‘A beer for me …’ sighed Maigret with satisfaction, emptying his pipe on the floor.
A real beer, at last, in a dimpled glass tankard, and not a little bottle of foreign beer served pretentiously in a crystal glass like at the Excelsior.
At the Pétanque, Maigret was in his element, and suddenly he had that old glint in his eye, both heavy and piercing, for which he was famed at the Police Judiciaire, and the strange placidity that came over him when his mind was working most actively.
Close to him, Monsieur Louis remained very dignified in his black suit, and not a minute went by without someone coming over to greet him or shake his hand, always with a touch of deference. And yet in that bar, at the zinc counter piled with ham baguettes, there were more dinner jackets and tails than blazers, more women in evening gowns than in casual wear; but the dinner jackets were those of the croupiers, the tails with black ties were worn by head waiters, those with white ties by professional dancers, while the pretty women were hostesses at the Casino.
‘Any news?’ asked Maigret, letting his gaze rove over this little world he knew so well.
‘So much news that I made notes on a scrap of paper. Would you like to copy them?’
Maigret shook his head, puffed away on his pipe and appeared to be absorbed by everything that was going on around him, whereas not a detail of what Monsieur Louis was saying escaped him.
‘First of all, they haven’t been able to identify the victim yet, and his fingerprints, which were wired to Paris, are not in the ledgers of the Palais de Justice. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six, in fragile health, who regularly took morphine. At the time of his death, he was still under the influence of the drug.’
‘You’re not going to claim that this man walked into room 412, stripped naked to take a bath in Monsieur Owen’s bath tub, then fainted in the hot water and accidentally drowned?’
‘No! They found bruises on his neck and shoulders that were inflicted before he died, by the person who subsequently held the victim’s head under water.’
‘The time of death, Louis?’
‘Let me check … Six o’clock in the morning … But I learned a strange detail … You know the layout of the suites …?
‘Next to each bathroom is a private WC … These WCs are ventilated by a fanlight measuring around fifty centimetres by fifty … Now the pane of the fanlight in room 412 had been removed with a diamond cutter, which suggests that someone got in that way … Outside is a fire escape, or rather an iron ladder, that runs close to the fanlight … An athletic man could have entered the hotel that way.’
‘Again, so as to strip off in Monsieur Owen’s room and take a bath in his bath tub!’ repeated Maigret, who would not back down. ‘A curious idea, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not trying to explain … I’m simply repeating what I’ve been told …’
‘Has the young blonde nurse been questioned?’
‘Her name’s Germaine Devon … She really does have a nursing qualification. Before entering Monsieur Owen’s employment, she was the live-in nurse for another Swede, Monsieur Stilberg, who died just over a year ago now …’
‘She knows nothing, of course!’
‘Absolutely nothing! She met Monsieur Owen in Paris, in the lobby of a luxury hotel where she’d gone looking for work. He hired her and since then she’s gone everywhere with him. According to her, Monsieur Owen was a bag of nerves and scared he was about to lose his mind. Apparently, both his father and his grandfather died insane.’
‘And yet he had no personal physician?’
‘He was wary of doctors because he was afraid that one of them might have him locked up …’
‘How did he spend his time, every night?’
‘But …’ exclaimed Monsieur Louis in surprise, re-reading his notes. ‘Hold on … I don’t think anyone asked … That would have struck me … Presumably he slept …?’
‘When does Mademoiselle Germaine – since that’s her name – claim she saw her employer for the last time?’
‘This morning, she says. She went into his room at around nine, as usual, to take him his breakfast, because he didn’t want to be served by the hotel staff. She didn’t notice anything unusual. The bathroom door was closed and it didn’t occur to her to open it. Monsieur Owen, she states, was as normal, and, while he sat up in bed eating his toast with tea, he asked his nurse to go to Nice for him to deliver a letter that was on the bedside table to a certain address, Avenue du Président-Wilson, if I recall …’
‘And this letter?’
‘Just a minute! So Mademoiselle Germaine took the railcar and was picked up at the station by the police. She had the letter in her bag, or rather an envelope that contained nothing but a blank sheet of paper. As for the address on the envelope, it was non-existent, because Avenue du Président-Wilson does not go up to number 317 …’
Maigret signalled to the waiter to serve him another beer and smoked in silence for a good while, his companion not daring to disturb him.
‘Well?’ he asked, suddenly impatient. ‘Is that it?’
‘Sorry! I thought—’
‘What did you think?’
‘That you were busy pondering …’
Then Maigret gave a shrug, as if it were stupid to believe he was capable of pondering!
‘You’re not telling me everything, Louis …’
‘But …’
‘I know because you’re forgetting to talk to me about a whole part of the investigation … Admit that the police asked you which guests had left the hotel since last night …’
‘That’s true … Seeing as it didn’t lead anywhere, I’d forgotten about it … Besides, you can’t really say that it’s a departure today, because he notified us last night …’
Maigret frowned and became more attentive.
‘It was the guest in room 133, Monsieur Saft, a very distinguished young Polish man, who asked me to wake him up at four a.m. He left the Excelsior at five to catch the flight to London …’
‘Why did you just say that it didn’t lead anywhere?’
‘The man in the bath tub died at six o’clock …’
‘Of course, you never saw Monsieur Saft and Monsieur Owen together?’
‘Never …! Besides, it would have been difficult for them to meet given that Monsieur Saft spent most of his nights at the Casino or in Monte Carlo, and rested during the day …’
‘What about Mademoiselle Germaine?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did she go out a lot?’
‘I confess I never paid her much attention. If I’d seen her going out at night, I think it would have struck me. In my view, she led a fairly quiet life …’
Through the windows, they could see the brightly lit Casino and the white yachts fading in the darkness.
‘High stakes?’ Monsieur Louis asked a gaming inspector who had just dropped in to the Pétanque for a change of atmosphere.
‘Someone’s just won a jackpot of a hundred thousand …’
Maigret melted into his corner of the banquette, where the smoke was thicker than anywhere else in the café. All of a sudden, he leaped up, banged a coin on the table, paid the waiter and picked up his hat, seemingly not bothered about his companion, who followed him.
His hands in his pockets, he looked as if he had no other aim but to stroll along the jetty, gazing at the silvery, moonlit sea.
‘It’s much too complicated …’ he muttered at length, to himself.
‘I was under the impression,’ said Monsieur Louis tactfully, ‘that you had solved much more complicated cases than this one …’
Maigret stopped walking, gave him a ponderous look, and shrugged.
‘That is not what I meant …’
And he resumed his walk and his train of thought. Cars continually pulled up in front of the Casino entrance, and doormen in sky-blue hurried to open the doors. Through the vast bay windows, silhouettes could be seen leaning over the roulette and baccarat tables.
‘Supposing …’
Monsieur Louis was almost holding his breath, dreading another rebuff. At every moment, he had the feeling that Maigret was about to look up and make a categorical declaration. But no! He would start a sentence, break off, pensive, and shake his head, as if erasing an ill-phrased question from the blackboard.
‘Tell me, Louis …’
‘Yes,’ replied Louis at once.
‘Would you be able to squeeze through the fanlight in the WC?’
‘I haven’t tried, but I think I could manage it … Admittedly I’m not fat …’
‘Monsieur Owen wasn’t fat either … What about the young man in the bath tub?’
‘More on the tall, thin side …’
‘And yet …’
What did he mean by ‘and yet’? Monsieur Louis walked gingerly, turning around when Maigret turned around, stopping when Maigret stopped in front of some boat which he did not even look at. Monsieur Louis was afraid of only one thing, and that was of hearing Maigret announce: ‘Well, having thought about it, I am not going to get involved in this case …’
Because he had promised the owner of the Excelsior that his friend Maigret would clear the matter up within a few hours, as he had often seen him do.
‘Tell me, Louis …’
It was becoming a refrain, and, each time, the doorman trembled.
‘Are those fanlights the same throughout the hotel? Mine is of frosted glass. There’s a string for opening and closing it, but I’ve noticed that it’s always half-open …’
‘For ventilation!’ explained Monsieur Louis.
‘So why did someone remove the pane with a glass cutter? You see that I’m right, that it’s too complicated! Now, remember what I am about to tell you: only amateurs make things complicated. A professional job, in general, is neat, with no blunders. Just what is necessary, no more! If Monsieur Owen had wanted to leave the hotel in the morning, he could have done so without any difficulty, via the main door, because the body hadn’t been discovered yet. Why the hell has a hole been made in that fanlight?’
‘And what if it were to gain entry into the suite?’
Clearly, that day, Maigret was being contrary, because he grunted:
‘Then it’s too easy …’
‘I don’t follow you …’
‘I hope not! Otherwise you would be damned good. You have encountered thousands of people at close quarters in your life, but have you often seen someone wearing gloves at all hours of the day?’
‘Georges Clemenceau, to name but one … He wanted to hide the eczema on his hands … I also knew an elderly Englishwoman who was missing a finger and whose glove contained an artificial thumb …’
Maigret sighed and looked about him with a truly disgusted expression.
‘It’s like that envelope containing a blank sheet of paper … Listen! Do you want me to tell you what I think?’
Nothing could have delighted Monsieur Louis more, and he beamed.
‘Well! I think that if you put an idiot and a very clever man together … No! That’s not quite it … Let’s say a professional and an amateur … They both have their own little idea … They both have a plan … They both want to have their say, at all costs, and the result is more or less what you have seen … The fanlight in the WC, for example, that’s the amateur, because professionals haven’t used glass cutters to break in through windows for a long time … But the letter to be taken to Nice …’
‘Do you think the nurse …?’
They were walking past an open bay window from which music blared, and Maigret shot a surly look in the direction of the dancing couples.
‘To think that, in the meantime, my wife’s aunt … I almost wish it were over, that there was a telegram waiting for me at the hotel, obliging me to take the first train to go and lead the mourning in Quimper … Have you noticed one thing, at least, you whom I have to thank for all this trouble?’
‘You mean …’
‘No! You haven’t even noticed that Mademoiselle Germaine began by working for a Swede … To be precise: she was a live-in nurse for a real Swede, who was a genuine invalid and died of his illness into the bargain … By the way, what have they done with her?’
‘Who?’
‘The nurse, for goodness’ sake!’
‘She’s been released … Of course, she’s still under police surveillance and she’s been asked not to leave Cannes … For the time being, she must be at the hotel …’
‘And you didn’t say so, you idiot?’
‘I didn’t know that—’
‘Is she still in her suite?’
‘Until …’
Maigret, turning his back on the jetty, was now striding determinedly down the Croisette. Every now and then, a motionless couple could be seen in the shadows.
‘Is there a police officer outside her door?’
‘Not exactly … He’s on her floor and is keeping a watch on her … There’s another one in the lobby …’
This was certainly no time to annoy Maigret, who at last seemed to have an idea and wanted to pursue it to the end.
‘Tell me, Louis …’
Maigret smiled on hearing himself say those words, which had definitely become a catchphrase.
‘What did Monsieur Owen drink?’
‘On that matter, I can answer you … From my post, I could see him all day long on the terrace, and I noticed that there were only ever bottles of mineral water in front of him …’
‘What about Mademoiselle Germaine?’
‘I don’t know. She didn’t used to sit on the terrace. Tomorrow I can ask her head waiter and room service …’
After all, someone had to have drunk the whisky that had been in the empty bottle found in the room!
‘Can you not get me that information before tomorrow?’
‘I’ll ask the night sommelier …’
Which they did. The lobby was empty. A police officer, whom Maigret pretended not to see, was sitting on a crimson velvet banquette reading a newspaper. The night porter greeted his daytime colleague and held out Maigret’s key.’
‘Call Baptiste.’
A few words exchanged on the telephone.
‘Yes … Come up for a moment …’
Half of the lobby was in the dark, and it was in that half that Maigret went to question the night sommelier.
‘Rooms 412 and 413 …? Wait …! No …! I never served them any spirits … or rather … May I go and get my notebook …?’
When he came back up, he was adamant.
‘I never served whisky to 412 or to 413 … I’ve just checked the records and none has ever been ordered during the day either … Only mineral waters …’
Monsieur Louis was still afraid of seeing Maigret lose heart. It seemed to him that each new piece of information had the effect of making the problem more unfathomable, and he covertly watched the inspector.
‘Do you want me to show you to her room?’
‘I’ll go on my own …’
‘Shall I wait for you?’
‘No! I’ll see you tomorrow … Keep abreast of anything the police find out …’
First he went to his suite, ran a comb through his hair and even wiped his shoes with a cloth to get rid of the dust from the Croisette.
His initial idea had been to knock on the nurse’s door, on the floor below his. But, as he was about to go down the stairs, it occurred to him that they would have to speak through the door, which would attract the attention of the Flying Squad officer.
He retraced his steps and closed the window, because the sight of the sea shimmering in the silvery light changed his stream of thought from one moment to the next. On the table, there was a telephone.
Finally he picked up the receiver and heard the hotel operator say:
‘Can I help you?’
‘Could you put me through to room 413, please?’
He couldn’t help feeling a little anxious. He pictured the operator inserting a plug into one of the jacks on the switchboard and announcing:
‘Hello! Room 413? … I have a call for you …’
It must have been more complicated than that, because some time went by and there were several clicks, several muffled calls before a surprised voice asked:
‘Who is this?’
Maigret imagined the young woman in bed, perhaps alarmed, who knows? Not having had time to switch on the light.
‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Am I speaking to Mademoiselle Germaine Devon? Good evening, mademoiselle …’
‘Good evening, monsieur …’
She was unnerved, that was certain. She must have been wondering what this caller wanted.
‘The person speaking to you has just chanced upon the whisky bottle that was in Monsieur Owen’s room this morning …’
Total silence.
‘Hello! … Can you hear me?’
Still silence on the other end of the line, then a click that indicated that the young woman had just found the light switch.
‘I know you are still there. And you would be very uneasy if I hung up!’
‘Why?’
He had won! The ‘why’ was full of anxiety. It betrayed a defensive defiance, for sure, but already toned down.
‘Perhaps I might be prepared to return this bottle to you … But you would have to come and fetch it from my suite …’
‘Are you staying at the hotel?’
‘The floor above yours …’
‘What do you want of me?’
‘To return the bottle to you.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you not have an idea?’
Once again, a silence, and Maigret’s nerves were so tense that his pipe cracked between his teeth.
‘Come up to 517 … It’s just at the end of the corridor … A corner room … No need to knock … The door will be ajar …’
Why did the voice ask:
‘What should I bring?’
‘I see you have understood … You know as well as I do what it’s worth, don’t you? … For instance, it would be best not to come to the attention of the police officer watching your floor …’
He listened a little longer, hung up, stood there without moving for a good while, his hand resting on the telephone, then he picked up the receiver again, afraid he wouldn’t have time to do everything he needed to do.
‘Hello! …’ (He lowered his voice.) ‘Operator? … Is Monsieur Louis still downstairs? … He’s just gone out? … Yes, room 517 … Has he informed you? … Good … This is what I’d like you to do … In a moment, room 413 may try to put a call through … Can you connect me so that I can listen in? … Sorry? … Yes … If not I’ll come down to the switchboard, but it would be better … What? … Yes … Yes … I’ll wait …’
The operator had just asked him to hang up because a call was coming in. A moment later, he called back.
‘Hello! … Room 517? … You were right … Room 413 asked me to put a call through to Geneva …’
‘Are you sure that it was to Geneva?’
‘To the Hôtel des Bergues, in fact, because I recognize that number … I’ll connect you … There’s a ten-minute wait …’
Enough time to fill a pipe and gather up the clothes lying around the room before receiving Mademoiselle Germaine, because Maigret had never learned to tidy up after himself.