“What was Rivaud’s name in Algiers?”
“Dr. Meyer . . . I suppose there’s no use trying to hide it any longer. Considering what you’ve found out already, you’re bound to know it all in the end.”
“This man Samuel was his father?”
“Yes.”
“And he arranged his father’s escape from the hospital in Algiers?”
“That’s right. In fact, that’s how things started with Germaine. There were only three of them in that wing of the hospital: Germaine, Samuel, as he was called, and another. One night Rivaud set the place on fire, and it was this third person who was left in the flames and afterward given out to be Samuel. It sounds terrible, but the doctor always swore the man was dead already. I think he was telling the truth. After all, he wasn’t a bad man. You could tell that from the way he treated his father. He could have washed his hands of him after the way he’d behaved ...”
“So that’s how it was done . . . The other man was entered in the register of death as Samuel Meyer . . . And then the doctor married Germaine, and brought the three of you to France?”
“Not at once. We were quite a time in Spain waiting for his papers.”
“And Samuel?”
“He was shipped off to America and told never to come back. The trial seemed to have unhinged him. He was already a bit queer.”
“Finally, when your son-in-law received his papers in the name of Rivaud, he came here with his wife and sister-in-law. And you?”
“He gave me an allowance and set me up in Bordeaux . . . I should have preferred Marseilles or Nice—particularly Nice—but he wanted to keep an eye on me . . . Goodness! How he worked! Whatever they say about him, nobody can deny he was a good doctor. And I feel sure he wouldn’t have done that to a patient, not even for his own father . . .”
To shut out the hubbub of the crowd, Maigret had had the windows shut. The room was getting hot and stuffy and full of pipe smoke.
Germaine was still wailing like a child.
“She’s been worse than before,” her mother explained, “since the operation on her head. And she was always rather gloomy . . . You see, having spent so much of her life in bed . . . But, as I said, she was worse afterward. She would cry for nothing at all. And scared of the least thing . . .”
Bergerac had accepted the newcomers without a suspicion. A quiet little town where a dangerous, hectic past could gradually be forgotten.
Nobody guessed a thing. They gossiped about “the doctor’s house,” “the doctor’s car,” “the doctor’s wife,” “the doctor’s sister-in-law.” And all they saw was a cosy little villa in English cottage style; a handsome, stylish car; a dashing lively young sister; a somewhat weary-looking wife.
Meanwhile, in a little flat in Bordeaux, Joséphine Beausoleil was peacefully winding up her restless life. She who had known so much care for the morrow, who had been dependent on the whims of so many men, could at last adopt the ways and habits of a woman of private, even if modest, means.
No doubt she was respected in her neighborhood. She could lead a regular life and pay her bills regularly. And when, from time to time, her daughters came to see her, there was always the same satisfaction in seeing them drive up in that handsome, stylish car.
She was crying again now, and blowing her nose into an inadequate handkerchief that was almost all lace.
“If only you’d known Françoise . . . For instance, when she came to have the baby . . . Oh, there’s no harm in speaking in front of Germaine. She knows all about it . . .”
Madame Maigret listened, horrified by this unbelievable world that was being unfolded before her.
Cars had arrived outside. They brought the police pathologist and the examining magistrate and his clerk. The local inspector too, who had been run to earth in the marketplace of a neighboring village where he was busy buying some rabbits.
There was a knock on the door and Leduc cautiously looked in, throwing an inquiring glance at Maigret to know if he was intruding.
“Later on, old chap . . . If you don’t mind . . .”
Maigret did not want anything to disturb an atmosphere that encouraged Madame Beausoleil to be so confiding. Leduc nevertheless came up to the bed to whisper:
“If they want to see the bodies before they’re moved . . .”
“No. There’s no point in it.”
Indeed, what good could it do? Even Madame Beausoleil, who had wanted to see them before, was now only waiting for Leduc’s departure to resume her confidences. She felt at ease with the big man who was lying in bed and who looked at her good-naturedly, comprehendingly.
Yes, he understood. He never looked surprised. Never asked stupid questions.
“You were talking of Françoise . . .”
“Oh, yes . . . Well, when the child was born . . . But perhaps you don’t know . . .”
“I know.”
“Who told you?”
“Monsieur Duhourceau was there, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. And I’ve never seen a man so jumpy and so miserable. He said it was a crime to bring children into the world, as there was no knowing if it wouldn’t kill the mother . . . He could hear her groaning from the other room . . . Though I did what I could for him—I kept on filling up his glass . . .”
“You’ve quite a big flat?”
“Three rooms.”
“You had a midwife?”
“Yes . . . Rivaud said he couldn’t manage all alone.”
“You live near the harbor?”
“Near the bridge, in a little street where . . .”
Again a scene that Maigret could picture almost as well as if it had been from memory. But at the same time there was another—the one that was being enacted at that very moment overhead.
Rivaud and Françoise. The doctor and the undertakers dragging the couple apart. The prosecutor was no doubt whiter than those printed forms that the examining magistrate’s clerk would be filling up with a shaking hand . . .
And the police inspector who an hour before had been thinking of nothing but rabbits . . .
“When Monsieur Duhourceau heard he’d got a daughter he actually cried. Yes, he did, as true as I’m here, and he put his head on my shoulder . . . I thought he was going to be taken really bad . . . I didn’t want to let him go into the room, because . . . After all . . .”
She stopped, suddenly on her guard, and shot a mistrustful glance at Maigret.
“I’m only a poor woman that’s done the best I could . . . It’s a shame to take advantage of it to make me say more than I . . .”
Germaine Rivaud had stopped moaning. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stared with wide eyes straight in front of her.
The worst moment of all had come. They were carrying the bodies down on stretchers . . . treading heavily, carefully on the stairs . . . step-by-step . . .
And someone calling out:
“Steady now! Look out!”
A little later someone knocked on the door. It was Leduc, and he too had had a drink to stiffen himself up.
“It’s all over.”
Below, the ambulance drove off . . .
11
THE FATHER
“What name shall I say?”
“Inspector Maigret.”
The latter smiled at nothing in particular—merely because it felt so good to be on his feet again and walking about like anybody else. He was even rather proud of it, like a child enjoying its first unaided steps.
All the same, he was none too steady on his legs, and when the manservant had gone to announce him he rather hastily dragged a chair toward him and sank into it, for he was conscious of a sweat breaking out on his forehead.
It was the manservant with the striped waistcoat. A man of extremely rustic features whose head was a trifle turned by the high position to which he had risen!
“Will you come this way, sir?” he said, reappearing. “Monsieur le procureur will see you in a moment.”
The manservant had prob
ably no idea what a labor it could be to climb a flight of stairs! Maigret knew all about it before he reached the first floor. He was hot all over. He leaned on to the banisters, counting the steps.
Eight more . . .
“This way, please. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment . . .”
The house was just as Maigret had imagined it. And there he was, in the study with the tall windows that his mind had so often dwelt on.
The white ceiling was divided by heavy, varnished oak beams. An immense fireplace. And all those bookcases. They almost covered the walls.
There was no one there. No steps could be heard in the house, as all the floors were thickly carpeted. Maigret was longing to sit down. Instead of doing so, however, he walked over to one of the bookcases, the lower half of which was enclosed by metal-grilled doors behind which hung green curtains, hiding the shelves from view.
It was with some difficulty that he thrust one of his thick fingers through the latticework to draw aside one of the curtains. When he did so, all he discovered was empty shelves.
Turning round, he found Monsieur Duhourceau watching him.
“I’ve been expecting you for the last two days . . . I must confess . . .”
He looked as if he had lost ten kilos. His cheeks sagged, and the lines at the corners of his mouth were twice as deep as they had been.
“Won’t you sit down, inspector?”
The prosecutor was ill at ease. He couldn’t look Maigret in the face. He sat down in his usual place in front of a desk laden with files and documents.
More than once he had treated Maigret with scant civility. More than once he had been openly hostile. He had, however, had plenty of time to regret it, and it seemed to Maigret most charitable to finish off quickly.
A man of sixty-five, all alone in that large house, practically alone in that town of Bergerac in which he was the highest officer of the law . . . In fact, all alone in life . . .
“I see you’ve burned your books.”
No answer from Monsieur Duhourceau. Only a faint flush mounting to his haggard cheeks.
“And now let’s get this case wound up. It’s clear enough. I don’t think there’s room for any two opinions about it . . .
“To begin with, there’s a certain Samuel Meyer, a commercial adventurer who’s ready to put his hand to anything profitable, not excluding those branches of trade that are forbidden by law.
“At the same time he has social ambitions—not for himself but for his son. The latter studies medicine and becomes assistant to the great Dr. Martel. A brilliant future seems assured . . .
“Then the trouble begins.
“First act: two of Samuel’s accomplices come to Algiers and threaten him. He dispatches them into the next world.
“Second act: Samuel is condemned to death. But his son intervenes. Diagnoses meningitis or something of the kind. Has the old man removed to his own hospital and saves him with the help of a fire.
“Another man is buried in Samuel’s place. Was he dead already? We’ll never know.
“The young Meyer, who henceforth adopts the name Rivaud, is not one of those men who needs to bare his soul. He is strong, self-sufficient.
“And ambitious! A man of keen intelligence, who knows his own worth and wants to realize it at whatever cost.
“Just one chink in the armor: he falls vaguely in love with a patient and marries her, only to realize, some time later, how colorless she is.”
The prosecutor sat still. This part of the story was of no great interest, but he was listening for the sequel with keen apprehension.
“The second act finishes with Samuel in America and Madame Beausoleil in Bordeaux, while Dr. Rivaud with his wife and sister-in-law have settled down in Bergerac . . .
“And of course the inevitable happens. This young girl he has under his roof begins to intrigue him, gets under his skin, and finally seduces him.
“And now for the third act. By some means or other—I have no idea how—the public prosecutor of Bergerac begins to find out something of Rivaud’s past . . . Is that correct?”
Monsieur Duhourceau replied without hesitation:
“Absolutely correct.”
“Then his mouth must be kept shut . . . Rivaud knows what others know—that the prosecutor has a relatively harmless failing, that he collects ‘books for connoisseurs.’ He knows that’s a pastime of lonely bachelors who find stamp collecting rather tame.
“Rivaud takes advantage of this. He introduces his sister-in-law to you as a model secretary. She is to help you in classifying certain papers. And gradually she entices you into paying her attention.
“But that’s not enough. Rivaud doesn’t want to start wandering again. He’s getting on splendidly. His name’s beginning to be known, and he’s determined not to change it.
“A temporary affair with Françoise is not enough. He must have a stronger hold over you than that. She is going to have a baby. She must convince you that the baby will be yours.
“Again she succeeds. And now they hold you in a vice. You won’t be talking now. For you too have a secret that must not come to light—a secret birth in Joséphine Beausoleil’s flat in Bordeaux, and secret visits thenceforward, when you go to see the child you take to be yours.”
Maigret had the delicacy not to look at Monsieur Duhourceau as he spoke.
“You see, Rivaud was, above all, ambitious. He knew himself to be abler than other men, and nothing was going to stop him getting to the top. He was ready to go to any lengths to keep his buried past underground. He really loved Françoise, he loved her dearly—but not so much as he loved his career. For that, he was ready to push her, once at any rate, into your arms . . . Might I ask you one question? Was it once?”
“Only once.”
“Then she edged away?”
“On various pretexts . . . She thought it shameful . . .”
“No, no! She loved Rivaud—as much as he did her. Perhaps more. And it was only to save him . . .”
Maigret still kept his eyes turned away from the man who sat listening at his desk. He stared into the open fireplace, where three logs were blazing.
“You are convinced the child is yours. From now on, you’ll keep your mouth shut. You are invited to the villa. You visit your daughter in Bordeaux.
“Meanwhile, in America, our Samuel—the Samuel of Poland and Algiers—has gone completely mad. He attacked two women somewhere near Chicago. In each case, after strangling them, he stuck a needle through the heart. I found this out from police records.
“He wasn’t caught, and fleeing the country, he came to France, finally turning up in Bergerac practically penniless. Rivaud gave him money and told him to clear out. He did so, but in another fit of madness he left a corpse behind him.
“Exactly the same. First strangulation, then the needle. It was in the woods by Moulin-Neuf. He was on his way to the station . . . I don’t know whether you suspected the truth.”
“No, I can swear to that . . . Not then.”
“He came back, and the same thing happened . . . He came a third time but this time failed. Each time Rivaud bribed him to go away. What else could he do? He couldn’t put him in an asylum, still less have him arrested.”
“I told him that this had to end.”
“Yes, and he made arrangements accordingly. Old Samuel rang him up. He told him to jump out of the train just before the station.”
The prosecutor was pale as death. He couldn’t have uttered a word to save his life.
“And that’s all. Rivaud killed him. Nothing was to stand between him and the future for which he was destined. Not even his wife—one day or other he’d have shoved her off too into a better world. For he loved Françoise—the girl who had given him a daughter, that daughter who . . .”
“Enough!”
And Maigret got up simply, as though this had been any other sort of visit.
“That’s all, monsieur le procureur.”
“But ...”
“They were a pair—those two. The one as spirited as the other. Not the sort to knuckle under. He had the woman he needed. Françoise, who was willing to suffer your embrace for his sake ...”
He was talking to a poor sunken old man, too numb to react.
“And now they’re dead. Those who are left will give no trouble. Madame Rivaud is neither brilliant nor dangerous—nor is she guilty of anything. She’ll have enough to live on. She’ll join her mother in Bordeaux or elsewhere . . . They won’t talk.”
Maigret picked up his hat from a chair.
“As for me, I must be getting back to Paris. I’ve been away long enough.”
He walked up to the desk.
“Good-bye, monsieur le procureur.”
The latter pounced upon the outstretched hand with such gratitude that Maigret feared a flood of thanks. To stave them off he hastily added:
“No hard feelings!”
A few moments later the manservant with the striped waistcoat was showing him out. He slowly crossed the sunlit marketplace and dragged himself rather laboriously back to the Hôtel d’ Angleterre, where he said to the proprietor:
“We’ll have truffles and foie gras for lunch, if you please. And you can serve the bill with it. We’re leaving.”
FOR THE BEST IN PAPERBACKS, LOOK FOR THE
In every corner of the world, on every subject under the sun, Penguin represents quality and variety—the very best in publishing today.
For complete information about books available from Penguin—including Penguin Classics and Puffins—and how to order them, write to us at the appropriate address below. Please note that for copyright reasons the selection of books varies from country to country.
In the United States: Please write to Penguin Group (USA), P.O. Box 12289 Dept. B, Newark, New Jersey 07101-5289 or call 1-800-788-6262.
The Madman of Bergerac Page 12