‘You’re coming with me.’
‘Yes, chief.’
‘Lucas, telephone the prosecutor’s office. A man’s been killed, shot in the chest, on Quai de la Gare, Ivry. The name’s Lachaume. Lachaume Biscuits …’
It brought back memories of his childhood in the countryside. In those days, in every badly lit village grocer’s where dried vegetables were sold alongside clogs and sewing thread, you’d always find cellophane-wrapped packets labelled: Lachaume Biscuits. There were Lachaume sweet butter biscuits and Lachaume wafers, both of which, as it happened, had the same slightly cardboardy taste.
He hadn’t heard of them since. He hadn’t seen the calendars either, featuring a little boy with unnaturally ruddy cheeks and an idiotic smile eating a Lachaume wafer, and it was a rare event to find the name in faded letters on a wall somewhere deep in the country.
‘Tell Criminal Records too, of course.’
‘Yes, chief.’
Lucas already had the telephone in his hand. Maigret and Janvier headed downstairs.
‘Shall we take the car?’
Maigret’s melancholy had evaporated in the humdrum atmosphere of the Police Judiciaire. Caught up in the routine of work, it didn’t occur to him to scrutinize his life or question himself.
Sundays, on the other hand, are a menace. In the car, lighting a pipe that tasted good again, he asked, ‘Have you heard of Lachaume Biscuits?’
‘No, chief.’
‘You’re too young, it’s true.’
They might not have been sold in Paris either. There were plenty of products that were only made for the countryside. There were also brands that went out of fashion but hung on, catering for a particular clientele. He remembered drinks that were famous in his younger days but could only be found in out-of-the-way establishments, far from any main road.
After they crossed the bridge they couldn’t drive along the river because of the one-way system, so Janvier made a series of detours before they rejoined the Seine opposite Charenton. Across the water they could see the wine market and, to the left, a train was crossing an iron bridge over the river.
In the old days this stretch of riverbank had been dotted with small detached houses and builder’s yards. Now it was all apartment blocks, six or seven storeys high, with shops and bistros on the ground floor, but there were still a few gaps here and there, the odd patch of waste ground, some workshops, two or three low houses.
‘What number?’
Maigret told him, and they pulled up outside what must once have been an impressive house, with its three-storey brick and stone façade and a tall chimney at the back like a factory chimney. A car was parked outside the front door. A policeman was pacing up and down on the pavement. It was hard to tell if they were in Ivry now or still in Paris; the street they had just passed probably marked the municipal border.
‘Good morning, detective chief inspector. The door isn’t locked. They’re expecting you upstairs.’
The house had a carriage entrance with a green gate and a smaller door set in one of its panels. The two men found themselves in a vaulted entranceway rather like the one at Quai des Orfèvres, except that here it was blocked off at the other end by a frosted glass door. One of the panes in the door was missing and had been replaced with a piece of cardboard.
It was cold and damp. A door opened off on either side of the passage and Maigret, wondering which one to go through, chose the one on the right; clearly the correct one, since he found himself in a sort of hall with a broad staircase leading off it.
Originally white, the walls had turned yellow, with browner patches here and there, and the plaster was cracked and flaking off in places. The staircase was marble for the first three steps, then wood. It can’t have been swept for a long time and creaked underfoot as they climbed it.
It was like one of those municipal offices you walk into and immediately think you’ve got the wrong door. If one of them had started talking, wouldn’t the echo have thrown his voice back at him?
They heard someone on the first floor, then a man leaned over the bannisters: a youngish, tired-looking man, who introduced himself when Maigret reached the landing.
‘Legrand, Ivry station secretary … The chief inspector is waiting for you …’
Another hall upstairs, with marble flagstones and a window without curtains, framing the Seine and the rain.
The house was enormous, with doors on all sides, corridors like a government building and the same drabness wherever you looked, the same smell of very old dust.
At the end of a narrower passage on the left, the secretary knocked on a door, then opened it, revealing a bedroom which was dark enough for the chief inspector to have left the light on.
The bedroom looked out on to the courtyard, and the chimney Maigret had noticed outside was visible through the dusty muslin curtains.
He vaguely knew Ivry’s chief inspector, who was of a younger generation and shook his hand with exaggerated respect.
‘I came as soon as I got the call …’
‘Has the doctor left?’
‘He had an emergency. I didn’t think I need detain him, because anyway pathologist won’t be long …’
The dead man was lying on the bed. Apart from the chief inspector there was no one else in the room.
‘Where’s the family?’
‘I sent them to their rooms or the living room. I thought you’d rather …’
Maigret took his watch out of his pocket. It was 9.45.
‘When were you notified?’
‘About an hour ago. I’d just got to the office. Someone rang my secretary asking me to come here.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘Yes. The brother, Arnaud Lachaume.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Only by name. He must have come by the station a few times to get a signature certified or for some formality like that. They’re not people we pay much attention to …’
The phrase struck Maigret. Not people we pay much attention to. He understood, because the house, like Lachaume Biscuits, seemed at one remove from time, from the present.
It had been years since Maigret had seen a bedroom like this, which must have been identical, in every last detail, a century earlier. There was even a washbasin with drawers and a grey marble top, on which stood a floral-patterned china bowl and ewer, with matching trays for the soap and the combs. The furniture and china weren’t especially ugly in themselves. Some would have probably have fetched a decent price at auction or in an antique shop, but there was something gloomy and oppressive about the way they were arranged.
It was as if suddenly, long ago, life had stopped here, not the life of the man lying on the bed but the life of the house, of the world it represented, and even the factory chimney that could be seen through the curtains looked obsolete and absurd, with its ‘L’ picked out in black brick.
‘Anything stolen?’
Two or three drawers were open. Ties and underwear were scattered on the floor in front of the wardrobe.
‘Apparently a wallet with some money in it is missing.’
‘Who is this?’
Maigret was pointing to the dead man on the bed. The sheets and blankets were rumpled. The pillow had fallen on the floor. An arm dangled off one side. He could see blood on the pyjamas, which were torn, or rather burned by gunpowder.
It may have been the high-contrast black and white of silent films on Maigret’s mind this morning, but in this bedroom he suddenly remembered the illustrations in Sunday papers in the days before photography, when engravings were used to depict the week’s crime.
‘Léonard Lachaume, the eldest son.’
‘Married?’
‘Widower.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Last night. According to Doctor Voisin, the dec
eased would have come back around two in the morning.’
‘Who was in the house?’
‘Let’s see … The old couple, the mother and father, on the floor above, in the left wing … That makes two … Then the little boy …’
‘Which little boy?’
‘The deceased’s son … A boy of twelve … He’s at school now …’
‘Despite the tragic circumstances?’
‘Apparently no one knew at eight this morning when he went to school.’
‘So no one heard anything? Who else is there in the house?’
‘The maid. I think she’s called Catherine. She sleeps near the old couple and the little boy upstairs. She looks the same age as the house and is equally decrepit. Then the younger brother, Armand …’
‘Whose brother?’
‘The deceased’s … He sleeps across the corridor, as does his wife.’
‘They were all here last night, and the gunshot didn’t wake any of them up?’
‘So they say. I kept the questioning brief. It’s not easy, you’ll see!’
‘What’s not easy?’
‘To know. When I got here, I had no idea what this was about. Armand Lachaume, the one who rang me, opened the door downstairs as soon as my car stopped. He seemed half asleep. Without looking at me, he said: “My brother has been killed, chief inspector.”
‘He showed me in here and pointed to the bed. I asked him when it had happened, and he said that he didn’t have a clue. I pressed him: “Were you in the house?”
‘ “I suppose so. I slept in my room.” ’
The chief inspector seemed annoyed with himself.
‘I don’t know how to explain it. Usually when there’s a family tragedy like this you find everyone crowded around the body, people crying, explaining what happened, talking too much, if anything. In this case it took me a while before I realized the men weren’t alone in the house …’
‘Have you seen anyone else?’
‘The wife.’
‘The wife of Armand who rang you, you mean?’
‘Yes. At some point I heard a rustling in the corridor. I opened the door and I found her behind it. She looked tired, like her husband. She didn’t seem embarrassed. I asked her who she was, and Armand answered for her: “She’s my wife …”
‘I wanted to know if she’d heard anything during the night, and she said she hadn’t, she’s in the habit of taking some tablets or other to help her sleep …’
‘Who found the body? And when?’
‘The old maid, at a quarter to nine.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Yes. She must have gone back to the kitchen now. I’ve a feeling she might be a little deaf. She became worried when the older son didn’t appear at the breakfast table – they usually all have breakfast in the dining room. Eventually she came and knocked on the door. She had a look inside, then went and told the others.’
‘What about the parents?’
‘They’re not saying anything. The wife is half-paralysed and stares into space as if she’s not all there. Her husband seems so overwhelmed he barely understands what you’re saying to him.’
‘You’ll see!’ the chief inspector repeated.
Maigret turned to Janvier.
‘Do you want to have a look?’
Janvier set off, and Maigret finally went over to the dead man, who was lying on his left side, his face turned towards the window. Someone had already closed his eyes. His mouth was half open, framed by a droopy brown moustache flecked with grey. His thinning hair was plastered against his temples and forehead.
It was hard to gauge the expression on his face. He didn’t seem to have suffered, and the predominant emotion was probably shock. But wasn’t that because his mouth had fallen open? That must have happened after he’d died, mustn’t it?
Maigret heard footsteps in the hall on the first floor, then in the corridor. Opening the door, he greeted one of the deputy public prosecutors who he’d known for a long time. The man shook his hand without saying anything, his eyes on the bed. Maigret also knew the court clerk, to whom he gave a wave, but he’d never seen the tall young man without a coat or a hat who was behind them.
‘Angelot …’
The young magistrate, who had just been appointed, held out a firm, well-manicured hand, a tennis-player’s hand. Not for the first time, Maigret thought a new generation was taking over. Although it was true that old Doctor Paul was following close behind, short of breath but spry, a trencherman’s cast to his eyes and mouth.
‘Where’s the stiff?’
Maigret noticed that the grey-blue eyes of the examining magistrate remained cold and that he was frowning, no doubt disapprovingly.
‘Are the photographers done?’ Doctor Paul asked.
‘They haven’t got here yet. I think I can hear them.’
They had to wait for them to finish, as well as the forensics experts from Criminal Records who crammed into the bedroom and set to work.
Retreating to a corner, the deputy asked Maigret:
‘Domestic?’
‘Something’s been stolen, apparently.’
‘Did anyone hear anything?’
‘They say not.’
‘How many people are there in the house?’
‘Let me count … The old couple and the maid, that’s three … The little boy …’
‘What little boy?’
‘The dead man’s son … That’s four … Then the brother and his wife … Six! Six people, aside from the one who was killed, who all heard nothing …’
Moving closer to the doorframe, the deputy ran his hand over the wallpaper.
‘Thick walls but still! Any sign of a weapon?’
‘I don’t know … The Ivry chief inspector hasn’t said anything to me about one … I’m waiting for them to get the formalities over with, then I’ll start the investigation …’
The photographers were looking for sockets for their spotlights and, finding none, had to take the bulb out of the overhead light in the middle of the room. They bustled around, grumbling, jostling one another, calling out instructions, while the examining magistrate, who looked like a student athlete, stood perfectly still, dressed in grey, not saying a word.
‘Do you think I can go now?’ asked chief inspector. ‘My waiting room must be packed. I could send you two or three men in a moment in case you get gawpers congregating on the pavement …’
‘Please do. Thank you.’
‘Do you want one of my inspectors who knows the area as well?’
‘I’ll probably need someone later. I’ll call you. Thanks again.’
As he left, the chief inspector repeated:
‘You’ll see!’
‘See what?’ the deputy asked in a low voice.
Maigret replied:
‘The family … The atmosphere in the house … There wasn’t anyone in the bedroom when the chief inspector got there … Everyone’s keeping to their rooms or the dining room … No one’s stirring … You can’t hear a thing …’
The deputy looked at the furniture, the damp-stained wallpaper, the mirror above the fireplace, where generations of flies had left their mark.
‘I’m not surprised …’
The photographers left first, allowing them a little more space. Doctor Paul set about conducting a cursory examination while the technicians swept the room for fingerprints and searched the furniture.
‘Time of death, doctor?’
‘I’ll be more definite after the post-mortem, but, in all events, he’s been dead a good six hours.’
‘Was he killed outright?’
‘He was shot at point-blank range … The external wound is the width of a saucer, the flesh scorched …’
‘The bullet?’
‘I’ll find it later, inside the body. There’s no exit wound, which suggests it was a small calibre.’
His hands were covered in blood. He went over to the washbasin, but the ewer was empty.
‘There must be a tap somewhere …’
The door was held open for him. Armand Lachaume, the younger brother, was in the corridor. Without a word, he showed him to a dilapidated bathroom dominated by a ancient bathtub with curved legs. The tap was dripping, as it probably had been for years, since it had left brown streaks on the enamel.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Maigret,’ sighed the deputy, turning to the examining magistrate. ‘I’m going back to the Palais de Justice.’
‘Sorry I won’t be joining you,’ the magistrate muttered. ‘I’m going to stay.’
Maigret gave a start, then almost blushed when he saw the young magistrate had noticed.
‘You mustn’t hold it against me, detective chief inspector,’ the latter went on quickly. ‘I’m a novice, as you know, and this is the perfect opportunity for me to learn.’
Was that a trace of irony in his voice? He was polite, too polite even. And absolutely cold beneath his amiable façade.
He was one of the new school, one of those who held that an investigation was the examining magistrate’s exclusive preserve from start to finish, and that the police’s job was merely to follow his orders.
Janvier, who had heard what he said from the doorway, exchanged an eloquent look with Maigret.
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Maigret's Doubts (Inspector Maigret) Page 15