‘Do you think your brother-in-law would have talked to him about his will?’
‘He asked his advice about everything. Don’t forget that he had no experience of business when he started. When he opened the Train Bleu, some neighbours took him to court, I can’t remember why. Probably because the music kept them awake.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Maître Gaillard? Rue La Bruyère, in a little town-house roughly in the middle of the street.’
Rue La Bruyère! Barely 500 metres from The Lotus. You just had to go down Rue Pigalle, cross Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette and turn left a little further down the hill.
‘Did your brother-in-law see him often?’
‘Once or twice a month.’
‘In the evening?’
‘No. Late afternoon. Generally after six when Maître Gaillard was back from the Palais.’
‘Did you used to go with him?’
She shook her head.
Strange as it might seem, Maigret’s bad-tempered expression had vanished.
‘Can I make a telephone call?’
‘Would you rather go up to the office or use the booth?’
‘The booth.’
Like Émile Boulay, although Boulay had only started trying to call someone at around ten at night. Through the window he saw Germaine, the coat-check girl, who was arranging pink tickets in an old cigar box.
‘Hello! Is that Maître Gaillard’s house?’
‘No, monsieur … This is Lecot’s Chemist’s …’
‘I’m sorry …’
He must have misdialled. He began again, more carefully, heard a distant ring. A minute passed, then two; no one answered.
He redialled the number three times without success. When he came out of the booth, he looked around for Ada and eventually found her in the changing room, where two women were undressing. They paid no attention to him, made no attempt to hide their bare breasts.
‘Is Maître Gaillard single?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never heard anything about a wife. But he may have one. I haven’t had the opportunity to go to his apartment.’
Moments later, Maigret asked Mickey outside, on the pavement:
‘Do you know Jean-Charles Gaillard?’
‘The lawyer? I know him by name. He defended Big Lucien three years ago and got him off.’
‘He was your boss’s lawyer as well.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. He’s meant to be a hotshot.’
‘Do you know if he’s married?’
‘Sorry, Monsieur Maigret, they’re not my speciality, really, those people. With the best will in the world, I can’t tell you anything about him.’
Maigret went back into the booth and redialled the number without getting through.
Then, on the off chance, he called a barrister he had known for a long time, Chavanon. He was lucky enough to find him at home.
‘Maigret here … No, I don’t have a client for you in my office. I’m not at Quai des Orfèvres in fact. I’m after some information. Do you know Maître Jean-Charles Gaillard?’
‘Not especially. I often run into him at the Palais and I once had lunch with him. But he’s too important for a drudge like me.’
‘Married?’
‘I think so, yes. Wait … I’m sure, now … He married a singer or a dancer from the Casino de Paris shortly after the war. At least that’s what I’ve heard.’
‘Have you met her? Have you been to his home?’
‘I haven’t been invited.’
‘They’re not divorced, are they? Do they live together?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘I don’t suppose you know if she goes with him when he has a case out of town?’
‘It’s hardly usual.’
‘Thank you.’
He called Rue La Bruyère again without luck, as the coat-check girl stared at him with increasing curiosity.
Finally he decided to leave the Lotus and, with a quick wave to Mickey, slowly set off down Rue Pigalle. On Rue La Bruyère, it didn’t take him long to spot a town-house that on closer inspection proved to be one of those middle-class houses you see everywhere in the country and still occasionally find in some neighbourhoods in Paris.
All the windows were dark. A copper plate bore the lawyer’s name. He pushed the button above it, and a bell rang inside the house.
Nothing moved. He rang twice, three times, as unsuccessfully as when he had telephoned.
Without really knowing why, he crossed the street to get a view of the whole house.
As he raised his head, a curtain moved at an unlit window on the first floor and he could have sworn he saw a face for a moment.
5.
Maigret might have been pretending to be a nightclub owner, doing his best impersonation of Émile Boulay, despite their differences in height and build, as he strolled around the handful of streets that constituted the former Transat employee’s universe and watched them change in appearance as the hours went by.
First it was the neon signs that kept flicking on, the uniformed doormen appearing in the doorways. Then it was the jazz spilling out of the clubs, making the air resonate differently, the new faces on the street as the night taxis started to disgorge their fares and a different fauna moved in and out of the shadows.
Women called out to him as he walked along with his hands behind his back. Did Monsieur Émile walk along with his hands behind his back too? He hadn’t smoked like Maigret, at any rate. He had sucked mints.
Maigret went down Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette to the Saint-Trop’. He had known the club in the past under a different name, when its clientele was mainly ladies in dinner-jackets.
Had Montmartre changed that much since then? The bands played at a different tempo, and there was more neon these days, but the cast of characters looked like the one he used to know. Some of them had simply changed jobs, like the doorman of the Saint-Trop’, who greeted Maigret familiarly.
He was a giant of a man with a white beard, a Russian refugee who for years had played the balalaika in another club while singing old ballads from his country in a beautiful bass voice.
‘Do you remember last Tuesday evening?’
‘I remember every evening God has granted me on this earth,’ the former general said grandiloquently.
‘Did your boss look in that night?’
‘At about nine thirty, with the pretty young lady.’
‘You mean Ada? He didn’t come back later on his own?’
‘I swear by Saint George!’ the doorman said, shaking his head.
Why Saint George? Maigret went in, glanced at the bar, the tables bathed in an orange light, occupied by the first customers of the evening. Word of his arrival must have preceded him because the staff, maître d’s, musicians and hostesses all gave him curious, slightly nervous looks.
How long did Boulay use to stay? Maigret headed out again with a wave to Mickey, who was outside the Lotus, and another to the coat-check girl, whom he asked for a token.
In the glass booth, he called the Rue La Bruyère number again without any luck.
Then he went into the Train Bleu, which was decorated like a Pullman carriage. The band was playing so loudly that he immediately beat a retreat, plunging into the quiet and darkness of the second half of Rue Victor-Massé, and walked to Square d’Anvers, where only two cafés were open.
One, the Chope d’Anvers, looked like an old-fashioned brasserie in the country. Near the windows, regulars were playing cards, and at the back he could see a billiard table, around which two men were slowly, almost solemnly circling.
One of the two was Monsieur Raison, in his shirt-sleeves. His partner, with a huge belly and a cigar between his teeth, was wearing green braces.
Maigret didn’t go in but stood there for a moment, as if fascinated by the show, although he was actually thinking of something else. He started when a voice nearby said:
‘Evening, chief.’
It was Lapoin
te, whom he had given the job of checking up on the book-keeper.
‘I was just heading home in fact,’ Lapointe explained. ‘I’ve found out what he was up to on Tuesday. He left the café at eleven fifteen – he never stays later than eleven thirty – and less than ten minutes later, he was home.
‘His concierge is adamant. She hadn’t gone to bed because her husband and daughter were at the cinema that night, and she waited up for them. She saw Monsieur Raison come in and she’s sure he didn’t go out again.’
The young inspector was puzzled because Maigret didn’t seem to be listening to him.
‘Have you found anything new?’ Lapointe ventured. ‘Do you want me to stay with you?’
‘No. Get some sleep.’
He preferred to be on his own for his next round of the clubs. It wasn’t long before he was back in the Train Bleu, or rather, before he was pulling back the curtain and glancing inside, like those customers who check they’ve found what they’re looking for before they go in.
Then the Lotus again. Another wink from Mickey, who was deep in mysterious conversation with two Americans, presumably promising them unparalleled entertainments.
Maigret didn’t need to ask for a token for the telephone. It rang again in the townhouse whose façade he now knew and where he was convinced a curtain had moved.
He started when a man’s voice said:
‘Yes?’
He had given up expecting anyone to answer.
‘Maître Jean-Charles Gaillard?’
‘That’s me … Who’s calling?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret of the Police Judiciaire.’
A silence, then the voice said slightly impatiently:
‘Well, yes, go on …’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.’
‘It’s a miracle you got hold of me. I’ve only just arrived back from Poitiers and I was having a look through my post before going to bed.’
‘Could you see me for a few minutes?’
‘Are you calling from Quai des Orfèvres?’
‘No. I’m a short walk away.’
‘I’ll be expecting you.’
Mickey was by the door, as always, and the street was getting noisier and noisier. A woman emerged from a corner and put her hand on Maigret’s arm, then suddenly drew back when she recognized him.
‘No offence,’ she stammered.
He walked back to the oasis-like calm of Rue La Bruyère, where a big pastel-blue American car was parked outside the lawyer’s house. There was a light over the door. Maigret climbed the three steps, and before he could press the electric button, the door opened on to a white-flagged hall.
Jean-Charles Gaillard was as tall and broad-shouldered as the Russian doorman at the Saint-Trop’. He was a man in his mid-forties with a ruddy complexion and a rugby player’s build, who must have been very muscular when he was younger and was only just starting to fill out.
‘Come in, detective chief inspector.’
He shut the door, led his visitor to the end of the corridor and showed him into his office. Sizeable and comfortably, but unostentatiously, furnished, the room was lit solely by a lamp with a green shade on a desk partially covered with recently opened letters.
‘Sit down, please. I’ve had a tiring day and the drive home took much longer than usual because I ran into a heavy storm.’
Maigret was fascinated by the lawyer’s left hand, which was missing four fingers. Only the thumb was left.
‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about one of your clients.’
Was the lawyer worried or simply curious? It was hard to say. He had blue eyes and blond, close-cropped hair.
‘Of course, as long as client confidentiality isn’t at issue,’ he murmured with a smile.
He had finally sat down facing Maigret, and his right hand was playing with an ivory paper knife.
‘Boulay’s body was found this morning.’
‘Boulay?’ the man repeated, as if he was trying to remember the name.
‘The owner of the Lotus and three other clubs.’
‘Ah yes, I know.’
‘Didn’t he visit you recently?’
‘It depends what you mean by recently.’
‘Tuesday, say.’
‘This Tuesday?’
‘Yes.’
Jean-Charles Gaillard shook his head.
‘If he did, I didn’t see him. He may have dropped by while I was at the Palais. I’ll have to ask my secretary tomorrow.’
Looking Maigret in the eye, he asked a question in his turn:
‘You say that his body has been found … The fact that you are here indicates that the police are looking into the matter. Am I to understand that he didn’t die from natural causes?’
‘He was strangled.’
‘Strange …’
‘Why?’
‘Because, despite his profession, he was a good man, really, and I didn’t know him to have any enemies … It’s true that he was only one client among many.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I should be able to give you an exact answer … One moment …’
He got up, went into the next office, turned on the light, looked in a drawer and came back with a red office diary.
‘My secretary keeps a note of all my meetings … Hold on …’
He leafed through the diary, starting at the back and silently mouthing names. After about twenty pages he exclaimed:
‘Here we are! 22 May, at five o’clock. I’ve found a note of another visit on 18 May, at eleven o’clock in the morning …’
‘You haven’t seen him since 22 May?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘He didn’t call you?’
‘If he called my office, he would have got through to my secretary, so she’ll be able to answer that. She’ll be here tomorrow at nine o’clock.’
‘Did you handle all Boulay’s affairs?’
‘It depends what you mean by all his affairs.’
He added with a smile:
‘That’s a dangerous question … I’m not sure I’m aware of all his activities.’
‘Apparently you filed his income tax returns.’
‘I see no harm in answering that. That’s right. Boulay wasn’t very educated and wouldn’t have been able to deal with it himself.’
Another silence, after which he explained:
‘I should add that he never asked me to cheat. Of course, like any taxpayer, he tried to pay as little tax as possible, but only by legitimate means. I wouldn’t have handled his affairs otherwise.’
‘You said he visited you on 18 May. The night before that someone called Mazotti was killed near the Lotus.’
Gaillard lit a cigarette very calmly, held out the silver box to Maigret and then took it back when he saw him smoking his pipe.
‘I see no objection to telling you why he came here. Mazotti had tried his protection racket on him and, to get him off his back, Boulay had enlisted the help of three or four strapping fellows from Le Havre, where he was born.’
‘I know about that.’
‘When he heard about Mazotti’s death, he suspected the police would call him in for questioning. He had nothing to hide, but he was afraid of seeing his name in the papers.’
‘Did he ask your advice?’
‘Exactly. I told him to be completely open. I think, incidentally, that that turned out well for him. If I’m not mistaken, he was called in to Quai des Orfèvres for a second time, on the 22nd or the 23rd, and he came to see me again before that interview. I can’t imagine he was a suspect, was he? That would have been a mistake, in my opinion.’
‘Are you sure he didn’t come back here this week, on Tuesday, say?’
‘Not only am I sure, but again the appointment, if appointment there was, would be recorded in the diary. See for yourself.’
He handed the diary to Maigret, who didn’t touch it.
‘Were you at home o
n Tuesday night?’
This time the lawyer frowned.
‘This is beginning to resemble an interrogation,’ he remarked, ‘and I must admit, I’m wondering what’s in the back of your mind.’
After a pause, he shrugged and broke into a smile.
‘If I think hard enough, I’m sure I’ll be able to work out what I was doing. I spend most of my evenings in this study, because it is the only time I can work in peace. Mornings, it’s a constant stream of clients. Afternoons, I’m often at the Palais.’
‘You didn’t have dinner in town, did you?’
‘I hardly ever have dinner in town. You see, I’m not a fashionable lawyer.’
‘So, on Tuesday night?’
‘It’s Friday today, isn’t it? Saturday, in fact, since it’s past midnight. I started out for Poitiers very early this morning.’
‘By yourself?’
The question seemed to surprise him.
‘By myself, of course, as I was appearing in court there. I didn’t leave my office all evening yesterday … So what you’re really after is an alibi, is it?’
His tone remained light, ironic.
‘What intrigues me is that this is an alibi for Tuesday evening, while my client, if I’ve understood you correctly, has only just died. Anyway! I am like poor Boulay: I want to do everything by the book. On Thursday, I didn’t go out. On Wednesday night … Let’s see, on Wednesday, I worked until ten, and then, as I had a bit of a headache, I went for a walk in the neighbourhood … Now, Tuesday … I was in court in the afternoon. A tortuous business that has been dragging on for three years and is far from over. Then I went home for dinner.’
‘With your wife?’
Gaillard’s gaze rested on Maigret and he said very distinctly:
‘With my wife, yes.’
‘Is she here?’
‘She’s upstairs.’
‘Did she go out tonight?’
‘She practically never goes out because of her health. My wife has been ill for several years and is in a great deal of pain …’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t mention it. So, we had dinner … Then I came down here, to this study, as usual … Ah, right, I’ve got it … I felt tired from my afternoon at the Palais. I took my car, thinking I’d go for a drive for an hour or two to relax, as I sometimes do. I used to play a lot of sport and I miss the fresh air. Driving down the Champs-Elysées, I saw they were showing a Russian film that I had been told was good.’
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