My Friend Maigret (6 page)

“Between forty-five and fifty.”

And Monsieur Émile added in the most natural way imaginable:

“It's she who runs the Sirènes, at Nice.”

It was better not to look at Mr. Pyke, whose expression of disapproval must have been as ironical as his good education allowed. Hadn't Maigret blushed? At any rate he was conscious of being perfectly ridiculous.

For the fact was that he had on this occasion played the moral reformer. After sending Marcellin to prison, he had turned his attention to Ginette and, just as might happen in a popular novel, had “snatched her from the gutter” to have her put into a sanatorium.

He saw her again clearly, so thin that one wondered how men could allow themselves to be tempted, with feverish eyes and slack mouth.

He said to her:

“You must have treatment, my girl.”

And she answered, docilely:

“I'm quite willing, chief inspector. Don't think I enjoy it!”

With a touch of impatience, Maigret now asked, looking Monsieur Émile straight in the face:

“You're sure it's the same woman? At that time she was riddled with consumption.”

“She kept up her cure for a few years.”

“Did she stay with Marcellin?”

“She hardly saw him, you know. She's very busy. She sent him a money order from time to time. Not large sums. He didn't need them.”

Monsieur Émile took a eucalyptus pill from a small box, and sucked it gravely.

“Used he to go and see her in Nice?”

“I don't think so. It's a high-class establishment. You probably know it.”

“Was it because of her that Marcellin came to the Midi?”

“I don't know. He was a queer fish.”

“Is Ginette in Nice at the moment?”

“She rang us up from Hyères this morning. She saw what happened from the papers. She's in Hyères seeing to the funeral.”

“Do you know where she's staying?”

“At the Hôtel des Palmes.”

“You were at the Arche the evening of the murder?”

“I went there for my tisane.”

“Did you leave before Marcellin?”

“Certainly. I never go to bed after ten o'clock.”

“Did you hear him speaking of me?”

“Perhaps. I paid no attention. I'm a bit hard of hearing.”

“What are your relations like with Charlot?”

“I know him, but I don't see a lot of him.”

“Why?”

Monsieur Émile was visibly striving to explain a delicate matter.

“We don't move in the same circles, if you see what I mean?”

“He's never worked for your mother?”

“He may once or twice have found staff for her.”

“Has he been going straight?”

“I think so.”

“Did Marcellin find people for you too?”

“No. He didn't go in for that.”

“You know nothing?”

“Nothing at all. I hardly concern myself with business matters any longer. My health won't allow me.”

What was Mr. Pyke thinking of all this? Are there Monsieur Émiles in England as well?

“I think I might go and have a chat with your mother.”

“You'll be very welcome, inspector.”

Lechat was outside, this time in the company of a young man in white flannel trousers, a blue striped blazer, and a yachting cap.

“Monsieur Philippe de Moricourt,” he announced. “He was just landing with the dinghy.”

“You wish to speak to me, inspector?”

He was in his thirties, and, contrary to what one might have expected, he wasn't even good-looking.

“I presume this is mere formality?”

“Sit down.”

“Is it essential? I loathe sitting down.”

“Stay standing up then. You're Mrs. Wilcox's secretary?”

“A nominal title, of course. Let us say that I am her guest and that, as between friends, I sometimes act as her secretary.”

“Is Mrs. Wilcox writing her memoirs?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Does she have anything to do with her whisky firm herself?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“Do you write her private letters?”

“I can't see what you are driving at.”

“At nothing at all, Monsieur Moricourt.”

“De Moricourt.”

“If you insist. I was only trying to get some idea of your work.”

“Mrs. Wilcox is no longer young.”

“Exactly.”

“I don't get you.”

“Never mind. Tell me, Monsieur de Moricourt—that's right, isn't it?—where you made Mrs. Wilcox's acquaintance?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“It's whatever you like to call it.”

“Am I obliged to answer?”

“You can wait until I summon you formally.”

“Am I regarded as a suspect?”

“Everyone is suspect, and no one is.”

The young man considered for a few moments, threw his cigarette through the open doorway.

“I met her at the casino at Cannes.”

“A long time ago?”

“A little over a year.”

“Are you a gambler?”

“I used to be. That's how I lost my money.”

“Did you have a lot?”

“The question strikes me as indiscreet.”

“Did you have a job before?”

“I was attached to the office of a minister.”

“Who was doubtless a friend of your family's?”

“How did you know?”

“Do you know young de Greef?”

“He's been on board several times, and we bought a canvas from him.”

“You mean that Mrs. Wilcox bought a canvas from him?”

“That's right. I beg your pardon.”

“Had Marcellin been on board the
North Star
as well?”

“Occasionally.”

“As a guest?”

“It's difficult to explain, inspector. Mrs. Wilcox is a very generous person.”

“I imagine so.”

“Everything interests her, especially in the Mediterranean, which she loves, and it abounds in colorful characters. Marcellin was undeniably one himself.”

“He was given drinks?”

“Everyone is given drinks.”

“You were at the Arche on the night of the crime?”

“We were with the major.”

“Another colorful character, no doubt?”

“Mrs. Wilcox used to know him in England. It was a social connection.”

“Were you drinking champagne?”

“The major drinks nothing but champagne.”

“Were the three of you very merry?”

“We behaved perfectly well.”

“Did Marcellin join in with your party?”

“Everyone more or less joined in. You haven't met Major Bellam yet?”

“Doubtless it won't be long before I have that pleasure.”

“He's generosity itself. When he comes to the Arche…”

“And he often goes there?”

“That is correct. As I was saying, he seldom fails to offer drinks all round. Everyone comes to have a drink with him. He's been living on the island such a long time that he knows the children by their Christian names.”

“So Marcellin came over to your table. He drank a glass of champagne.”

“No. He had a horror of champagne. He used to say it was only fit for girls. We had a bottle of white wine fetched up for him.”

“Did he sit down?”

“Of course.”

“There were other people seated at your table? Charlot for example?”

“Oh yes.”

“You know his profession, if one can use the term?”

“He doesn't try to hide the fact that he is a crook. He's a character too.”

“And, in that capacity, he was sometimes invited on board?”

“I don't think, inspector, that there's anyone on the island who hasn't been.”

“Even Monsieur Émile?”

“Not him.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. I don't think we've ever even spoken to him. He's something of a hermit.”

“And he doesn't drink.”

“That's so.”

“Because you drink a lot, on board, don't you?”

“At times. I presume it's allowed?”

“Was Marcellin at your table when he started talking about me?”

“Probably. I don't remember exactly. He was telling stories, as usual. Mrs. Wilcox liked to hear him tell stories. He talked about his years in a penal settlement.”

“He never went to a penal settlement.”

“In that case, he invented it.”

“To amuse Mrs. Wilcox. So he talked about prison. And I was brought into the story? Was he drunk?”

“He was never entirely sober, especially in the evening. Wait. He said he had been convicted because of a woman.”

“Ginette?”

“Maybe. I seem to recall the name. It was then, I think, that he claimed that you had looked after her. Someone murmured: ‘Maigret—he's just a copper like the rest of them.' Forgive me.”

“Not at all. Carry on.”

“That's all. At that he started singing your praises, saying you were a friend of his and that for him a friend was sacred. If I remember rightly, Charlot teased him and he became even more worked up.”

“Can you tell me exactly how it finished?”

“It's difficult. It was late.”

“Who was the first to leave?”

“I don't know. Paul had closed the shutters a long time before. He was sitting at our table. We had a final bottle. I think we left together.”

“Who?”

“The major left us in the square to go back to his villa. Charlot, who sleeps at the Arche, stayed behind. Mrs. Wilcox and I went off to the landing stage, where we had left the dinghy.”

“Did you have a sailor with you?”

“No. We usually leave them on board. There was a strong mistral blowing and the sea was choppy. Marcellin offered to take us.”

“So he was with you when you set off.”

“Yes. He stayed on shore. He must have gone back to the hut.”

“In short, you and Mrs. Wilcox were the last people to see him alive?”

“Apart from the murderer.”

“Did you have difficulty getting back to the yacht?”

“How did you know?”

“You told me the sea was rough.”

“We arrived soaking wet, with six inches of water in the dinghy.”

“Did you go straight to bed?”

“I made some grog to warm us up, after which we played a game of gin rummy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's a card game.”

“What time was this?”

“Around two in the morning. We never go to bed early.”

“You didn't hear or see anything unusual?”

“The mistral prevented us from hearing anything.”

“Are you thinking of coming to the Arche this evening?”

“Probably.”

“Thank you.”

Maigret and Mr. Pyke remained alone together for a moment or two, and the chief inspector gazed at his colleague with large, sleepy eyes. He had the feeling that it was all futile, that he ought to have tackled it differently. For example, he would have liked to be on the square, in the sunshine, smoking his pipe and watching the boules players, who had started a big match; he would have liked to roam about the harbor watching the fishermen repairing their nets; he would have liked to know all the Gallis and the Morins whom Lechat had just touched on in conversation with him.

“I believe that in your country, Mr. Pyke, investigations are carried out in a very orderly fashion, aren't they?”

“It all depends. For example, after a crime committed two years ago near Brighton, one of my colleagues stayed eleven weeks in an inn, spending his days fishing and his evenings drinking ale with the locals.”

That was exactly what Maigret would have liked to do, and what he was not doing on account of this very Mr. Pyke! When Lechat came in, he was in a bad temper.