‘I thought I could …’
‘You pushed it a bit too far. Are your colleagues here?’
‘A few.’
‘Who told them?’
‘I don’t know. About half an hour ago my editor in chief sent for me …’
The clerk at the Forensic Institute probably. There were people hand in glove with the newspapers like that almost everywhere.
Seven or eight representatives of the press were already in attendance downstairs, and others were on their way.
‘What happened exactly, detective chief inspector?’
‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be here. I’m going to ask you to let us work in peace and I promise you that if we find anything …’
‘Can we take photographs?’
‘Be quick.’
There were too many people to question to take them to Quai des Orfèvres, so a big, empty suite of rooms had been pressed into service instead. Lapointe was already at work with Bonfils, and Torrence had just arrived with Lesueur.
He assigned the job of searching the apartment on the second floor to Torrence and sent Bonfils up to Monsieur Joseph’s rooms. Fumal’s business manager hadn’t returned from Rue Rambuteau yet.
‘When he gets back, question him, just in case, but I doubt he’ll say much.’
The gentlemen from the public prosecutor’s office had left, as had most of the specialists from Criminal Records.
‘Send a maid up to see to Madame Fumal – just one, Noémi, she always does it – and have the others wait in the drawing room.’
When the telephone rang in the dead man’s office, it was Louise Bourges, unsurprisingly, who answered.
‘Monsieur Fumal’s secretary here … Yes … Of course, he’s here … I’ll put him on …’
She turned towards Maigret.
‘It’s for you … From Quai des Orfèvres …’
‘Hello, yes …’
The commissioner of the Police Judiciaire was on the other end of the line.
‘The minister of the interior has just rung …’
‘Does he know?’
‘Yes. Everyone does.’
Had one of the journalists told radio news? It was possible.
‘Is he furious?’
‘That’s not the word. Bothered, more like it. He wants to be kept regularly updated about the investigation as it progresses. Have you got any ideas?’
‘None.’
‘People think it’ll cause an uproar. That man was an even bigger wheel than he claimed to be.’
‘Will he be missed?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘No reason. So far people seem relieved, if anything.’
‘You’re pulling out all the stops, aren’t you?’
Of course he was! And yet he’d never felt so little desire to find the murderer. Admittedly he was curious to know who had finally decided to do away with Fumal, who had reached the end of his or her tether and staked everything. But would he hold it against them? Wasn’t it more likely he’d feel a pang of anguish when he put the handcuffs on?
He had rarely been faced with so many hypotheses, each as plausible as the next.
There was Madame Fumal, obviously, who would have only had to go down one floor to avenge herself for twenty years of humiliation. Besides regaining her freedom, she would probably stand to inherit his fortune, either outright or in part.
Did she have a lover? Judging by appearances it seemed unlikely, but it was a subject on which he had become increasingly sceptical.
Then there was Monsieur Joseph …
He seemed utterly devoted to the wholesale butcher, in whose shadow he lived. Lord knows what schemes they’d got up to, those two. Fumal must have had some sort of a hold over the fellow, mustn’t he, as he seemed to over everyone who worked for him?
But even creatures like Monsieur Joseph rebel!
What about Louise Bourges, the secretary who had come to see him at Quai des Orfèvres?
So far she was the only person to claim that her employer had written the anonymous notes himself.
Félix, the chauffeur, was her lover. Both were in a hurry to get married and move to Giens.
Supposing she or Félix had robbed Fumal, or tried to swindle, even blackmail him?
Everybody in this business seemed to have reasons to commit murder, including Victor, the former poacher, who was kept on a tight leash by his boss.
They would pore over the lives of all the other staff. Not to mention Gaillardin, who hadn’t returned to Rue François Premier after visiting Fumal.
‘Are you leaving, chief?’
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
He was thirsty and needed to fill his lungs with something other than the air in that house.
‘If anyone asks for me, tell Lapointe to take a message.’
On the landing, he had to fend off the journalists and downstairs he found several press cars and a radio car by the side of the road. A handful of passers-by had stopped, and a uniformed policeman was standing in front of the door.
With his hands in his pockets, Maigret walked fast towards Boulevard des Batignolles, where he went into the first bistro he came across.
‘A beer,’ he ordered. ‘And a token.’
The token was to telephone his wife.
‘I definitely won’t be back for lunch … Dinner? I hope so … Maybe … No, I’m not annoyed about anything …’
Maybe the minister was actually pretty happy to be rid of a compromising friend, he thought. And other people must have been thrilled. The staff at Rue Rambuteau, say, and La Villette, and all the managers of the butchers’ shops whose lives Fumal had made hell.
He didn’t yet know that the newspapers’ afternoon editions would proclaim:
King of Meat Trade Murdered
Newspapers are fond of the word ‘king’, as they are of ‘millionaire’. One paper would specify that, according to experts, Fumal controlled a tenth of the butchery trade in Paris and more than a quarter in certain départements in the north.
Who was going to inherit that empire? Madame Fumal?
As he was coming out of the bistro Maigret saw a taxi with its light on, which gave him the idea of going and having a look around Rue François Premier. He had already sent Neveu there, whom he hadn’t heard from, but he wanted to see for himself and, above all, he was glad to have an excuse to escape the nauseating atmosphere of Boulevard de Courcelles for a while.
It was a modern block, with a smart, almost luxurious concierge’s lodge.
‘Monsieur Gaillardin? Third floor on the left, but I don’t think he’s at home.’
Maigret took the lift, rang the bell. A young woman in a dressing gown came to open the door, or rather hold it open a crack until he said his name.
‘Still no word from Roger?’ she asked, showing him into a living room as full of light as any room in Paris could be in that weather.
‘Have you heard anything?’
‘No. I’ve been worried since your inspector came here. Just now I heard on the radio …’
‘Did they mention Fumal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know your husband went to see him yesterday evening?’
She was pretty, with a delectable figure, and can’t have been much over thirty.
‘He’s not my husband,’ she corrected him. ‘Roger and I aren’t married.’
‘I know. I didn’t mean to say that.’
‘He has a wife and two children but he doesn’t live with them. He hasn’t for years … wait … for five years exactly.’
‘Are you aware of his problems?’
‘I know he’s more or less ruined and that that man …’
‘Tell me, does Gaillardin have a revolver?’
She paled visibly, making it impossible for her to lie.
‘There’s always been one in his drawer.’
‘Will you check if it’s still there? May I come with you?’
He followed h
er into the bedroom, where she had evidently slept alone in a huge, very low bed. She opened two or three drawers and seemed surprised, then started opening other drawers increasingly feverishly.
‘I can’t find it.’
‘I don’t suppose he ever carried it on him?’
‘Not that I know of. You don’t know him, do you? He’s a calm person, very cheerful, what people would call a bon vivant.’
‘Weren’t you worried when you saw he hadn’t come home?’
She didn’t know what to say.
‘Yes … Of course … I told your inspector I was … But, you see, he was confident … He was sure he’d find the money in the nick of time … I thought he’d gone to see some friends, maybe out of town.’
‘Where does his wife live?’
‘In Neuilly. I’ll give you her address.’
She wrote it down on a piece of paper for him. The telephone rang just then. Apologizing, she picked it up. The voice on the other end of the line was so booming that Maigret could hear what it was saying.
‘Hello? Madame Gaillardin?’
‘Yes … I mean …’
‘Is this 26, Rue François Premier?’
‘Yes.’
‘The residence of a Roger Gaillardin?’
Maigret would have sworn the invisible speaker was a duty sergeant in a police station.
‘Yes. I live with him but I’m not his wife.’
‘Could you come to Puteaux station as soon as possible?’
‘Has something happened?’
‘Something’s happened, yes.’
‘Is Roger dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t you tell me what happened?’
‘First you’ve got to identify the body. We’ve found some identity papers, but …’
Maigret signalled to the young woman to hand him the receiver.
‘Hello, this is Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Police Judiciaire. Tell me what you know.’
‘At nine thirty-two a man was found dead on the banks of the Seine, 300 metres downstream from the Pont de Puteaux. A pile of bricks unloaded a few days ago prevented passers-by from noticing him earlier. It was a bargee who …’
‘Murdered?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so, because he was still holding a revolver with only one bullet missing. He appears to have shot himself in the right temple.’
‘Thank you. When the body has been identified, send it to the Forensic Institute and get the contents of his pockets sent over to Quai des Orfèvres. The person who answered just now will meet you there.’
Maigret hung up.
‘He shot himself in the head,’ he said.
‘I heard.’
‘Does his wife have a telephone?’
‘Yes.’
She gave him the number, which he dialled.
‘Hello, Madame Gaillardin?’
‘It’s the maid here.’
‘Isn’t Madame Gaillardin at home?’
‘She left for the Côte d’Azur the day before yesterday with her children. Who’s speaking? Is that monsieur?’
‘No. The police. I have a question. Were you in the apartment yesterday evening?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did Monsieur Gaillardin come by?’
‘Why?’
‘Please answer.’
‘The answer is yes.’
‘What time?’
‘I was in bed. It was after ten thirty.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To talk to madame.’
‘Did he often visit in the evening?’
‘Not in the evening, no.’
‘In the day?’
‘He’d come and see the children.’
‘But yesterday he wanted to talk to his wife?’
‘Yes. He seemed surprised that she’d gone away.’
‘Did he stay long?’
‘No.’
‘Did he seem agitated?’
‘Definitely tired. I even offered him a glass of cognac.’
‘Did he drink it?’
‘In one.’
Maigret hung up, turned towards the young woman.
‘You can go to Puteaux.’
‘Aren’t you coming with me?’
‘Not now. I’m sure I’ll have the chance to see you again.’
So, to sum up, Gaillardin had left Rue François Premier the previous day, taking his revolver with him, and headed to Boulevard de Courcelles first. Did he hope Fumal would give him a stay of execution? Was he counting on some argument to sway him?
He can’t have had any luck. Shortly afterwards he had rung the bell of his wife’s apartment in Neuilly and only found the maid at home. The apartment was near the Seine. Three hundred metres away was the Pont de Puteaux. He had walked across the bridge.
Had he roamed around on the embankments for a long time before shooting himself in the head?
Maigret went into a upmarket-looking bar and muttered, ‘A beer and a token.’
The token was to call the Forensic Institute.
‘Maigret here. Has Doctor Paul arrived? What? Maigret, yes … He’s still busy? Ask him if he’s found the bullet … Wait … If he’s found it, see if it’s from a revolver or an automatic …’
He heard people moving around, voices on the other end of the line.
‘Hello … Detective chief inspector? The bullet appears to be from an automatic … It lodged in …’
He wasn’t interested where the bullet that killed Fumal had lodged.
Short of assuming Roger Gaillardin had been carrying two guns that evening, he can’t have been the person who killed the king of the meat trade.
As he crossed the landing on the first floor at Boulevard de Courcelles, he was set upon by the journalists again. To get rid of them, he told them about the discovery on the embankment at Puteaux.
The inspectors were still questioning the secretary and staff in different rooms. Torrence was the only one at a loose end. He seemed to be waiting impatiently for Maigret and immediately drew him into a corner.
‘I’ve found something upstairs, chief,’ he said in a low voice.
‘The firearm?’
‘No. Come with me, will you?’
They went up to the second floor, entered the drawing room with all the armchairs and the piano that must have been purely ornamental.
‘In Madame Fumal’s bedroom?’
Torrence shook his head mysteriously.
‘Her apartment is huge,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll see.’
With the assurance of someone who knows his way around, he pointed out the different rooms to Maigret, without worrying about Madame Fumal, who was still in bed.
‘I haven’t told her anything yet. I think it’s better if it comes from you. This way …’
They went through one empty bedroom, then another, both of which clearly hadn’t been slept in for a long time. There was a disused bathroom as well, which had been used to store buckets and brooms.
Down a corridor, on the left, a sizeable room was stacked full of furniture, trunks and dusty suitcases.
Finally, at the very end of the corridor, Torrence opened the door to a room that was smaller and narrower than the others, with a single window giving on to the courtyard. It was furnished like a maid’s room, with a couch covered in red rep, a table, two chairs and a cheap wardrobe. The inspector, a triumphant glint in his eyes, pointed to a promotional ashtray in which two cigarette butts could be seen.
‘Smell them, chief. I don’t know what Moers will say but I’d swear those cigarettes weren’t smoked long ago. Yesterday probably. Maybe even this morning. When I came in the room still smelled of tobacco.’
‘Have you had a look in the wardrobe?’
‘There’s only a couple of blankets. Now, get up on the chair … Watch out, it’s wobbly.’
Maigret knew from experience that most people who want to hide an object put it on top of a wardrobe or cupboard. And on top of this one, o
n a thick layer of dust, were a razor, a packet of razor blades and a tube of shaving foam.
‘What do you say to that?’
‘You haven’t talked to the staff about this, have you?’
‘I preferred to wait for you.’
‘Go back to the drawing room.’
Maigret knocked on the door of the bedroom. There was no answer but when he pushed it open, he found Madame Fumal’s eyes trained on him.
‘What do you want now? Can’t I be left to sleep?’
She was no better or worse than she had been that morning. If she had been drinking again, it hardly showed.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have to do my job and I’ve got a few questions to ask you.’
She was still frowning at him, as if she was trying to guess what was coming next.
‘I believe all the servants sleep in the rooms above the garage, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Do you smoke?’
She hesitated but hadn’t time to think of a lie.
‘No.’
‘Do you always sleep in this room?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I imagine your husband never came to sleep in your part of the house either?’
This time it was obvious that she had understood and, abandoning her defensive attitude, she shrank down even further under the sheets.
‘Is he still there?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘No. I have reason to believe that he spent at least part of the night there.’
‘Maybe. I don’t know when he left. He comes and goes …’
‘Who is it?’
She seemed surprised. She must have thought he was better informed and now seemed to regret saying too much.
‘Hasn’t anyone told you?’
‘Who could have?’
‘Noémi … Or Germaine … They both know … Although Noémi …’
A strange smile hovered on her lips.
‘Is it your lover?’
She burst out laughing – a shout of harsh, racking laughter.
‘Can you see me with a lover? You think a man would still want me, do you? Have you looked at me, inspector? Do you want to see what …’
Her hand tensed on the sheet as if she was going to pull it back, and Maigret was afraid for a moment that she was going to show him her naked body.
‘My lover!’ she repeated. ‘No, inspector. I don’t have a lover. It’s been a long time since …’
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