‘Where was that?’
‘Rue Royale.’
‘I’m talking about Tuesday or Wednesday and a local brasserie.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
Maigret was embarrassed at the role he was having to play. He had the impression, without being certain, that the shot had hit home, that it was taking all of Madame Josselin’s self-control not to let her panic show.
It had only lasted a fraction of a second and she hadn’t taken her eyes off him.
‘Someone, for some reason, could have arranged to meet you close to here, on Boulevard de Montparnasse, for example …’
‘No one arranged to meet me.’
‘May I ask you to give me a photograph of you?’
She almost said:
‘What for?’
She refrained, and contented herself with murmuring:
‘I suppose I have to do as you ask.’
It was as if hostilities had just begun. She left the room and went into her bedroom, leaving the door open, and she could be heard rummaging in a drawer which must have been full of papers.
When she returned, she was holding a passport photo that was four or five years old.
‘Presumably this is good enough?’
Maigret slipped it into his wallet, taking his time, and saying as he did so:
‘Your husband used to bet on the horses.’
‘In that case, it was behind my back. Is that against the law?’
‘It isn’t against the law, madame, but if we want to have a chance of finding his killer, we need to know everything. Three days ago, I didn’t know this household. I knew neither of your existence, nor that of your husband. I asked you to cooperate …’
‘I have answered you.’
‘I would have liked you to tell me more.’
Since this was war, he attacked.
‘I didn’t insist on seeing you on the night of the tragedy because Doctor Larue told me you were in a state of utter shock … Yesterday, I came—’
‘I received you.’
‘And what did you tell me?’
‘Everything I could tell you.’
‘That means?’
‘What I knew.’
‘Are you certain you told me everything? Are you certain that your daughter and your son-in-law aren’t hiding anything from me?’
‘Are you accusing us of lying?’
Her lips trembled slightly. She was probably making a remarkable effort to remain upright and dignified in front of Maigret, whose complexion had grown somewhat ruddier. Lapointe meanwhile was embarrassed and didn’t know where to look.
‘Perhaps not of lying but of leaving out certain things … For example, I know for a fact that your husband used to bet on the horses …’
‘How is that useful to you?’
‘If you knew nothing about it, if you had never suspected him of it, this tells me he was capable of keeping things secret from you. And, if he hid that …’
‘Maybe he never thought to tell me about it.’
‘That would be plausible if he had only played once or twice, on impulse, but he was a regular, and gambled several thousand francs a week …’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘You gave me the impression, which you have maintained, that you knew everything about him, and that you, for your part, had no secrets from him …’
‘I don’t understand what that has to do with—’
‘Let us suppose that on Tuesday or Wednesday morning, he met someone in a brasserie on Boulevard de Montparnasse …’
‘Did someone see him there?’
‘There is at least one witness, who is positive.’
‘He may have run into an old friend or a former employee who invited him for a drink …’
‘You told me he didn’t frequent cafés.’
‘I wouldn’t say that on an occasion like that—’
‘He didn’t mention it to you?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t say to you, when he got home:
‘ “By the way, I bumped into so-and-so …” ’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘If he had done so, would you remember?’
‘Probably.’
‘And supposing you yourself had met a man whom you know well enough to sit in a café with for around ten minutes while he drank a whisky …’
Perspiration beaded his forehead and he toyed almost menacingly with his extinguished pipe.
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘Forgive me for disturbing you … I expect I’ll have to come back … In the meantime, please think hard … Someone killed your husband and is still at large … He may kill again.’
She was very pale but still did not bat an eyelid and began to walk towards the door. She merely took her leave with a curt nod, then closed the door behind them.
In the lift, Maigret mopped his brow with his handkerchief. He seemed to be avoiding Lapointe’s gaze, as if he were afraid of seeing an accusation in it, and he stammered:
‘I had to …’
6.
The two men stood on the pavement a few paces from the apartment building, as if unwilling to part. A fine, barely perceptible drizzle was falling and at the bottom end of the street, high-pitched bells had started ringing, to which others responded from another direction, and then another.
A stone’s throw from Montparnasse and its cabarets, this neighbourhood close to the Luxembourg Gardens was not only a quiet, middle-class haven, but it was also home to several convents. Behind the Little Sisters of the Poor there was the Servants of Mary; in neighbouring Rue Vavin was the Sisters of Zion, and, at the other end of Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, the Augustinian Sisters.
Maigret seemed to be listening to the chiming of the bells. He inhaled the air moist with invisible droplets, then sighed and said to Lapointe:
‘Drop in to Rue du Saint-Gothard, would you? It will only take you a few minutes by taxi. On a Saturday, the offices and factory will probably be locked up. If Jouane is like his old boss, there’s a chance that he’ll have come in to finish off some urgent task on his own. If not, you’re bound to find a concierge or watchman. If need be, ask for Jouane’s home telephone number and call him.
‘I’d like you to bring me a framed photograph that I saw in his office. Yesterday, while he was talking to me, I looked at it absently without thinking it might be useful to me. It’s a group photo with René Josselin in the centre, flanked by Jouane and Goulet most likely, with other male and female employees in rows behind them, thirty or so people altogether.
‘Not all the women factory workers are there, only the longest-serving employees or the most senior. I suppose the photo was taken at a birthday celebration or when Josselin retired.’
‘Shall I see you back at the office?’
‘No. Come and meet me at the brasserie on Boulevard de Montparnasse, where I was earlier.’
‘Which one is it?’
‘I think it’s called the Brasserie Franco-Italienne. It’s next to a shop that sells artists’ materials.’
Maigret went off, his shoulders stooped, drawing on his pipe, which he’d just lit and which, for the first time that year, had the taste of autumn.
He felt a lingering embarrassment at his harshness towards Madame Josselin and realized that this wasn’t over but was just the start. Most likely she wasn’t the only person who was hiding something from him or lying to him. And it was his job to uncover the truth.
It was always painful for Maigret to back someone into a corner, and that was because of an incident in his childhood, during his first year at school in his village in the Allier.
That was when he’d told his first ever big lie. The school gave out textbooks that were used, and some of them were badly battered. But some pupils bought brand new textbooks, and he wanted one.
One of the books he’d been given was a catechism with a greenish cover, its pages already yellowing, whi
le other better-off friends had bought new catechisms, in a new edition with an attractive pink binding.
‘I’ve lost my catechism,’ he’d told his father. ‘I told the teacher and he gave me another one.’
But he hadn’t lost it. He’d hidden it in the attic, because he hadn’t dared destroy it.
He had difficulty getting to sleep that night. He felt guilty and was convinced that sooner or later he would be found out. The next day, he experienced no joy in using his new catechism.
He had suffered for three or four days until he went to see the teacher, clutching his book.
‘I’ve found the old one,’ he stammered, red-faced, his throat dry. ‘My father told me to give this one back to you.’
He still remembered the look the teacher gave him, a look that was both penetrating and benevolent. He was certain the man had guessed the whole story and had understood.
‘Are you glad you’ve found it?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
All his life, he had remained grateful to that teacher for not having made him own up to his lie and thus saving him from humiliation.
Madame Josselin was lying too, but she wasn’t a child, she was a woman, a mother, and a widow. He had, as it were, forced her to lie. And others around her were probably lying too, for one reason or another.
He would have liked to help them, save them from the terrible ordeal of fighting the truth. He wanted to believe they were good people; in fact he was convinced that they were. Neither Madame Josselin, nor Véronique, nor Fabre had killed.
But all the same, each of them was hiding something that would most likely have enabled him to lay hands on the murderer.
He glanced at the buildings opposite, thinking that it might be necessary to question all the residents of the street, all those who might have witnessed a useful little detail from their window.
Josselin had met a man, either the day before or on the day of his death, the waiter wasn’t entirely sure. Maigret would find out whether it was indeed Madame Josselin who had met that same man in the afternoon, in the quiet ambiance of a brasserie.
He arrived there a little later and the atmosphere had changed somewhat. People were drinking aperitifs and a row of tables had already been set with tablecloths and cutlery for lunch.
Maigret went and sat in the same place as earlier that morning. The waiter who’d served him approached him as if he were already a regular customer, and Maigret took the passport photo out of his pocket.
‘Do you think this is the woman?’
The waiter put on his glasses and studied the little cardboard square.
‘She’s not wearing a hat here, but I’m almost certain it’s the same woman.’
‘Almost?’
‘I am certain. Only, if I have to give evidence in court one day, with the judges and the lawyers asking me lots of questions …’
‘I don’t think you will have to testify.’
‘It’s definitely her, unless it’s someone who looks very much like her … She was wearing a dark woollen dress, not quite black, with sort of little grey hairs in the wool, and a hat with white trimming.’
The description of the dress matched the one Madame Josselin had been wearing that morning.
‘What would you like to drink?’
‘A brandy with water … Where’s the telephone?’
‘At the back on the left, opposite the toilet … Ask the cashier for a token.’
Maigret shut himself in the booth and looked for Doctor Larue’s number. He wasn’t too sure of finding him at home. He had no specific reason for calling the doctor.
He was doing the groundwork, as with the photo from Rue du Saint-Gothard. He was trying to rule out various hypotheses, even the most far-fetched.
A man’s voice answered.
‘Is that you, doctor? Maigret here.’
‘I’ve just got home, and it just so happens I was thinking of you.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking about your investigation, about your profession … You’re lucky to find me at home at this hour … On Saturdays I finish my round earlier than on other days because many of my patients are away.’
‘Would you mind coming and having a drink with me at the Brasserie Franco-Italienne?’
‘I know it … I’ll be there right away … Do you have any news?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
Larue, short, plump, balding, did not match the waiter’s description of Josselin’s companion. Neither did Jouane, whose hair was redder and who did not look like a whisky drinker.
Even so, Maigret was determined to leave no stone unturned. A few minutes later, the doctor got out of his car and joined him, then, addressing the waiter, said, as if on familiar territory:
‘How are you, Émile? How are those scars?’
‘They’ve almost disappeared. A port, doctor?’
They knew one another. Larue explained that he’d treated Émile a few months earlier, when the waiter had scalded himself with the percolator.
‘Another time, a good ten years ago, he sliced himself with a cleaver … And how’s your investigation going, inspector?’
‘I’m not getting much help,’ replied Maigret bitterly.
‘Are you talking about the family?’
‘About Madame Josselin, in particular. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about her. I already asked you a few the other evening. There are a number of things bothering me. If I understand correctly, you and your wife were pretty much the Josselins’ only close friends …’
‘That’s not entirely correct … As I told you, I’ve been the Josselins’ physician for a long time and I knew Véronique when she was a baby … But in those days, they only called me out very occasionally.’
‘When did you become a family friend?’
‘Much later. Once, a few years ago, we were invited to dinner along with some other people, the Anselmes. I still remember them, they’re famous chocolate-makers … You must have heard of Anselme chocolates … They also make sugared almonds for baptisms …’
‘Did they seem close to the Josselins?’
‘They were on fairly friendly terms … They’re a slightly older couple … Josselin supplied Anselme with boxes for the chocolates and sugared almonds.’
‘Are they in Paris at present?’
‘I’d be very surprised. Old Anselme retired four or five years ago and bought a house in Monaco … They live there all year round.’
‘I’d like you to try very hard to remember. Who else have you met at the Josselins?’
‘More recently, I have spent the evening at Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs with the Mornets, who have two daughters and are on a cruise to Bermuda at the moment … They’re paper merchants … In short, the Josselins only socialized with a few important customers and suppliers.’
‘You don’t recall a man in his forties?’
‘I can’t think … no …’
‘You know Madame Josselin well … What do you know about her?’
‘She’s a woman of a very nervous disposition. I confess I treat her with sedatives, even though she possesses tremendous self-control.’
‘Did she love her husband?’
‘I’m certain she did … She didn’t have a very happy adolescence, as far as I gather … Her father, widowed at a young age, was a bitter man, excessively strict.’
‘Did they live near Rue du Saint-Gothard?’
‘A stone’s throw, Rue Dareau … She met Josselin and they got married after being engaged for one year.’
‘What became of the father?’
‘He contracted a particularly painful cancer and committed suicide a few years after becoming ill.’
‘What would you say if you were told that Madame Josselin had a lover?’
‘I wouldn’t believe it. You see, through my profession, I am party to the secrets of many families. The number of women, especially in certain circles – the ones the Josselins move i
n – the number of women, I was saying, who are unfaithful to their husbands is much lower than literature and the theatre would have us believe.
‘I’m not claiming that it is always out of virtue. Perhaps lack of opportunity, fear of gossip are factors.’
‘She often goes out alone in the afternoons …’
‘Like my wife, like most wives … That doesn’t mean that they’re going to meet a man in a hotel or a so-called bachelor pad … No, inspector … If you are seriously asking me the question, my answer is a categorical no … You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘What about Véronique?’
‘I’m tempted to reply the same thing, but I’d rather refrain … It’s unlikely … It’s not entirely impossible … She may have had a few dalliances before getting married … She studied at the Sorbonne … She met her husband in the Latin Quarter and she must have met other men before him … Might she be a little disappointed by the life he has to lead? … I wouldn’t swear it … She thought she was marrying a man and she’s married a doctor … Do you understand?’
‘Yes …’
That didn’t get Maigret any further, didn’t lead anywhere. He was floundering, and he drank his brandy glumly.
‘Someone killed René Josselin …’ he sighed.
So far, that was the only certainty. And also, that a mystery man had met the cardboard manufacturer in secret, in this same brasserie, and later had met Madame Josselin here.
In other words, the husband and the wife were hiding something from one another. Something connected with one and the same person.
‘I don’t see who it can be … I’m sorry I can’t be of any more assistance … Now it’s time for me to go back to my wife and children.’
Besides, Lapointe had arrived, a flat package under his arm, and was looking around for Maigret.
‘Was Jouane in his office?’
‘No. He wasn’t at home either. They’re spending the weekend at a sister-in-law’s in the country. I promised the watchman I’d bring the photo back today and he didn’t object too much.’
Maigret called the waiter and unwrapped the frame.
‘Do you recognize anyone?’
The waiter put his glasses on again and scanned the rows of faces.
Maigret and the Good People of Montparnasse Page 9