Maigret in Court

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  The boy’s hand was shaking. At the end of his long, square fingers, his nails were bitten like those of a child.

  ‘Is your father still around?’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘I’m not asking whether it was you who acted the idiot or not. I’m asking you if your father’s still around.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘In the sanatorium.’

  ‘Is it your mother who keeps you?’

  ‘I work too.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I’m a polisher.’

  This was going to take some time. Maigret knew from experience that it was better to proceed slowly.

  ‘How did you get hold of the automatic?’

  ‘I haven’t got an automatic.’

  ‘Do you want me to bring in the witnesses waiting outside straight away?’

  ‘They’re liars.’

  The telephone was already ringing. It was Lapointe.

  ‘Geneviève Lavancher has testified, chief. They asked her more or less the same questions as they asked her employer, plus another one. The judge asked her if, on 25 February, she had noticed anything particular about her clients’ behaviour and she replied that yes, funnily enough, she was surprised to see that the bed hadn’t been disturbed.’

  ‘Are the usual witnesses testifying?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all going very quickly. No one’s really listening to them.’

  It took forty minutes to break down the boy’s resistance, and he ended up blubbing.

  He was the one who’d been holding the automatic. There had been three, not two of them, because an accomplice had been waiting at the wheel of a stolen car. Allegedly he was the one who’d come up with the idea of the robbery, but then he’d scarpered as soon as he heard the cries for help, without waiting for the others.

  Despite that, the kid, whose name was Virieu, refused to give the name of the accomplice.

  ‘Is he older than you?’

  ‘Yes, he’s twenty-three and he’s married.’

  ‘And was he experienced?’

  ‘So he said.’

  ‘I’ll question you again later, when I’ve talked to your friend.’

  Virieu was led away and Giraucourt, his friend, brought in. His handcuffs were also removed, and the two boys managed to exchange looks as they passed each other.

  ‘Did he spill the beans?’

  ‘Were you expecting him to keep quiet?’

  Routine. The hold-up had failed. There were no dead or injured, not even any breakages, apart from one windowpane.

  ‘Whose idea were the masks?’

  The idea wasn’t exactly original. A few months earlier, professionals in Nice had worn carnival masks to attack a mail van.

  ‘You weren’t armed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was you who said, when a member of staff moved towards the window: “Shoot, you idiot …” ’

  ‘I don’t know what I said, I lost my head …’

  ‘Except that your little friend obeyed and released the catch.’

  ‘He didn’t shoot.’

  ‘In other words, it’s lucky the shot didn’t fire. Maybe there were no cartridges in the chamber? Maybe the gun was faulty?’

  The bank staff and a woman customer put their hands up. It was ten o’clock in the morning.

  ‘It was you who ran in shouting: “Everyone against the wall with your hands in the air. This is a hold-up!”

  ‘And apparently you added: “We’re not kidding.” ’

  ‘I said that because a woman burst out laughing.’

  A 45-year-old bank clerk, who was now waiting in the glass cage with the other witnesses, had grabbed a paperweight and thrown it at the window, shouting for help.

  ‘Have you ever been in prison?’

  ‘Once.’

  ‘For what offence?’

  ‘For stealing a camera from a car.’

  ‘Do you know what it’s going to cost you, this time?’

  The boy shrugged, trying to act tough.

  ‘Five years, young man. As for your friend, whether his weapon jammed or not, it’s highly likely that he’ll get at least ten years …’

  It was true. They’d pick up the third boy sooner or later. The investigation would move quickly and since this wasn’t a recess period, there would be no delay in bringing the case to court. In three or four months’ time, Maigret would once again be called to testify before the court.

  ‘Take him away, Lucas. There’s no reason to keep him and his friend apart now. Let the two of them chat as much as they like. Bring me the first witness.’

  After that it was just a matter of formalities and paperwork. And according to Lapointe, who had telephoned, things were moving even faster at the Palais de Justice where some witnesses, after spending only five minutes on the stand, found themselves, perplexed and a little disappointed, trying to squeeze themselves in among the crowd.

  At five o’clock, Maigret was still working on the bank-raid case and his office, where the lamps were lit, was thick with pipe smoke.

  ‘The plaintiff has just been allowed to say something. Maître Lioran gave a brief statement. Given the unforeseen developments, he supports in advance the assistant public prosecutor’s conclusions.’

  ‘Is the assistant public prosecutor speaking at the moment?’

  ‘He has been for the past two minutes.’

  ‘Call me back as soon as he’s finished.’

  Half an hour later, Lapointe phoned in a fairly detailed report. In essence Aillevard, the prosecutor, had said:

  ‘We are here to try Gaston Meurant, accused of having, on 27 February, slit the throat of his aunt, Léontine Faverges, then suffocating to death a little girl aged four, Cécile Perrin, whose mother instigated civil proceedings.’

  The mother, with dyed auburn hair, still wearing her fur coat, let out a wail and had to be led sobbing from the courtroom.

  The assistant public prosecutor went on:

  ‘We have heard some unexpected testimonies from the witness box which we are unable to take into account with regard to this case. The charges against the defendant have not changed and the questions which the jury must answer remain the same.

  ‘Did Gaston Meurant have the material means to commit this double murder and to steal Léontine Faverges’ savings?

  ‘It has been established that he knew the secret of the Chinese vase and that on several occasions his aunt took money from it to give him.

  ‘Does he have a sufficient motive?

  ‘The day after the crime, on 28 February, he was to be presented with a bank draft which he had signed but didn’t have the necessary funds to pay, and he was on the verge of bankruptcy.

  ‘And lastly, do we have the proof of his presence, the previous afternoon, at Rue Manuel?

  ‘Six days later, a navy-blue suit belonging to him was found in a cupboard in his apartment on Boulevard de Charonne. It had bloodstains on the sleeve and on the lapel for which he could offer no explanation.

  ‘According to the experts, it is human blood and, more than likely, that of Léontine Faverges.

  ‘However, there are testimonies that would seem to be contradictory, despite the good faith of the witnesses.

  ‘Madame Ernie, a client of the victim’s neighbour, saw a man wearing a navy-blue suit leave Léontine Faverges’ apartment at five o’clock and feels she can swear that this man had very dark brown hair.

  ‘On the other hand, you heard a piano teacher, Monsieur Germain Lombras, tell you that at six that evening he spoke with the defendant in his workshop in Rue de la Roquette. Monsieur Germain Lombras did however admit to a slight doubt as to the date of this visit.

  ‘We are confronted with a heinous crime, committed in cold blood by a man who not only attacked a defenceless woman but also had no scruples about murdering a child.

  ‘There can therefore be no question of mitigat
ing circumstances but only of the death penalty.

  ‘Now it is up to the jury to say whether in all good conscience, they find Gaston Meurant guilty of this double murder.’

  Maigret, who had finished with his amateur gangsters, resigned himself to opening his door and facing the press.

  ‘Did they confess?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Not too much publicity please, gentlemen. Above all don’t make them sound like heroes! Don’t give anyone who might be tempted to follow their example the impression that these kids have pulled off a feat. They’re sad cases, believe me …’

  He answered their questions curtly, feeling heavy and tired. His mind was partly in the courtroom, where it was the turn of the young defence counsel to sum up.

  Maigret was tempted to open the glass door that communicated with the Palais de Justice to go and join Lapointe, but what was the use? He imagined the defence speech, which would open in the same way as a trashy novel.

  No doubt Pierre Duché would go as far back into the past as possible.

  A poor family from Le Havre, teeming with children who had to fend for themselves. From the age of fifteen or sixteen, the girls went into service; in other words they left for Paris, where they were supposed to go into service. Did the parents have the time or means to worry about them? The girls would send a letter home once a month, in laboured handwriting, full of spelling mistakes, sometimes enclosing a postal order for a small sum.

  Two sisters left, first Léontine, who was hired as a sales assistant in a department store, and soon married.

  Hélène, the younger one, had worked in a dairy, and then in a haberdashery in Rue d’Hauteville.

  Léontine’s husband died. As for Hélène, it wasn’t long before she discovered the local dance halls.

  Did the two of them stay in touch? It wasn’t certain. After the death of her husband in an accident, Léontine Faverges became a familiar face in the brasseries on Rue Royale and the lodging houses in the Madeleine neighbourhood before setting up on her own in Rue Manuel.

  Her sister had two children from unknown fathers and had raised them as best she could for two or three years. Then she had been taken to hospital one evening for an operation from which she never emerged.

  ‘My client, gentlemen of the jury, brought up in care …’

  It was true, and Maigret could have provided interesting statistics on the subject – for example the percentage of orphans raised in care who went off the rails and ended up in the courts.

  They were the ones who rebelled, who bore a grudge against society for their humiliating situation.

  But, contrary to general belief and to what the members of the jury doubtless thought, they were the minority.

  Many of the others were probably scarred too. Throughout their lives they felt inferior. But their reaction, on the other hand, was to prove to themselves that they were as good as anyone else.

  They were taught a profession and they strove to become first-class craftsmen.

  Their pride and joy was to establish a family, a proper one, a regular one, with children they took out for a Sunday promenade, holding their hands.

  And what sweeter revenge than setting up on their own one day and becoming the boss of a small business?

  Had Pierre Duché thought of that? Was that what he was telling them, in the courtroom, where people were beginning to look haggard?

  That morning, during the long interrogation he had been subjected to, Maigret had forgotten something, and now he was annoyed with himself. True, the cross-examination was on the record. But it was merely an unimportant detail.

  The third time that Ginette Meurant had come to the Police Judiciaire, to his office, Maigret had asked her casually:

  ‘You’ve never had children?’

  The question took her aback and she looked startled.

  ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘I don’t know … I have the impression that your husband is the sort of man to want a family … Am I wrong?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he hope to have children with you?’

  ‘At first, yes.’

  He had sensed a hesitation, something like unease, and had probed further.

  ‘You weren’t able to have children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he know that when he married you?’

  ‘No. We’d never talked about that.’

  ‘When did he find out?’

  ‘After a few months. Because he kept hoping and he’d ask me the same question every month, I decided to tell him the truth … Not the entire truth … But the main thing …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That I had been ill, before meeting him, and that I’d had an operation …’

  That had been seven years ago. Whereas Meurant had hoped to have a family, there had been just the two of them.

  He had set up his workshop on his own. Then, under pressure from his wife, he had given it up and tried a different profession for a while. Predictably, it had been a disaster. Nevertheless, he had patiently started over again and built up a small picture-framing business.

  Maigret believed all these details were connected. Rightly or wrongly, he suddenly attached a great deal of importance to the question of children.

  He wouldn’t go so far as to claim that Meurant was innocent. He had seen men just as self-effacing, calm and mild-mannered turn violent.

  Nearly always in such cases it was because, for one reason or another, they had been wounded deep down inside.

  Meurant, driven by jealousy, could have committed a crime of passion. Perhaps he could also have attacked a friend who had humiliated him.

  Perhaps too, if his aunt had refused him the money he desperately needed …

  Anything was possible, except, it seemed to Maigret, for a man who had so longed for a child to deliberately suffocate a little four-year-old girl.

  ‘Hello, chief …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s done. The judge and the jury are retiring. Some people expect it to take a long time, but others are convinced that the die is cast.’

  ‘How is Meurant behaving?’

  ‘All afternoon he acted as though the case didn’t concern him. He seemed absent, downcast. When his lawyer spoke to him, on two or three occasions, he merely shrugged. Finally, when the judge asked him whether he wished to make a statement, he appeared not to understand. The judge had to repeat the question. He simply shook his head.’

  ‘Did he look at his wife at all?’

  ‘Not once.’

  ‘Thank you. Now listen carefully: did you spot Bonfils in the courtroom?’

  ‘Yes. He’s sitting close to Ginette Meurant.’

  ‘Tell him not to lose sight of her afterwards. To make certain she doesn’t throw him off, he should have Jussieu help him. One of them should ensure they have a car waiting.’

  ‘Got it. I’ll pass on your orders.’

  ‘She’ll end up going home eventually and we need a man outside the building on Boulevard de Charonne around the clock.’

  ‘And what if …?’

  ‘If Meurant’s acquitted, I’m sending Janvier over there to take care of him.’

  ‘Do you think that …?’

  ‘I have no idea, my boy.’

  It was true. He had done his best. He was seeking the truth, but there was no proof that he had found it, not even partially.

  The investigation had taken place in March and early April, with great bursts of sunshine over Paris, light clouds and scattered showers suddenly creating cool, misty mornings.

  The procedure was coming to its conclusion in a wet, gloomy early autumn, with a low spongy sky and glistening pavements.

  Maigret did some paperwork to kill time, and went and paced around the inspectors’ office, issuing instructions to Janvier.

  ‘Make sure you keep me posted, even in the middle of the night.’

  Despite his imperturbable air, he was anxious,
worried all of a sudden, as if he were annoyed at himself for having taken on too heavy a responsibility.

  When the telephone rang in his office, he pounced on it.

  ‘It’s over, chief!’

  Lapointe’s voice was drowned out by various noises, a great uproar.

  ‘There were four questions, two for each of the victims. The answer is no to all four. As I speak, the lawyer’s trying to guide Meurant to the clerk’s office, despite the crowd that’s—’

  His words were lost for a moment in the din.

  ‘Sorry, chief … I grabbed the first telephone I saw … I’ll be back in the office as soon as I can.’

  Maigret started pacing again, filling his pipe, picking up another one because that one didn’t draw, opening and closing his door three times.

  The corridors of the Police Judiciaire were deserted once more and in the glass cage there was only one regular, an occasional informer.

  When Lapointe arrived, he was still buzzing with the excitement of the court.

  ‘A lot of people expected it, but all the same it created a stir … The whole room was on its feet … The little girl’s mother, who had gone back to her seat, fainted and was almost trampled—’

  ‘What about Meurant?’

  ‘He seemed not to understand. He allowed himself to be led away without really grasping what was happening to him. The reporters who managed to approach him couldn’t get a word out of him. Then they turned their attention to his wife, with Lamblin acting as her bodyguard.

  ‘Immediately after the verdict, she tried to rush over to Meurant, as if to throw her arms around his neck … He had already turned his back to the room—’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Lamblin took her into some office, near the lawyers’ robing room … Jussieu’s taking care of her …’

  It was six thirty. The Police Judiciaire was beginning to empty, lights were being switched off.

  ‘I’m going home for dinner.’

  ‘What about me? What should I do?’

  ‘You must eat too, and go to bed.’

  ‘Do you think anything’s going to happen?’

  Maigret, who was opening the cupboard to take out his overcoat and hat, merely shrugged.

  ‘Do you remember the search?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Are you sure there was no gun in the apartment?’