‘To cut a long story short, you went to the cinema …’
‘Exactly. You see, there’s no mystery. Afterwards I went to have a drink at Fouquet’s, then came home.’
‘No one was waiting for you?’
‘No one.’
‘You didn’t get a phone call?’
He seemed to rack his brains again.
‘I can’t think of anything, no. I must have smoked a cigarette or two before going to bed, because I have trouble getting to sleep … Now really, I have to say, I am quite surprised …’
It was Maigret’s turn to appear ingenuous.
‘Why?’
‘I was expecting you to ask me about my client. But all your questions have been about me and what I was doing. I could easily take offence …’
‘Actually, I am trying to reconstruct Émile Boulay’s movements.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He wasn’t killed last night, but on Tuesday night.’
‘But you told me …’
‘I told you he was found this morning.’
‘Which means that since Tuesday, his body …’
Maigret nodded. He had an amiable look on his face now and seemed open and confiding.
‘It is almost certain that Boulay had an appointment on Tuesday evening. Probably an appointment in this neighbourhood.’
‘And you figured he came here?’
Maigret laughed.
‘I’m not accusing you of strangling your client.’
‘Was he strangled?’
‘According to the post-mortem. It would take too long to go through the clues we’ve collected. He was in the habit of coming and asking you for advice.’
‘I wouldn’t have seen him at midnight.’
‘He might have found himself in an awkward situation. If someone had been blackmailing him, for instance.’
Gaillard lit a fresh cigarette and slowly blew the smoke out in front of him.
‘His chequebook shows that he recently took a fairly large sum of money out of the bank.’
‘May I ask how much?’
‘Half a million francs. That was unusual for him. Normally, if he needed cash he’d take it from the till in one of his clubs.’
‘Did it only happen once?’
‘Only that one time, as far as we are aware. I’ll know for certain tomorrow, when we check his bank account.’
‘I still don’t see what part I have to play in all this.’
‘I’m getting to that … Let’s suppose he gave in to the blackmailers initially and they came back for more, that they arranged to meet him on Tuesday night. He might have thought of asking your advice. He would have called your number several times during the evening while you were at the cinema. Who answers the telephone in the evening when you’re out?’
‘No one.’
Maigret looked surprised, so Gaillard explained:
‘My wife, as I told you, is ill. She had a nervous breakdown initially, which has developed into something more serious. To make matters worse, she suffers from polyneuritis, which the doctors can’t treat. She hardly ever leaves the first floor and always has a maid with her, who is in fact a nurse. Not that my wife knows that. I’ve disconnected the phone upstairs.’
‘Servants?’
‘We have two, who sleep on the second floor. To return to your question, which I understand better now, I don’t know of any attempt to blackmail my client. I should also say that I would be surprised if there were such an attempt, because, knowing his affairs as I do, I can’t think what he would have been blackmailed about. Which is why he didn’t come to ask for my advice on Tuesday night. Which is also why I don’t know what he did that night …
‘When you told me that he had been killed, it didn’t come as a great surprise – you don’t get to where he was in that world without making some serious enemies. I find it more troubling that he was strangled, and even more so the fact that his body was only found this morning … By the way, where did they find it? I suppose it was dragged out of the Seine, was it?’
‘It was lying on the pavement by Père-Lachaise cemetery …’
‘How did his wife react?’
‘Do you know her?’
‘I’ve met her once. Boulay was crazy about her. He insisted on me seeing her and the children. He invited me to dinner at Rue Victor-Massé. That’s when I met the whole family.’
‘Including Antonio?’
‘Including the brother-in-law and his wife. It was a real family gathering. Boulay was very petty-bourgeois when it came down to it, and you’d never have suspected from his home life that he made a living from women stripping.’
‘Are you familiar with his clubs?’
‘I went to the Lotus a couple of times, over a year ago. And I was at the opening of the club on Rue de Berri.’
Maigret was asking himself a lot of questions without venturing to say them out loud. What it meant living with a sick wife, for instance. Did the lawyer look elsewhere for the pleasures he no longer found at home?
‘Have you met Ada?’
‘The younger sister? Absolutely. She was at the dinner. She’s delightful, as pretty as Marina but with a better head on her shoulders.’
‘Do you think she was her brother-in-law’s mistress?’
‘I’m putting myself in your place, detective chief inspector. You have to explore every line of inquiry, I realize that, but even so, some of your theories are mind-boggling. If you’d known Boulay, you wouldn’t be asking me that question. He hated complications. An affair with Ada would have turned Antonio against him, and Antonio, like all good Italians, has a strong sense of family … Sorry for yawning, but I got up at the crack of dawn to get to Poitiers in time for my trial.’
‘Do you usually leave your car outside?’
‘I tend not to bother putting it in the garage. There’s nearly always space.’
‘Forgive me for bothering you like this … One last question: did Boulay leave a will?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I don’t see why he would have either. He has two children. And he married under the convention of common assets. There’s no problem with the inheritance at all.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll go and offer my condolences to his widow tomorrow morning and see if there’s any way I can help … That poor woman!’
There were so many other questions Maigret would have liked to ask him. How had he lost the four fingers on his left hand, for instance. What time had he left Rue La Bruyère that morning. And because of something Mickey had said, he would also have been very interested to see a list of his clients.
A few minutes later, he was catching a taxi on Place Saint-Georges and on his way home to bed. He got up at eight as usual the following morning and at nine thirty he came out of the commissioner’s office, having sat through the daily briefing without saying a word.
His first thought, after opening the window and taking off his jacket, was to call Maître Chavanon, whom he had telephoned the day before.
‘It’s me again … Maigret … Am I disturbing you?’
‘I have someone in my office.’
‘Just a quick question. Do you know any colleagues of yours who are on fairly close terms with Jean-Charles Gaillard?’
‘Him again! It’s almost as if you bear him a grudge.’
‘I don’t have anything against him, just a few questions.’
‘Why don’t you ask him directly? Go and see him.’
‘I did.’
‘Well, was he difficult?’
‘Far from it. The fact remains that some questions are too delicate to come right out and ask someone.’
Chavanon was less than enthusiastic, as Maigret had expected. Professional solidarity applies in almost every field. Members of a particular profession can speak about one another as freely as they want in private, but outside interference is not appreciated, especially not from the police.
‘Listen. I’ve told
you all I know. I don’t know who he’s friends with these days, but a few years ago he was very friendly with Ramuel.’
‘The one who defended the butcher in Rue Caulaincourt?’
‘Him, yes. I’d rather you didn’t bring me into it if you go and see him. Especially because he’s just had two or three acquittals in a row and they’ve gone to his head … Good luck!’
Monsieur Ramuel lived in Rue du Bac. Moments later, Maigret had his secretary on the telephone.
‘It’s practically impossible. He’s busy all morning. Wait … If you come around ten to eleven and he gets through his ten-thirty quickly …’
The queues at Ramuel’s place must have been like at the local dentist’s … Next!
Maigret went to Rue du Bac anyway, and as he was early, had a glass of white wine at the tobacconist’s. The walls of Maître Ramuel’s waiting room were covered with signed and dedicated paintings. Three people were ahead of him in the queue, among them an old woman who must have been a rich farmer’s wife.
Nonetheless, at 10.55 the secretary opened the office door and discreetly signalled to Maigret to follow her.
Although still young and baby-faced, Maître Ramuel was already bald. He came forward genially with his hand outstretched.
‘To what do I owe the honour?’
His office was huge, with wood-panelled walls, Renaissance furniture and genuine Oriental rugs on the floor.
‘Have a seat … Cigar? Ah no, that’s right … Please, smoke your pipe.’
Clearly imbued with a keen sense of his own importance, he sat at his desk like an attorney general at the Public Prosecutor’s office.
‘I can’t think of a case I’m working on that …’
‘It’s not about one of your clients. I feel rather embarrassed, actually. I’d like you to consider this a private visit.’
Ramuel was so used to Assize Court trials that he continued to behave in private life as he did in court, with the same exaggerated facial expressions, the same arm movements that could only have been more sweeping if they had been enveloped in the flowing sleeves of a black robe.
He began by opening his eyes comically wide, then spread his hands in a show of surprise.
‘Come now, detective chief inspector, you’re not going to tell me you’re in trouble, are you? Defending Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, what a thing …’
‘I just need some information about someone.’
‘One of my clients?’ he asked, assuming an offended air. ‘I hardly need remind you …’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you to breach client confidentiality. For reasons that will take too long to explain, I need to know something about one of your colleagues …’
The lawyer’s brows furrowed ostentatiously, as if he was putting on one of his characteristic displays before a jury.
‘… It doesn’t involve betraying a friendship either.’
‘Go on. I’m not promising anything, you understand?’
It was annoying, but Maigret had no choice.
‘You know Jean-Charles Gaillard rather well, I think.’
A look of mock embarrassment.
‘We used to socialize.’
‘Did you fall out?’
‘Let’s say we see one another less frequently nowadays.’
‘Do you know his wife?’
‘Jeanine? I first met her when she was still dancing at the Casino de Paris. It was just after the war. A delightful girl at the time. And so beautiful! She was known as La Belle Lara. People would turn and look at her as she walked down the street.’
‘Was that her name?’
‘No. She was actually called Dupin, but her stage name as a dancer was Jeanine de Lara. She probably would have had a brilliant career.’
‘Did she give it up for Gaillard?’
‘When he married her, he promised he’d never ask her to leave the theatre.’
‘Didn’t he keep his word?’
This triggered a pantomime of discretion. Ramuel seemed to be weighing the rights and wrongs of answering, sighing heavily as if torn by contradictory feelings.
‘Honestly, everyone in Paris society knows anyway! Gaillard came back from the war covered in medals.’
‘Was that when he lost four fingers?’
‘Yes. He was at Dunkirk. In England, he joined the Free French. He went through the African campaign and then, if I remember correctly, found himself in Syria. He was a lieutenant in the Commandos. He never talks about it, I must say. He’s not one of those people who regale you with tales of their wartime exploits. One night when he was meant to be taking an enemy patrol by surprise, the boot was on the other foot, and he only survived by grabbing hold of the knife that was being driven into his chest. He’s a tough customer.
‘He fell madly in love with Jeanine and decided to marry her. At the time, he was a pupil at Maître Jouane’s, the common law specialist, and wasn’t earning much.
‘Seething with jealousy, he spent his evenings backstage at the Casino de Paris …’
‘You can guess the rest. Gradually, he got his wife to give up dancing. He started working very hard to provide for her. I often put clients his way.’
‘Did he continue practising common law?’
This time Ramuel assumed the embarrassed air of someone wondering if the person he is talking to will be able to understand him.
‘It’s slightly complicated. There are some lawyers who hardly ever appear at the Palais but nonetheless have substantial practices. They’re the ones who make the most money as legal advisers to big companies. They know company law and its every last intricacy inside out.’
‘Is Gaillard one of those?’
‘To a degree. Mind you, I’ve hardly seen him for a few years. He’s in court relatively infrequently. I’d find it hard to define his clientele exactly. He doesn’t represent big banks and industrial concerns, like his former boss …’
Maigret listened patiently, trying to guess what he was implying.
‘With the current tax laws, many people need expert advice. Some, given their activities, need to make sure they’re on the right side of the law.’
‘An owner of a chain of nightclubs, for instance?’
Ramuel feigned surprise, confusion.
‘I didn’t realize I’d been so specific. Not that I know whom you’re referring to.’
Maigret remembered his conversation the previous day with Louis Boubée, alias Mickey. They had both recalled the heyday of the Tivoli and La Tétoune, the mix of underworld bosses, lawyers and politicians you used to meet at her restaurant.
‘Boulay’s been killed,’ he said abruptly.
‘Boulay?’
‘Monsieur Émile. The owner of the Lotus, the Train Bleu and a couple of other clubs.’
‘I haven’t had time to read the paper this morning. Was he a client of Gaillard?’
His show of ingenuousness was disarming.
‘Obviously that is one of the categories I was referring to. It’s not easy avoiding trouble in certain professions. What happened to this Boulay of yours?’
‘He was strangled.’
‘How horrible!’
‘You mentioned Madame Gaillard earlier.’
‘Apparently her condition has deteriorated since I lost sight of her. It started back when I was still friendly with them with a series of nervous breakdowns, which became increasingly frequent. I suppose she just couldn’t get used to middle-class life. Let’s see … How old is she now? In her forties, if I’m not mistaken. She must be four or five years younger than him. But she’s gone to pieces. She’s aged terribly fast.
‘I’m not a doctor, detective chief inspector, but I’ve known quite a few women, great beauties especially, who have taken that change of life pretty hard.
‘I’ve heard that she’s almost lost her mind, sometimes spending weeks at a time in a darkened room.
‘I feel sorry for Gaillard. He’s a clever fellow, one of the cleverest I know
, I’d say. He worked very hard to carve out a position for himself. He tried his utmost to give Jeanine a glamorous life, and for a while they lived in very fine style.
‘But it wasn’t enough. And now …’
His expression may have been one of compassion, but there was still a gleeful, ironic glint in his little eyes.
‘Is that what you wanted to know? Not that I’ve told you anything confidential. You could have asked anyone in the corridors of the Palais.’
‘I don’t suppose Jean-Charles Gaillard has ever had any problems with the Bar Council, has he?’
This time Ramuel flung open his arms, offended.
‘Honestly! What do you mean by that?’
Saying which, he stood up and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘I’m sorry but, as you probably saw, I have a number of clients waiting for me. I’m in court at two. I assume no one knows about your visit and that our conversation will remain between ourselves?’
Then, heading towards the door with a buoyant step, he sighed theatrically:
‘Poor Jeanine!’
6.
Before going home to have lunch, Maigret had looked in at Quai des Orfèvres and told Lapointe, almost absent-mindedly:
‘I’d like you to go and have a look around Rue La Bruyère and the neighbouring streets as soon as you can. Apparently a pale-blue American car is usually parked outside Maître Jean-Charles Gaillard’s town-house day and night …’
He handed him a piece of paper on which he had scribbled down the car’s number plate.
‘I’d like to know when the car was there on Tuesday evening, and also when it left yesterday morning or the night before.’
As he said this, he had that look of his: the wide, vacant eyes, the rounded shoulders and lazy, heavy gait.
At such moments people – especially his colleagues – imagined that he was concentrating. Nothing could be further from the truth, but however often he told them, they never believed him. What he was actually doing was a little ridiculous, even babyish. He was taking a glimmer of an idea, the beginnings of a sentence, and repeating it to himself like a schoolboy trying to memorize his homework. Sometimes he would even move his lips or talk in a low voice alone in the middle of his office, or on the street, or wherever he happened to be.
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