Cécile is Dead (21 page)

‘So the Clark family have been
here for a week …' Maigret said. ‘What kind of people are
they?'

‘Oh,
perfectly respectable … He's a tall, strong-looking American, a cool
character, about forty … Perhaps forty-five … His wife – poor thing – must have been
French originally … Twenty-eight or twenty-nine … I didn't see much of her …
The governess is pretty … The maid, who works as the child's nurse, fairly
ordinary, rather forbidding … Oh, by the way, I almost forgot … Clark left for Rome
yesterday morning …'

‘By himself?'

‘From what I gathered, he's
in Europe on business … He owns a factory that makes ball bearings … He has to visit
the major capitals, and in the meantime decided to leave his wife, son and staff in
Paris …'

‘What train?' Maigret
asked.

The manager picked up the telephone.
‘Hello! Porter? … What train did Mr Clark take yesterday? … That's
right, 203 … Did you send any luggage on to the station? … He only took a travelling
bag? … A taxi? … Desire's taxi? … Thanks …

‘Did you hear that, inspector? He
left at eleven yesterday morning by taxi, Desire's taxi, which is almost
always parked in front of the hotel. He only had a travelling bag with him
…'

‘Do you mind if I also make a
phone call? … Hello! Police Judiciaire, please, mademoiselle … Police Judiciare? …
Lucas? … Go straight to Gare de Lyon … Find out about trains to Rome since eleven
o'clock yesterday morning …'

As he continued to give instructions,
his pipe went out.

‘Tell Torrence to find
Desire's taxi … Yes … Usually
parked outside the Majestic … Find out where he took a
passenger, a tall, slim American he picked up yesterday from the hotel … OK
…'

He looked for an ashtray to empty his
pipe. The manager handed him one.

‘Are you sure you don't want
a cigar? … The nurse is beside herself … I thought it best to inform her … As for
the governess, she didn't sleep at the hotel last night …'

‘What floor is the
suite?'

‘Second floor … With a view of the
Champs-Elysees … Mr Clark's room, separated by a sitting room from his
wife's room … Then the child's room, the nurse's and finally the
governess's … They asked to be put together …'

‘Is the night porter still
here?'

‘No, but I know, from needing him
once, that he can be contacted by phone … His wife is the concierge of a new
apartment block in Neuilly … Hello! … Get me …'

Within five minutes, they had learned
that Mrs Clark had gone to the theatre by herself the previous evening and had got
back a few minutes after midnight. The nurse hadn't gone out. As for the
governess, she hadn't dined at the hotel and hadn't been back all
night.

‘Shall we go downstairs and have a
look?' Maigret sighed.

There were more people in the lobby by
now, but none of them suspected the drama that had taken place while everyone was
asleep.

‘We'll go this way … Would
you please follow me, inspector? …'

As he said this, the manager frowned.
The revolving door was moving. A young woman in a grey tailored suit
came in at the same time as a ray of
sunlight. Passing the mail clerk, she asked in English:

‘Anything for me?'

‘That's her, inspector, Miss
Ellen Darroman …'

Fine, well-fitting silk stockings. The
prim and proper look of someone who has taken great care over her grooming. No trace
of fatigue on her face but, on the contrary, a pink glow caused by the brisk air of
a fine February morning.

‘Do you want to talk to
her?'

‘Not just yet … One moment
…'

Maigret walked over to an inspector he
had brought with him, who was standing in a corner of the lobby.

‘Don't let that young woman
out of your sight … If she goes into her suite, stand outside the door …'

The cloakroom. The big mirror swung open
on its hinges. Maigret and the manager found themselves on the narrow staircase. All
at once, there was no more gilt, no more pot plants, no more elegant bustle. A
kitchen smell rose from below.

‘Does this staircase serve all the
floors?'

‘There are two like this … They go
from the lower basement to the attics … But you have to know the place well to use
them … On each floor, for example, there's just a little door like all the
others, without a number, and it would never occur to any of the guests …'

It was nearly eleven. Now there were no
longer just fifty, but more like a hundred and fifty people swarming about the
basement, some in white chefs' hats, the others in waiters' uniforms or
cellarmen's aprons, and the women,
like Prosper Donge's Three Fat Ladies, doing the
heavy work …

‘This way … Make sure you
don't slip or dirty your clothes … The corridors are narrow …'

Through the glass partitions, everybody
was watching the manager and above all the inspector. Jean Ramuel continued grabbing
the slips he was being passed, almost in mid-air, and checking the contents of the
trays at a glance.

The jarring element was the unexpected
figure of a policeman standing guard outside the locker room. The doctor, who was
very young, had been informed of Maigret's arrival and was smoking a cigarette
as he waited.

‘Close the door …'

The body was there, on the floor,
surrounded by all the metal lockers. The doctor, still smoking, murmured:

‘She must have been grabbed from
behind … She didn't struggle for long …'

And the body wasn't dragged along
the floor!' Maigret added, examining the dead woman's dark clothes.
‘There's no trace of dust … Either she was killed here, or she was
carried here, most likely by two people, because it'd be difficult in this
maze of narrow corridors …'

In the locker where she had been
discovered, there was a crocodile-skin handbag. Maigret opened it and took out an
automatic revolver, which he slipped into his pocket after checking the safety
catch. Nothing else in the bag apart from a handkerchief, a compact and a few
banknotes that amounted to no more than a thousand francs.

Behind them, the hive was buzzing. The
dumb waiters
kept going up and down,
bells rang endlessly, and, behind the glass partition of the kitchens, you could see
heavy copper saucepans being handled and dozens of chickens being put on the
spit.

‘Everything has to be left where
it is until the examining magistrate gets here,' Maigret said. ‘Who was
it who found …?'

He was pointed in the direction of
Prosper Donge, who was cleaning one of the percolators. He was a tall man with red
hair, the kind of red hair that is called carrot-coloured. He might have been about
forty-five or forty-eight. He had blue eyes and a pockmarked face.

‘Have you employed him for
long?'

‘Five years … Before that, he was
at the Miramar in Cannes …'

‘Reliable?'

‘As reliable as could be
…'

A glass partition separated Donge and
Maigret. Through the glass, their eyes met, and the blood rushed to Donge's
cheeks: like all redheads, he had delicate skin.

‘Excuse me, sir … Detective Chief
Inspector Maigret is wanted on the telephone …'

It was Jean Ramuel, the bookkeeper, who
had just emerged from his cage.

‘If you'd like to take the
call here.'

A message from the Police Judiciaire.
Since eleven o'clock the previous day, there had been only two express trains
for Rome. Oswald J. Clark had caught neither. As for the driver, Désiré, who had
been reached by phone in a bistro where he was a regular, he stated that he had
driven his
previous day's fare to
the Hotel Aiglon on Boulevard Montparnasse.

Voices on the staircase, including a
young woman shrilly protesting in English to a valet who was trying to bar her
way.

It was the governess, Ellen Darroman,
who was charging straight at them.