‘How long after the colonel left did you go to his suite?’
‘Will you believe me this time?’
‘That depends.’
‘You see! It’s always the same thing with me. I do what I can. I have nothing to hide. Only, my head starts spinning, and I get all confused. Will you allow me to go and take a sip, just a sip? I promise I won’t get drunk. I can’t stand it any more, inspector!’
He let her and almost felt like asking her for a drink for himself.
‘It was before I took the pills. I hadn’t yet made up my mind to die, but I’d already had the whisky. I was drunk and sick. I regretted what I’d said to David. Suddenly, life terrified me. I saw myself old and alone, without money, unable to earn a living, because I’ve never known how to do anything. David was my last chance. When I left Van Meulen, I was younger. The proof of that is—’
‘That you then found the colonel.’
She seemed surprised, hurt by his aggressiveness.
‘Think whatever you like about me. At least I know you’re wrong … I was afraid that David would leave me. I went to his suite in my nightdress, I didn’t even put on a dressing gown, and I found the door ajar.’
‘I asked you how long it had been since he’d left you.’
‘I don’t know. I remember I smoked several cigarettes. You must have seen them in the ashtray. David only smoked cigars.’
‘Did you see anyone in his suite?’
‘Only him. I almost screamed. I’m not sure I didn’t.’
‘Was he dead?’
She looked at him, eyes wide open, as if the idea had never occurred to her before.
‘I think so. At least I thought so at the time, and I ran out.’
‘Did you pass anyone in the corridor?’
‘No … Oh, wait! I heard the lift coming up. I’m sure of that, because I started running.’
‘Did you drink some more?’
‘Maybe, without thinking. Then I felt so down that I took the pills. The rest I’ve already told you. Could I …?’
No doubt she was going to ask permission to take another swig of whisky, but just then the telephone rang, and she reached out an unsteady arm.
‘Hello? … Yes, he’s here.’
It was soothing, almost refreshing, to hear Lucas’ calm voice, a normal voice at last, and to imagine him sitting at his desk at Quai des Orfèvres.
‘Is that you, chief?’
‘I was going to call you later.’
‘I assumed you might, but I thought it best to let you know right away. Marco Palmieri is here.’
‘You found him?’
‘We didn’t exactly find him. He came of his own free will. He arrived about twenty minutes ago, fresh as a daisy, very casual. He asked if you were here and when he was told you weren’t, he asked to speak to one of your colleagues. They sent him to me. For the moment, I’ve left him in your office with Janvier.’
‘What is he saying?’
‘That he didn’t know about any of this until he read about it in the papers.’
‘Last night?’
‘No, not until this morning. He wasn’t in Paris, but with friends who have a chateau in the Nièvre and were holding a hunting party.’
‘Was the Dutch woman with him?’
‘At the hunting party? Yes. They left together in her car. He tells me they’re getting married. Her name is Anna de Groot, and she’s divorced.’
‘I know. Go on.’
Slumped in her armchair, the little countess was listening to him and biting her nails, from which the polish was flaking off.
‘I asked him to account for his whereabouts the previous night.’
‘And?’
‘He was in a nightclub, the Monseigneur.’
‘I know.’
‘With Anna de Groot.’
‘I know that, too.’
‘He spotted the colonel with his ex-wife.’
‘And then?’
‘He saw the Dutch woman home.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘The George-V. She has a suite on the fourth floor.’
‘What time was that?’
‘According to him, about three thirty, maybe four. I sent someone to check, but I haven’t heard yet. They went to bed, and he didn’t get up until ten in the morning. He claims that they were invited to this hunting party at the chateau of a banker from Rue Auber more than a week ago. Marco Palmieri left the George-V and went to his place by taxi to pick up his suitcase. He kept the taxi, which parked outside the door. He went back to the George-V, and at about half past eleven the couple set off in Anna de Groot’s Jaguar. This morning, just as they were about to go out hunting, he skimmed through the newspapers in the entrance hall of the chateau. He came straight back to Paris, still with his boots on.’
‘Did the Dutch woman come with him?’
‘She stayed there. Lapointe phoned the chateau to check, and a butler told him she was at the hunt.’
‘What’s your impression of him?’
‘He’s very much at ease. He seems genuine. He’s really quite a nice young man.’
Oh, yes, they were all so nice!
‘What should I do with him?’
‘Send Lapointe to the George-V. I’d like him to establish exactly who came and went that night. Get him to question the night staff.’
‘He’ll have to go to their homes. They’re not on duty during the day.’
‘Have him do that. As for …’
He preferred not to say the name out loud in front of Countess Palmieri, who hadn’t taken her eyes off him.
‘As for your visitor, given the stage we’re at right now, the only thing you can do is let him go. Advise him not to leave Paris. Get someone to … That’s right, the usual procedure … I’ll call you back later. I’m not alone.’
For some reason, he asked at the last moment:
‘What’s the weather like there?’
‘Chilly, with a bit of harsh sunshine.’
As he hung up, the little countess asked:
‘Is it him?’
‘Who?’
‘Marco. It’s him you were talking about, isn’t it?’
‘Are you sure you didn’t see him in the corridors of the George-V or in the colonel’s suite?’
She leaped from her armchair, so overexcited that he was afraid she was having a nervous breakdown.
‘I thought as much!’ she cried, her face distorted. ‘He was there with her, wasn’t he, right above my head? Oh, yes, I know! She always stays at the George-V. I made inquiries about which suite she was in. They were both there, in bed.’
She seemed wild with anger.
‘They were there, laughing, making love, while I—’
‘Don’t you think rather that Marco was—’
‘Was what?’
‘Perhaps holding the colonel’s head underwater?’
She couldn’t believe her ears. Her body swayed beneath her transparent dressing gown, and suddenly she threw herself at Maigret, hitting out wildly with her clenched fists.
‘Are you mad? Are you mad? How dare you? You’re a monster! You …’
He felt ridiculous, stuck here in a hotel suite, trying to grab a fury by the wrists while her anger increased her energy tenfold.
His tie askew, his hair dishevelled, gasping for breath, he was finally managing to immobilize her when there was a knock at the door.
6.
In which Maigret is invited to lunch, and in which the talk is still of VIPs
It had ended less badly than Maigret might have feared. For the little countess, those knocks at the door were providential, because they allowed her to get out of a scene she probably didn’t know how to end.
Once again, she had rushed into the bedroom, while Maigret, unhurriedly arranging his tie and smoothing his hair, went and opened the door to the corridor.
It was quite simply the floor waiter, looking suddenly intimidated and asking if he could take awa
y the breakfast tray. Had he been listening at the door, or had he, without specifically listening, caught the echoes of the scene? If so, he didn’t show it, and when he left, the countess reappeared, calmer now, wiping her lips.
‘I assume you’re planning to take me back to Paris?’
‘Even if I wanted to, I’d have to go through some pretty lengthy formalities.’
‘My lawyer here wouldn’t let you obtain extradition. But I want to go, I’m determined to attend David’s funeral. Are you taking the four o’clock plane?’
‘Quite likely, but you’re not taking it.’
‘And why is that, may I ask?’
‘Because I don’t want to travel with you.’
‘It’s my right, isn’t it?’
Maigret was thinking of the reporters and photographers who would be sure to mob her, both in Geneva and at Orly.
‘It may be your right, but if you try to take that plane, I’ll find a more or less legal way to stop you. I don’t suppose you have any statement to make to me?’
When all was said and done, this interview had ended in an almost grotesque fashion, and to recover his footing in a familiar reality, Maigret had next had a telephone conversation of nearly half an hour with Lucas. The hotel management had spontaneously offered him a little office near reception.
Although Doctor Paul hadn’t yet sent in his official report, he had given Lucas a preliminary report over the phone. After the post-mortem, he was more than ever convinced that someone had held David Ward down in his bath, since there was no other way to explain the bruises on his shoulders. In addition, there was no trauma to the neck or back, as there almost certainly would have been if the colonel had slipped, hit the edge of the bath and knocked himself unconscious.
Janvier had been tailing Marco. As was to be expected, the first concern of the little countess’s ex-husband, on leaving Quai des Orfèvres, had been to phone Anna de Groot.
Lucas was overwhelmed by telephone calls, many from large banks and financial companies.
‘Will you be back this afternoon, chief?’
‘I’m taking the four o’clock plane.’
As he put the telephone down, he was handed an envelope which a uniformed police officer had just brought for him. It was a charming note from the director of the Sûreté in Lausanne, saying that he would be delighted to have the opportunity to at last meet the famous Maigret and inviting him to ‘a very simple lunch, by the lake, in a quiet Vaudois inn’.
Maigret, who had half an hour to kill, telephoned Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.
‘Are you still in Lausanne?’ Madame Maigret asked.
Headquarters had informed her the previous day of her husband’s departure, and she had also read about it in the morning newspapers.
‘I’ll be taking the plane this afternoon, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be home early. Don’t wait for me for dinner.’
‘Are you bringing the countess back with you?’
It wasn’t jealousy, of course, but for the first time Maigret seemed to sense an anxiety, as well as a barely perceptible hint of irony, in his wife’s voice.
‘I have no desire to bring her back.’
‘Oh!’
He lit his pipe and left the hotel, announcing to the porter that if anyone asked for him, he would be back in a few minutes. Two photographers followed him, hoping that he was about to do something revealing.
His hands in his pockets, he contented himself with looking in the shop windows and going into a tobacconist’s to buy a pipe, because he had left in such a rush that, unusually, he only had one in his pocket.
He let himself be tempted by the tins of tobaccos unknown in France, took three different kinds, then, as if overcome with remorse, went into the shop next door and bought a handkerchief embroidered with the arms of Lausanne for Madame Maigret.
The director of the Sûreté came to pick him up at the appointed time. He was a big, strapping man with an athletic physique, probably an enthusiastic skier.
‘Do you mind if we go and eat in the country, a few kilometres from here? Don’t worry about your plane. I’ll have you driven to the airport in one of our cars.’
He had a fair complexion, and his cheeks were so closely shaven that they gleamed. His appearance and manner were those of a man who has kept in close touch with the countryside, and indeed Maigret was to learn that his father was a vineyard owner near Vevey.
They settled down in an inn by the lake, where, besides them, there was only one table, full of local people who were talking about the choir they belonged to.
‘Will you allow me to choose the menu?’
He ordered dried meat – rustic ham and sausage – from Grisons, followed by a freshwater fish, an Arctic char.
He was looking at Maigret with discreet, furtive little glances that betrayed his curiosity and his admiration.
‘She’s a strange woman, isn’t she?’
‘The countess?’
‘Yes. We know her well. She spends part of the year in Lausanne.’
He explained, not without a certain touching pride:
‘We’re a small country, Monsieur Maigret. But, precisely because we’re a small country, the proportion of VIPs is greater here than in Paris or even on the Riviera. You may have more of them than us, but with you they’re rather lost in the crowd. Here, there’s no way not to see them. And of course they’re the same people you find on the Champs-Élysées or the Croisette.’
Maigret did justice to the food and the local white wine, which had been served chilled in a misted carafe.
‘We’re familiar with Colonel Ward, and with pretty much all the people you’re dealing with right now. By the way, Ward’s third wife, Muriel, left for Paris in a hurry this morning.’
‘What kind of life does she lead in Lausanne?’
The director had blue eyes which, when he stopped to think, became clearer, almost transparent.
‘It isn’t easy to explain. She has a comfortable, almost luxurious, though rather small apartment in a new block in Ouchy. Her daughter Ellen is a boarder in a school attended mainly by American, English, Dutch and German girls from good families. We have a lot of schools like that in Switzerland, and children are sent here from around the world.’
‘I know.’
‘Muriel Ward – I say Ward, because the divorce hasn’t yet been finalized, and she still uses the name – belongs to what we call the single women’s club. It isn’t a real club, of course. There are no rules, no membership cards, no fees. It’s what we call the women who come to Switzerland to live on their own, for various reasons. Some are divorced, others widows. There are also a few opera singers and musicians, and some women whom their husbands still visit now and again. The reasons they have for being here are their own business, aren’t they? Sometimes it’s political, sometimes financial, it may even be for health reasons. There are members of royal families and untitled people, wealthy widows and women who have only modest incomes.’
He said all this rather like a guide, with a slight smile, which tinged his words with humour.
‘All of them, whether because of their names, their fortunes, or for some other reason, are considered important people – VIPs, as I said. And they form groups. Not a club. A series of groups who are more or less friends or enemies. Some live all year round at the Lausanne Palace, which you’ve seen. The richest have villas in Ouchy, or chateaux in the surrounding area. They invite each other to tea, or meet at concerts … But isn’t it the same in Paris? The difference, as I said before, is that here they’re more conspicuous. We have men, too, who come from all over, and who’ve decided to live all year or part of the year in Switzerland. For example, talking again of the Lausanne Palace, there are currently about twenty people there from the family of King Saud. Add the delegates to international conferences, UNESCO and others, which take place in our country, and you’ll understand that we have our work cut out. I think our police, although discreet, are quite efficient, so if I c
an be of any use to you …’
Maigret had gradually assumed the same smile as the director. He understood that while Swiss hospitality was generous, the police were nevertheless very well informed about the actions of all these celebrities.
What he had just been told amounted to:
‘If you have any questions to ask …’
He murmured:
‘It seems that Ward got on perfectly well with his ex-wives …’
‘Why should he bear them any grudges? He was the one who left them when he’d had enough of them.’
‘Was he generous?’
‘Not excessively. He gave them enough to live with dignity, but it wasn’t a fortune.’
‘What kind of woman is Muriel Halligan?’
‘An American.’
In his mouth, that word took on great meaning.
‘I don’t know why the colonel chose to ask for a divorce in Switzerland. Unless he had other reasons for settling here. Whatever the reason, the proceedings have been dragging on for two years. Muriel chose the two best lawyers in the country, which must be costing her plenty. She upholds the idea, admitted apparently by some American courts, that once a husband has accustomed his wife to a certain lifestyle, he has to ensure she can keep the same lifestyle to the end of her days.’
‘And the colonel wouldn’t agree to that?’
‘He has excellent lawyers, too. Three or four times it was rumoured that they’d come to an agreement, but I don’t think the final papers were ever signed.’
‘I assume that while the proceedings continue, the wife tries to avoid having flings?’
The director refilled the glasses with deliberate slowness, as if determined to weigh his words.
‘Flings, no. These ladies in the club generally keep their love lives discreet … You’ve met John T. Arnold, I assume?’
‘He was the first to come running to the George-V.’
‘He’s a bachelor,’ was the laconic reply.
‘And …?’
‘For a while, it was rumoured that he was somewhat differently inclined. But as I happen to know through the staff of the hotels where he stays, that isn’t the case.’
‘What else do you know?’
‘He was very close to the colonel and had been for a very long time. He was his confidant, his secretary, his business associate. Aside from his legal marriages, the colonel always had his little flings, most of them short, often no more than a night or even an hour. As he was too lazy to court women himself, and as, in his situation, he found it tricky to proposition a nightclub dancer, for example, or a flower-seller, John T. Arnold would take care of it for him.’
Maigret Travels Page 9