It wasn’t a nickname. The fat girl hadn’t done it on purpose. She really had been called Aglaé at her christening. She was very fat, especially the bottom half, deformed like a woman of fifty or sixty who has become fat with age and, by contrast, her face only looked the more infantile, for Aglaé was twenty-six years old at most.
Maigret had discovered, that afternoon, a whole new section of Porquerolles when, still accompanied by Mr. Pyke, he had walked right across the square for the first time to pay a visit to the post office. Was there really a smell of incense coming from the church, where the services could not have been very frequent?
It was the same square as the one opposite the Arche, and yet one would have sworn that, at the top, the air was hotter and more dense. Some small gardens, in front of two or three houses, were a riot of flowers and bees. The noises from the harbor reached them muted. Two old men were playing boules, pétanque-style, that is without sending the jack more than a few yards from their feet, and it was strange to see the precautions they took in bending down.
One of them was Ferdinand Galli, the patriarch of all the Gallis on the island, who kept a café in this corner of the square, a café which the chief inspector had never seen anyone enter. It must only have been frequented by neighbors, or by the Gallis of the tribe. His partner was a retired man, natty, completely deaf, wearing a railwayman’s cap, and another octogenarian, sitting on the post-office bench, was watching them sleepily.
For beside the open door of the post office there was a green painted bench on which Maigret was to spend a part of his afternoon.
“I wondered if you would come up here in the end!” Aglaé exclaimed, seeing him come in. “I expected you would need to use the telephone and wouldn’t want to do it from the Arche, where so many people can hear what you are saying.”
“Will it take long to get Paris, mademoiselle?”
“With a priority call I can get you through in a few minutes.”
“In that case, get Police Headquarters for me.”
“I know the number. It was me that put your inspector through when he called you.”
He all but asked:
“And you listened in?”
But she would not be long in revealing this herself.
“Who do you wish to speak to at Police Headquarters?”
“Sergeant Lucas. If he’s not there, Inspector Torrence.”
A few seconds later he had Lucas on the line.
“What’s the weather like with you, old man? Still raining? Showers? Good! Listen, Lucas. Do your best to get me everything you can as soon as possible on someone called Philippe de Moricourt. Yes. Lechat has seen his papers and says it’s his real name. His last address in Paris was a furnished house on the Left Bank, Rue Jacob, 17b…What do I want to know exactly? I’ve got no preconceived ideas. Everything you can find out. I don’t think he’s got a dossier in the Records, but you can always check. Do all you can by telephone and then call me back here. No number. Just Porquerolles. I would also like you to telephone the police at Ostend. Ask if they know a certain Bebelmans who, I think, is an important shipbuilder. Same thing. Everything you can find out. That’s not all. Don’t cut us off, mademoiselle. Have you any acquaintances in Montparnasse? See what they say about a certain Jef de Greef, who is a sort of painter and spent a certain amount of time on the Seine, in his boat moored near the Pont Marie. Have you made a note of that? That’s all, yes. Don’t wait for all the information before ringing me back. Put as many people on to it as you like. Everything all right, at the office?…Who’s had a baby?…Janvier’s wife?…Give him my congratulations.”
When he came out of the telephone box, he saw Aglaé, without a trace of embarrassment, taking the earphones off her head.
“You always listen in to conversations?”
“I stayed on the line in case it was cut off. I don’t trust the Hyères operator; she’s an old cat.”
“Do you do the same for everyone?”
“In the morning I haven’t time because of the mail, but in the afternoon it’s easier.”
“Do you take note of the calls made by the islanders?”
“I have to.”
“Could you make me out a list of all the calls you have put through in the last few days? Say the last eight days.”
“Right away. It’ll take me a few minutes.”
“You’re the person who receives the telegrams as well, aren’t you?”
“There aren’t many, except in the season. I had one this morning which is sure to interest you.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s a telegram which someone sent from here, someone who appears to be interested in one of the people, at least, about whom you’ve been asking for information.”
“Have you a copy?”
“I’ll find it for you.”
A moment later she was handing a form to the inspector, who read:
Fred Masson, c/o Angelo, Rue Blanche, Paris.
Like complete information on Philippe de Moricourt address Rue Jacob Paris stop Please telegraph Porquerolles. Regards.
Signed: CHARLOT.
Maigret gave it to Mr. Pyke to read, and the latter confined himself to a nod.
“Will you prepare a list of the calls for me, mademoiselle? I’ll wait outside with my friend.”
So it was that, for the first time, they went and sat on the bench, in the shade of the eucalyptus trees round the square, and the wall at their backs was pink and hot. Somewhere there was an invisible fig tree, and they inhaled its sweet smell.
“In a few minutes,” said Mr. Pyke, looking at the church clock, “I shall ask your permission to leave you for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
Was it from politeness that he pretended to believe that Maigret would grieve over it?
“The major has invited me for a drink at about five o’clock. I should have hurt his feelings by refusing.”
“That’s perfectly all right.”
“I thought you would probably be busy.”
Hardly time for the chief inspector to smoke a pipe, as he watched the two old men playing boules, before Aglaé was calling out in her shrill voice, over the counter:
“Monsieur Maigret! It’s ready!”
He went and took the piece of paper which she was holding out to him, and went and sat once more beside the man from the Yard.
She had done her work conscientiously, in the labored writing of a schoolgirl, with three or four spelling mistakes.
The word “butcher” recurred several times on the list. Apparently he telephoned every day to Hyères to order his meat for the next day. Then there was the Cooperative, with calls as frequent but more varied.
Maigret made a mark a little more than halfway down the list, thus separating the calls made before Marcellin’s death from those made afterwards.
“Are you taking notes?” Mr. Pyke asked, seeing his companion opening a large notebook.
Didn’t this imply that for the first time he was seeing Maigret behaving like a real chief inspector?
The name which occurred most often on the list was Justine’s. She called Nice, Marseilles, Béziers, Avignon, and in one week there were four calls to Paris.
“We’ll see about that presently,” said Maigret. “I suppose the postmistress took care to listen in. Is that done in England too?”
“I don’t think it’s legal, but it’s possible that it sometimes happens.”
The day before, Charlot had telephoned Marseilles. Maigret knew that already. It was to summon his girlfriend, whom they had seen landing from the Cormorant and with whom he was now playing cards on the terrace of the Arche.
For the Arche could be seen in the distance, with human forms bustling around it. From where they were, where all was so calm, it looked as active as a hive of bees.
The most interesting thing was that Marcellin’s name occurred on the list. He had called a number in Nice, just two days before his death.
Suddenly Maigret rose and went into the post office, and Mr. Pyke followed him in.
“Do you know what this number is, mademoiselle?”
“Certainly. It’s the house where the lady works. Justine calls it every day; you can see it on the list.”
“Have you listened in to Justine’s conversations?”
“Often. I no longer bother, because it’s always the same.”
“Does she do the talking, or her son?”
“She talks and Monsieur Émile listens.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She’s deaf. So Monsieur Émile holds the receiver to his ear, and repeats what is being said to her. Then she shouts so loud into the mouthpiece that it’s difficult to distinguish her syllables. The first thing she says is always:
“‘How much?’
“They give her the figure for the takings. Monsieur Émile, standing by her, notes it down. She calls up her houses one after the other.”
“I suppose it’s Ginette who answers in Nice?”
“Yes, seeing that she’s the manageress.”
“And the Paris calls?”
“There are fewer of them. Always to the same person, a certain Monsieur Louis. And always to ask for girls. He gives the age and the price. She answers yes or no. Sometimes she does her business as though she were at the village market.”
“You haven’t ever noticed anything odd about her conversations recently? Monsieur Émile hasn’t telephoned privately?”
“I don’t think he’d dare.”
“Doesn’t his mother allow him?”
“She hardly allows him to do anything.”
“And Marcellin?”
“I was just going to tell you about him. It was unusual for him to come to the post office, and then it was only to cash money orders. I should say that in a year he would only telephone three times.”
“To whom?”
“Once, it was to Toulon to order a part of a motor, which he needed for his boat. Another time it was to Nice…”
“To Ginette?”
“It was to say that he hadn’t been able to cash the order. He received one almost every month, did you know? She had made a mistake. The sum in words wasn’t the same as the sum in figures, and I couldn’t pay him. She sent another by the next post.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About three months. The door was closed, which means it was cold, so it was winter.”
“And the last call?”
“I started to listen, as usual, then Madame Galli came in to buy some stamps.”
“Was it a long conversation?”
“Longer than usual. It’s easy to check up.”
She turned over the pages of her book.
“Two three-minute periods.”
“You heard the start. What did Marcellin say?”
“Something like this:
“‘Is that you?…It’s me…yes. No, it’s not money…Money, I could have as much of that as I wanted…’”
“Did she say anything?”
“She murmured:
“‘You’ve been drinking again, Marcellin.’
“He swore he was practically sober. He went on:
“‘I want you to do something for me…Is there a big Larousse in the house?’
“That’s all I know. At that moment Madame Galli came in and she’s not easy to please. She says it’s she who pays for civil servants with her taxes and she’s always talking of complaining.”
“As the call only lasted six minutes, it’s unlikely that Ginette had time to look up the Larousse encyclopedia, come back to the telephone, and give Marcellin a reply.”
“She sent the reply by telegram. Look! I have it here for you.”
She gave him a yellow form on which he read:
Died in 1890.
It was signed: Ginette.
“It would have been too bad for you if you hadn’t come up to see me, wouldn’t it? I shouldn’t have come down, and you would have found out nothing.”
“Did you notice Marcellin’s face when he read this telegram?”
“He reread it two or three times, to make sure he had got it right, then he went off whistling.”
“As though he had received some good news?”
“Exactly. And also, I think, as if he had suddenly been struck with admiration for somebody.”
“Did you listen to Charlot’s conversation yesterday?”
“With Bébé?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He calls her Bébé. She must have arrived this morning. You want me to repeat his words?
“He said to her: ‘How goes, Bébé? I’m fine, thanks. I’ve got to stick around here a few more days and I’d like a little bit of fun. So come on over.’”
“And she came,” Maigret finished. “Thank you very much, mademoiselle. I’m on the bench outside, with my friend, and I’m waiting for my call from Paris.”
Three-quarters of an hour was passed watching the boules; the young married couple came to send off postcards; the butcher in turn came to make his daily call to Hyères. Mr. Pyke looked at the church tower from time to time. Occasionally he opened his mouth as well, perhaps to ask a question, but each time he changed his mind.
They were both of them oppressed by the heavily scented heat. From afar they could see the men gathering for the big boules match, the one between about ten players, fought out across the entire square until time for apéritifs and dinner.
The dentist was taking part. The Cormorant had left the island for Giens Point from whence it would bring back Inspector Lechat and Ginette.
Finally Aglaé’s voice summoned him in.
“Paris!” she announced.
It was the good Lucas who must, as usual during Maigret’s absences, have taken over the latter’s office. Through the window Lucas could see the Seine and the Pont Saint-Michel, while the chief inspector was looking vaguely at Aglaé.
“I’ve got part of the information, chief. I’m expecting the rest from Ostend presently. Who shall I start with?”
“Whichever you like.”
“Right, the Moricourt fellow. That wasn’t difficult. Torrence remembered the name through having seen it on the cover of a book. It’s his real name all right. His father, who was a cavalry captain, died a long while ago. His mother lives at Saumur. As far as I could gather they haven’t any private means. Several times Philippe de Moricourt tried to marry heiresses, but didn’t succeed.”
Aglaé was listening unashamedly, and through the glass, was winking at Maigret, to underline the bits she liked.
“He passes himself off as a man of letters. He published two volumes of poetry with a publisher on the Left Bank. He used to frequent the Café de Flore, where he was fairly well known. He has also worked occasionally on several newspapers. Is that what you want to know?”
“Go on.”
“I’ve hardly any other details as I did it all by telephone, to save time; but I sent someone to find out and you’ll have some more snippets this evening or tomorrow. There’s never been any charge against him, or rather there was one, five years ago, but it was withdrawn.”
“I’m listening.”
“A woman, who lives in Auteuil, whose name I should be able to get, had given him a rare edition to sell, after which she waited for several months without hearing of him. She lodged a complaint. It was found that he had sold the book to an American. As for the money, he promised to pay it back in monthly instalments. I got its former owner on the telephone. Moricourt was habitually two or three payments behind, but he paid up in the end, bit by bit.”
“Is that all?”
“Almost. You know the type. Always well dressed, always impeccably correct.”
“And with old women?”
“Nothing definite. He had dealings of which he made a great mystery.”
“And the other one?”
“Did you know they knew one another? It seems de Greef is quite somebody; some people claim that, if he wanted, he could be one of the best painters of his generation.”
“And he doesn’t want to be?”
“He ends by quarrelling with everybody. He went off with a Belgian girl of very good family.”
“I know.”
“Good. When he arrived in Paris, he held an exhibition of his works in a small room in the Rue de Seine. On the last day, as he hadn’t sold anything, he burned all the canvases. Some say veritable orgies took place on board his boat. He has illustrated several erotic works which are sold under the counter. It’s mainly off this that he lived. There you are, chief. I’m waiting for Ostend to call. Everything all right, down there?”
Through the glass, Mr. Pyke was showing Maigret his watch, and as it was five o’clock, he went off in the direction of the major’s villa.
The chief inspector felt quite light-headed about it, regarding it like a spell of holidays.
“Did you convey my congratulations to Janvier? Ring up my wife and tell her to go and see his and take something along, a present or some flowers. But not a silver mug!”
He found himself back with Aglaé, separated from her by the grilled partition. She seemed very amused. She admitted without shame:
“I’d like to see one of his books. Do you think he has some on board?”
Then, without stopping:
“It’s strange! Your job’s a lot simpler than people think. Information pours in from all sides. Do you think it’s one of those two?”
There was a large bunch of mimosa on her desk, and a bag of sweets, which she offered to the chief inspector.
“Things happen so seldom here! About Monsieur Philippe, I forgot to tell you that he writes a lot. I don’t read his letters, naturally. He shoves them in the box and I recognize his writing and his ink, as he always uses green ink. I don’t know why.”
“Who does he write to?”
“I forget the names, but it’s nearly always to Paris. Now and then he writes to his mother. The letters to Paris are much thicker.”
“Does he get much post in return?”
“Quite a lot. And reviews, and newspapers. Every day there’s printed matter for him.”
“Mrs. Wilcox?”
“She writes a lot as well, to England, Capri, Egypt. I particularly remember Egypt because I took the liberty of asking her for the stamps for my nephew.”
“Does she telephone?”
“She has been along to telephone two or three times from the box, and each time it was London she was calling. Unfortunately I don’t understand English.”
She added:
“I’m going to shut up. I should have shut at five. But if you want to wait for your call…”
“What call?”
“Didn’t Monsieur Lucas say he would call back about Ostend?”
She probably wasn’t dangerous; yet Maigret would have preferred, if only because of the people nearby, not to remain too long alone with her. She was all curiosity. She asked him, for example:
“Aren’t you going to telephone your wife?”
He told her he would be on the square, not far from the Arche in case a call came for him, and he went down quietly, smoking his pipe, in the direction of the boules match. He no longer needed to watch his behavior, as Mr. Pyke was not there to observe him. He really wanted to play boules and several times he asked about the rules of the game.
He was extremely surprised to discover that the dentist, whom everyone familiarly addressed as Léon, was a first-class player. At twenty yards, after three bounding strides he would strike his opponent’s ball and send it rolling away into the distance, and each time he at once affected a little modest air as though he considered the achievement to be quite natural.
The chief inspector went to have a glass of wine and found Charlot busy working the fruit machine while his companion on the bench was engrossed in a film magazine. Had they had their “little bit of fun”?
“Isn’t your friend with you?” asked Paul in surprise.
For Mr. Pyke as well, it must have been like a holiday. He was with another Englishman. He could speak his own language, use expressions which only meant something to two men from the same school.
It was easy to foretell the arrival of the Cormorant. Each time the same phenomenon took place. Outside there was a sort of downward current. People could be seen passing by, all making for the harbor. Then, once the boat was moored, the ebb would begin. The same people would pass by in the opposite direction, with, in addition, the new arrivals carrying suitcases or packages.
He followed the downward current, not far from the mayor who was pushing his eternal wheelbarrow. On the boat deck he at once saw Ginette and the inspector, who looked like a couple of friends. There were also fishermen coming back from the funeral and two old ladies, tourists for the Grand Hôtel.
In the group of people watching the disembarkation, he recognized Charlot, who had followed him and who, like him, seemed to be going through a ritual without really believing in it.
“Nothing new, chief?” asked Lechat, no sooner had he set foot on land. “If you knew how hot it was over there!”
“Did it go off all right?”
Ginette stayed with them, quite naturally. She appeared tired. Her look betrayed a certain anxiety.
The three of them set off toward the Arche, and Maigret had the feeling that he had been taking this walk daily for a very long time.
“Are you thirsty, Ginette?”
“I could do with an apéritif.”
They drank together, on the terrace, and Ginette was uncomfortable every time she felt Maigret’s gaze fall upon her. He looked at her dreamily, heavily, like a person whose thoughts are far away.
“I’ll go up and wash,” she announced when her glass was empty.
“May I come with you?”
Lechat, who sensed something new in the air, was trying to guess. He didn’t dare question his chief. He remained alone at the table, while the latter, behind Ginette, climbed the stairs.
“You know,” she said, when they were finally in the bedroom, “I really want to change my life.”
“That doesn’t worry me.”
She pretended to joke.
“And supposing it worried me?”
Nonetheless she removed her hat, then her dress, which he helped her to unfasten at the back.
“This has sort of done something to me,” she sighed. “I think he was happy here.”
On the other evenings Marcellin, at this hour, would have been taking part in the game of boules on the square, in the setting sun.
“Everyone’s been very kind. He was well liked.”
She hastily removed her corsets, which had left deep marks on her milky skin. Maigret, facing the attic window, had his back to her.
“Do you remember the question I asked you?” he said in a neutral voice.
“You repeated it enough times. I would never have believed you could be so hard.”
“On my side I would never have believed that you would try to hide anything from me.”
“Have I hidden something from you?”
“I asked you why you had come here, to Porquerolles, when Marcel’s body was already in Hyères.”
“I answered you.”
“You told me a lie.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the telephone call?”
“What telephone call?”
“The one Marcellin made to you the day before he died.”
“I didn’t remember it.”
“Nor the telegram?”
He didn’t have to turn round to discover her reaction, and kept his gaze fixed on the game of boules in progress opposite the terrace, from where there came a murmur of voices. The clink of glasses could be heard.
It was very soft, very reassuring, and Mr. Pyke wasn’t there. As the silence continued, behind him, he asked:
“What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking that I was wrong, as you know perfectly well.”
“Are you dressed?”
“Just going to put on my dress.”
He went and opened the door, to make sure there was nobody in the corridor. When he came back to the middle of the room, Ginette was busy rearranging her hair in front of the mirror.
“You didn’t mention the Larousse?”
“Who to?”
“I don’t know. Monsieur Émile for example. Or Charlot.”
“I wasn’t so stupid as to mention it.”
“Because you were hoping to step into Marcel’s shoes? Do you know, Ginette, you are a terribly calculating woman.”
“That’s what people always say about women when they try to provide for the future. And they fall on them when misery drives them into a job they haven’t chosen.”
There was a sudden bitterness in her voice.
“I thought you were going to marry Monsieur Émile?”
“On condition Justine makes up her mind to die and doesn’t make last-minute arrangements preventing her son from marrying. Perhaps you think that makes me feel happy!”
“In short, if Marcel’s tip was a good one and you succeeded, you wouldn’t marry?”
“Certainly not that piece of creeping sickness.”
“Would you leave the house at Nice?”
“Without a moment’s hesitation, I assure you.”
“What would you do?”
“I’d go and live in the country, anywhere. I’d keep chickens and rabbits.”
“What did Marcellin say to you on the telephone?”
“You’ll say I’m lying again.”
He stared at her for a long while, and then said quietly:
“Not anymore.”
“Good! It’s not a moment too soon. He said he had accidentally discovered an extraordinary thing. Those are the words he used. He added that it could mean big money, but he wasn’t yet sure.”
“Did he make any reference to anyone?”
“No. I have never known him to be so mysterious. He needed some information. He asked if we had a big Larousse, the one in I don’t know how many volumes, in the house. I said we didn’t keep one. Then he insisted on my going to the town library to look it up.”
“What did he want to know?”
“It’s just too bad, isn’t it? Now you’ve got so far, I haven’t a chance of course.”
“None at all.”
“Even though I didn’t understand a thing about it. I thought I’d get some idea when I reached here.”
“Who died in 1890?”
“You’ve seen my telegram? Didn’t he destroy it?”
“The post office, as usual, kept a copy.”
“A certain van Gogh, a painter. I read that he committed suicide. He was very poor and today people fight over his pictures, which are worth I don’t know what. I wondered if Marcel had got hold of one.”
“And it wasn’t that?”
“I don’t think so. When he telephoned me he didn’t even know the gentleman concerned was dead.”
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know, I promise. Only I told myself that if Marcel could make money with this information, it was possible that I could do so too. Especially when I learned that he had been killed. People don’t kill for fun. He had no enemies. There was nothing to steal from him. You understand?”
“You assume the crime has a connection with the van Gogh in question?”
Maigret spoke without a trace of irony. He took small puffs at his pipe and gazed out of the window.
“No doubt you were right.”
“Too late, since you’re here and it’s no more use to me. Is there any further reason to keep me on the island? You see it’s a holiday for me here, and as long as you keep me here, the old cat can’t say anything.”
“In that case, stay.”
“Thank you. You are becoming almost like you were when I knew you in Paris.”
He didn’t trouble to return the compliment.
“You have a rest.”
He went downstairs, passed near to Charlot who surveyed him with a bantering eye, and went and sat beside Lechat, on the terrace.
It was the most luscious hour of the day. The whole island was relaxed, and the sea around it, the rocks, the ground of the square, which seemed to breathe to another rhythm after the heat of the daytime.
“Have you found out anything, chief?”
Maigret’s first thought was to order a drink from Jojo, who was passing nearby and who looked as if she were cross with him for having closeted himself with Ginette in the bedroom.
“I’m afraid so,” he sighed finally.
And, as the inspector was looking at him in surprise:
“I mean that I shall probably not have much longer to stay here. It’s a good place, don’t you think? On the other hand, there’s Mr. Pyke.”
Wasn’t a quick success better, on account of Mr. Pyke, and what he would say at Scotland Yard?
“There’s a call from Paris for you, Monsieur Maigret.”
It was probably the information from Ostend.