‘So it’s likely that those shares were kept in the apartment along with the gold coins. But you didn’t find anything?’
‘No, your honour. Naturally we looked for fingerprints on the Chinese vase, on the drawers and just about everywhere in the apartment.’
‘And you didn’t find any?’
‘Only the prints of the two occupants and, in the kitchen, those of a delivery boy whose movements were verified. His last delivery was on the morning of the 27th. But according to Doctor Paul, who performed both autopsies, the murder took place between five and eight in the evening on 27 February.’
‘Did you question all the residents of the building?’
‘Yes, your honour. They confirmed what the concierge had already told me, in other words that Léontine Faverges received no male visitors apart from her two nephews.’
‘Could you tell us about the defendant, Gaston Meurant, and his brother Alfred?’
‘The concierge stated that Gaston Meurant came to see his aunt fairly regularly, once or twice a month, and that his last visit had been about three weeks earlier. As for the brother, Alfred Meurant, he only put in very rare appearances at Rue Manuel because his aunt disapproved of him. On questioning the neighbour opposite, Madame Solange Lorris, a dressmaker, I learned that one of her customers had come to see her for a fitting on 27 February, at five thirty. This person is called Madame Ernie and lives in Rue Saint-Georges. She states that as she was walking up the stairs a man came out of the dead woman’s apartment and, on seeing her, appeared to change his mind. Instead of going down the stairs, he headed for the third floor. She wasn’t able to see his face because the staircase is poorly lit. She described the man as wearing a navy-blue suit and a brown belted raincoat.’
‘Tell us how you came into contact with the defendant.’
‘While my men and I were searching the apartment on the afternoon of 28 February and starting to question the residents, the evening papers reported the murder and gave a certain number of details.’
‘Just a moment. How was the crime discovered?’
‘At around midday that day, I mean 28 February, the concierge was surprised not to have seen either Léontine Faverges or the little girl, who attended a local nursery school. She went up and rang the bell. Having received no reply, she returned a little later and there was still no answer. Finally, she telephoned the police. To go back to Gaston Meurant: the concierge knew only that he was a picture-framer and that he lived near Père-Lachaise. I didn’t need to track him down because the next morning …’
‘That would be 1 March …’
‘Yes. The next morning, as I was saying, he presented himself of his own accord at the police station of the 9th arrondissement saying he was the victim’s nephew, and they sent him over to me …’
Judge Bernerie was not one of those judges who took notes or dealt with their correspondence during a hearing, nor did he snooze. His gaze flitted constantly from the witness to the defendant, with the occasional glance in the direction of the jury.
‘Tell us as exactly as possible about your first interview with Gaston Meurant.’
‘He was dressed in a grey suit and a shabby beige raincoat. He seemed intimidated to find himself in my office and I had the impression that it was his wife who had urged him to come forward.’
‘Was she with him?’
‘She stayed in the waiting room. One of my inspectors came and informed me and I invited her in. Meurant told me that he’d read the papers, that Léontine Faverges was his aunt and, since he and his brother were the victim’s only relatives as far as he knew, he believed he had a duty to make himself known to the police. I asked him about his relationship with the old lady and he told me that they had been on excellent terms. In response to further questioning he added that his last visit to Rue Manuel had been on 23 January. He was not able to give me the address of his brother, from whom he was estranged.’
‘So, on 1 March, the defendant categorically denied having been at Rue Manuel on 27 February, the day of the murder.’
‘Yes, your honour. When questioned about his movements, he told me he had worked in his studio in Rue de la Roquette until six thirty. I subsequently visited this studio, as well as the shop, which has a narrow window and is cluttered with frames and engravings. There’s a suction hook behind the glass door for a sign saying: “If I am not here, please come to the studio across the courtyard.” An unlit passageway leads to the studio where Meurant made his frames.’
‘Is there a concierge?’
‘No. The place only has two floors, reached by a staircase from the courtyard. It is a very old building, sandwiched between two lodging houses.’
One of the judge’s assistants, whom Maigret did not know because he had recently arrived from the provinces, looked straight ahead at the public in front of him, appearing not to hear anything. The other, by contrast, rosy-cheeked and white-haired, nodded his approval of Maigret’s every word, occasionally giving a contented smile for some strange reason. The jury meanwhile sat there as motionless as if they had been painted plaster figures in a nativity scene.
The counsel for the defence, Pierre Duché, was young and this was his first big case. On edge, as if always about to pounce, he pored over his paperwork, covering it with annotations.
Only Gaston Meurant appeared to be detached from what was going on around him or, to be more precise, attended this performance as if it had nothing to do with him.
He was thirty-eight, on the tall side, with broad shoulders and curly ginger hair, the complexion of a redhead and blue eyes.
All the witnesses described him as a mild, calm man, not very sociable, who divided his time between his studio in Rue de la Roquette and his home on Boulevard de Charonne, which overlooked Père-Lachaise cemetery.
He was rather typical of the solitary craftsman, and if there was anything surprising about him, it was the wife he had chosen.
Ginette Meurant was petite and very curvaceous, with a come-hither look in her eye, a suggestive pout and seductive manner.
Ten years her husband’s junior, she appeared even younger than her age, and had a habit of fluttering her eyelashes as if bewildered.
‘What did the defendant tell you about his movements between five and eight in the evening on 27 February?’
‘He told me he left his studio at around six thirty, switched off the lights in the shop and walked home as usual. His wife wasn’t there. She had gone to the cinema, to the five o’clock showing, which she often does. We have the testimony of the box-office cashier. It was a cinema in Faubourg Saint-Antoine, where she’s a regular. When she got home, just before eight, her husband had cooked dinner and set the table.’
‘Was that usual?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Did the concierge at Boulevard de Charonne see her arrive?’
‘She doesn’t remember. There are some twenty apartments in the building and there are a lot of comings and goings in the late afternoon.’
‘Did you talk to the defendant about the vase, the gold coins and the bearer shares?’
‘Not on that occasion but the next day, 2 March, when I summoned him to my office. I had only just been told about the money by the concierge from Rue Manuel.’
‘Did the defendant seem to know about it?’
‘He hesitated at first, and then he finally admitted that he did.’
‘Had his aunt told him her secret?’
‘Indirectly. At this point I must digress briefly. Around five years ago, under pressure from his wife apparently, Gaston Meurant abandoned his profession to buy a café-restaurant business in Rue du Chemin-Vert.’
‘Why do you say “under pressure from his wife”?’
‘Because when Meurant first got to know her, eight years ago, she was a waitress in a restaurant in Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Meurant was a customer there and that’s how they met. He married her and, she claims, insisted she stop working. Meurant acknowledges that’s true.
But Ginette Meurant’s ambition was still to be the owner of a café-restaurant one day and when the opportunity arose, she urged her husband …’
‘Was it a bad deal?’
‘Yes. Within months, Meurant had to ask his aunt to lend him some money.’
‘Did she?’
‘Several times. According to her nephew, in the Chinese vase there were not just gold coins but an old wallet containing banknotes. She took the money she lent him from the wallet. She jokingly called the vase her Chinese safe.’
‘Did you track down the defendant’s brother, Alfred Meurant?’
‘Not at the time. I merely knew from our records that he led an irregular life and that he had been convicted twice for procuring.’
‘Did any witnesses testify that they had seen the defendant in his studio after five o’clock on the afternoon of the murder?’
‘Not at the time.’
‘Was he wearing, according to him, a blue suit and a brown raincoat?’
‘No. His everyday suit, which is grey, and a light-beige gabardine that he usually wore to go to work.’
‘If I understand correctly, there was no specific evidence enabling you to charge him?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Can you tell us what the focus of your investigation was during the days following the murder?’
‘First of all, it was on the past of the victim, Léontine Faverges, and that of the men she had known. We also inquired about friends the girl’s mother, Juliette Perrin, who knew about the contents of the Chinese vase and could have told others about it.’
‘Did this lead anywhere?’
‘No. We also questioned all the neighbours in the street, anyone who might have seen the murderer walk past.’
‘To no avail?’
‘To no avail.’
‘So that, by the morning of 6 March, the investigation had stalled.’
‘That is correct.’
‘What happened on the morning of 6 March?’
‘I was in my office at around ten o’clock when I received a telephone message.’
‘Who was the caller?’
‘I don’t know. The person wouldn’t give their name and I signalled to Inspector Janvier, sitting next to me, to try and trace the call.’
‘Did he succeed in doing so?’
‘No. The conversation was too short. I simply recognized the tell-tale click of a public telephone.’
‘Was it a man or a woman who called you?’
‘A man. I could swear he was talking through a handkerchief to disguise his voice.’
‘What did he say to you?’
‘Verbatim: “If you want to know who the Rue Manuel murderer is, ask Meurant to show you his blue suit. You’ll see bloodstains on it.” ’
‘What did you do?’
‘I went to see the examining magistrate, who issued me with a search warrant. Inspector Janvier accompanied me and we arrived at Boulevard de Charonne at ten past eleven. We went up to the third floor and I rang the bell of the Meurants’ apartment. Madame Meurant opened the door. She was in her dressing gown and slippers. She told us her husband was in his studio and I asked her if he owned a blue suit.
‘ “Of course,” she replied. “It’s his Sunday best.”
‘I asked to see it. The apartment is comfortable, stylish and cheerful, but at that hour it was still untidy.
‘ “Why do you want to see that suit?”
‘ “A routine formality …”
‘I followed her into the bedroom and she took the navy-blue suit out of the wardrobe. Then I showed her the search warrant. We put the suit in a special bag that I’d brought and Inspector Janvier filled out the usual forms.
‘Half an hour later, the suit was in the hands of the forensics team. During the afternoon, I was informed that it did indeed have traces of blood on the right sleeve and on the cuff, but that I would have to wait until the following day to find out whether it was human blood. From midday, however, I had Gaston Meurant and his wife put under discreet surveillance.
‘The next morning, 7 March, two of my men, Inspectors Janvier and Lapointe, arrived at the studio in Rue de la Roquette armed with an arrest warrant, and proceeded to apprehend Gaston Meurant.
‘He seemed surprised. He put up no resistance and said:
‘ “This must be a misunderstanding.”
‘I was waiting for him in my office. His wife, in an adjacent room, was more anxious than he was.’
‘Can you, without referring to your notes, repeat the substance of your interview of the defendant that day?’
‘I believe I can, your honour. I was sitting at my desk and I left him standing. Inspector Janvier stood next to him while Inspector Lapointe sat down in order to take notes.
‘I was busy signing letters and that took quite some time. I finally looked up and said in a reprimanding tone:
‘ “This is not good, Meurant. Why did you lie to me?”
‘His ears turned red and his lips twitched.
‘ “Until now,” I went on, “I didn’t consider you a possible culprit, not even a suspect. But what do you expect me to think now that I know you went to Rue Manuel on 27 February? Why did you go there? Why did you keep quiet about it?” ’
The judge leaned forward so as not to miss a word of what was to come.
‘What did he reply?’
‘He stammered and hung his head: “I am innocent. They were already dead.” ’
2.
The judge must have discreetly beckoned the clerk, who walked silently around the bench and leaned over to him, while Duché, the young counsel for the defence, pale and tense, tried to fathom what was happening.
The judge said a few brief words and everyone in the room followed his gaze as it rested on the high windows from which long cords dangled.
The radiators were scalding hot. With so many people pressed together, the air was stale and there was a growing smell of body odour, damp clothes and bad breath.
Like a doddery sacristan, the clerk went over to one of the cords and tried to open a window. It was jammed. He made three attempts and everything remained in suspense, all eyes upon him, then there was a nervous laugh when he decided to try the next window.
Because of this episode, on seeing rivulets of rain on the windowpanes and clouds in the sky, and suddenly hearing cars and buses braking more clearly, people became conscious of the outside world again. At that precise moment, they could even hear the siren of an ambulance or police car punctuating the silence.
Maigret waited, anxious, focused. He had taken advantage of the pause to glance over at Meurant, who met his gaze, and he thought he could read a reprimand in the defendant’s blue eyes.
This was not the first time that in the same witness box Maigret had felt a certain despondency. In his office at Quai des Orfèvres, he was still grappling with reality and, even when writing his report, he was able to believe that his words reflected the truth.
Then months went by, sometimes a year, if not two, and one fine day he found himself penned in the witness room with people he had questioned in the past and who were no more than a memory for him. Were these really the same human beings – concierges, passers-by and tradesmen – who were sitting there on the vestry benches, staring vacantly?
After months in prison, was that the same man in the dock?
They suddenly found themselves in an impersonal world, where everyday words no longer seemed to mean anything, where the most mundane details were translated into unintelligible formulae. The judges’ black gowns, the ermine, the prosecutor’s red robe further added to the impression of a ceremony set in stone where the individual counted for nothing.
Judge Bernerie, however, led the proceedings with the utmost patience and humanity. He did not put pressure on the witnesses to finish, nor did he interrupt them when they got bogged down in unnecessary detail.
With other, stricter magistrates, Maigret would sometimes clench his fists in anger and h
elplessness.
Even today, he knew that he was only giving a lifeless, simplified picture. Everything he had just said was true, but he hadn’t conveyed the full weight of things, their density, their texture, their smell.
For example, he felt it was essential for those who were going to judge Gaston Meurant to experience the atmosphere of the apartment on Boulevard de Charonne as he had found it.
His two-sentence description was useless. He had been struck, right away, by the couple’s home in that large apartment building overlooking the cemetery, full of families and children.
Who had chosen the décor and the furnishings? In the bedroom there wasn’t a proper bed but one of those corner divans surrounded by a shelving unit known as a cosy-corner. It was covered in orange satin.
Maigret tried to imagine the picture-framer, the craftsman busy all day in his studio at the far end of a courtyard, coming home from work to this interior out of a glossy magazine: lights almost as soft as the ones in Rue Manuel, furniture that was too pale, too shiny, and pastel colours …
And yet, it was Meurant’s books that were on the shelves, nothing but second-hand books from one of the stalls by the Seine: Tolstoy’s War and Peace; eighteen bound volumes of History of the Consulate and the Empire in an ancient edition that smelled of must; Madame Bovary; a work on wild animals and, next to it, a History of Religions.
You could tell he was a man trying to educate himself. In the same room were piles of romance digests, colourful magazines, film reviews and trashy novels that probably constituted Ginette Meurant’s diet, like the records by the gramophone that all bore the titles of sentimental songs.
Maigret in Court Page 2