Friend of Madame Maigret (18 page)

“Is he guilty?”

“Guilty enough to be put inside for several years.”

Maigret had known the contents of the suitcase since the previous evening, but he made the inventory again, with all the pleasure of a child setting out his Christmas presents.

What made the brown suitcase, with its handle mended with string, so heavy, were some pieces of metal that looked a bit like bookbinder's stamps, but which were actually the seals of various sovereign states.

Conspicuous among them were those of the United States and of all the South American republics.

There were also some rubber stamps like those used in town halls and government offices, all arranged as carefully as a commercial traveler's samples.

“This is Steuvels's work,” explained Maigret. “His brother Alfred provided him with the models and the blank passports. As far as I can tell from these specimens, the passports weren't counterfeit but were obtained by thefts from consulates.”

“Had they been in this racket long?”

“I don't think so. Two years roughly, judging by the bank accounts. In fact this morning I telephoned most of the banks in Paris, and that's partly what kept me from coming up to see you earlier.”

“Steuvels has an account at the Société Générale in the rue Saint-Antoine, hasn't he?”

“He has another in an American bank in the place Vendôme, another in an English bank on the boulevard. So far we've found five different accounts. It began two years ago, which corresponds with the date when his brother came back to Paris to live.”

It was raining. The weather was gray and mild. Maigret was sitting by the window, smoking his pipe.

“You see, Monsieur le Juge, Alfred Moss doesn't fall into the category of professional criminals. Those men have one speciality and most of the time they stick to it. I've never known a pickpocket turn burglar, nor a burglar forge checks or try confidence tricking.

“Alfred Moss is a clown, first and foremost, an acrobat.

“It was as a result of a fall that he got into the game. If I'm not much mistaken, he brought off his first job by chance when, cashing in on his knowledge of languages, he was taken on by a big London hotel as an interpreter. An opportunity arose to steal some jewelery, and he seized it.

“This was enough for him to live on for a time. Not for long, because he has one vice; I found this out this morning too, from his local bookie: he bets on the races.

“Like any amateur, he didn't stick to one type of theft, but wanted to try everything.

“He did it with unusual skill and luck, since it's never been possible to prove anything against him.

He had his ups and downs. A confidence trick would follow some forged checks.

“He wasn't as young as he used to be, was known to the police in most capitals, blacklisted in the big hotels where he had usually operated.”

“That's when he remembered his brother?”

“Yes. Two years ago, the gold traffic, which had been his previous activity, wasn't paying off any more. On the other hand, faked passports, especially for America, were beginning to bring astronomical prices. He reasoned that a bookbinder, accustomed to reproducing coats of arms on little blocks, would be able to do just as good a job with official seals.”

“What amazes me is that Steuvels, who doesn't lack for anything, should have accepted. Unless he leads a double life that we haven't discovered.”

“He doesn't lead a double life. Poverty, real poverty of the kind he knew in his childhood and adolescence, produces two kinds of people: the extravagant and the miserly. It more often produces misers, and they're so afraid of seeing the bad days return that they're capable of anything at all to provide against them.

“If I'm not greatly mistaken, that's the case with Steuvels. The list of banks where he's made deposits offers additional proof. I'm convinced this wasn't just a way of hiding his nest egg, because it never occurred to him that he might be found out. But he was suspicious of banks, of nationalizations, devaluations, and he would put by a bit here and a bit there, in different banking houses.”

“I thought he practically never went out without his wife.”

“That's right. It was she who went out without him, and it took me some time to discover that. Every Monday afternoon, she went to the Vert-Galant laundry-barge to do her washing. Almost every Monday Moss would come over with his suitcase, and when he was early, he'd wait at the Tabac des Vosges until his sister-in-law had left.

“The two brothers had the afternoon before them for their work. The tools and the compromising documents never remained at the rue de Turenne. Moss took them away with him.

“On some Mondays, Steuvels would even have time to hurry over to one of his banks and make a deposit.”

“I don't see what part was played by the young woman with the child, or by Countess Panetti, or . . .”

“I'm coming to that, Monsieur le Juge. I told you about the suitcase first because that's what bothered me more than anything else, right from the start. Ever since I knew of the existence of Moss and suspected what he was up to, I've had another question on my mind.

“I mean the incident in the place d'Anvers garden, which my wife happened to witness.

“Only the night before, Moss was living peacefully in his lodgings on the boulevard Pasteur.

“Levine and the child were staying at the Hôtel Beauséjour, where Gloria would come and pick up the child every morning to take him for a walk.

“Now, on that Tuesday, about ten in the morning, Moss enters the Hôtel Beauséjour, in which, probably as a precaution, he has never set foot before.

“Immediately Levine packs his bags, dashes over to the place d'Anvers, calls Gloria, who deserts the child in order to follow him.

“By the afternoon they've all disappeared, leaving no trace.

“Moss couldn't have received a telephone call because the house he lived in has no telephone.

“Neither I nor my detectives made any move at that moment that might have alarmed the gang, the existence of which we didn't even suspect.

“As for Frans Steuvels, he was in the Santé.

“All the same, something did happen.

“And it was only last night, when I went home, that through the wildest chance I found the answer to this question.”

Monsieur Dossin was so relieved to know that the man he had put in prison was not innocent that he was listening with a sort of beatific smile, as if he were hearing a story being told.

“My wife had been waiting for me all evening and had spent the time catching up on a little job she takes care of now and again. This consists of keeping scrapbooks of all newspaper clippings that mention me, and she does it more devotedly than ever since a former Director of Police Headquarters published his memoirs.

“‘You might possibly write yours some day, after you've retired and we're living in the country,' she'll reply when I make fun of her hobby.

“In any case, when I got home last night, the scissors and paste were on the table. While I was making myself comfortable, I happened to glance over my wife's shoulder, and in one of the clippings she was just pasting in I saw a photo that I had completely forgotten.

“It had been taken three years ago by a little newspaperman in Normandy: we were spending a few days at Dieppe, and he'd caught us, my wife and myself, on the steps of our
pension.

“What amazed me was to see this photo on a page from an illustrated magazine.

“‘Didn't you read it? It came out recently: a four-page article on the early days of your career and your methods.'

“There were some other photographs, one of me when I was secretary in a police station and had a drooping moustache.

“‘What's the date of it?'

“‘Of the article? Last week. I haven't had time to show it to you. You've hardly been home lately.'

“In short, Monsieur Dossin, the article had appeared in a Paris weekly that went on sale on the morning of Tuesday, March 12.

“I immediately sent someone over to see the people who still had Moss as their lodger on that date, and they confirmed that the younger of the girls had taken the magazine in to him, with the milk, at about half past eight, and that Moss had glanced at it while he was having breakfast.

“From then on, everything's straightforward. This even explains Gloria's long sessions on the garden bench in the place d'Anvers.

“After their two murders and the arrest of Steuvels, the gang, now broken up, was lying low. Levine probably changed hotels several times before moving into the rue Lepic. For safety he never appeared with Gloria outside, and they even went so far as to avoid spending the night together in the same place.

“Moss must have come to the place d'Anvers every morning to keep in touch, and all he had to do was take a seat at the end of the bench.

“Now, as you know, my wife sat down three or four times on that same bench before her dentist's appointment. The two women had got to know each other and would chat. Moss had probably seen Madame Maigret, to whom he hadn't paid any attention.

“Imagine his reaction when he found out from the magazine that the good lady on the bench was none other than the wife of the chief inspector in charge of the investigation!

“He couldn't believe it was accidental, could he? He quite naturally thought that we were on his track and that I had turned over this delicate bit of sleuthing to my wife.

“He rushed over to the rue Lepic and alerted Levine, who dashed over to warn Gloria.”

“Why did they have a quarrel?”

“Perhaps about the child? Perhaps Levine didn't want Gloria to go back for him, thus running the risk of being arrested. She insisted on going, but with maximum precautions.

“This also makes me inclined to think that when we find them again they won't be together. They'll reckon that we know Gloria and the boy, while we know nothing about Levine. He must have gone off in one direction, and Moss in another.”

“Do you expect to catch them?”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe a year from now. You know how things go.”

“You still haven't told me where you found the suitcase.”

“Perhaps you would prefer not to know
how
we got possession of it? I was, in fact, forced to use slightly illegal methods, for which I take sole responsibility, but you couldn't possibly approve them.

“All you need to know is that it was Liotard who relieved Steuvels of the compromising suitcase.

“For one reason or another, on the Saturday night, Moss had taken the suitcase to the rue de Turenne and left it there.

“Frans Steuvels had simply shoved it under a table in his workshop, thinking no one would bother about it.

“On February 21 Lapointe invented a pretext to be admitted and searched the place.

“Remember that Steuvels couldn't get in touch with his brother, or any other member of the gang probably, to let them know what was going on. I have a theory about that.

“He must have wondered how to get rid of the suitcase and was doubtless waiting until after dark to see about it, when Liotard, whom he'd never heard of, turned up.”

“How did Liotard get to know?”

“Through an indiscretion in my department.”

“One of your detectives?”

“I don't blame him for it, and there's not much chance that it will ever happen again. In any case Liotard offered his services, and even went rather beyond what one is entitled to expect from a member of the Bar, since he took away the suitcase.”

“Did you find it at his place?”

“At Alfonsi's; he'd passed it on to him.”

“Let's see where we stand now . . .”

“Nowhere. I mean, we know nothing about the essential thing, that's the two murders. A man was killed in the rue de Turenne, and previously Countess Panetti was killed in her car, we don't know where. You must have received the report from Dr. Paul, who found a bullet in the old lady's cranium.

“However, a small item of information has reached me from Italy. More than a year ago the Krynkers were divorced in Switzerland, since divorce is impossible in Italy. Countess Panetti's daughter regained her liberty to marry an American, with whom she is now living in Texas.”

“There was never a reconciliation with her mother?”

“Far from it. Her mother was more furious with her than ever. Krynker is a Hungarian of good family, but poor. He spent part of the winter at Monte Carlo trying to make his fortune at gambling, without success.

“He arrived in Paris three weeks before the death of his ex-mother-in-law and lived at the Commodore, then in a small hotel on the rue Caumartin.”

“How long had Gloria Lotti been in the old lady's service?”

“Four or five months. That hasn't been determined exactly.”

A sound was heard in the corridor, and the doorman came to announce that the prisoner had arrived.

“Am I to tell him all this?” asked Monsieur Dossin, whose responsibilities were weighing on him again.

“There are two possibilities: either he'll talk, or he'll still refuse to. I've had dealings with several Flemings in my time, and I've learned that they're hard to soften up. If he won't talk, it will take us weeks or more. We'll have to wait, in fact, until we rout out one of the four characters holed up Lord knows where.”