Maigret in Court

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Certain. I’m convinced that Meurant has never owned a gun. He didn’t even do his military service, because of his eyesight …’

  ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, chief.’

  Maigret took the bus, then walked down Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, his collar turned up and his shoulders hunched. As he reached the landing of his apartment, the door opened, creating a rectangle of warm light and exuding cooking aromas.

  ‘Happy?’ asked Madame Maigret.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s been acquitted.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just heard it on the wireless.’

  ‘What else are they saying?’

  ‘That his wife was waiting for him outside and they got into a taxi to go home.’

  Maigret stepped back into his domestic life, put on his slippers and resumed his usual habits.

  ‘Are you very hungry?’

  ‘I don’t know. What’s for dinner?’

  He was thinking about another apartment on Boulevard de Charonne, where there was another couple. There was probably no dinner waiting, but maybe some ham and cheese in the larder.

  In the street, two inspectors were pacing up and down in the rain, unless they’d found shelter in a doorway.

  What was happening? What had Gaston Meurant, who had been in prison for seven months, said to his wife? How was he looking at her? Had she tried to kiss him, to place her hand over his?

  Had she claimed that all the things that had been said about her were untrue? Or was she asking for his forgiveness, swearing that he was the only man she loved?

  Would he return to his shop, his picture-framing workshop in the courtyard, the next day?

  Maigret ate mechanically and Madame Maigret knew that this was not the time to question him.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Hello, yes … Speaking … Vacher? … Is Jussieu still with you?’

  ‘I’m calling from a local café to update you … I’ve nothing special to report, but I thought you’d like to know—’

  ‘Did they go home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes. A few moments later, the lights on the third floor went on. I saw shadows coming and going behind the curtains.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘After around half an hour, the wife came down, holding an umbrella. Jussieu followed her. She didn’t go far, only into a charcuterie and a bakery, and then she went back up to her apartment—’

  ‘Did Jussieu see her from close up?’

  ‘Fairly close, through the window of the charcuterie.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘She looked as if she’d been crying. Her cheeks were red, her eyes shiny—’

  ‘Did she not appear anxious?’

  ‘Jussieu says she didn’t.’

  ‘And since?’

  ‘I imagine they ate. I saw Ginette Meurant’s shape in what appears to be the bedroom—’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. Should we both stay here?’

  ‘It’s best. I’d like one of you to keep watch inside the building later. The residents probably go to bed early. Jussieu could stand guard on the landing, for example, once the comings and goings have stopped. He can let the concierge know and ask her to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Very well, chief.’

  ‘Call me back in two hours in any case.’

  ‘If the café’s still open.’

  ‘Otherwise, I may drop by.’

  There was no gun in the apartment, true, but hadn’t Léontine Faverges’ murderer used a knife, which, incidentally, had never been found? A very sharp knife, according to the experts, who thought it was probably a butcher’s knife.

  All the cutlers and ironmongers in Paris had been questioned, but of course to no avail.

  When all was said and done, the only definite fact was that a woman and a little girl were dead, that a certain bloodstained blue suit belonged to Gaston Meurant and that his wife, at the time of the murder, was in the habit of meeting a lover several times a week in a furnished room in Rue Victor-Massé.

  That was all, and the jury had just acquitted the picture-framer due to lack of evidence.

  Although there was no conclusive proof of his guilt, there was no conclusive proof of his innocence either.

  During her husband’s incarceration, Ginette Meurant had led an exemplary life, barely leaving her apartment and not meeting any dubious individuals.

  There was no telephone in her apartment. Her post had been opened but had yielded nothing.

  ‘Are you really planning to go over there tonight?’

  ‘I’ll just drop in before I go to bed.’

  ‘Are you afraid something will happen?’

  What could he say? That the two of them were ill-suited to live together in the bizarre apartment where History of the Consulate and the Empire sat side-by-side with silk dolls and confessions of film stars on the shelves of the cosy-corner.

  5.

  At around eleven thirty in the evening, Maigret alighted from a taxi on Boulevard de Charonne. Jussieu emerged noiselessly from the shadows, his face wearing the blank expression of an officer on night surveillance. He pointed to a lit window above them, on the third floor. It was one of the few lights on in the neighbourhood – a neighbourhood where people left early in the morning to go to work.

  The rain was beginning to ease up and there were glimmers of silvery moonlight between the clouds.

  ‘That window’s the dining room,’ explained Jussieu, who reeked of cigarettes. ‘The bedroom light went off half an hour ago.’

  Maigret waited for a few minutes, hoping to catch signs of activity behind the curtain. Since there was no movement, he went home to bed.

  The next day, from the reports and telephone calls, he would reconstruct and follow the Meurants’ movements hour by hour.

  At six o’clock in the morning, as the concierge was bringing in the rubbish bins, two inspectors arrived to relieve Vacher and Jussieu, but they didn’t go inside the building because it was no longer possible for one of them to lurk on the stairs during the daytime.

  The report given by Vacher, who had spent the night either sitting on a stair or standing outside the door as soon as he heard any sound inside the apartment, was somewhat disturbing.

  Quite early, after a meal during which the couple had barely spoken, Ginette Meurant went into the bedroom to get undressed; Jussieu, who had watched her shadow from the street, confirmed he had seen her slip her dress over her head.

  Her husband had not followed her. She went to say a few words to him, and had apparently gone to bed while he stayed sitting in an armchair in the dining room.

  Then, several times, he’d stood up and paced up and down, pausing occasionally, resuming his pacing, and then sitting down.

  At around midnight, his wife had come to talk to him again. From the landing, Vacher hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying, but he could make out the two voices. They didn’t sound as if they were arguing. It was a sort of monologue by the wife, punctuated, from time to time, by a curt phrase or even a single word from the husband.

  She had gone back to bed, still alone, apparently. The dining-room light had stayed on and, at around two thirty, Ginette was back again. Meurant hadn’t been asleep, because he replied straight away, brusquely. Vacher thought she’d been crying. He’d heard a continual whimpering interspersed with tell-tale sniffling.

  Again without anger, the husband had sent her back to bed and had probably ended up falling asleep in his armchair.

  Later, a baby had woken up on the floor above; there had been muffled footsteps and then, from five o’clock onwards, the residents had begun to rise. Lights had come on and the aroma of coffee filled the stairwell. Already at five thirty, one man left for work, darting an inquisitive glance at the inspector who had nowhere to hide, then he looked at the door and seemed to grasp wha
t was going on.

  Dupeu and Baron took over outside at six. The rain had stopped, and water was dripping from the trees. The fog made it impossible to see further than twenty metres away.

  The dining-room light was still on, the bedroom one was off. Meurant soon came out, unshaven, his clothes crumpled as if he’d slept in them. He headed towards the bar-tobacconist’s on the corner where he drank three cups of black coffee and ate croissants. As he was about to open the door to leave, he changed his mind and went back to the bar where he ordered a brandy, which he downed in one.

  The investigation carried out in the spring had indicated that he wasn’t a drinker, that he drank barely one glass of wine with his meals and, in summer, just the occasional beer.

  He made his way on foot to Rue de la Roquette, without looking behind him to see whether he was being followed. On reaching his shop, he paused for a moment in front of the closed shutters but did not go in. He continued into the courtyard and unlocked the door of the glass-fronted studio.

  He stood there for a long time, doing nothing, looking about him at the work table, the tools on hooks on the walls, the suspended frames, the planks of wood and the shavings. Water had seeped under the door and formed a little puddle on the concrete floor.

  Meurant opened the stove door and put in some kindling and leftover lumps of coal, then, about to strike a match, he changed his mind, left the workshop and locked the door behind him.

  He walked for quite a while, as if with no particular destination in mind. At Place de la République, he went into another bar where he drank a second brandy while the waiter stared at him as if wondering where he’d seen his face before.

  Did he realize? A couple of passers-by had also turned around to look at him because that morning his photograph had appeared in the newspapers again under the headline:

  GASTON MEURANT ACQUITTED

  That headline and photo were in all the kiosks, but he wasn’t curious enough to buy a paper. He took the bus, got off twenty minutes later at Place Pigalle and headed for Rue Victor-Massé.

  At last he came to the furnished lodgings owned by Nicolas Cajou, the Hôtel du Lion, and stood gazing at the façade for a long time.

  When he set off again, it was to go back down in the direction of the Grands Boulevards. He walked unsteadily, pausing sometimes at a junction as if he didn’t know which way to go, and stopping at one point to buy a packet of cigarettes.

  He went down Rue Montmartre to Les Halles and the inspector tailing him almost lost him in the crowd. At Châtelet, he drank a third brandy, again downing it in one, and at last he reached Quai des Orfèvres.

  Now it was daylight, the yellowish fog was less dense. Maigret, in his office, was taking a telephone report from Dupeu, who had remained on surveillance outside the Meurants’ apartment in Boulevard de Charonne.

  ‘The wife got up at seven fifty. I saw her draw the curtains and open the window to look out into the street as if searching for her husband. She probably hadn’t heard him leave and was surprised to find the dining room empty. I think she spotted me, chief …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. If she goes out too, try not to let her give you the slip.’

  Gaston Meurant stood dithering outside on Quai des Orfèvres, gazing up at the windows of the Police Judiciaire in the same way he had looked at those of the furnished lodging house. It was 9.30. He continued on to Pont Saint-Michel, was about to cross the bridge but then retraced his steps and, marching past the officer on guard, walked through the entrance to the building.

  He was familiar with the place. He was seen slowly mounting the grey stairs, stopping, not to catch his breath but because he was still undecided.

  ‘He’s on his way up, chief!’ Baron telephoned from his room on the ground floor.

  And Maigret repeated to Janvier, who was in his office:

  ‘He’s coming up.’

  They both waited. Meurant took an age. He couldn’t make up his mind but skulked in the corridor, stopping outside Maigret’s door as if he was going to knock unannounced.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Joseph, the elderly clerk.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘This way please. Fill in the form.’

  Pencil in hand, he was still thinking of leaving when Janvier came out of Maigret’s office.

  ‘Have you come to see Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? Follow me.’

  For Meurant, all this must have felt like a nightmare. He looked as if he’d barely slept, his eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. But he wasn’t drunk. He followed Janvier, who opened the door, showed him into the room and closed it without going in himself.

  Maigret, at his desk, appeared to be engrossed in a file. He didn’t raise his eyes immediately but then turned to his visitor, without showing any surprise, and muttered:

  ‘Just a moment …’

  He annotated a document, then another, mumbling distractedly:

  ‘Have a seat.’

  Meurant did not sit down, did not venture further into the room. His patience running out, he said:

  ‘You imagine perhaps that I’ve come to say thank you?’

  His voice was not entirely natural. He sounded a little hoarse and was trying to introduce a note of sarcasm.

  ‘Have a seat,’ repeated Maigret without looking at him.

  This time, Meurant took three steps forward and grabbed the back of a chair with a green velvet seat.

  ‘Did you do that to save me?’

  At last, Maigret looked him up and down, calmly.

  ‘You look tired, Meurant.’

  ‘This is not about me but about what you did yesterday.’

  His voice was fainter, as if he’d been trying hard to contain his anger.

  ‘I have come to tell you that I don’t believe you, that you lied, as those people lied, that I’d rather be in prison, that you have acted wrongly …’

  Had the alcohol made him lose his grip on reality? Possibly. But, once again, he wasn’t drunk and he must have been saying those words over and over to himself for most of the night.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  At last! He made up his mind, reluctantly, as if he sensed a trap.

  ‘You may smoke.’

  In protest, much as he wanted to, he refrained, so as not to be beholden to Maigret. His hand was trembling.

  ‘It is easy to say anything you want to people like that, who are reliant on the police …’

  He clearly meant Nicolas Cajou, the lodging-house manager, and the chambermaid.

  Maigret lit his pipe, slowly, and waited.

  ‘You know as well as I do that it’s not true …’

  His anguish caused beads of sweat to form on his forehead. Maigret finally spoke.

  ‘You claim that you killed your aunt and little Cécile Perrin?’

  ‘You know I didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I am convinced you didn’t do it. Why is that, do you think?’

  Surprised, Meurant was at a loss to answer.

  ‘There are a lot of children in your apartment building in Boulevard de Charonne, aren’t there?’

  Meurant said yes, automatically.

  ‘You hear them coming in and going out. Sometimes, after school, they play on the stairs. Do you talk to them occasionally?’

  ‘I know them.’

  ‘Even though you don’t have children yourself, you know the school timetable. That struck me from the start of the investigation. Cécile Perrin went to nursery school. Léontine Faverges would go and pick her up at four o’clock every day, except Thursday. So until four o’clock, your aunt was alone in the apartment.’

  Meurant tried to follow his drift.

  ‘You had a large payment due on 28 February, true. It is possible that the last time you borrowed money from her, Léontine Faverges had said to you that she would not let you have any more. Supposing you had planned to kill her to take the money from the Chines
e vase and the shares …’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Let me finish. I was saying: supposing that had been your plan, you had no reason to go to Rue Manuel after four o’clock and, consequently, to have to kill two people instead of one. Criminals who needlessly attack children are rare and belong to a well-defined category.’

  Meurant, whose eyes had misted over, looked as if he was about to cry.

  ‘The person who murdered Léontine Faverges and the child was either unaware of the little girl’s existence or had to strike in the late afternoon. Now, if he knew the secret of the vase and the drawer containing the shares, he was probably also aware of Cécile Perrin’s presence in the apartment.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Have a cigarette.’

  The man obeyed mechanically, continuing to gaze at Maigret with suspicion, but there was less anger in his eyes.

  ‘We’re still speculating, aren’t we? The murderer knows that you are to come to Rue Manuel at six o’clock. He knows that in most cases the forensic pathologists – the newspapers have repeated it often enough – are able to determine the time of death to within one or two hours.’

  ‘No one knew that …’

  His voice had changed and now he looked away from Maigret’s face.

  ‘By committing his crime at around five o’clock, the murderer was almost certain that you would come under suspicion. He could not foresee that a customer would turn up at your workshop at six o’clock and, besides, the music teacher was unable to give a formal statement because he wasn’t sure of the date.’

  ‘No one knew …’ repeated Meurant mechanically.

  Maigret abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘Do you know your neighbours at Boulevard de Charonne?’

  ‘I say hello to them in passing.’

  ‘They never come to your apartment, not even for a cup of coffee? You never go into theirs? You aren’t on friendly terms with any of them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So the chances are they have never heard of your aunt.’

  ‘Now they have!’

  ‘But not before. Did you and your wife have a lot of friends in Paris?’

  Meurant replied unwillingly, as if he were afraid that if he gave way on one point, he would have to do so all the way down the line.