‘Because the wine merchant was sleeping with his wife?’
‘Caucasson caught them in flagrante. Although he was having an affair with Jeanne Chabut at the same time. That’s only one case. I think once we have the correspondence in our hands, we’ll find others …’
‘Where are these letters?’
‘In all likelihood, in a safe that is behind the portrait of our man, in the large drawing room.’
‘Has his wife read them?’
‘She says she didn’t think of the safe. She found the key by chance, in one of the pockets of the clothes Chabut was wearing on Wednesday.’
‘Did you talk to her about them?’
‘Yes. And I’m convinced she’ll start reading them this evening. The funeral is tomorrow. There’ll be a public absolution in the church of Saint-Paul, then only three cars will drive the family and close friends to Ivry Cemetery.’
‘Are you going?’
‘No.’
What would be the point? The wine merchant’s murderer was not the sort of person who would draw attention to himself through his behaviour at the funeral.
‘You seem a lot better, chief. You’re not blowing your nose so often.’
‘Don’t speak too soon. We’ll see how I am tomorrow morning.’
It was half past five.
‘It’s not worth my waiting till six o’clock. I’d be better off at home.’
‘Goodnight, chief.’
‘Goodnight, boys.’
And Maigret left the inspectors’ office, pipe between his teeth, his shoulders hunched and his legs a little weak.
He slept heavily and if he did dream he wouldn’t remember in the morning. The wind must have changed direction during the night because the weather was completely different, much less cold, with driving rain streaking the windows.
‘Are you going to take your temperature?’
‘No. I’m not feverish.’
He felt better. He drank his two cups of coffee, savouring them, and once again Madame Maigret telephoned for a taxi.
‘Don’t forget your umbrella.’
In his office, he glanced routinely at the pile of correspondence waiting for him. It was an old habit. By looking at the envelopes, he could see whether he recognized the writing of a friend or someone from whom he was expecting a message.
On one of the envelopes, the address was written in block capitals. In the top left-hand corner, the word Private was underlined three times.
DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR MAIGRET
HEAD OF THE CRIME SQUAD
38, QUAI DES ORFÈVRES
He opened this letter first. It contained two sheets of paper, with the letterhead cut off one of them, probably that of a brasserie or a café. The handwriting was regular, and so was the spacing, and it was obvious that the author was meticulous and attentive to detail.
I hope that this letter will not be caught up in the wheels of police bureaucracy and that you will read it in person.
I am the person who telephoned you twice, but I hung up straight away for fear you would trace the number I was calling from. That is supposedly impossible with automatic dialling, but I prefer not to trust it.
I am surprised by the silence of the newspapers concerning Oscar Chabut’s personality. Is there no one, among the people they have contacted, who will speak the truth?
Instead, they talk about him as an important figure, bold and tenacious, who built up one of the biggest wine businesses through sheer hard work.
It’s an outrage! That man was a scoundrel, as I’ve told you and I repeat. He had no scruples in sacrificing anyone and everyone to his ambition and his delusions of grandeur. I actually wonder whether he wasn’t mad in a way.
It is hard to believe that a man of sound mind could behave as he did. With women, he was driven by the need to sully them. He wanted to possess them all so as to demean them and feel superior to them. Furthermore, he boasted of his successes with no consideration for their reputations.
What about the husbands? Is it possible that they were oblivious? I think not. He dominated them too with his contempt, forcing them in a way to keep quiet.
He needed to humiliate everyone around him in order to feel strong and powerful. Do you understand?
Sometimes I speak of him in the present tense as if he were still alive, whereas he has finally received his just desserts. No one will weep over him, not even his family, not even his father who has long since fallen out with him.
The newspapers make no mention of all that and, if one day you arrest the man who shot him and put an end to his vile doings, it is that man who will be universally condemned.
I wanted to contact you. I saw you go into the apartment building in Place des Vosges with another man who must be one of your inspectors. I also saw you at Quai de Charenton, where things are not as simple as they appear. Everything connected with that man is contaminated in some way.
You’re looking for the murderer? That is your job and I don’t hold it against you. But, if there were any justice in this world, he should be congratulated.
I repeat: Oscar Chabut was a filthy scoundrel and a deeply perverted creature.
Yours faithfully, and I apologize for not signing my name.
However, there were vague initials at the bottom of the letter.
Maigret reread it slowly, sentence by sentence. In the course of his career, he had received hundreds of anonymous letters and he was able to recognize the ones that were of genuine interest.
Despite the pomposity and probable exaggeration, this one did not contain only gratuitous accusations, and the portrait it painted of the wine merchant was not so far removed from the man himself.
Was it the murderer writing? Was it one of Oscar Chabut’s many victims? If so, was it someone whose wife he had taken only to drop her afterwards, as was his habit, or a man who had suffered from his unscrupulous business tactics?
Maigret couldn’t help seeing the man with a limp who had been waiting for him opposite the entrance to the Police Judiciaire and then made off in the direction of Place Dauphine. His appearance was shabby. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes, but without being a tramp. In Paris there were thousands of people who didn’t fit into any category. Some were on an inevitable downward slide, and ended up sleeping rough on the banks of the Seine, unless they committed suicide.
Others clung on, gritted their teeth, and sometimes managed to clamber back up again, especially if someone extended a helping hand.
In his heart, Maigret would have liked to assist that man. He probably wasn’t mad, despite his hatred for Chabut, which had become his mission in life.
Was he the man who had killed the wine merchant? It was possible. It was easy to imagine him lurking in the shadows, fingers curled around the ice-cold grip of a pistol.
He fired as he had promised himself he would, once, twice, three times, four times, then limped off in the direction of the Métro.
Where did he sleep? Where had he gone after that? Had he been content to reach the Grands Boulevards or another well-lit neighbourhood and gone into a café to warm himself and celebrate his accomplishment on his own?
Chabut’s murder was not improvised. The perpetrator had thought about it for a long time, hesitating, dwelling on his grievances, before making up his mind to act.
But now, his enemy was dead. Was it not a little as if the murderer had suddenly lost his sense of purpose? People spoke of the victim as a brilliant man, an outstanding businessman. No one mentioned the man who had killed him or his reasons for doing so.
So he telephoned Maigret, then he wrote. He would write again, until he unwittingly said too much and gave himself away.
Maigret made his way towards the commissioner’s office, because the bell had just announced the briefing.
‘No news on the Rue Fortuny case?’
‘Nothing specific. All the same, I’m beginning to feel hopeful.’
‘Do you think there’ll be a scandal
?’
Maigret frowned. He hadn’t talked to his chief about Chabut’s personality, and the newspapers hadn’t mentioned anything either. So why was he talking about a scandal at this stage?
Because the head of the Police Judiciaire had been acquainted with the wine merchant? Or because he moved in the circles where Chabut was well known? In that case, he would be aware that a great number of people had good reason to bear Chabut a strong enough grudge to want to kill him.
‘I don’t have any names in mind yet,’ he said, evasively.
‘All the same, you were right not to say too much to the press.’
Later, he sifted through the rest of his post and had a typist come up so he could dictate some replies. His body still ached and he felt weak, but he no longer had to walk around clutching a handkerchief.
Lapointe came in just before midday.
‘I hope you won’t be annoyed with me. I could almost say I went in a private capacity. I was curious to see the funeral. There were no more than around twenty people in total, and only Monsieur Louceck represented the employees.’
‘Did you recognize anyone else?’
‘As I came out of the church, I had the impression that a man on the opposite side of the street was looking at me. I tried to catch up with him, but by the time I’d threaded my way through the heavy traffic he’d vanished.’
‘Here! Read this.’
Maigret held out the anonymous letter, which made Lapointe smile more than once.
‘That’s like him, isn’t it?’
‘Note that he saw me at Place des Vosges, Quai de Charenton, and probably going into the Police Judiciaire too. This morning he must have been expecting me to attend the funeral.’
‘He must have seen me with you and recognized me.’
‘I want us to have a man at Place des Vosges this afternoon. He is not to take any notice of me. I will probably pay a visit to Madame Chabut. What he needs to be on the lookout for is someone prowling around in the vicinity of the building. As far as we can judge, this man is very good at disappearing into thin air.’
‘Do you want me to go there?’
‘As you wish, but ideally yes, since you already know what he looks like.’
Maigret went home for lunch, ate heartily and spent only fifteen minutes dozing in his armchair. Back at the office, he called Place des Vosges and asked to speak to Jeanne Chabut. He was left holding on for quite a while.
‘I apologize for disturbing you so soon after the funeral. I confess I’m eager to see this correspondence, which might give us some valuable clues.’
‘Do you wish to come this afternoon?’
‘Preferably.’
‘I have a visit which I can’t put off, at around five. If you could come right away—’
‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
Lapointe was already keeping watch near the apartment building. Maigret was driven there by Torrence, whom he then sent back to the Police Judiciaire. The black drapes with silver teardrops had been taken down from the entrance and, in the apartment, there was no trace of the chapel of rest. Only the smell of chrysanthemums lingered in the air.
She was wearing the same black dress as the previous day, but she’d added a brooch with coloured stones that made her look less severe. She was very alert, very self-controlled.
‘We can go into my little sitting room, if you prefer. The large drawing room is much too empty for two people.’
‘Have you opened the safe?’
‘I won’t deny it.’
‘How did you find out the combination? I assume you didn’t know it.’
‘No, of course not. It immediately occurred to me that my husband must always have carried it on his person. I looked in his wallet. When I opened his driving licence, I saw a series of numbers and I tried them on the safe.’
On the Louis XV table there was a fat bundle of letters, clumsily tied together with string.
‘I haven’t read them all, I hasten to say. The night would probably not have been long enough. I was astonished to see all the papers he kept. I even found old love letters that I’d written before we were married.’
‘I think it’s best to start with the most recent correspondence, which might explain the murder.’
‘Do sit down.’
He was surprised to see her put on a pair of glasses, which seemed to give her a different personality. Now he understood her wish to take things in hand. She was a very cool-headed woman, who must have a fierce will and was not one to give up easily on a task she had set herself.
‘A lot of notes … Look! … Here’s one signed Rita … I don’t know which Rita that is …
‘“I’ll be free at 3 o’clock tomorrow. The usual place? Kisses. Rita.”
‘As you can see, she’s not very romantic and her writing paper is cheap and nasty, and it’s perfumed.’
‘Is there no date?’
‘No, but this note was among the letters of the past few months.’
‘You didn’t find anything from Jean-Luc Caucasson?’
‘Do you know about that? Did he come and see you?’
‘He’s very concerned about the fate of the letters.’
It was still raining and the water formed rivulets that zigzagged down the panes of the high windows. The apartment was peaceful and quiet. They sat in front of hundreds of letters and notes that summed up the entire life of a man.
‘Here’s one. Do you want to read it for yourself?’
‘Yes, preferably.’
‘You may smoke your pipe, you know. I don’t mind in the slightest.’
My dear Oscar,
I hesitated for a long time before writing this letter, but, when I thought of our longstanding friendship, my reluctance was dispelled. You are a brilliant businessman, whereas I don’t know much about figures, which is why I find it very disagreeable to raise the subject of money.
The profession of art publisher it not like any other. You are always on the lookout for the book that will be a huge success. Sometimes, you have to wait for a long time and, when it does come into your hands, you find you don’t have the means to publish it.
This is what has happened to me. At a time when business was stagnant and I hadn’t published anything for over a year, I received a unique work on certain aspects of Asian art. I know that it is an important book and that it will achieve a well-deserved success. It is even highly likely that I will be able to sell the rights to the United States and to other countries, generating income, a small proportion of which would cover the costs.
But, in order to publish, I would need around two hundred thousand francs right away, and I don’t have even a centime. As for Meg, who has her own little kitty, her entire savings amount to no more than ten thousand francs or so.
Can you advance me the money? I know that for you, this amount is small change. This is the first time that I have asked for money, and I find it deeply embarrassing.
I discussed it with Meg before making up my mind to write and she said that our friendship meant too much for you to refuse this favour.
Telephone me or send me a note to arrange a meeting at your home or at one of your offices. I’ll sign any documents you wish.
‘Nauseating, isn’t it?’
Maigret was lighting his pipe and she had just lit a cigarette.
‘You noted the allusion to Meg. The second letter is shorter.’
They were both handwritten, the letters small, clear and nervous.
My dear friend,
I am surprised not to have received a reply to my letter yet. It took a lot of courage for me to write to you. That I spoke to you so frankly is proof of the trust I placed in you.
Since then, the situation has deteriorated somewhat. I have some rather large payments that will fall due shortly, which might force me to close down.
Meg, who is aware of the situation, is worried sick and insisted I write to you.
I hope that you will prove to me that fri
endship isn’t a hollow word.
I am counting on you as you can count on me.
Sincerely.
‘I don’t know whether, like me, you can sense a veiled threat behind those words.’
‘Yes,’ grunted Maigret. ‘It’s quite obvious.’
‘Now read Meg’s letters.’
He picked one up at random.
My darling,
It seems ages since I last saw you and yet it was only Monday of last week. It was so good lying in your arms, clasped to your chest where I feel so safe!
I sent you a note two days ago to arrange to meet you. I went to our usual place, but you didn’t come, and Madame Blanche told me you hadn’t telephoned.
I’m worried. I know you are very busy, that you have important matters to attend to, and I also know that I am not the only woman in your life. I am not jealous as long as you don’t drop me altogether, because I need you to hug me so tight it hurts, as I need to breathe in your smell.
Let me have news of you very soon. I don’t expect a long letter, but a day and time when we can meet.
Jean-Luc is very preoccupied these days. He has some book or other in mind which will be, he claims, the biggest thing he’s ever done. How insipid and spineless he is compared with a man like you!
I kiss you all over.
Your Meg
‘There are a lot in the same vein, some of them overtly erotic.’
‘When was the last one sent?’
‘Before the holidays.’
‘Where did you spend them?’
‘At our apartment in Cannes. Oscar must have flown to Paris for two or three brief trips. We met up with some of our Paris friends there, but not the Caucassons. I seem to remember they have a little house somewhere in Brittany, in a village that’s popular with painters.’
‘Did you come across any other begging letters?’
‘I haven’t read all of them by any means. There’s a note from Estelle Japy, an enterprising widow he had an affair with for a while.’
Dear friend,
I am sending you this bill that I will have a struggle to pay. I look forward to seeing you.
Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 8