‘No.’
‘After two, three years?’
‘Yes.’
‘Two, or three?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did she sign a paper?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And you don’t know either why she made you that promise?’
‘To make her niece mad. She told me so.’
‘Did her niece use to come to see her?’
‘Never.’
‘She’s Madame Sellier, the village officer’s wife, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘The officer never came to see her either?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘They weren’t angry with each other?’
‘Yes, they were.’
‘Why did he come to see her?’
‘To threaten to report her for throwing filth out of the window.’
‘Did they argue?’
‘They screamed insults at each other.’
‘Did you feel affection for your employer?’
She looked at him with her round eyes, as if the idea that she could be fond or not of someone had never occurred to her.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was she nice to you?’
‘She gave me leftovers.’
‘Of what?’
‘Food. And also her old dresses.’
‘Did she pay you regularly?’
‘Not much.’
‘What do you mean by “not much”?’
‘Half what the other women pay me when I work for them. But she had me in every afternoon. So …’
‘Have you seen her arguing with other people?’
‘With almost everyone.’
‘At her house?’
‘She never left home any more; she shouted things out of the window at people.’
‘What things?’
‘Things that they had done and they didn’t want others to know.’
‘So everyone hated her?’
‘I think so.’
‘Did someone hate her in particular, enough to want to kill her?’
‘Of course, since someone did.’
‘But you haven’t the slightest idea who could have done that?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Because you arrested the teacher.’
‘You think he’s the one?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘A question, if I may,’ said Maigret quickly, turning to the lieutenant.
‘Be my guest.’
‘Théo, the deputy mayor: is he the father of one or more of your children?’
She did not seem offended and appeared to be thinking.
‘Maybe so. I’m not sure.’
‘Did he get along well with Léonie Birard?’
She thought some more.
‘Like the others.’
‘Did he know that she’d promised to put you in her will?’
‘I told him so.’
‘How did he react?’
She did not understand the word.
‘Well, how did he answer you?’
‘He told me to demand a paper from her.’
‘Did you do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘She refused?’
‘She said that everything was arranged.’
‘When you found her dead, what did you do?’
‘I shouted.’
‘Right away?’
‘As soon as I saw the blood. At first I thought she’d fainted.’
‘Did you look through the drawers?’
‘What drawers?’
Maigret signalled to the lieutenant that he had finished. Daniélou stood up.
‘Thank you, Maria. If I need you again, I will send for you.’
‘She didn’t sign any paper?’ asked the girl, standing near the door with her baby.
‘We haven’t found anything yet.’
Then she grumbled, turning away from them.
‘I should have known she was cheating me.’
They saw her pass by the window, looking unhappy and talking to herself.
4. The Postmistress’s Letters
The lieutenant sighed, as if in apology.
‘You see! I do what I can.’
And it was certainly true. He was even more conscientious now that there was a witness to his investigation, someone from the famous Police Judiciaire and thus particularly impressive in his eyes.
His was a curious story. His family was well known in Toulouse. At the urging of his parents, he had attended the École Polytechnique, and done more than honourably there. Then, instead of choosing between the army and industry, he had opted for the gendarmerie as well as two years of law school.
He had a pretty wife, also of good family, and everyone agreed they formed one of the most charming couples in La Rochelle.
He was making an effort to seem at ease in the greyish setting of the village hall, into which the sunlight was not yet shining and which the brightness outside made look almost dark.
‘It isn’t easy to find out what they think!’ he remarked, lighting a new cigar.
In a corner of the room, six .22 rifles were leaning against the wall, four of them exactly alike and one of an old model, with a carved stock.
‘I think I have them all. If there are more somewhere, my men will find them this morning.’
He picked up what resembled a cardboard pillbox from the mantelpiece and took out a deformed bit of lead.
‘I’ve examined it carefully. I once took a course in ballistics, and we have no expert in La Rochelle. It’s a lead bullet, what’s sometimes called a soft bullet, which flattens when it hits the target, even if it’s a pine board. So it’s useless to look for the markings found on other bullets, which often allow identification of the weapon used.’
Maigret nodded to show he understood.
‘Are you familiar with .22 rifles?’ continued the lieutenant.
‘More or less.’
More less than more, because he could not remember any crime committed in Paris with such a weapon.
‘They can shoot two sorts of cartridges, short or long. The short ones have a weak range but the long ones reach their target at more than 150 metres.’
About twenty other lead lumps formed a small pile on the veined marble mantelpiece.
‘Yesterday we did a few experiments with these different rifles. The bullet that struck Léonie Birard is a .22 long, of the same weight as those we fired.’
‘The cartridge case hasn’t been found?’
‘My men went over the gardens behind the house with a fine-tooth comb. They will continue looking this afternoon. It’s possible that the shooter picked up the case. What I’m trying to explain to you is that we have very little material evidence.’
‘Have all these rifles recently been used?’
‘Recently enough. It’s hard to judge exactly because the boys don’t bother cleaning and oiling them after they’re fired. The medical report, which I have here, doesn’t help us much either, because the doctor is unable to determine, even approximately, at what distance the gun was fired. It could just as well be fifty metres as more than a hundred.’
Maigret filled his pipe, standing by the window and listening distractedly. Across the way, near the church, he could see a man with bushy black hair shoeing a horse while a younger man held its hoof.
‘The examining magistrate and I have considered the various available hypotheses. The first one we thought of, strange as it may seem, is that it was an accident. There’s something so unlikely about this crime, there was so little certainty of killing the former postmistress with a .22 calibre bullet, that we wondered if she hadn’t been struck by chance. Somewhere in the gardens, someone could have been shooting at sparrows, the way boys do. There have been stranger coincidences. You see what I mean?’
Maigret nodded. The lieuten
ant had an almost childish desire for his approval and was touching in his eagerness to perform well.
‘That’s what we called the theory of the pure and simple accident. If Léonie Birard had died at a different time of day, or on a holiday, or elsewhere in the village, we would no doubt have stopped there, because that is the most reasonable theory. Except that when the old woman was killed, the children were in school.’
‘All of them?’
‘Just about. Three or four who were absent, one of them a girl, live rather far away, on farms, and were not seen in the village that morning. Another, the butcher’s son, has been bedridden for almost a month.
‘We then thought of a second possibility, that of malice aforethought.
‘Someone, no matter which neighbour, feuding with the Birard woman the way almost all of them were, someone whom she had aggravated once too often, could have shot at her from a distance in a fit of rage to frighten her, or break her windows, without even thinking that she might be killed.
‘I haven’t completely rejected this hypothesis yet because the third one, that of deliberate murder, requires first of all a champion marksman. If the bullet had hit the victim anywhere except in her eye, the wound would not have been too serious. And to hit the eye on purpose, at a certain distance, one would have to be an exceptional shot.
‘Don’t forget that this happened in broad daylight, in this very block of houses, at an hour when most of the women are at home doing their housework. There’s a whole warren of yards and gardens. The weather was fine, and most windows were open.’
‘Have you tried to determine where everyone was at around ten fifteen?’
‘You heard Maria Smelker. The other depositions are about as clear as hers. People are reluctant to talk. When they go into details, these are so confused that they simply complicate matters.’
‘The deputy mayor was in his garden?’
‘So it seems. It depends on whether we go by radio time or church time, because the tower clock is fifteen to twenty minutes fast. Someone who was listening to the radio claims to have seen Théo on the road at around ten fifteen, heading for the Bon Coin. At the Bon Coin they affirm that he arrived only after ten thirty. As for the butcher’s wife, who was hanging out laundry, she says she saw him go into his wine storeroom for a drink, as he regularly does.’
‘Does he own a rifle?’
‘No. Only a double-barrelled shotgun for hunting. This shows you just how hard it is to get any valid evidence. The only evidence that holds up is the boy’s.’
‘The policeman’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t he speak up the first day?’
‘I asked him that. His answer is plausible. You’re doubtless aware that his father, Julien Sellier, married the old woman’s niece?’
‘And I know that Léonie Birard had announced her intention to disinherit her.’
‘Marcel Sellier thought it would look as if he wanted to put his father out of the running. It was only the following evening that he mentioned it to him. And Julien Sellier brought him to us on Thursday morning. You’ll see them. They’re nice people, they seem straightforward.’
‘Did Marcel see the teacher leave his tool shed?’
‘That’s what he says. The children in the classroom were left on their own. Most of them were acting up; Marcel Sellier, who is a calmer, more serious boy, went over to the window and saw Joseph Gastin come out of the shed.’
‘He didn’t see him go inside?’
‘Only leave. At that point, the shot had to have been fired. Yet the teacher continues to deny having gone in the tool shed that morning. Either he’s lying, or the boy invented the story. But why?’
‘Why indeed?’ murmured Maigret lightly.
He felt like having a glass of wine. It seemed about the right time for one. Playtime was over in the courtyard. Two old women were passing with shopping bags, walking towards the cooperative shop.
‘Might I take a look at Léonie Birard’s house?’ he asked.
‘I’ll go with you. I have the key.’
It, too, was on the mantelpiece. The lieutenant shoved it in his pocket, buttoned his tunic and put on his cap. The air outside did smell of the sea, although still not enough for Maigret. They both headed for the street corner, and in front of Paumelle’s place the inspector asked casually:
‘Shall we?’
‘You think?’ replied the lieutenant, a little disconcerted.
He was not the type to drink in a bistro or an inn. The invitation bothered him, and he did not know how to refuse.
‘I wonder if that …’
‘Just a quick glass of white wine.’
Théo was there, sitting in a corner with his long legs stretched out, a half-litre carafe of wine and a glass within reach. The postman, who had an iron hook instead of his left arm, was standing in front of him. Both men fell silent when the other two came inside.
‘What can I get you, gentlemen?’ asked Louis from behind his counter, his sleeves rolled up high.
‘A carafe.’
Daniélou, ill at ease, was trying to act natural. Perhaps that’s why the deputy mayor was watching them both with twinkling eyes. He was tall and must once have been fat; when he’d lost weight, his skin had collapsed into folds like a garment now way too big.
His gaze reflected the mocking self-assurance of the peasant as well as that of a politician adept at tampering with municipal elections.
‘So, what’s happening with that scum of a Gastin?’ he asked, as if addressing no one in particular.
And Maigret, without really knowing why, answered in the same tone:
‘He’s waiting for someone to come and take his place.’
That shocked the lieutenant. As for the postman, his head whipped around.
‘You’ve discovered something?’
‘You’re the one who knows the area better than anybody,’ replied Maigret. ‘You cover all your territory every day.’
‘And what a day! Before, not too long ago, there were still folks who never got any mail, so to speak. I remember certain farms where I set foot only once a year, for the post-office calendar. Now, not only does everyone receive a newspaper, which must be home-delivered, but there isn’t anyone who doesn’t receive benefits of some kind. If you knew what that means in the way of forms!’
He repeated, seemingly overwhelmed:
‘Forms! Forms!’
To listen to him, you might have thought that he was the one who filled them out.
‘First the military veterans. That, I can understand. Then the widows’ pensions. Next the welfare payments, the large-family supplements, and the benefits for …’
He turned towards the deputy mayor.
‘Can you figure it out? I wonder if there’s a single person in the entire village who doesn’t get something from the government. And I’m sure that some have kids just for the allowances.’
His misted glass of wine in hand, Maigret inquired cheerily:
‘Do you think the allowances have something to do with Léonie Birard’s death?’
‘You never know.’
It was doubtless an obsession. He must have been receiving a pension as well, for his arm. He was paid by the government. And it infuriated him that others also took their turn at the cashier’s window. In short, he was jealous.
‘Give me a carafe, Louis.’
Théo’s eyes were still laughing. Maigret was sipping his wine, and this scene was almost like what he had envisioned for his trip to the seaside. The air was the same colour as the white wine, with the same taste. Two hens were pecking at the hard earth out on the square, where they could hardly be finding any worms. Thérèse, in her kitchen, was peeling onions and occasionally wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.
‘Shall we go?’
Daniélou, who had merely wet his lips in his glass, followed him out in relief.
‘Don’t you think those peasants seemed to be making fun of
us?’ he murmured, once outside.
‘You don’t say!’
‘It’s as if it amuses you.’
Maigret made no reply. He was beginning to find his footing in the village and no longer regretted having left Quai des Orfèvres. This morning, he had not telephoned his wife as he had promised her he would. He had not even noticed the post office. He would have to get to that soon.
They passed a haberdasher’s shop behind the front windows of which the inspector spied a woman so old and withered that it was a miracle she did not break into pieces.
‘Who is that?’
‘There are two of them, of about the same age, Mesdemoiselles Thévenard.’
Two old spinsters had had a shop in his home village, too. It was as if the villagers of France were interchangeable. Years had passed. The roads had filled with speedy cars. Buses and vans had replaced carts. There were cinemas more or less everywhere. The radio and many other things had been invented. And yet here Maigret was finding once again the characters of his childhood, frozen in their attitudes as if in a naive painting.
‘This is the house.’
It was old and the only one in the street that hadn’t been pebble-dashed in years. The lieutenant fitted the big key into the lock of a green-painted door, which he pushed open, and they smelled a sweetish odour, the same that must have reigned in the home of the two old maids next door, an odour found only where elderly people live confined in close quarters.
The first room somewhat resembled the one where Madame Gastin had received him, except that the oaken furniture was less well polished, the armchairs shabbier and there was an enormous set of brass fire-irons. There was also, in a corner, a bed that must have been brought in from another room and which was still unmade.
‘The bedrooms are upstairs,’ explained the lieutenant. ‘During the last few years, Léonie Birard no longer wanted to use the stairs. She lived on the ground floor, sleeping in this room. Nothing has been touched.’
Beyond a half-open door was a rather large kitchen, with a stone fireplace next to which a coal stove had been installed. The whole place was dirty. On the stove, saucepans had left reddish circles. The walls were spattered with grease. The leather armchair in front of the window must have been the one where the old woman spent most of her days. Maigret understood why she preferred to stay in this room rather than the one in front: almost no one used the road, which led to the sea, whereas in the back one could view, as from the teacher’s place, the liveliest part of the houses, courtyards and gardens, including the schoolyard.
Maigret Goes to School Page 6