Inside the courtyard, a sign with an arrow: ‘Office’.
Another sign, another arrow: ‘Cashier’s Office’.
And one last notice. ‘Office Hours: 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.’
It was shortly past noon. The drive from Ouistreham had taken only ten minutes. Most of the firm’s employees had already left for lunch by then, but a few were still at their desks, in dark, solemn offices with thick carpets and heavy Louis-Philippe furniture.
‘I will probably ask you later on to spare me a few moments of your time, madame, but for the moment, would you like to retire to your rooms?’
The entire ground floor was given over to offices. The vestibule was spacious, flanked with large cast-iron candelabra. A marble staircase led up to the first floor, where the family lived.
The mayor of Ouistreham was waiting gloomily for Maigret to deal with him.
‘What is it you want from me?’ he asked quietly.
He turned up his collar and jammed his hat down to keep his staff from seeing what Big Louis’ fists had done to him.
‘Nothing in particular. Simply permission to come and go, to get the feel of the house.’
‘Do you need me for anything?’
‘Not at all.’
‘In that case, if I may, I will go and join Madame Grandmaison.’
His respectful reference to his wife was in sharp contrast with that morning’s events in the old woman’s cottage. After watching him vanish upstairs, Maigret went to the far end of the vestibule to make sure the building had only one exit.
Leaving the mansion, he found a local policeman and stationed him near the front gate.
‘Got it? Let everyone leave, except Monsieur Grandmaison. Will you recognize him?’
‘Well, of course! But, what’s he done? A fine man like him … He’s president of the chamber of commerce, you know!’
‘So much the better!’
In the vestibule, an office on the right: ‘Secretary’. Maigret knocked, pushed open the door, smelled a whiff of cigar, but saw no one.
The office on the left: ‘Director’.
Again, the same resolutely solemn atmosphere, the same dark-red carpets, the gilt wallpaper, the elaborate ceiling mouldings.
The impression that within these walls, no one would dare to raise his voice. Dignified gentlemen in morning coats and striped trousers would smoke fat cigars and pontificate.
A solid business indeed! A well-established provincial firm, handed down from father to son for generations.
‘Monsieur Grandmaison? His signature is as good as gold.’
And here was Maigret in his office, which was furnished in the opulent Empire style, more suitable for an important businessman. On the walls, statistical tables, graphs, colour-coded schedules, photographs of ships.
As he was walking around, his hands in his pockets, a door opened, and a rather anxious, white-haired old man popped his head in.
‘What’s the …’
‘Police!’ replied Maigret sharply, as if savouring the explosive effect of his words in that place.
And the old fellow went into a terrified dither.
‘Don’t worry, monsieur. Your employer has asked me to look into a few things. And you are …’
‘The head cashier,’ replied the man hastily.
‘Then you would be the man who’s been with the firm for … for …’
‘Forty-two years. I began here in Monsieur Charles’ time.’
‘Right. And that’s your office, next door? In short, you’re now the one who runs everything, aren’t you? At least that’s what I hear …’
Maigret was sitting pretty. He had seen the house, and one look at this old man was all he needed.
‘It’s only natural, isn’t it! When Monsieur Ernest is not here …’
‘Monsieur Ernest?’
‘Yes, well, Monsieur Grandmaison! I’ve known him since he was a boy, so I still call him Monsieur Ernest.’
Maigret had eased himself into the old man’s office, a place devoid of luxury and apparently not open to outsiders. And here files and documents were piled up in profusion.
On a cluttered table, some sandwiches sitting on their butcher’s paper. On the stove, a small steaming coffee pot.
‘You even eat here, monsieur … Forgive me, I’ve gone and forgotten your name.’
‘Bernardin. But everyone here calls me Old Bernard. As I live alone, there’s no point in me going home for lunch like the others. In fact, is it about that small theft last week that Monsieur Ernest has called you in? … He should have spoken to me, because it’s all sorted out now. A young man who’d taken two thousand francs, and his uncle has paid us back. The young man swore … Well, you know, at that age! … He’d fallen into some bad company.’
‘We’ll see about that presently. But do go on with your lunch … So, you were already Monsieur Charles’ trusted lieutenant before being his son’s.’
‘I was the cashier. Back then there was no chief cashier – and I might even say that the position was created just for me!’
‘Monsieur Ernest was an only son?’
‘Yes. There was a daughter, married off to a businessman in Lille, but she died in childbirth along with her infant.’
‘But what of Monsieur Raymond?’
The old man’s head jerked up in surprise.
‘Ah! Monsieur Ernest has told you?’
Old Bernard now seemed more on his guard.
‘Wasn’t he part of the family?’
‘A cousin. A Grandmaison, but a poor relation. His father died out in the colonies. It happens in every family, doesn’t it …’
‘Indeed it does!’ Maigret agreed readily.
‘Monsieur Ernest’s father more or less adopted him … That is, he found a place for him here …’
Maigret needed more information and dropped all pretence.
‘One moment, Monsieur Bernard! I’d like to make sure I’ve got everything straight. The founder of the Anglo-Normande was Monsieur Charles Grandmaison, correct? Monsieur Charles Grandmaison had an only son, Monsieur Ernest, currently in charge.’
‘Yes.’
The inspector’s inquisitorial tone puzzled the old man, who was beginning to get worried.
‘Good! Monsieur Charles had a brother who died in the colonies and who also had a son, Monsieur Raymond Grandmaison.’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘Just a moment! And go on with your lunch, please. This Monsieur Raymond, a penniless orphan, was taken in here by his uncle. A position was found for him in the firm. Which one, exactly?’
‘Well,’ replied the old man hesitantly, ‘he was assigned to the freight department. As a kind of office manager.’
‘Fine. Monsieur Charles Grandmaison died. Monsieur Ernest took over. Monsieur Raymond was still here.’
‘Yes.’
‘They quarrelled. One moment! Was Monsieur Ernest already married at the time?’
‘I’m not sure that I should say anything.’
‘I advise you strongly to cooperate if you don’t want to have problems with the law, elderly though you may be.’
‘The law! Has Monsieur Raymond returned?’
‘Never mind that. Was Monsieur Ernest married?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Right. Monsieur Ernest was the boss. His cousin, Raymond, still an office manager. What happened?’
‘I’m not sure I have the right …’
‘I give you the right.’
‘It’s like this in every family. Monsieur Ernest was a responsible, reliable man, like his father. Even at the age when boys naturally rebel against authority, he was already as serious as he is now.’
‘And Monsieur Raymond?’
‘Quite the opposite!’
‘And?’
‘I’m the only one here who knows, aside from Monsieur Ernest. Some irregularities were discovered in the accounts … Involving large sums …’
‘So?’
‘Mon
sieur Raymond disappeared. That’s to say, instead of having him arrested, Monsieur Ernest strongly advised him to go and live abroad.’
‘In Norway?’
‘I don’t know. I never heard his name mentioned again.’
‘Monsieur Ernest was married soon after that?’
‘That’s right. A few months later.’
The walls were lined with filing cabinets of a doleful green. The faithful old man was eating without any appetite, still worried, feeling guilty for letting the inspector worm information out of him.
‘And how long ago was that?’
‘Let me see … It was the year they widened the canal. Fifteen years ago, or just about.’
Footsteps had been going back and forth in the room above their heads for a few minutes now.
‘The dining room?’ asked Maigret.
‘Yes.’
And then the footsteps overhead went faster … A dull thud – as a body fell to the floor.
Old Bernard was whiter than the butcher’s paper on his desk.
13. The House Across the Street
Monsieur Grandmaison was dead. Lying across the carpet, his head near a table leg, his feet over by the window, he seemed enormous. Very little blood. The bullet had entered between two ribs and lodged in his heart.
As for the revolver, it lay next to his lifeless hand.
Madame Grandmaison was not weeping. She stood leaning against the monumental mantelpiece, staring at her husband as if she had not yet grasped what had happened.
‘It’s over,’ said Maigret simply, and got to his feet.
A large room, sad and severe. Dark curtains at windows that let in a bleak light.
‘Did he say anything to you?’
She shook her head, then made an effort to speak.
‘Ever since we got home,’ she stammered, ‘he’d been pacing up and down. Several times he turned to me, and I thought he was going to tell me something … Then suddenly, the shot came – and I hadn’t even seen the gun!’
She spoke as women do when they are profoundly shaken and struggling to make sense of their own thoughts, but her eyes were dry.
It was clear that she had never loved Grandmaison, at least not passionately. He was her husband. She was a dutiful wife. A kind of affection had sprung up as they’d grown used to living together.
But before his dead body, she displayed none of those wrenching emotions that betoken real love.
Instead, dazed and exhausted, she asked, ‘Was it him?’
‘It was.’
Then there was silence around the immense body bathed in harsh daylight. The inspector watched Madame Grandmaison. He saw her look out at the street, searching for something across the way, and a feeling of nostalgia seemed to soften her features.
‘Would you allow me to ask you two or three questions before the others arrive?’
She nodded.
‘Did you know Raymond before you met your husband?’
‘I lived across the street.’
A grey house much like the one they were in. Above the front door, the brass plate of a notary.
‘I loved Raymond. He loved me. His cousin was courting me as well, but in his own way.’
‘Two quite different men, weren’t they?’
‘Ernest was already as you knew him. A cold man, who seemed never to have been young. Raymond, well, he had a bad reputation because his life was too big and wild to fit into the small-town mould. That and his lack of fortune were why my father did not want me to marry him.’
It was eerie, listening to these personal confessions murmured next to a corpse. They were like the dismal summing-up of a whole life.
‘Were you Raymond’s mistress?’
She blinked in affirmation.
‘And he left?’
‘Without telling a soul. One night. I learned about it from his cousin. Left with some of the company money.’
‘And Ernest married you. Your son is not his, I take it?’
‘He is Raymond’s son. You see, when he left and I was on my own, I knew I was going to have a child. And Ernest was asking me to marry him. Look at these two houses, this street, this city where everyone knows everyone else.’
‘You told Ernest the truth?’
‘Yes. He married me anyway. The child was born in Italy; I stayed there for more than a year to avoid nasty gossip. I thought my husband had been a kind of hero …’
‘And?’
She turned away: she had just caught sight of the body again.
‘I don’t know,’ she sighed. ‘I believe that he did love me,’ she continued reluctantly, ‘but after his own fashion. He wanted me. He got me. Can you understand? A man incapable of impulse, of spirit. Once married, he lived as before: for himself. I was part of his household. Somewhat like a trusted employee. I don’t know if he received any news of Raymond later on, but when the boy came across a picture of him one day and asked Ernest about him, he simply said, “A cousin who turned out badly.”’
Maigret seemed gripped by some profound concern, for it was a whole way of life he was attempting to piece together. More than that, it was the life of a family business, of the very family itself!
That life had lasted fifteen years! New steamships had been bought. There had been receptions in this very room, bridge parties and afternoon teas. There had been baptisms.
Summers at Ouistreham and in the mountains.
And now, Madame Grandmaison was so weary that she collapsed into an armchair, passing a limp hand over her face.
‘I don’t understand,’ she stammered. ‘This captain whom I never saw … You really think …?’
Maigret turned away to listen, then went to open the door. The old man was on the landing, fearful but too deferential to enter the room. He looked searchingly at the inspector.
‘Monsieur Grandmaison is dead. Call the family doctor. Do not announce the news to the employees and servants until later.’
He closed the door, almost took his pipe from his pocket and shrugged.
To his surprise, he felt growing respect and sympathy for this woman, who had struck him, the first time he had seen her, as an ordinary ‘lady of the house’.
‘Was it your husband, yesterday, who sent you to Paris?’
‘Yes. I hadn’t known that Raymond was in France. My husband simply asked me to get my son at Stanislas and spend a few days with him in the South of France. Although I thought this somewhat peculiar, I did as he asked, but when I arrived at the Hôtel de Lutèce, Ernest telephoned to ask me to return home without going on to the boarding school.’
‘And this morning, Raymond called you here?’
‘Yes, with an urgent request. He begged me to bring him a little money. He swore that our lives – all our lives – would otherwise be torn apart.’
‘He did not accuse your husband of anything?’
‘No. Back there, in the cottage, he never even mentioned him, but spoke of friends, a few seamen to whom he had to give some money so that they could leave the country. He spoke of some kind of shipwreck.’
The doctor arrived, a friend of the family who stared at the corpse in consternation.
‘Monsieur Grandmaison has killed himself!’ announced Maigret firmly. ‘It is for you to discover what illness has carried him off. You understand me? And I will deal with the police …’
He went to take leave of Madame Grandmaison, who finally summoned the courage to say, ‘You have not told me why …’
‘Raymond will tell you one day. Ah, one last question. On the 16th of September, your son was in Ouistreham with your husband, was he not?’
‘Yes. He stayed there until the 20th …’
Maigret bowed himself out, tramped downstairs and walked through the offices with drooping shoulders and a heavy heart.
Outdoors, he breathed more deeply and stood bareheaded in the rain, as if to refresh himself, to dispel the oppressive atmosphere of that house.
Turning, he took one last look
up at the windows. Another at those across the street, where Madame Grandmaison had spent her youth.
A sigh.
‘Come on!’
Maigret stood in the open door to the empty room where Raymond had been kept. He beckoned to him to follow, then led him out to the street and the road to the harbour.
Raymond was surprised and somewhat worried by this unexpected release.
‘Haven’t you anything to tell me?’ grumbled Maigret with a show of irritation.
‘No!’
‘You won’t defend yourself against the charges?’
‘I’ll keep telling the court that I haven’t killed anyone!’
‘But you won’t tell the truth?’
Raymond hung his head.
They were beginning to catch glimpses of the sea and could hear the tug whistling as it moved towards the jetties, towing the Saint-Michel at the end of a steel cable.
It was then that Maigret announced impassively, as if it were the most natural thing in the world: ‘Grandmaison is dead.’
‘What? … What did you say?’
Raymond caught Maigret’s arm in a fierce grip.
‘He’s …?’
‘He killed himself an hour ago, in his house.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘No. He paced up and down his dining room for a quarter of an hour and then shot himself. That’s it!’
They kept walking. In the distance they could see the excited crowd on the jetties, watching the salvage operation.
‘So now you can tell me the truth, Raymond Grandmaison. Besides, I already know the gist of it. You were trying to get your son back, weren’t you!’
No reply.
‘You had help from Captain Joris, among others. And unfortunately for him, as it turned out.’
‘Don’t say it! If you only knew …’
‘Come this way, there will be fewer people.’
The narrow path led down to a deserted beach pounded by waves.
‘Did you really take off with some of the company funds?’
‘Is that what Hélène told you?’ Now his voice was bitter. ‘Yes … Ernest must have told her his own version of what happened … I’m not claiming to have been a saint, far from it! I was looking for a good time, as they say. And above all, at least for a while, I was enthralled by gambling. I won, I lost. Then came the day when, yes, I helped myself to some company money. My cousin found out.
The Misty Harbour Page 14