‘Two hundred metres upriver, there’s a tumbledown shack with geese and ducks wandering around freely.’
‘Is that where Meurant went?’
‘He didn’t go in. He spoke to an old lady who pointed to the river.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Standing on the riverbank, leaning up against a tree. The old woman is over eighty. People call her Mother Goose. The innkeeper says she’s half mad. Her name’s Joséphine Millard. Her husband died years ago. Since then, she’s always worn the same black dress and it’s rumoured that she never takes it off, not even to go to bed. When she needs something, she makes her way to the Saturday market and sells a goose or a duck.’
‘Did she have any children?’
‘It’s so long ago that the woman from the inn can’t remember. As she says, it was before her time.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No. There’s a man living at her place.’
‘Permanently?’
‘For the past few months, yes. Before, he used to disappear for a few days at a time.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Nothing. He chops wood. He reads. He fishes. He patched up an old rowing-boat. Right now, he’s out fishing. I saw him from a distance in the boat, which he had moored to some poles on a bend in the river.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I couldn’t tell. The innkeeper describes him as dark-haired and thickset, with a hairy chest.’
‘Short?’
‘Yes.’
There was a silence. Then tentatively, as if embarrassed, Lapointe asked:
‘Are you coming, chief?’
Lapointe wasn’t afraid, but he must have sensed that he was going to have to take on responsibilities beyond his capability.
‘It will take you less than half an hour to drive here.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘What do I do in the meantime?’
Maigret hesitated, and finally said:
‘Nothing.’
‘Shall I stay put here at the inn?’
‘Can you see Meurant from where you are?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, don’t move.’
Maigret walked into the next-door office and beckoned to Janvier, who was waiting. As he was about to leave, he changed his mind and went over to Lucas.
‘Go up to Records and see if there’s anything under the name of Millard.’
‘Yes, chief. Should I phone you somewhere?’
‘No. I don’t know where I’ll be exactly. Beyond Chelles, somewhere by the Marne. If you need to get in touch with me urgently, ask the local gendarmerie for the name of an inn about two kilometres upriver.’
Janvier took the wheel of the little black car, because Maigret had never wanted to learn to drive.
‘Any news, chief?’
‘Yes.’
Janvier didn’t dare press him and, after a long silence, Maigret muttered in a frustrated tone:
‘Only I don’t know what exactly.’
He was in no great hurry to get there. He preferred not to admit it, even to himself.
‘Do you know the way?’
‘I’ve occasionally been there for Sunday lunch with my wife and children.’
They drove through the outskirts, reached the first wasteland areas and then the first fields. In Chelles, they stopped at a crossroads, unsure of the way.
‘If it’s upriver, we should turn right.’
‘Try.’
As they left the town, a car from the gendarmerie overtook them, siren blaring, and Janvier glanced at Maigret in silence.
Maigret was quiet too. Much further on, he said, chewing on his pipe:
‘I presume it’s over now.’
Because the gendarmerie car was heading for the Marne, which was now visible between the trees. To the right was an inn with yellow-painted bricks. A woman was standing on the doorstep, looking agitated.
The gendarmerie vehicle, which couldn’t go any further, had stopped by the path. Maigret and Janvier got out of their car. The woman was gesticulating and shouting something at them which they couldn’t hear.
They walked towards the shack surrounded by geese and ducks. The gendarmes, who had reached it first, called out to two men who appeared to be waiting for them. One was Lapointe. From a distance, the other looked like Gaston Meurant.
There were three gendarmes, including a lieutenant. An old woman in the doorway was gazing at all these people and shaking her head, as if unable to understand what was happening. Nobody, in fact, understood, except perhaps Meurant and Lapointe.
Mechanically, Maigret looked around for a body but couldn’t see one. Lapointe said:
‘In the water …’
But there was nothing to be seen in the water either.
As for Gaston Meurant, he was calm, almost smiling, and when Maigret finally made up his mind to look him in the eye, the picture-framer appeared to be silently thanking him.
Lapointe explained, as much for his chief’s benefit as for the gendarmes:
‘The man stopped fishing and untied his boat from the poles you see over there.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know his name. He was wearing coarse linen trousers and a sailor’s roll-neck pullover. He began to row across the river against the current.’
‘Where were you?’ asked the lieutenant.
‘At the inn. I was watching from the window. I’d just telephoned Detective Chief Inspector Maigret …’
He indicated his boss and the officer, embarrassed, walked towards him.
‘I apologize, inspector. You were the last person I expected to meet here so I didn’t recognize you. Your man had the innkeeper call us, but she simply said that a man had just been killed and had fallen into the water. I informed the Flying Squad immediately.’
The sound of an engine could be heard from the direction of the inn.
‘Here they are!’
The newcomers added to the chaos and confusion. This was the Seine-et-Marne département, which was outside Maigret’s jurisdiction.
But they all turned towards him.
‘Shouldn’t we handcuff him?’
‘That’s up to you, lieutenant. Personally, I don’t think it’s necessary.’
Meurant was no longer febrile. He listened distractedly to what was being said, as if it did not concern him. Most of the time, he stared downriver into the murky waters of the Marne.
Lapointe continued:
‘While he rowed, the man in the boat had his back to the riverbank. So he couldn’t see Meurant, who was standing by this tree.’
‘Did you know he was going to shoot?’
‘I was unaware that he had a gun.’
Maigret’s face remained inscrutable. But Janvier glanced at him as if he had suddenly realized what was happening.
‘As the bow touched the shore, the rower stood up and grabbed the anchor, then, just as he turned around, he found himself face to face with Meurant, who was barely three metres away.
‘I don’t know if any words were exchanged. I was too far away.
‘Almost immediately, Meurant pulled an automatic out of his pocket and extended his right arm.
‘The other man, standing in the boat, must have been hit by two bullets shot in quick succession. He dropped the anchor. His arms flailed, and he fell into the water face first …’
Now they all gazed at the river. The rain of the past few days had made the yellowish waters swell and form strong eddies in places.
‘I asked the woman from the inn to call the gendarmerie and I ran—’
‘Do you have a gun?’
‘No.’
Lapointe added, perhaps rashly:
‘There was no danger.’
The gendarmes were baffled. So were the men from the Flying Squad. Even though they had read the report of the trial in the newspapers, they didn’t know the details of the case.
‘Meurant didn’t try to r
un away. He stayed put, watching the body vanish then reappear two or three times, each time a little further away, before sinking once and for all.
‘When I reached him, he dropped his gun. I didn’t touch it.’
The automatic was embedded in the mud on the path, next to a dead branch.
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Only two words:
‘ “It’s over.” ’
And indeed, Gaston Meurant’s struggle was over. His body seemed limper, his face puffy with exhaustion.
He was not jubilant, felt no wish to explain or justify himself. It was his business and his alone.
He believed he had done what he had to do.
Would he have found peace in any other way? Would he find it now?
The Melun public prosecutor was on his way to the scene. The madwoman in her doorway was still shaking her head, never having seen so many people around her house.
‘It is possible,’ Maigret told his colleagues, ‘that when you search the shack, you’ll make some interesting discoveries.’
He could have stayed with them and watched the search.
‘Gentlemen, I’ll send you all the intelligence you’ll need.’
He would not be taking Meurant to Paris, because Meurant no longer belonged to Quai des Orfèvres, or to the Seine public prosecutor.
It was in Melun that he would appear before the court for the second time.
Maigret turned to Lapointe and Janvier:
‘Are you coming, boys?’
He shook hands with those around him. Then, as he turned to leave, he darted a final glance at Ginette’s husband.
Suddenly aware of his exhaustion no doubt, Meurant was leaning against a tree, watching Maigret leave with a sort of sadness.
8.
Few words were spoken during the return drive. Several times, Lapointe opened his mouth, but Maigret’s silence was so dense, so resolute, that he didn’t dare say anything.
Janvier was at the wheel, and he gradually had the feeling that he understood.
A few kilometres’ difference and they were the ones who would have been bringing Gaston Meurant back.
‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ muttered Janvier as if talking to himself.
Maigret neither agreed nor disagreed. What exactly had Janvier been referring to?
The three of them walked up the stairs of the Police Judiciaire, and parted in the corridor, Lapointe and Janvier to go into the inspectors’ office, and Maigret to enter his, where he hung his coat and hat in the cupboard.
He didn’t touch the bottle of brandy which he kept in reserve for certain customers. He barely had the time to fill a pipe before Lucas knocked and placed a bulky file in front of him.
‘I found this upstairs, chief. It looks as if it all stacks up.’
And it did stack up. It was the file of Pierre Millard, known as Pierrot, thirty-two years old, born in Paris in the Goutte-d’Or district.
He’d had a criminal record from the age of eighteen, when he’d appeared in front of the Seine tribunal for procurement. Then came two further convictions for the same offence, with a stint in Fresnes prison, then a conviction for causing grievous bodily harm in Marseille and finally five years at Fontevrault jail for the burglary of a factory in Bordeaux and inflicting grievous bodily harm on a night watchman who had been found half-dead.
He had been freed eighteen months ago. Since then, the police had lost track of him.
Maigret picked up the telephone and called Toulon.
‘Is that you, Blanc? Well, my friend, it’s all over. Two bullets in the body of a certain Pierre Millard, known as Pierrot.’
‘A short, swarthy fellow?’
‘Yes. They’re looking for his body in the Marne, where he fell head first. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘I’ll have to ask my men. I think he was prowling around here just over a year ago.’
‘It’s likely. He was released from Fontevrault and banned from residence in Paris. Perhaps, now that you know his name, you could ask Alfred Meurant a few precise questions? Is he still with you?’
‘Yes. Shall I call you back?’
‘Thank you.’
In Paris, in any case, Millard had been cautious. Although he went into the city often, almost every day, he was careful not to sleep there. He had found a safe place to stay on the banks of the Marne, in the shack belonging to the old woman, who must have been his grandmother.
He had lain low since the double murder in Rue Manuel. Ginette Meurant hadn’t tried to join him. She had sent no message. Perhaps she didn’t know where he was hiding.
If things had gone differently, especially if Nicolas Cajou had not testified, would Gaston Meurant have been wrongly sentenced to death or to forced labour for life? At best, given there was a slight doubt and in the light of his honourable past, he would have got away with twenty years.
Millard, then, once the verdict was given, could have come out of his hiding place, made his way to the countryside or abroad, where all Ginette had to do was join him.
‘Hello, yes …’
The call was from Seine-et-Marne. It was the Gournay Flying Squad informing him that they had discovered gold coins, bearer bonds and a quantity of banknotes in an old wallet.
All in a metal box buried in the poultry pen.
They hadn’t yet retrieved the body but hoped to find it at the Chelles weir, where the lock-keeper was used to fishing out most of those who drowned in the millstream.
They had made other discoveries in the old woman’s house, including an ancient trunk in the attic containing a nineteenth-century bridal gown, a suit, other dresses, some of puce or pale-blue silk, trimmed with yellowed lace. The most startling find was a Zouave uniform from the turn of the century.
Mother Goose barely remembered her family, and seemed unaffected by the death of her grandson. When the police talked of taking her to Gournay to question her, her only worry was her birds and they had to promise they would bring her back that evening.
They would probably not ask her about her past, or her children, all trace of whom had been lost.
It was likely she would live for many more years in her riverside shack.
‘Janvier!’
‘Yes, chief.’
‘Can you take Lapointe with you and go to Rue Delambre?’
‘Should I bring her in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you think I should get a warrant?’
As an officer of the Police Judiciaire, Maigret was authorized to sign an arrest warrant, which he did on the spot.
‘What if she asks any questions?’
‘Say nothing.’
‘Should I handcuff her?’
‘Only if it’s necessary.’
Blanc called back from Toulon.
‘I have just asked him some interesting questions.’
‘Did you tell him that Millard was dead?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did he seem surprised?’
‘No. He didn’t even bother to pretend.’
‘Did he spill the beans?’
‘More or less. It’s up to you to judge. He was careful not to say anything that might incriminate himself. He admits to knowing Millard. He met him several times, more than seven years ago, in Paris and Marseille. Then Millard got five years and Alfred Meurant heard no more from him.
‘On his release from Fontevrault, Millard came back and hung around Marseille, then Toulon. He was in quite a bad way and was trying to get back in the saddle. His plan, from what Meurant says, was to stop tinkering and to pull off a big job that would set him up once and for all.
‘As soon as he’d refurbished his wardrobe, he planned to go to Paris.
‘He only stayed on the Riviera for a few weeks. Meurant admits he gave him small sums of money, introduced him to friends, who also helped him out.
‘As for the question of Ginette Meurant, her brother-in-law talks about her as if she’s a joke. Apparentl
y, he said to Millard, when he left:
‘ “If you need a woman, there’s always my little sister-in-law, who’s married a fool and is bored.”
‘He swears there’s nothing else. He gave him Ginette’s address, adding that she loved going to a dance hall in Rue des Gravilliers.
‘If he’s to be believed, Pierre Millard gave no further sign of life, and nor did Ginette.’
That wasn’t necessarily true, but it was plausible.
‘What do I do with him?’
‘Take his statement and let him go. But don’t lose sight of him, because he’ll be needed at the trial.’
If there was a trial. A new investigation would begin, as soon as Lapointe and Janvier brought Ginette Meurant into Maigret’s office.
Would he be able to establish her complicity with her lover beyond any shadow of a doubt?
Nicolas Cajou would go and identify Millard’s body, and then the chambermaid, and others.
Then would come the examination of the case, and then, possibly, the referral to the public prosecutor.
Meanwhile, it was more than likely that Ginette would remain in prison.
And then, one day, it would be her turn to appear before the court.
Maigret would be called as a witness once more. The jury would try to make sense of this story, which took place in a world so different from their own.
Before that, because the case was more straightforward and the timetable less busy at the Seine-et-Marne court, Maigret would be summoned to Melun.
He’d be shut up with other witnesses in a dark, muffled room like a sacristy where he would wait his turn watching the door and listening to the muted echoes from the courtroom.
He would see Gaston Meurant between two gendarmes, would swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Would he really divulge all? At a particular point, when the telephone was ringing non-stop in his office, from where he was in a way pulling the strings of all the characters, had he not taken upon himself a responsibility that was hard to explain?
Could he not have …
In two years’ time, he would no longer have to worry about other people’s problems. He’d be living with Madame Maigret in an old house that resembled a presbytery, far from the Quai des Orfèvres and the law courts where men are judged. He’d spend hours on end sitting in a boat moored to a post, watching the water flow past and fishing.
Maigret in Court Page 11