Who was the lady in mourning? Was it Jeanne Chabut’s mother? It was possible, probable even. As for the young couple, they looked ill-at-ease and, after making the sign of the cross, the man led his companion out of the room.
Maigret followed the rites and made the sign of a cross in the air with the sprig of boxwood dipped in holy water. Lapointe did likewise with almost comic earnestness.
Even dead, Oscar Chabut was intimidating, because he had a powerful face, with rough-hewn features that were not without a certain allure.
As the two men were leaving, Madame Chabut appeared in the passageway.
‘Have you come to see me?’
‘No. We came to pay our respects to your husband.’
‘He could almost be alive, couldn’t he? They’ve done a good job. You have seen him as he was in life, only sadly without his gaze.’
She automatically showed them to the front door at the other end of the entrance hall.
‘I’d like to ask you a question, madame,’ murmured Maigret all of a sudden.
She looked at him quizzically.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Do you really wish us to find your husband’s murderer?’
She was caught off guard and was stupefied for a moment.
‘Why would I want that man to remain at large?’
‘I don’t know. If we find him, there’ll be a trial, a major trial, which will receive extensive press, radio and television coverage. There will also be a vast procession of witnesses. Your husband’s employees will have to testify. Some of them are highly likely to tell the truth. Perhaps women friends of your husband as well.’
‘I understand what you mean,’ she murmured pensively, seeming to weigh up the pros and cons.
‘It is evident,’ she added a little later, ‘that it will cause a huge scandal.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘To be honest, I’m not bothered. I am not vengeful. The man who killed him must certainly have believed he had good reason to do so. Perhaps very good reason. What use will it be to society to put him in prison for ten years or the rest of his days?’
‘Supposing you had some indication about his personality, I presume then that you would keep it to yourself?’
‘Since that is not the case, I haven’t thought about it yet. It would be my duty to talk, wouldn’t it? In that case, I think I’d talk, but reluctantly.’
‘Who is going to take over the running of your husband’s business? Louceck?’
‘That man scares me. He’s like a reptile and I hate him looking at me.’
‘But your husband appeared to have trusted him?’
‘Louceck helped him make a lot of money. He’s a wily man, who knows the law inside out and how to use it. At first, he only dealt with my husband’s tax affairs, then, gradually, he climbed up to being second-in-command.’
‘Whose idea was Vin des Moines?’
‘My husband’s. At that time the entire operation was at Quai de Charenton. It was Louceck who advised him to set up an office in Avenue de l’Opéra and to have more warehouses in the provinces so as to increase the number of sales outlets.’
‘Did your husband consider him an honest man?’
‘He needed him. And he was capable of looking after himself.’
‘You haven’t answered my question. Is he going to run the business?’
‘He’ll probably stay in post, for the time being at least, but he won’t go higher.’
‘Who will have the power?’
‘Me.’
She said that simply, as if it were obvious.
‘I’ve always had the makings of a businesswoman and my husband often asked my advice.’
‘Will you have your office at Avenue de l’Opéra?’
‘Yes, except I won’t share it with Louceck, as Oscar did. It’s not as though there isn’t enough space.’
‘And you’ll visit the warehouses, cellars and offices at Quai de Charenton?’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re not planning any changes among the staff?’
‘Why would I make any changes? Because nearly all the girls slept with my husband? In that case, I shouldn’t see any of my women friends either, apart from the ones who are ancient.’
A young woman came in, slim and lively, and threw herself into the embrace of the mistress of the house, murmuring:
‘My poor darling …’
‘Excuse me, inspector.’
‘Please.’
As he went down the stairs, Maigret mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, muttering:
‘Strange woman.’
A few steps further down, he added:
‘Either I’m very much mistaken or this case is far from over.’
Didn’t Jeanne Chabut at least have the virtue of being candid?
4.
At around five o’clock, there was a discreet knock on the door of Maigret’s office. Without waiting for a reply, old Joseph, the longest-serving clerk, came in waving a form.
Name: Jean-Luc Caucasson.
Reason for visit: The Chabut case.
‘Where have you put him?’
‘In the aquarium.’
That was their nickname for the waiting room, glazed on three sides, where there were always visitors.
‘Let him stew for a few minutes longer, then bring him to me.’
Maigret blew his nose profusely, went and stood in front of the window for a few minutes and ended up drinking a little of the Fine Champagne cognac he always kept in the cupboard.
He still felt woozy and had the unpleasant sensation of being in a world of cotton-wool.
He was beside his desk lighting a pipe when Joseph announced:
‘Monsieur Caucasson.’
The visitor did not appear intimidated by the atmosphere of Quai des Orfèvres. He stepped forwards, his hand outstretched:
‘Is it Detective Chief Inspector Maigret whom I have the honour …?’
But Maigret merely grunted:
‘Please have a seat.’
He walked around his desk and sat down in his chair.
‘You publish art books, I believe?’
‘That is correct. Do you know my shop in Rue Saint-André-des-Arts?’
Maigret said nothing and gazed distractedly at Caucasson. He was a handsome man, tall and slim with well-kempt thick grey hair. His suit and overcoat were grey too, and he wore a smug smile that was probably habitual. He reminded Maigret of a pedigree animal, an Afghan hound, for example.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, especially since the object of my visit is not of much help to you. I was a friend of Oscar Chabut’s—’
‘I know. I also know that on Wednesday, you attended the world première of a film on the Resistance. The screening only began at nine thirty, so you had plenty of time to make your way from Rue Fortuny to the Champs-Élysées.’
‘Do you consider me a suspect?’
‘Until proof to the contrary, everyone connected to Chabut is under suspicion. Do you know Madame Blanche?’
He hesitated for a moment, and quickly made up his mind.
‘Yes. I have had occasion to go to her place.’
‘With whom?’
‘With Jeanne Chabut. She knew that her husband frequented the establishment. She wanted to see for herself.’
‘Are you Madame Chabut’s lover?’
‘I was. I have every reason to believe that she has had others.’
‘When was this?’
‘We haven’t met for around six months.’
‘Did you use to go and see her at Place des Vosges?’
‘Yes. Whenever her husband went on a trip to the South, which was almost every week.’
‘Is that why you have come to see me?’
‘No. I was simply answering your question. What I wanted to ask you was whether you had found the letters.’
Maigret watched him, frowning.
‘What letters?’
&nb
sp; ‘The private letters Oscar received. Not his business correspondence, of course. I presume he kept those letters at Place des Vosges or perhaps Quai de Charenton.’
‘And you would like to take possession of those letters?’
‘Meg … That’s my wife … Meg, I was saying, has a habit of writing long letters in which she puts everything that goes through her head—’
‘Is it her letters you want to retrieve?’
‘She had a fairly long affair with Oscar. I caught them together and he seemed dismayed.’
‘Was he in love?’
‘He’s never been in love in his life. She was one more conquest to add to his tally.’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘In the end, I got used to it.’
‘Has your wife had other affairs?’
‘I have to admit she has.’
‘If I understand correctly, your wife was Chabut’s mistress and you were Madame Chabut’s lover. Is that right?’
In Maigret’s voice and attitude there was a veiled irony which the art publisher did not notice.
‘Did you write letters too?’
‘Three or four.’
‘To Madame Chabut?’
‘No. To Oscar.’
‘To complain about his relationship with Meg?’
‘No.’
He had reached the awkward part and was trying to appear relaxed.
‘You probably aren’t aware of the situation of an art publisher. Customers are few and far between and the production costs are extremely high. A publication takes several years to sell and requires considerable investment.
‘Which explains why we still need sponsors.’
Maigret, more ironic than ever, asked innocently:
‘Was Monsieur Chabut a sponsor?’
‘He was very affluent. He made money in spades. I thought he might be able to help me and—’
‘You wrote to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though he was your wife’s lover?’
‘There’s no connection between the two things.’
‘Had you already caught them out?’
‘I can’t recall the exact dates, but I suppose so.’
Stunned, Maigret tamped down the ash in his pipe with his finger.
‘Were you already Jeanne Chabut’s lover?’
‘I was sure you wouldn’t understand. You always hark back to good old middle-class morality, which doesn’t apply in our circles. For us, these sexual relationships are of no consequence.’
‘I understand perfectly well. In other words, you turned to Oscar Chabut solely because he was wealthy.’
‘That is correct.’
‘You would have just as readily approached a banker or an industrialist whom you didn’t know.’
‘If I found myself in a corner, yes.’
‘But you weren’t in a corner?’
‘I wanted to publish an important work on aspects of Asian art.’
‘Are there things in those letters that you regret writing?’
Caucasson was increasingly uncomfortable, but he managed to maintain a certain dignity.
‘Let us say that they could be misinterpreted.’
‘Shallow people, for example, people who don’t belong to your world and who aren’t very open-minded, might be tempted to blackmail you. Is that it?’
‘More or less.’
‘Were you very persistent?’
‘I wrote three or four letters.’
‘All on the same subject? Within quite a short space of time?’
‘I was in a hurry to get the book underway. One of the top oriental art experts had already given me the text.’
‘Did he pay up?’
Caucasson shook his head.
‘No.’
‘Were you very disappointed?’
‘Yes. I wasn’t expecting him to refuse. I didn’t know him well enough.’
‘He was a hard man, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he was hard and contemptuous.’
‘Did he respond in writing?’
‘He didn’t take the trouble. One evening when he was throwing a cocktail party for thirty or so friends, I followed him in the hope that he’d finally give me an answer …’
‘And did he?’
‘Brutally. He turned around, in the middle of the drawing room, and said in a loud voice, for all to hear:
‘“Let me tell you that I don’t give a damn about Meg and even less about your knocking about with my wife. So stop asking me for money.”’
Caucasson’s face had been pale on arrival, but now it was flushed, and his tapering, manicured hands were trembling slightly.
‘You see I’m being completely open with you. I could have kept quiet and let things take their course.’
‘You mean waited until I found the letters?’
‘We can’t know whose hands they will fall into.’
‘Had you seen him since?’
‘Twice. Meg and I were still invited to Place des Vosges.’
‘And you went,’ muttered Maigret with feigned admiration. ‘I see you practise forgiveness.’
‘What else could I do? He was a brute, but he was also a force of nature. He must have humiliated others, even among our friends. He needed to feel powerful, and he didn’t seek to be liked.’
‘Were you counting on me to give you back those letters?’
‘I’d rather know they’d been destroyed.’
‘Your wife’s and yours, is that right?’
‘Meg’s letters are likely to be a little too passionate, if not erotic, and mine, as I told you, could be misinterpreted.’
‘I’ll see what I can do for you.’
‘Have you found them?’
Maigret didn’t answer but walked over to the door to signal the end of the conversation.
‘Incidentally, do you own a 6.35 automatic pistol?’
‘I have an automatic in my shop. It’s been in the same drawer for years, but I don’t even know the calibre. I don’t like guns.’
‘Thank you. By the way, did you know that your friend Chabut used to visit Rue Fortuny at around the same time every Wednesday?’
‘Yes, because Jeanne and I would sometimes take advantage of it.’
‘That will be all for today. If I need you, I’ll ask you to come in.’
Caucasson finally left, almost bumping into the door frame, and Maigret watched him make his way to the staircase. He went back inside his office and asked to put a call through to Place des Vosges. It took a while because the line was constantly engaged.
‘Madame Chabut? Inspector Maigret here. I apologize for disturbing you once again, but I have to ask you a couple of questions as a result of a visit I have just received.’
‘Would you kindly make it quick as I am extremely busy. The funeral is actually taking place tomorrow, in the strictest privacy.’
‘Will there be a religious ceremony?’
‘A simple absolution. I am only telling a few close friends and one or two of my husband’s staff.’
‘Monsieur Louceck?’
‘I have no choice.’
‘Monsieur Leprêtre?’
‘Certainly, and even his private secretary, that skinny girl he called the Grasshopper. Three cars will drive us directly to Ivry Cemetery.’
‘Do you know where your husband kept his private correspondence?’
There was a lengthy silence.
‘Believe it or not, I never asked myself the question and I’m trying to think. He received very few letters at home because people generally wrote to him at Quai de Charenton. Are you thinking of any letters in particular?’
‘Letters from men and women friends.’
‘If he kept them, they must be in his personal safe.’
‘Where is this safe?’
‘In the drawing room, behind his portrait.’
‘Do you have the key?’
‘Yesterday your department sent me back the clothes he w
as wearing on Wednesday and his keys were in one of the pockets. I noticed a safe key, but I didn’t think anything of it.’
‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time today, but as soon as the funeral is over—’
‘You may telephone me tomorrow afternoon.’
‘In the meantime, I would ask you not to destroy anything, not the tiniest scrap of paper.’
Would she not now have the curiosity to open the safe and read the famous letters?
Then he telephoned the Grasshopper.
‘How are things going over there?’
‘Why wouldn’t they be going well?’
‘I have just learned that you have been invited to the funeral.’
‘It’s true. By telephone. I wasn’t expecting it. I rather had the impression she didn’t like me.’
‘Tell me, is there a safe in the Quai de Charenton building?’
‘On the ground floor, yes, in the book-keeper’s office.’
‘Who has the key?’
‘The book-keeper, of course, and Oscar too, most likely.’
‘Do you know whether he kept his personal papers, letters, for example, in that safe?’
‘I don’t think so. When he received private letters, he either tore them into tiny pieces or stuffed them in his pockets.’
‘Would you ask the book-keeper anyway and tell me the answer? I’ll stay on the line.’
He took advantage to relight his pipe, which had gone out. Footsteps could be heard, a door opening and closing, and then, after a few minutes, the door and footsteps once more.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was right. The safe only contains business documents and a certain amount of cash. The book-keeper doesn’t even know whether the boss had a key. Apparently it’s Monsieur Leprêtre who has one.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Will you be at the funeral too?’
‘I don’t think so. Besides, I’m not invited.’
‘Everyone has the right to go into a church.’
He hung up, his head still heavy, but his mood was less gloomy than earlier that day. In the end he went into the inspectors’ office where Lapointe was busy typing his report. He used only two fingers, but he was as fast as most typists.
‘I’ve just had a visit,’ muttered Maigret. ‘From the art publisher.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To retrieve some letters. It’s inexcusable of me not to have thought of the letters Oscar Chabut received. Some of them are bound to be very revealing. That’s the case with Caucasson’s begging letters …’
Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 7