‘The war broke out … Philippe was expelled from one last school and my husband and I were increasingly concerned about him, although we said nothing to one another.
‘I think that René too had regrets … Maybe if I’d stayed at Rue Dareau …’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Maigret, solemnly. ‘You can be certain that your marriage made no difference to the course things took.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘During my career I’ve seen dozens like your brother, who didn’t have the same excuses as he did.’
She desperately wanted to believe him, but couldn’t quite bring herself to do so yet.
‘What happened during the war?’
‘Philippe was determined to enlist … He had just turned eighteen and he was so insistent that we eventually gave in.
‘In May 1940, he was taken prisoner in the Ardennes and we had no news from him for a very long time.
‘He spent the entire war in Germany, first of all in a camp, then on a farm in the Munich area.
‘We hoped he’d come back a different man …’
‘But he hadn’t changed?’
‘Physically, he was definitely a man, and I barely recognized him. The outdoor life had done him good and he had become robust, vigorous. From the first tales he told we realized that, deep down, he was still the boy who kept running away and who told himself stories.
‘To listen to him, he’d had the most extraordinary adventures. He’d escaped three or four times, in incredible circumstances.
‘He’d lived as man and wife with the farm woman for whom he worked, which is plausible, and he claimed she’d had two children by him … She had another by her husband.
‘This husband, according to Philippe, had been killed at the Russian front … My brother talked of going back there, marrying the farm woman and staying in Germany …
‘Then, a month later, he had other plans … He was tempted to go to America and he said he’d met some secret service agents who would be only too happy to welcome him.’
‘Did he work?’
‘My husband found him a job at Rue du Saint-Gothard, as promised.’
‘Did he live with you?’
‘He only stayed with us for three weeks before moving in with a waitress near Saint-Germain-des-Prés … Again, he talked of getting married. Each time he had a new affair, he made wedding plans.
‘ “She’s expecting a baby, you see, and if I didn’t marry her, I’d be a bastard.”
‘I’ve given up counting the number of children he claims to have had all over the place.’
‘Was he lying?’
‘My husband tried to find out. He never managed to obtain convincing proof. Each time, it was a means of getting money out of him.’
‘And I soon discovered my brother was hedging his bets. He came and confided in me, and begged me to help him. He always needed a certain amount of money to get himself out of a mess, after which everything would be fine.’
‘Did you give him what he asked for?’
‘I nearly always gave in. He knew I didn’t have much money. My husband refused me nothing. He gave me what I needed for the housekeeping and never asked me to account for my spending. But I couldn’t misappropriate large sums without talking to him about it.
‘So Philippe would cunningly go and speak to René in secret … He would tell him the same story, or another, and urge him not to discuss it with me.’
‘On what terms did your brother leave Rue du Saint-Gothard?’
‘We discovered that he had been behaving dishonestly … It was all the more serious since he had gone to see important customers and asked them for money on behalf of my husband.’
‘And your husband finally got angry with him?’
‘He had a long talk with him. Instead of giving Philippe a sum of money to be rid of him, he arranged for him to receive a monthly allowance that was sufficient for him to live on … I imagine you can guess the rest?’
‘He came back asking for more.’
‘And, each time, we forgave him. Each time, he gave the impression that he was really going to start a new life … We opened our door to him again … Then he disappeared after committing a new offence.
‘He lived in Bordeaux … He swore he’d got married there, that there was a child, a daughter, but, if it was true, we never saw any evidence other than the photo of a woman who could be anyone. As I was saying, even if it was true, he soon abandoned his wife and daughter to go and live in Brussels.
‘There, again according to him, he was in danger of being thrown into prison, and my husband sent him some money.
‘I don’t know whether you understand … It’s difficult, without knowing him … He always sounded sincere and I think in a way he was … He’s not a bad person …’
‘But even so, he killed your husband.’
‘Until I have proof and he admits it, I refuse to believe it … And I’ll always have a slight doubt … I’ll always wonder whether it’s not my fault …’
‘How long was it since he’d been to Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs?’
‘You mean our apartment?’
‘I don’t understand the difference.’
‘Because he hasn’t set foot in our home for at least seven years … It was after Brussels and before Marseille, when Véronique wasn’t yet married … Until then he had always dressed smartly – he was very elegant, well groomed – he came back looking almost like a tramp and it was obvious that he’d gone hungry …
‘He’d never been so humble, so repentant. We let him stay with us for a few days and, since he claimed to have a job waiting for him in Gabon, once again my husband helped him get back on his feet.
‘We heard nothing from him for nearly two years … Then, one morning when I was on my way out to the shops, I found him waiting for me outside, on the corner of the street.
‘I won’t tell you his latest story … I gave him a little money.
‘The same thing has happened several times in the past few years … He swore he hadn’t contacted René, that he’d never ask him for anything ever again.’
‘And the same day he arranged to see him?’
‘Yes. As I told you, he continued to hedge his bets. I’ve had evidence since yesterday.’
‘How?’
‘I had a feeling … I knew you would probably find out about Philippe’s existence and that you would ask me detailed questions.’
‘You hoped that it would be as late as possible to give him time to get out of the country?’
‘Wouldn’t you have done the same thing? … Do you not think that your wife, for instance, would have done the same?’
‘He killed your husband.’
‘Supposing that is proven, he’s still my brother, and putting him in prison for the rest of his life won’t bring René back … I know Philippe … But if one day I have to tell a jury what I’ve just told you, they won’t believe me … He’s a poor soul, not a criminal.’
What was the point of arguing with her? And it was true, in a way, that Philippe de Lancieux was an unlucky man.
‘I was telling you that I was going through my husband’s papers, in particular his cheque stubs, of which there are two drawerfuls, carefully filed, because he was meticulous. And that was how I found out that each time Philippe had come to see me, he also went to see my husband, at Rue du Saint-Gothard initially, and then, later, I don’t know where … He probably waited for him in the street, as he did me.’
‘Your husband never mentioned it to you?’
‘He didn’t want to upset me. And meanwhile I … If we’d been more open with one another, perhaps nothing would have happened … I’ve thought about it a lot … On Wednesday, just before midday, before René got back, I received a telephone call and I immediately recognized Philippe’s voice.’
Had he been calling from the Brasserie Franco-Italienne, where he’d just met Josselin? It was likely. That could be verified. The woman at the t
ill might remember giving him a token.
‘He told me he absolutely had to see me, that it was a matter of life and death and that afterwards we would never hear from him again … He told me to meet him at the café, as you know. I went there on my way to the hairdresser’s.’
‘One moment. Did you tell your brother that you were going to the hairdresser’s?’
‘Yes … I wanted to explain to him why I was in such a hurry.’
‘And did you mention the theatre?’
‘Wait … I’m almost certain … I must have said:
‘ “I have to get my hair done because I’m going to the theatre with Véronique this evening.”
‘He seemed even more on edge than on the other occasions … He told me he’d done something very stupid, without saying what, but he implied that he could be arrested … He needed a large sum of money to get to South America … I had in my bag all the money I’d been able to get hold of and I gave it to him.
‘I don’t understand why he would have come to our apartment that evening to kill my husband …’
‘Did he know the revolver was in the drawer?’
‘It’s been there for at least fifteen years, probably longer, and, at that time, Philippe sometimes stayed with us, as I told you.’
‘He also knew, of course, where the key was kept in the kitchen.’
‘He didn’t take any money … Even though there was some in my husband’s wallet, he didn’t touch it. There was also money in the writing desk and jewellery in my bedroom.’
‘Did your husband write out a cheque to Philippe on the day he died?’
‘No.’
There was a silence during which they looked at one another.
‘I think,’ sighed Maigret, ‘that that’s the explanation.’
‘You think my husband said no?’
‘It’s likely …’
Or perhaps he merely gave his brother-in-law a few banknotes that he had in his pocket?
‘Did your husband have his cheque book on him?’
If he hadn’t, he could have arranged to meet Philippe in the evening.
‘He always kept it in his pocket.’
In that case, it was Lancieux who, having failed in the morning, had come back to try again. Had he already decided to kill? Did he hope that once his sister was in charge of the fortune, he would get more out of her?
Maigret did not try to go that far. He had shed as much light on the characters involved as was possible, and the rest would be up to the courts, one day.
‘You don’t know how long he had been in Paris?’
‘I swear I don’t have the slightest idea. My only hope, I confess, is that he managed to get out of the country and that we will hear no more of him.’
‘What if he were to ask you for money again one day? … If you received a telegram, for example from Brussels, Switzerland or elsewhere, asking you to send him a money order?’
‘I don’t think …’
She didn’t finish her sentence. For the first time, she avoided Maigret’s gaze and stammered:
‘You don’t believe that either.’
This time there was a long silence and Maigret fiddled with one of his pipes and decided to fill it and light it, which he had refrained from doing during the interview.
There was nothing left to say, and they felt it. Madame Josselin opened her bag again to put away her handkerchief and snapped it shut. That was like a signal. After hesitating one last time, she rose to her feet, holding herself less stiffly than when she had arrived.
‘You no longer need me?’
‘Not for the time being.’
‘I presume you’re going to have the police look for him?’
He merely lowered his eyelids. Then, walking over to the door, he said:
‘I don’t even have a photograph of him.’
‘I know you won’t believe me, but I don’t have one either, other than photos from before the war, when he was just a youth.’
Maigret half-opened the door. They stood there a little awkwardly as if they didn’t know how to part company.
‘Are you going to question my daughter?’
‘That will no longer be necessary.’
‘She’s perhaps the one who has suffered the most these last few days … My son-in-law too, I imagine … They didn’t have the same reasons to keep quiet … They did it for me.’
‘I don’t hold it against them.’
He extended a hesitant hand and she placed her hand in it, having put her glove back on.
‘I won’t say good luck,’ she stammered.
And, without turning around, she made her way to the waiting room, where an anxious Véronique jumped to her feet.
8.
Winter was over. Ten times, twenty times, the lights stayed on late into the evening, and even into the night, which meant each time that a man or a woman was sitting in the chair that Madame Josselin had occupied, facing Maigret’s desk.
A description of Philippe de Lancieux had been circulated to every police station and they were looking for him in the railway stations and at the border posts and the airports. Interpol had opened a file on him which had been sent to foreign police forces.
It wasn’t until the end of March, however, when the chimney pots took on their pink hue against the pale blue sky and the trees were beginning to blossom, that Maigret, arriving at his office one morning, without an overcoat for the first time that year, heard the name of Madame Josselin’s brother again.
She still lived in the apartment in Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs with a housekeeper, and went every afternoon to see her grandchildren at Boulevard Brune and take them for a walk in the Parc Montsouris.
Philippe de Lancieux had just been found dead, with several stab wounds, at around three o’clock in the morning, near a bar in Avenue des Ternes.
The newspapers wrote: ‘Gangland killing’.
It was more or less true, as always. While Lancieux had never belonged to the crime world, for the past few months he had been living with a prostitute called Angèle.
He continued to make up stories and Angèle was convinced that if he was in hiding at her place, going out only at night, it was because he had escaped from Fontevrault prison, where he had been serving a twenty-year sentence.
Had others realized that he was only a small-time operator? Had they punished him for taking the young woman from her regular protector?
A half-hearted investigation was opened, as is usual in such cases. Maigret had to go to Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs one more time; again, he saw the concierge, whose baby was burbling away in a highchair. He walked up to the third floor and pressed the bell.
Madame Manu still worked in the apartment for a few hours every day, even though Madame Josselin now had a live-in housekeeper, and it was she who opened the door, taking the chain off this time.
‘It’s you!’ she said, frowning, as if he could only be the bearer of bad news.
Was it such bad news?
Nothing had changed in the drawing room, except that a blue scarf lay on René Josselin’s armchair.
‘I’ll inform Madame.’
‘Please.’
Even so, he felt the need to mop his brow as he glanced at himself in the mirror.
1.
Some images, for no reason, and without our realizing it, cling on and remain obstinately lodged in our memories, although we are barely conscious of having registered them and they correspond to nothing of significance. So it was that, years later, Maigret could probably have reconstructed, minute by minute, gesture by gesture, that uneventful late afternoon at Quai des Orfèvres.
In the first place, there was the black marble clock with its bronze fittings, on which his gaze had alighted as it showed 6.18, which meant it was actually just after half past six. In ten other offices in the Police Judiciaire, occupied by the chief himself and the other senior inspectors, identical clocks stood flanked by their candelabra and, since time immemorial, they too had
run slow.
Why did the thought strike him today, and not any other day? For a moment, he wondered how many administrative centres and ministries had long ago been provided with a whole consignment of these clocks, manufactured by a certain F. Ledent, whose signature in fine running script adorned the pale clock face, and his mind wandered to the negotiations, plots and bribes that would have preceded such an important contract.
F. Ledent had been dead for half a century, possibly even a century, to judge by the style of his clocks.
The desk lamp with its green shade was lit, since it was January. Throughout the building, all the lamps too were the same kind.
Lucas, standing up, was putting into a pale yellow folder the documents that Maigret had passed him, one by one.
‘Shall I leave Janvier on duty at the Crillon?’
‘Not for too long. Send someone to take over this evening.’
There had recently been, one after another, as often happened, a series of jewel thefts in the grand hotels on the Champs-Élysées, and in each of them the police had set up discreet surveillance.
Automatically, Maigret pressed his electric bell. The elderly usher, Joseph, with his silver chain of office, appeared at the door at once.
‘No one else for me?’ the inspector asked.
‘Just the madwoman.’
It was of no importance. Some months, she would turn up two or three times a week at Quai des Orfèvres and, without a word, slip into the waiting room, to settle down with her knitting. She never came up to the desk. The first day, Joseph had asked her who she wished to see.
She had smiled at him with an arch, almost mischievous air, and said:
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret will call me when he needs me.’
Joseph had given her a form. She had filled it in with regular convent-educated handwriting. Her name was Clémentine Pholien and she lived in Rue Lamarck.
That time, Maigret had asked Janvier to receive her.
‘Have you been summoned?’
Maigret and the Good People of Montparnasse Page 12