Maigret and the Reluctant Witnesses

by Georges Simenon

The rest was more speculative, except for the time of Léonard’s death, which Doctor Paul had set at between two and three o’clock in the morning.

  When and where had he drunk the considerable amount of alcohol that had shown up in the stomach examination and blood analysis?

  Maigret dug out the first forensics report. It contained a meticulous inventory of the contents of the dead man’s room, including descriptions of the furniture, hangings and possessions. There was no mention of a bottle or glass.

  ‘Get me Doctor Paul, please. He should be in now.’

  He was, back from a lunch in town which had put him in the best of moods.

  ‘Maigret here. I’m wondering if you can explain something. It’s about the alcohol that was found in Léonard Lachaume’s body.’

  ‘It was cognac – at any rate in the stomach,’ replied Paul.

  ‘What I’m interested in is when it was drunk. Do you have any idea?’

  ‘Using scientific formulas, I can pinpoint the time to within half an hour, in fact, because the body eliminates alcohol at a steady rate, even if the rate does vary to a degree depending on the individual. Part of the alcohol found in the blood was ingested at the start of the evening, or perhaps earlier, but only relatively little. The cognac still in the stomach at the time of death was drunk quite a long time after the last meal. I would say, to leave enough margin for error, between eleven p.m. and one a.m. If you were to ask how much, I’d be more circumspect, but I’d still estimate it at a good quarter of a litre.’

  Maigret remained silent for a moment, taking in the information.

  ‘Is that all you’d like to know?’

  ‘One moment, doctor. On the basis of the post-mortem, would you say that Léonard was a heavy drinker, or even an alcoholic?’

  ‘Neither. His liver and arteries are in perfect condition. All I discovered is that he’d had a touch of tuberculosis as a child, possibly without knowing, which is more common than people think.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  Léonard Lachaume had left the house by the river at an unspecified time, but at any rate after his sister-in-law, because the Pontiac was still parked by the kerb when she went out to meet someone.

  He may have gone out immediately after her, or later. Either way, he had got back at nine.

  Not everyone in the house would have been in bed by then. Young Jean-Paul might have been, but it wasn’t certain. Léonard was also unlikely to have gone straight to his room without looking into the living room.

  So there had been some form of contact between him, his brother and their parents. At the very least, they had spent a certain amount of time together while Catherine was doing the dishes in the kitchen.

  Was that when Léonard started drinking? What had they talked about? When had the parents gone up to bed?

  If it hadn’t been for the zeal and obstinacy of Angelot, who had prevented him from questioning the family as he would have liked, Maigret would probably already know the answers to these questions.

  Were the two brothers left on their own together? What did they do when that happened? Did they go off and read in different parts of the room? Did they chat?

  Léonard hadn’t drunk the cognac in his bedroom, as they hadn’t found a glass or bottle in there.

  Either Armand had gone to bed first, leaving his older brother in the living room, or Léonard had returned there later.

  Léonard wasn’t a heavy drinker. Paul, who had cut up thousands of bodies in his career, was certain of that, and Maigret had learned to trust him.

  It was nonetheless a fact that between eleven p.m. and two a.m. the older Lachaume brother had drunk at least a quarter of a litre of cognac.

  Where did they keep the alcohol in the house? In a drinks cabinet in the living room or the dining room? Did Léonard have to go down to the cellar?

  At 11.30 or midnight, he was in his bedroom when his sister-in-law came back.

  Had he already been drinking? Or was that afterwards? A minimum of ten inspectors were still trudging back and forth in the rain, ringing doorbells, questioning people, trying to jog their memories.

  Other details would gradually be added to the store Maigret already possessed, confirming or contradicting the previous ones.

  Just as he felt like standing up and taking a turn round the inspectors’ office to clear his head, the telephone rang.

  ‘Someone called Madame Boinet insists on speaking to you personally.’

  The name didn’t ring any bells.

  ‘Ask her what it’s about.’

  Because his name was never out of the papers, or at least seemed never to be, strangers were always insisting they must speak to him personally, even about things that had nothing to do with him, such as a lost dog or a passport that needed renewing.

  ‘Hello. She says she’s the concierge at Rue François Premier.’

  ‘Put her through … Hello … Good day, madame. Maigret here.’

  ‘It’s not easy getting hold of you, detective chief inspector, and I was afraid if I left a message it wouldn’t be passed on. I wanted to tell you that she’s just got back.’

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘Yes, with her hands full of shopping, which means she’s planning to eat at home tonight.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  He again preferred a taxi to one of the Police Judiciaire’s all too recognizable black cars. It was starting to get dark. Two traffic jams held him up on Rue de Rivoli, and it took ten minutes to cross Place de la Concorde, which was jammed so solid that the cars’ wet roofs actually seemed to be touching.

  The minute he ducked into the vaulted entranceway of 17a, the concierge opened her door.

  ‘Fifth on the left. I can tell you leeks were on her shopping list, for one thing.’

  He winked conspiratorially but refrained from going into the lodge because he had seen her husband in there and didn’t want to waste time chatting.

  The building was opulent-looking, with a slow but noiseless lift. On the fifth floor, there was no name-plate on the left-hand door. Maigret pressed the electric bell, heard footsteps coming from a fair distance, muffled by carpet.

  The door opened right away. Someone was expected, if not him. The woman who greeted him frowned, as if trying to place him.

  ‘Aren’t you …?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘I had a feeling I’d seen your face somewhere. I thought it was in the movies at first, but it was in the papers. Come in.’

  Maigret was surprised because Véronique Lachaume only vaguely resembled the concierge’s description of her. She may have been plump, or even plain fat, but she was dressed in a gauzy peignoir, not a man’s suit, and the room she showed her visitor into was more of a boudoir than a sitting room.

  White was the dominant colour – the walls, the satin varnish of the furniture – offset by just a few pieces of blue china and the old rose of the deep-pile carpet, a play of colours reminiscent of a picture by Marie Laurencin.

  ‘What’s so surprising?’ she asked, pointing him to a wing chair.

  He didn’t dare sit down because of his wet overcoat.

  ‘Take off your coat and give it to me.’

  She went and hung it up in the hallway. The concierge hadn’t been mistaken in one respect at least: there was already a delicious smell of leeks coming from the kitchen.

  ‘I didn’t expect the police to be here so quickly,’ she remarked, taking a seat facing Maigret.

  Rather than a disadvantage, her weight made her attractive and very likeable, and Maigret suspected lots of men found her desirable. She didn’t simper, didn’t bother to rearrange her peignoir over her mostly bare legs.

  Her feet – toenails carefully painted – toyed with a pair of white swansdown mules.

  ‘You can smoke your pipe, detective chief inspector.’

  She took a cigarette out of a case, got up to look for matches, then came back and sat down.

  �
�I am a bit surprised the family talked about me. You must have bombarded them with questions for them to manage that, because I’m the black sheep, as far as they’re concerned, and I imagine my name is taboo in that house.’

  ‘Are you aware of what happened last night?’

  She pointed to a newspaper lying open on a chair.

  ‘I only know what I’ve just read.’

  ‘Did you have a look at the paper when you got back here?’

  She hesitated, but only for a moment.

  ‘No. At my boyfriend’s place.’

  She added good-humouredly:

  ‘I’m thirty-four, I’m a big girl, you know.’

  Her large breasts, barely covered by the white lingerie, seemed to have a life of their own, to quiver in tune with her mood. Maigret would have been inclined to call them cheerful, good-natured, rather than voluptuous.

  Her eyes were prominent, an intense blue, at once innocent and mischievous.

  ‘You’re not too surprised I didn’t rush straight to Quai de la Gare, are you? I have to admit it’s unlikely I’ll go to the funeral. I wasn’t invited to either of my brothers’ weddings, or to my first sister-in-law’s funeral. I wasn’t told when my nephew was born. It’s a clean break, as you can see!’

  ‘Isn’t that how you wanted it?’

  ‘I was the one who left, yes.’

  ‘For any particular reason? You were eighteen, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘And my family wanted to marry me off to a dealer in non-ferrous metals. Mind you, even if they hadn’t, I would have left, maybe just a little later. Have you been to the house?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I can’t imagine it’s got any better, has it? Is it still just as grim? What really surprises me is that the burglar wasn’t terrified. Either he was drunk, or else he didn’t see the house in broad daylight.’

  ‘Do you believe that about a burglar?’

  ‘The newspaper …’ she began.

  Her brow furrowed.

  ‘Isn’t it true?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Your family aren’t great talkers.’

  ‘There were parties when I was younger where people didn’t say ten sentences all evening. What’s my sister-in-law like?’

  ‘Quite pretty, as far as I could tell.’

  ‘Is it true that she’s very rich?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Have you worked it out?’

  ‘I hope I’ll work everything out in the end.’

  ‘I read what the papers said about her when they got married. I saw some photos. I felt sorry for the poor girl, then I started thinking …’

  ‘What conclusions did you reach?’

  ‘If she’d been ugly, it would have been simpler. In the end it was her father who gave me the key, I think. He was in trouble, wasn’t he? He was a man of very humble beginnings. People said that he started off going from farm to farm with his cart and that he couldn’t read or write. I don’t know if his daughter was educated in a convent. But whatever school it was, the other girls must have made her life hell. For some people, especially in Ivry, the Lachaume name still has a ring to it. The riverfront house is still a sort of bastion. Do you see what I mean? The Zubers, father and daughter, joined the upper-middle class, just like that …’

  Maigret had had the same thought.

  ‘I suspect she is paying dearly for it,’ she went on. ‘Don’t you want a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you. You haven’t seen any members of your family recently, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You haven’t gone back there?’

  ‘I’d rather go the long way round than drive past a house of which I’ve got nothing but bad memories. Still, my father is probably a decent man. He can’t help being born a Lachaume and made the way he is.’

  ‘What about Léonard?’

  ‘Léonard is far more of a Lachaume than him. Léonard was the one who wanted me to marry the metal dealer, who was a nasty piece of work, at all costs. He talked to me about the marriage like a king explaining to his children their duty to ensure the continuity of the royal line.’

  ‘Did you know your first sister-in-law?’

  ‘No. My brother hadn’t found a good match yet when I was around, although it wasn’t for lack of trying. I was the first to be asked to make a sacrifice. Armand was sick in those days. He’s never been very healthy. Even as a child, though, he was a pale imitation of Léonard. He’d try to copy his mannerisms, the way he stood, his voice. I used to make fun of him. He’s pathetic, really …’

  ‘Do you have any idea what might have happened last night?’

  ‘No clue. Don’t forget that you know more about all this than I do. Do you really think it wasn’t a burglar?’

  ‘I’m increasingly doubtful.’

  ‘You mean it was someone from the house?’

  She thought for a moment, then came to an unexpected conclusion, to say the least:

  ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It takes courage to kill someone, and I can’t see who in the family …’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  She didn’t take offence.

  ‘I’m surprised now that you didn’t ask me that earlier. I was behind the bar at the Amazone. I suppose you know about all that? That’s probably why you seemed surprised to find me in something a magazine would describe as diaphanous. The Amazone is work: velvet dinner-jacket and monocle. Here I’m just me. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve a tendency to overcompensate at home, a kind of revenge for having to spend part of my time pretending to be a masterful woman.’

  ‘You even have a lover.’

  ‘I’ve had plenty. I’ll tell you something that caused an uproar in my family at the time and made me decide to leave home much sooner: when I was sixteen, I was my drawing teacher’s mistress. Not that I had much to choose from because he was the only male teacher in our school.’

  ‘Have either of your brothers or your sister-in-law ever been to the Amazone?’

  ‘I doubt they know I work there, for a start, because I’ve never given them my address, and my name only means something in a small and pretty distinctive world. And then I very much doubt they’d want to see a Lachaume working behind a nightclub bar. Then again …’

  She hesitated, not very sure of herself.

  ‘I don’t know my sister-in-law Paulette personally, and it was years ago that her photo was in the papers, when she got married. One evening, though, I had a feeling I recognized her at one of the tables, but it was just a feeling, that’s why I was in two minds whether to mention it. I was struck by the way the woman that night stared at me, with an odd curiosity. And also that she was on her own.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A month and a half ago, maybe two …’

  ‘Have you seen her again?’

  ‘No. Do you mind if I go and have a look at the soup?’

  She was in the kitchen for some time. He could hear sounds of pots and pans, plates and forks.

  ‘I grabbed the chance to put the roast in. You mustn’t tell the owner of the Amazone or the customers, because they’d stop taking me seriously and I could lose my job, but I love cooking.’

  ‘For yourself?’

  ‘For myself and for two, sometimes.’

  ‘Tonight’s for two, isn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You mentioned a roast.’

  ‘That’s true. My boyfriend should be here in a while.’

  ‘It’s serious this time, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who told you that? One of the girls at the Amazone? It doesn’t matter, I’m not trying to hide it. Well, detective chief inspector, would you believe it: it so happens that at the age of thirty-four I’m in love and wondering whether to drop everything and get married. I like doing the housework, going to the market, the butcher, the dairy. I like pottering around in my apartment and making
little delicacies. All of which is infinitely more enjoyable when you’re expecting someone and laying the table for two. So …’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A man, of course. Not young. Forty-four. Just the right age difference. Not particularly handsome either, but not unattractive. He’s had enough of furnished rooms and restaurants. He’s a publicist. Mainly for films, so he has to be at Fouquet’s, Maxim’s, the Élysée Club every day …

  ‘He’s had his fair share of starlets, but it turns out they generally live in furnished rooms and eat in restaurants too.

  ‘So, he started to think that a woman like me …’

  Despite the heavy irony in her voice, he could sense she was in love, perhaps passionately so.

  ‘I’ve just come from his apartment, and in a moment we’re going to have dinner together. It’s time I set the table. If you have more questions to ask me, come with me. I can listen and give answers while I get on with it …’

  ‘I only want to know his name and address.’

  ‘Do you need him?’

  ‘It’s unlikely.’

  ‘Jacques Sainval, 23, Rue de Ponthieu. Jacques Sainval isn’t his real name. He’s actually called Arthur Baquet, which doesn’t have the right ring for a publicist. So he made up a name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For making me feel at home.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? You didn’t even have a drink! It’s true that there isn’t much to drink in the apartment. Having to drink champagne all night long is enough for me. Most of the time I just wet my lips and pour the rest down the sink.’

  Life was still fun for her.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t shed a tear for my brother. Maybe I should have, but I just can’t. I really want to know who killed Léonard, though.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Will you tell me?’

  ‘I promise.’

  It was almost as if they’d become accomplices, and the smile on Maigret’s lips as he walked out was almost as droll as that of the buxom young woman in her lacy peignoir.

  He waited on his own on the landing for the lift. When it arrived, there was someone in it, a man with brown hair and a receding hairline.

  He was wearing a light raincoat, with a brown hat in his hand.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered as he walked past Maigret.