‘And Madame Marchand?’
‘Almost the only time I see her is when she’s vacuuming. She’s the kind of woman who never opens her mouth, just moves her lips when she’s alone. Maybe she’s praying.’
‘What about mademoiselle?’
‘She isn’t proud or fussy. A pity she’s always so sad.’
‘Do you think she’s unhappy in love?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere of this place.’
‘Have you heard about the letters?’
He appeared embarrassed.
‘I might as well tell you the truth. Yes. But I haven’t read them.’
‘Who told you about them?’
Even more embarrassed, he pretended to search in his memory.
‘I don’t know. The thing is, I come and go, I say a few words to this person or that …’
‘Was it Mademoiselle Vague?’
‘No, she never talks about monsieur’s business.’
‘Monsieur Tortu?’
‘He looks at me like he was a second boss.’
‘Julien Baud?’
‘Maybe. To be honest, I don’t remember. Maybe it was in the servants’ room.’
‘Do you know if there are any guns in the apartment?’
‘Monsieur has a .38 in the drawer of his bedside table, but I haven’t seen cartridges in the room.’
‘Do you clean his room?’
‘It’s part of my job. I also serve at table, of course.’
‘Do you know of any other guns?’
‘Madame’s little toy, a 6.33 manufactured in Herstal. You’d have to fire that from very close up to hurt anyone.’
‘Have you sensed any change in the atmosphere here lately?’
He seemed to be searching his memory.
‘It’s possible. They never talk much when they sit down to meals. These days, I guess they don’t talk at all. Sometimes just a few sentences between Monsieur Gus and mademoiselle.’
‘Do you believe the letters?’
‘The way I believe in astrology. According to the horoscopes in the newspaper, I should receive a large sum of money at least once a week.’
‘So you don’t think something might happen?’
‘Not because of the letters.’
‘Because of what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does Monsieur Parendon seem strange to you?’
‘Depends what you call strange. Everyone has their own idea about the life they lead. If he’s happy like that … Anyway, he’s not crazy. In fact, probably the opposite.’
‘Do you think she’s the one who’s crazy?’
‘Not that either! Oh, no! The woman’s as crafty as a fox.’
‘Many thanks, Ferdinand.’
‘I did my best, inspector. I’ve learned that it’s always best to be honest with the police.’
The door closed behind Maigret, who walked down the big staircase with its wrought-iron banister. He waved at the concierge, who looked in his livery like the doorman of a luxury hotel, and sighed with pleasure when he found himself back out in the cool air.
He remembered a pleasant bar on the corner of Avenue Marigny and Rue du Cirque. He went in and headed straight for the counter. He thought about what to drink and finally ordered a draught beer. The atmosphere of the Parendons’ apartment still clung to his body. But wouldn’t it have been the same if he had spent so much time with any family?
Less intense, perhaps, although he would probably have found the same resentments, the same petty-minded thoughts, the same fears, certainly the same inconsistencies.
‘Stop philosophizing, Maigret!’
Wasn’t it a principle of his to forbid himself from thinking? All right, then! He hadn’t seen the two children, or the cook, or the cleaner. He had only caught a glimpse of the maid in her black uniform, with her little embroidered apron and cap.
Being on the corner of Rue du Cirque, he remembered Dr Martin, Parendon’s personal doctor.
‘How much do I owe you?’
He saw the doctor’s nameplate outside the building, climbed to the third floor and was admitted to a waiting room. There were already three people there. Discouraged, he made to leave.
‘Aren’t you going to wait for the doctor?’
‘I didn’t come for a consultation. I’ll phone him.’
‘What name shall I say?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
‘Don’t you want me to tell him you’re here?’
‘I’d rather not keep his patients waiting any longer.’
There was the other Parendon, the brother, but he was a doctor, too, and thanks to his friend Pardon, Maigret had a good idea what the lives of doctors in Paris were like.
He didn’t feel like taking the bus or the Métro. He felt weary, swollen with fatigue, and he collapsed into the back seat of a taxi.
‘Quai des Orfèvres.’
‘Yes, Monsieur Maigret.’
It no longer gave him any pleasure. He had once been quite proud of being recognized like this, but for some years now it had been more irritating than anything else.
How would he look if nothing happened in the apartment on Avenue Marigny? He hadn’t even dared mention the letters at the daily briefing. For two days, he had been neglecting his office, spending most of his time in an apartment where people led a life that was no concern of his.
There were cases in progress, not very major ones, fortunately, but ones he should at least deal with.
Had the letters, plus the telephone call at midday, distorted his view of these people? He couldn’t think of Madame Parendon as just any woman you might meet in the street. He saw her again, pathetic in all the blue of her boudoir and her dressing gown, performing a kind of tragedy for his benefit.
Parendon, too, had stopped being a man like any other. The gnome would look at him with those clear eyes of his, enlarged by the thick lenses of his glasses, and Maigret would try in vain to read his thoughts in them.
The others … Mademoiselle Vague … That big redhead Julien Baud … Tortu suddenly turning to look at the door where Madame Parendon had appeared as if by a miracle …
He shrugged and, as the taxi drew up outside the gate of the Police Judiciaire, he searched in his pockets for change.
A dozen inspectors paraded through his office, each with a problem to submit to him. He went through the mail that had arrived in his absence and signed a pile of documents, but in all the time he worked like this, in the gilded calm of his office, the apartment on Avenue Marigny was still somewhere in the background.
He felt an unease he couldn’t dispel. And yet up until now he had done all he could. No crime had been committed. Nobody had called the police officially to report a specific act. Nobody had lodged a complaint.
He had nevertheless devoted hours to studying the small group of people that gravitated around Émile Parendon.
He looked in his memory for a precedent but couldn’t find one, even though he had known the most diverse situations.
At 5.15, he was brought an express letter that had just arrived and immediately recognized the block capitals.
The seal indicated that the letter had been sent from the post office in Rue de Miromesnil at 4.30. In other words, fifteen minutes after he’d left the Parendons’.
He cut the band along the dotted line. Because of the size of the paper, the characters were smaller than in the previous letters. It was clear to Maigret, when he compared them, that this one had been written more quickly and with less care, perhaps in a state of heightened excitement.
Detective chief inspector,
When I wrote you my first letter and asked you to reply by means of a small ad, I never imagined that you would plunge straight into this case, as I had been planning to subsequently provide you with the details you needed.
Your haste has spoiled everything, and now you must realize yourself that you are floundering. Today, you provoked the murderer
in a way, and I am convinced that because of you they will feel obliged to strike.
I may be wrong, but I think it will be in the next few hours. I can no longer help you. I am sorry. I bear you no ill will.
Gravely, Maigret read and reread this note, then walked over to the door and called Janvier and Lapointe. Lucas was absent.
‘Read this, boys.’
He observed them with a certain anxiety, as if wanting to see if they would react in the same way as he had. Unlike him, they hadn’t been befuddled by hours spent in the apartment. They were able to judge for themselves.
Looking at the letter together, they both showed a growing interest, which turned to concern.
‘Things seemed to be getting clearer,’ Janvier said, putting the letter down on the desk.
‘What are these people like?’ Lapointe asked.
‘Like everyone and no one. The thing I’m wondering is what we can do. I can’t leave a man on duty in the apartment, and there’d be no point anyway. The place is so vast, anything can happen at one end without anyone noticing at the other end. Have someone guard the building? I’m going to do that tonight, to be on the safe side, but if these messages aren’t a hoax, the blow won’t come from outside … Are you free, Lapointe?’
‘I have nothing special to do, chief.’
‘I’d like you to go over there. The concierge is a man named Lamure, who used to be in the Sûreté. I want you to spend the night in his lodge, going up to the first floor every now and again. Get Lamure to give you a list of everyone living in the building, including staff, and make a note of who goes in and out.’
‘I get the idea.’
‘What idea?’
‘That in this way, if something happens, we’ll at least have a basis.’
It was true, but Maigret hated envisaging the situation in that light. If something happens … They weren’t talking about a burglary, but about murder. But who would be murdered? And by whom?
A number of people had talked to him, answered his questions, apparently confessed certain things. Damn it, was it for him to judge who was lying and who was telling the truth, let alone whether one of those involved was mad?
He paced his office with big, almost angry strides, speaking as if to himself, while Lapointe and Janvier exchanged glances.
‘It’s quite simple, inspector. Someone writes to tell you there’s going to be a murder. Only, they can’t tell you in advance who’s going to kill whom, or when, or how. Why contact you? Why warn you? For no reason. To play a game.’
He grabbed a pipe and filled it with nervous jabs of his index finger.
‘I mean, what do they take me for? If something happens, they’ll claim it’s my fault. This latest letter is already claiming as much. Apparently, I was too hasty. But what else was I supposed to do? Wait to receive an announcement? And if nothing happens, I’ll look like an idiot, I’ll be the man who wasted taxpayers’ money for two whole days.’
Janvier kept a straight face, but Lapointe couldn’t help smiling, and Maigret noticed. His anger hung in the air for a moment. At last, he, too, smiled and patted the young man on the shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, boys. This business is getting to me. Everyone there tiptoes around, and I’ve started doing the same, as if I’m walking on eggshells.’
This time, at the image of Maigret walking on eggshells, Janvier was forced to laugh, too.
‘Here, at least, I can give vent. It’s over now. Let’s get down to business. Lapointe, go and have something to eat, then get over to Avenue Marigny. If anything suspicious happens, don’t hesitate to call me at home, even if it’s the middle of the night. Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow. Someone will relieve you at eight in the morning.’
He went to the window and stood there looking down at the line of the Seine.
‘What are you working on right now?’ he asked Janvier.
‘I arrested the two boys this morning, two sixteen-year-olds. You were right …’
‘Would you mind taking over from Lapointe tomorrow? It seems stupid, I know, and of course that’s why I’m so angry, but I feel I have to take these precautions even if there’s no point to them. If something happens, everyone will lash out at me, you’ll see.’
As he uttered these last words, his eyes came to rest on one of the lamp posts on Pont Saint-Michel.
‘Pass me the letter.’
He’d remembered a word from the letter. He hadn’t paid any attention to it earlier, and he wondered if his memory was playing tricks with him.
… I am convinced that because of you they will feel obliged to strike …
Yes, the word strike was definitely there. Obviously, it could mean simply take action. But in all three letters, the anonymous writer had been quite meticulous in his choice of words.
‘“Strike”, do you get it? The husband and the wife both have guns. I was actually thinking of asking them to hand them over to us, the way you take matches away from children. But I can’t take away all the kitchen knives, all the paper knives. You can strike with andirons too, and as there’s no lack of fireplaces … Or with candlesticks. Or statuettes …’
Suddenly changing tone, he said:
‘Try and get me Germain Parendon on the phone. He’s a neurologist who lives in Rue d’Aguesseau, the brother of my Parendon.’
While Janvier, sitting on a corner of the desk, dealt with the telephone, Maigret took the opportunity to relight his pipe.
‘Hello? Have I reached Dr Parendon? … Police Judiciaire, mademoiselle. The office of Detective Chief Inspector Maigret. Monsieur Maigret would like a few words with the doctor … What? In Nice? … Yes … Just a moment.’
Maigret had been signalling to him.
‘Ask her where he’s staying.’
‘Are you still there? Could you tell me where the doctor is staying? … The Negresco? … Thank you … Yes, I suspect he is. I’ll try anyway.’
‘Is he seeing a patient?’
‘No, he’s at a conference on child neurology. Apparently they have a full schedule, and the doctor is due to present a paper tomorrow.’
‘Call the Negresco. It’s six o’clock. The session must be over by now. At eight, they’re probably all going to dinner somewhere, at the Préfecture or wherever. If he isn’t already at some cocktail party or other.’
They had to wait about ten minutes, the Negresco being constantly engaged.
‘Hello? This is the Police Judiciaire in Paris, mademoiselle. Could you please put me through to Dr Parendon? … Parendon, yes. He’s one of the conference delegates.’
Janvier put his hand over the receiver.
‘She’s going to see if he’s in his room or at the cocktail party that’s taking place right now in the big room on the mezzanine … Hello? … Yes, doctor … I’m sorry about that. Let me pass you Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
Maigret felt awkward as he took the receiver, unsure at the last moment as to what to say.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, doctor.’
‘I was just about to go over my paper one last time.’
‘As I assumed. Yesterday and today, I spent quite a long time with your brother.’
‘How did you happen to meet my brother?’
The voice was cheerful and friendly, and much younger than Maigret had imagined.
‘It’s rather a complicated story, and that’s why I’ve taken the liberty of calling you.’
‘Is my brother in any trouble?’
‘If he is, it’s not the kind that concerns us.’
‘Is he ill?’
‘What do you think of his health?’
‘He seems a lot frailer and weaker than he really is. I’d be quite incapable of all the work he manages to get through in a few days.’
It was necessary to go all the way.
‘I’m going to explain the situation as briefly as possible. Yesterday morning, I received an anonymous letter saying that a murder was probably going to be committed.’
>
‘At Émile’s?’
There was laughter in the voice.
‘No. It would take too long to tell you how we ended up at your brother’s apartment. Basically, that letter and the following one did come from there, both written on his writing paper, with the letterhead carefully cut off.’
‘I assume my brother set your mind at rest? This is Gus playing a practical joke, isn’t it?’
‘As far as I know, your nephew isn’t in the habit of playing practical jokes.’
‘No, you’re right. And neither is Bambi. I don’t know, could it be the young Swiss he hired as his office boy? Or the maid?’
‘I’ve just received a third letter, this time by express mail, telling me that it’s going to happen very soon.’
The doctor’s tone had changed.
‘Do you believe that?’
‘I’ve only known the family since yesterday.’
‘What does Émile say? I assume he shrugs it off?’
‘Actually, he doesn’t take it as lightly as that. On the contrary, I have the impression he believes there’s a real threat.’
‘A threat to whom?’
‘Perhaps to himself.’
‘Who would ever think of harming him? And why? Apart from his passion for revising Article 64, he’s the most harmless and amiable person in the world.’
‘He certainly won me over … You just used the word passion, doctor. As a neurologist, would you go so far as to call it an obsession?’
‘In the medical sense of the term, certainly not.’
He had become more abrupt, having grasped Maigret’s ulterior motive.
‘What you’re asking me is if I consider my brother to be of sound mind.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘Are you keeping the apartment under guard?’
‘I’ve already sent one of my inspectors.’
‘Has my brother had dealings with any suspicious people lately? Has he got in the way of someone with a lot of money?’
‘He didn’t tell me anything about his business affairs. But I know that, just this afternoon, he had two shipowners in his office, one Greek and one Dutch.’
‘Yes, they come from as far away as Japan … Well, we just have to hope it’s nothing but a hoax. Did you have any other questions you wanted to ask me?’
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