operator … Police business … Hello? Are you there?'

‘I'm listening … Where are you?'

‘Morsang.'

‘Where?'

‘It's a small village thirty-five kilometres from Paris, on the Seine.'

‘And … where is
he
?'

‘He's safe … He's in his own house!'

‘Is Morsang anywhere near Nandy?'

‘It's four kilometres away … I've come here so as not to give the game away … What a night I've had, sir.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘At first, I thought he'd go on wandering around Paris for ever … He didn't look as if he knew where he was going … At eight o'clock, we both stopped at the soup kitchen in Rue Réaumur, and he waited
around almost two hours for his grub …'

‘Which means he has no money.'

‘Then he set off again … It's amazing how drawn to the Seine he seems to be … He walked along it one way and then came back the other … Hello? … Don't cut us off! … Are you still
there?'

‘Go on.'

‘In the end, he headed off towards Charenton along the riverbank … I was expecting him to doss down under a bridge … I really did! He was nearly out on his feet … But no! He passed Charenton and went on to
Alfortville, where he didn't hesitate but set off on the road to Villeneuve-Saint-George … The road was sodden … Cars speeding past every thirty seconds … If I had to do that again …'

‘You'd do it all over again! … Carry on.'

‘That's how it was. Thirty-five kilometres of it! Can you imagine? It started to rain, and it came down harder and harder. He didn't seem to notice. At Corbeil I almost flagged down a taxi so it would be easier to keep tabs on
him … But at six this morning, we were still walking, still one behind the other, through the woods which run from Morsang to Nandy.'

‘How did he get into his house? Through the door?'

‘Do you know the inn there? It's not up to much. A stopping-place for carters, a mixture of inn and café where you can get newspapers and cigarettes. I think it also serves as a general shop. But he went round it along an alleyway a
metre wide and from there he climbed over a wall. Then I realized he'd gone into a small outhouse where they probably keep animals.'

‘Is that everything?'

‘More or less. Half an hour later, old man Heurtin came out to pin back the shutters and open the shop. He seemed pretty unconcerned. I went in for a drink, and he didn't seem upset in any way. On the way there, I'd been lucky
enough to come across a gendarme on a bike. I asked him to let one tyre down and use that as an excuse to wait inside for me to come back.'

‘Good!'

‘Is that what you think? It's obvious you weren't the one who got covered in mud. My shoes are all mushy, like poultices. My shirt must be wet through. So what do I do now?'

‘It goes without saying that you weren't carrying a case with a quick change of clothes?'

‘If I'd had to carry a case as well! …'

‘Go back there. Say anything, say you're waiting for a friend you've arranged to meet there.'

‘Will you be coming?'

‘No idea. But if Heurtin gets away yet again, it's very likely I'll explode.'

Maigret hung up and looked idly around him. He called to the office clerk through the half-open door:

‘Listen, Jean. When I've gone, I want you to phone Monsieur Coméliau and tell him … er … tell him that everything is going well, and that I'll keep him informed … Got that? … And be
nice … Use all the polite words you can think of.'

At eleven o'clock he was getting out of a taxi at the Coupole. The first person he saw as he pushed the door open was Inspector Janvier, who, like all rookies, thought he could convey a casual air by hiding three-quarters of his person
behind an open newspaper without ever turning the pages.

In the corner opposite sat Jean Radek who was absently stirring his coffee with a spoon.

He was clean shaven and wearing a clean shirt. It was just possible that his curly hair had had a comb passed through it.

But the main impression he gave was one of intense inner jubilation.

The bartender had recognized Maigret and was readying himself to tip him off.

Behind his newspaper Janvier was also miming madly.

But Radek made their efforts unnecessary by calling out to Maigret directly:

‘Would you like a drink?'

He had half risen from his seat. He was barely smiling, but there was no part of his face that did not proclaim the presence of a sharply intelligent mind.

Maigret walked over to him, thick-set and ponderous, grabbed the back of a chair with a hand capable of pulverizing it and sat down heavily.

‘Back already?' he said, but his eyes were elsewhere.

‘Your colleagues were very helpful. It seems I won't have to appear before a justice of the peace for a fortnight, because the courts are so overloaded … Look, it's too late now for coffee. What would you say to a glass
of vodka and caviar sandwiches? Bartender!'