‘Was she fond of clothes?’
‘She never threw anything away. Some of her dresses were ten years old. She didn’t wear them any more, but wouldn’t have given them away for all the tea in China.’
‘She was a hoarder?’
‘Aren’t all rich people?’
‘I was told she took only a trunk and two suitcases.’
‘That’s right. The rest was sent a week earlier.’
‘You mean she sent other trunks?’
‘Trunks, crates, cardboard boxes. A removal lorry came to pick it all up last Thursday or Friday.’
‘Did you look at the labels?’
‘I don’t remember the exact address, but they were bound for Amsterdam.’
‘Did your employer know that?’
‘Of course.’
‘So her departure had been planned for a while?’
‘Since her last attack. Every time she had an attack she spoke of going back to her own country.’
‘What sort of attack?’
‘Heart. That’s what she said.’
‘She had a bad heart?’
‘So it seems.’
‘Did a doctor come and see her?’
‘Doctor Dubuc.’
‘Was she taking medication?’
‘With every meal. They all did. The other two still do. They each had their little bottle of pills or drops next to their plates.’
‘Is Guillaume Serre ill?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘His mother?’
‘Rich people always have something or other.’
‘Did they get on?’
‘There were weeks when they didn’t talk at all.’
‘Did Maria Serre do a lot of writing?’
‘From dawn till dusk almost.’
‘Did you take her letters to the post office?’
‘Often. They were always to the same person, a woman with a funny name who lives in Amsterdam.’
‘Are the Serres rich?’
‘I guess so.’
‘And Maria?’
‘Sure she is. Otherwise he wouldn’t have married her.’
‘Were you working for them when they got married?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who was cleaning for them at that time?’
‘They’re always changing cleaners. It’s my last week there. As soon as you see how things really are there, you leave.’
‘Why?’
‘How would you feel if your employer counted every last sugar lump in the bowl and gave you half-rotten apples for dessert?’
‘Old Madame Serre?’
‘Yes. She makes out she works every hour of the day at her age, which is her choice, and then she’s on your back if you as much as sit down for a moment’s breather.’
‘Does she scold you?’
‘She’s never scolded me. I’d like to see her try! No, it’s worse than that. She’s ultra-polite, she gives you a sort of sorry look as if the very sight of you makes her depressed.’
‘Did anything strike you in particular when you went to work on Wednesday morning?’
‘No.’
‘Did you perhaps notice that one of the windowpanes had been broken during the night, or that there was fresh putty round one of the panes?’
She nodded.
‘Yes, but you’ve got the wrong day.’
‘Which day was it?’
‘Two or three days earlier, after that big storm.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. I even had to polish the floor of the study because the rain had got into the house.’
‘Who replaced the pane?’
‘Monsieur Guillaume.’
‘Did he go and buy it himself?’
‘Yes. He got some putty as well. It was about ten in the morning. He must have gone to the hardware shop on Rue de Longchamp. If they can avoid paying for a handyman, they will. Monsieur Guillaume unblocks the drains himself.’
‘You’re sure of the date?’
‘Positive.’
‘Thank you.’
There was nothing else for Maigret to do here. There was nothing else in Rue de la Ferme either, in fact. Unless Eugénie was merely repeating what she had been told to say, in which case she was a better liar than the rest of them.
‘You don’t think they might have killed her, do you?’
He didn’t reply but headed for the door.
‘Because of the windowpane?’
There was a note of hesitancy in her voice.
‘Does it matter which day the window was broken on?’
‘Why do you ask? Would you like to see them go to prison?’
‘Nothing I’d like better. But now I’ve told you what really happened . . .’
She was regretting having said it. She looked as if she would have changed her story at the drop of a hat.
‘You could always check at the hardware shop where he bought the glass and putty.’
‘Thank you for the advice.’
He paused for a moment outside the building, which was, as it turned out, a hardware shop, but not the right one. He waited for a taxi.
‘Rue de la Ferme.’
It wasn’t worth keeping Torrence and the officer from Neuilly kicking their heels on the pavement any longer. He recalled Ernestine’s little comedy on Rue de la Lune, but not with amusement. He started thinking about her. She was the one who had set him off on this chase. He had been stupid to lend it so much weight. Just that morning he had made a complete fool of himself in the office of the Neuilly detective chief inspector.
His pipe didn’t taste good. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. The window between him and the driver was open.
‘Go to Rue de Longchamp. If the hardware shop is still open, pull up there a moment.’
It was his last throw: heads or tails. If the shop was shut, he wouldn’t bother coming back, despite all the Ernestines and Sad Freddies. What proof was there that Alfred really had broken into the house in Rue de la Ferme?
True, he had set off from Quai de Jemmapes on his bicycle and in the early hours had telephoned his wife. But no one knew for sure what they had said to each other.
‘It’s open!’
He meant the hardware shop. A tall youth in a grey overall emerged from the stacks of galvanized pails and brushes to greet him.
‘Do you sell window glass?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘And putty?’
‘Of course. Do you have the dimensions?’
‘It’s not for me. Do you know Monsieur Serre?’
‘The dentist? Yes, monsieur.’
‘Is he one of your customers?’
‘He has an account here.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘Not me, but I only got back from holiday the day before yesterday. He may have come when I was away. It’s easy to check, I just need to consult the book.’
Without asking any questions, the shop assistant went into the semi-darkness of the shop and opened a ledger that was resting on a tall desk.
‘He bought a pane of glass last week.’
‘Can you tell me which day?’
‘Friday.’
The storm had been on Thursday evening. Eugénie had been right, and old Madame Serre!
‘He also bought a half-pound of putty.’
‘Thank you.’
And then, a hair’s breadth away from being missed entirely: the young man, who was no doubt keen to close up the shop, mechanically turned a page, just to be conscientious. He said:
‘He came again this week.’
‘Huh?’
‘Wednesday. He bought a pane of the same dimensions, forty-two by sixty-five, and another half-pound of putty.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘I can even tell you that he came first thing, because it’s the first sale of the day.’
‘What time do you open?’
This was important, because Eugénie, who started work at nine
o’clock, claimed that she found all the panes intact on Wednesday morning.
‘The staff come in at nine, but the owner opens the shop at eight.’
‘Thank you very much. You’re an excellent fellow.’
The excellent fellow must have scratched his head long and hard about why this man, who had seemed so mournful when he came in, suddenly perked up at this piece of information.
‘I take it there is no reason why you would tear out the pages from this ledger?’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘Indeed! Nevertheless, I would recommend that you take good care of it. I will send someone over tomorrow to take photographs.’
He took a card from his pocket and handed it to the young man, who was amazed to read:
Divisional Detective Chief Inspector Maigret
Police Judiciaire
Paris
‘Where now?’ asked the driver.
‘Stop for a moment in Rue de la Ferme. You will see a small bistro on the left-hand side . . .’
This was worth celebrating with a beer. He nearly called Torrence and the other officer to share one with him, but in the end he settled for the driver.
‘What’ll you have?’
‘A white wine and Vichy.’
The street was golden in the sunlight. They could hear the rustle of the breeze in the tall trees of the Bois de Boulogne.
There was a black gate further down the street, and behind it a square of lawn and a house as calm and as well ordered as a convent.
And in this house there was an old woman who resembled a mother superior and a man who looked like a Turk with whom Maigret had a score to settle. Life was truly good.
5.
In which Maigret, taking over from Janvier, hears of the strange opinion Maria Serre, née Van Aerts, had about her husband, and where certain formalities ensue
The rest of the day went like this. First, Maigret downed two beers in the company of his taxi-driver, who restricted himself to a single white wine and Vichy. It was that time of day when the air starts to feel cooler, and as he got back into the taxi Maigret had the idea of going to the boarding house where Maria Van Aerts had lived for a year.
There was nothing in particular he needed to do there. He would admit it was just his habit of nosing round people’s houses to get to know them better.
The walls were a creamy white. Everything was creamy and soft, like an éclair, and the landlady, with her thick-pasted face, looked like an over-iced cake.
‘Such a lovely person, Monsieur Maigret! What a marvellous companion she will have made for her husband! She so much wanted to get married.’
‘You mean she was looking for a husband?’
‘Don’t all young girls dream of their Prince Charming?’
‘She was forty-eight at the time she lived with you, if I am not mistaken?’
‘She was still a young girl inside! The slightest thing would amuse her. She used to play these little tricks on all my lodgers. There’s this shop next to the Madeleine that I had never noticed before I met her. They sell all sorts of jokes: fake mice, spoons that melt in your coffee, gadgets you can slide under the tablecloth to lift up someone’s plate, glasses you can’t drink out of, and all manner of things besides. She was one of that shop’s best customers!
‘And yet she was a very cultured person; she knew all the museums of Europe and would spend whole days in the Louvre.’
‘Did she introduce you to her future husband?’
‘No, she was very secretive about that. Perhaps she didn’t want to bring him here, where others might have their eye on him. Apparently he was a man with an imposing presence; he came across as a diplomat.’
‘Ah.’
‘He was a dentist, she told me, but he had just a few select clients, whom he saw by appointment only. He comes from a rich family.’
‘And Mademoiselle Van Aerts?’
‘Her father left her a tidy sum.’
‘Tell me, was she stingy?’
‘Has someone been talking to you? It’s true she was careful with her money. For example, whenever she had to go into town, she would wait until another resident was going so that she could share the cost of a taxi. And every week she would have something to say about her bill.’
‘Do you know how she met Monsieur Serre?’
‘I think it was through an ad.’
‘She placed lonely hearts ads in the papers?’
‘Not in a serious way. She didn’t really go in for that sort of thing. It was more as a joke. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something along the lines of “Distinguished, rich foreign lady seeks gentleman of equivalent standing with a view to marriage.” She received hundreds of replies. She met her correspondents at the Louvre, in this or that gallery, and they had to be carrying a certain book under their arm or wearing a flower in their buttonhole.’
There were other women like her – from England, Sweden, America – sitting in rattan chairs in the lobby, where there was a background hum of well-oiled electric fans.
‘I hope nothing bad has happened to her.’
It was around seven when Maigret stepped out of the taxi on Quai des Orfèvres. In the shade of the pavement he spotted Janvier arriving with a packet under his arm, looking preoccupied, and he waited for him to catch up so that they could mount the stairs together.
‘How’s it going, Janvier, old man?’
‘Fine, chief.’
‘What have you got there?’
‘My dinner.’
Janvier wasn’t one to complain, but today he had a martyred look.
‘Why not go home?’
‘Because of that damned Gertrude.’
The offices were almost deserted, swept by draughts, because a breeze had picked up, and nearly all the windows of the building had been left open.
‘I’ve managed to track down Gertrude Oosting in Amsterdam. Or rather, I’ve talked to her maid on the phone. She didn’t speak a word of French, so I found this guy who was applying for an identity card at the immigration office and asked him to interpret for me. Then I rang her back.
‘As luck would have it, the Oosting woman had gone out with her husband at four p.m. There’s some sort of open-air concert on over there today, with a fancy-dress parade, after which the Oostings were due to dine with friends, the maid didn’t know where. She didn’t know either when they were due to return, and she had been charged with putting the children to bed.
‘Talking of children . . .’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, chief.’
‘Spit it out!’
‘It’s nothing. Just that my wife is disappointed. It’s our eldest son’s birthday. She has prepared a special dinner. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Did you ask the maid whether Gertrude Oosting speaks French?’
‘She does.’
‘Then off with you.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, off you go. Give me your sandwiches, and I’ll stay here.’
‘Madame Maigret won’t be happy.’
Janvier took a bit of persuading, but he eventually set off, dashing to catch his train.
Maigret ate alone in his office, then went to have a chat with Moers in his laboratory. Moers didn’t leave until nine o’clock, once night had completely fallen.
‘Got that?’
‘Yes, chief.’
He took a photographer with him, and masses of equipment. It wasn’t strictly legal, but since Guillaume Serre had bought two windowpanes, not one, that scarcely mattered any more.
‘Give me Amsterdam, please . . .’
The maid at the other end of the line jabbered away in Dutch, and he thought the gist of it was that Madame Oosting hadn’t got home yet.
Then he called his wife.
‘Would it put you out to come and have a drink on the terrace of the Brasserie Dauphine? I’ll probably be stuck here for another hour or two. Take a taxi.’
It
was a reasonably pleasant evening. They were just as comfortable here as in a café on the Grands Boulevards, except that the only view they had was of the tall, pale stairway of the Palais de Justice.
His men would be at work now in Rue de la Ferme. Maigret had instructed them to wait until the Serres had gone to bed. Torrence would keep a lookout in front of the house to make sure they weren’t disturbed, and the others would go into the garage, which could be seen from the windows of the house, and give the car a thorough going-over. This was a job for Moers and the photographer. They would take everything: fingerprints, dust samples, the whole works.
‘You look happy.’
‘Well, I’m not unhappy.’
He didn’t tell her that, just a few hours earlier, he was far from being in a good humour. He started drinking shorts, while his wife was content with a herbal tea.
He left her twice to go up to his office to ring Amsterdam. It was eleven thirty before a voice that was not that of the maid replied to him in French.
‘I can’t hear you very well.’
‘I said, I am ringing from Paris.’
‘Oh! Paris!’
She had a strong accent, which was not unattractive.
‘Police Judiciaire.’
‘Police?’
‘Yes. I am ringing you about your friend Maria. You know Maria Serre, is that right? Maiden name Van Aerts.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you. Did she write to you often?’
‘Often, yes. I was meant to meet her from the train on Wednesday morning.’
‘Did you wait for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she come?’
‘No.’
‘Did she send you a telegram or phone you to say she wouldn’t be coming?’
‘No. I am worried.’
‘Your friend has disappeared.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What did she say to you in her letters?’
‘Lots of things.’
She started speaking to someone next to her – probably her husband – in her own language.
‘Do you think Maria is dead?’
‘Perhaps. Did she ever express any discontent when she wrote to you?’
‘She wasn’t happy.’
‘Why?’
‘She didn’t like the old woman.’
‘Her mother-in-law?’
‘Yes.’
‘And her husband?’
Maigret and the Tall Woman Page 7