‘It turns out he isn’t a man, but a child who is very scared of his mother.’
‘Has she been writing to you about this for a long time?’
‘Since almost straight after her marriage. A few weeks after.’
‘Was she already talking about leaving him?’
‘Not at that stage. After a year or so.’
‘And recently?’
‘She made her mind up. She asked me to find her an apartment in Amsterdam, near where we live.’
‘Did you find her one?’
‘Yes, and a maid.’
‘So everything was in place?’
‘Yes. I was at the station.’
‘Would it bother you to send me copies of the letters you received from your friend? Have you kept them?’
‘I keep all the letters, but it would be a huge task to get them all copied; they are very long. I can send you the main ones. Are you sure she has met with some misfortune?’
‘I’m convinced of it.’
‘Has she been killed?’
‘It’s very likely.’
‘Her husband?’
‘I don’t know. Listen, Madame Oosting, could you do me a big favour? Does your husband have a car?’
‘Of course.’
‘Would he be so kind as to drive you to the central police headquarters, which remains open all night? Tell the inspector that you were expecting your friend Maria. Show him her last letter. Say that you are extremely worried and that you would like the matter looked into.’
‘Should I mention you?’
‘That isn’t necessary. The important thing is that you request an investigation.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Thank you. Don’t forget the letters you promised to send me.’
He immediately rang Amsterdam again – the police this time.
‘In a few minutes you will receive a visit from a certain Madame Oosting, who will tell you about the disappearance of her friend Madame Serre, née Van Aerts.’
‘Did she disappear in Holland?’
‘No, in Paris. But in order to proceed I need an official complaint. As soon as you log her statement, I would like you to send me a telegram, asking us to initiate an investigation.’
This all took a little time. The inspector at the other end of the line couldn’t fathom how Maigret, in Paris, could know Madame Oosting was about to pay a visit.
‘I will explain later. All I need from you is a telegram. Mark it top priority. I will get it in less than half an hour.’
He went back to Madame Maigret, who was languishing on the terrace of the brasserie.
‘Have you finished?’
‘Not yet. I’ll have one more drink, then we’ll go.’
‘Home?’
‘To my office.’
That always impressed her. Only rarely had she got inside the inner sanctum of Quai des Orfèvres and she never quite knew how to behave there.
‘You seem to be enjoying yourself. As if you were planning a trick on someone.’
‘You’re not far off the mark.’
‘Who is it?’
‘A man who is a cross between a Turk, a diplomat and a small child.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Of course you don’t!’
He was rarely in such good humour. How many glasses of calvados had he drunk? Four? Five? This time, before going back to the office, he downed a beer, then he took his wife’s arm and walked her along the two hundred metres of embankment that separated them from the Police Judiciaire.
‘I want to ask just one thing: don’t start going on again about how dusty it is and how all the offices need a thorough clean.’
On the telephone:
‘No telegrams for me?’
‘Nothing, inspector.’
Ten minutes later, the whole team, apart from Torrence, got back from Rue de la Ferme.
‘How did it go? Any hitches?’
‘No hitches. Nobody interrupted us. Torrence insisted that we wait until all the lights went out in the house, and Guillaume Serre took ages to go to bed.’
‘The car?’
Vacher, who had nothing more to do, asked permission to go home. That left Moers and the photographer. Madame Maigret, sitting on a chair like a visitor, looked around idly and pretended not to listen.
‘We examined the whole car. It seems not to have been used for two or three days. The tank was half full. Nothing disturbed on the inside. I found two or three recent scratches on the boot.’
‘As if someone had loaded a heavy piece of luggage?’
‘It could have been something like that.’
‘A trunk, for example?’
‘A trunk or a crate.’
‘Any spots of blood on the inside?’
‘No. No hairs either. I thought of that. We took a spotlight with us, and there is a plug socket in the garage. Émile will develop the photos.’
‘I’ll go and do that now,’ said the photographer. ‘If you don’t mind waiting twenty minutes or so . . .’
‘I’ll wait. Moers, did you get the impression that the car had been cleaned recently?’
‘Not on the outside. It hasn’t been washed in a garage. But it seems that the inside has been meticulously swept. They must have taken out the floor mat and beaten it, because I had trouble finding any dust to collect. I did, however, pick up a few samples, which I will analyse.’
‘Is there a brush in the garage?’
‘No. I looked. They must have taken it away.’
‘So, apart from the scratches . . .’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Can I go upstairs now?’
Then they were alone in the office, he and Madame Maigret.
‘Are you tired?’
She said that she wasn’t. She had a particular way of looking at the surroundings in which her husband spent the greater part of his life and which were so unfamiliar to her.
‘Is it always like this?’
‘What?’
‘An investigation. When you don’t come home.’
She must be finding it very calm, very easy, little more than a game, really.
‘It depends.’
‘Is it to do with a murder?’
‘It’s more than likely.’
‘Do you know who did it?’
He looked at her with a smile, and she averted her gaze. Then she asked:
‘Does he know that you suspect him?’
He nodded his head.
‘Do you think that he is asleep?’
A moment later, with a shudder, she added:
‘It must be awful.’
‘It can’t have been much fun for the poor woman either.’
‘I know, but at least that was probably quicker, wasn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
The telegram from the Dutch police was phoned through – the hard copy would arrive the next morning.
‘That’s it! We can go home now.’
‘I thought you were waiting for some photographs.’
He smiled again. She was curious to know the result. She had no desire for sleep.
‘They won’t tell us anything.’
‘You think not?’
‘I’m sure of it. Nor will Moers’ tests.’
‘Why? Did the killer take precautions?’
He didn’t reply. He turned out the light and escorted his wife into the corridor, where the cleaners were starting to get to work.
‘Is that you, Monsieur Maigret?’
He looked at the alarm-clock, which showed 8.30. His wife had let him sleep in. He recognized Ernestine’s voice.
‘I haven’t woken you, have I?’
He decided to say no.
‘I’m at the post office. There’s another card for me.’
‘From Le Havre?’
‘From Rouen. It doesn’t say anything, and there’s no mention of my ad. Nothing but my poste restante address, like yesterday.’
There was
a silence. Then she asked:
‘Do you have any news?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, then?’
‘It’s all about windowpanes.’
‘Good news?’
‘Depends for whom.’
‘For us?’
‘I believe it’s good news for you and Alfred, yes.’
‘You no longer believe that I was lying to you?’
‘Not at present.’
At the office he picked out Janvier to come along with him. The latter took the wheel of the small black police car.
‘Rue de la Ferme.’
With the telegram in his pocket, he had Janvier pull up outside the black gate. The pair of them adopted their most professional air and marched in. Maigret rang the bell. A curtain twitched on the first floor, where the shutters were still open. Eugénie answered the door wearing a pair of slippers and wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Good morning, Eugénie. Monsieur Serre is at home and I would like to speak to him.’
Someone leaned over the banister. An old woman’s voice said:
‘Show the gentlemen into the living room, Eugénie.’
It was the first time Janvier had been inside the house, and he was impressed. They listened to the comings and goings above their heads. Then, all of a sudden, the door opened, and the enormous bulk of Guillaume Serre filled almost the entire doorway.
He was just as calm as the day before and was giving them the same insolent stare.
‘Do you have a warrant?’ he asked, his lip trembling slightly.
With deliberate slowness, Maigret took his wallet from his pocket, opened it, found the piece of paper and handed it over politely.
‘Here you are, Monsieur Serre.’
The man wasn’t expecting this. He read the slip of paper, then took it over to the window to decipher the signature. Maigret said:
‘As you see, it is a search warrant. A case has been opened on the disappearance of Madame Maria Serre, née Van Aerts, following a statement from Madame Gertrude Oosting of Amsterdam.’
The old woman entered as he said these words.
‘What is it, Guillaume?’
‘Nothing,’ he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. ‘I believe these gentlemen wish to visit the house. Please go to your room.’
She hesitated and looked at Maigret, as if for advice.
‘You will stay calm, won’t you, Guillaume?’
‘Yes, Mother. Now leave us, please.’
This wasn’t going the way Maigret had imagined, and he frowned.
‘I suppose,’ he said once the old woman had reluctantly torn herself away, ‘that you would like to contact a lawyer. I will shortly have a number of questions to ask you.’
‘I don’t need a lawyer. Since you have a warrant, I can’t object to you being here. That’s all there is to it.’
The downstairs shutters were closed. The room had been in semi-darkness until that point. Serre went over to the first window.
‘No doubt you’d like some light to see by?’
His voice was flat and neutral. If there was any hint of emotion to be perceived there, it was a vague disdain.
‘Do your work, gentlemen.’
It was something of a shock to see the living room in broad daylight. Serre went into the study next door, where he also opened the shutters, then into his surgery.
‘Let me know when you want to look upstairs.’
Janvier cast a surprised glance at his chief. Maigret no longer seemed to be in his good mood of the morning, or the previous evening. He seemed to have something on his mind.
‘Would you allow me to use your phone, Monsieur Serre?’ he asked with the same cold politeness that the other man had shown him.
‘It’s your right.’
He rang the number of the Police Judiciaire. That morning, Moers had made a verbal report, which, as Maigret had expected, was more or less negative. A close examination of the dust had revealed nothing. Or rather, almost nothing. Moers had managed to collect an infinitesimal quantity of powdered brick from under the driver’s seat.
‘Put me through to the lab. Is that you, Moers? Could you come to Rue de la Ferme with your men and your equipment?’
He kept his eye on Serre, who was lighting a long black cigar and not showing the slightest reaction.
‘Bring the lot! No, there is no body. I’ll be here.’
Then, turning to Janvier:
‘You can begin.’
‘In this room?’
‘Wherever you like.’
Guillaume Serre followed them round and watched what they were doing without saying a word. He wasn’t wearing a tie and he had slipped a black alpaca jacket on over his white shirt.
While Janvier was searching the drawers in the study, Maigret flicked through the dentist’s patient records and made some notes in his large notebook.
In truth, it was little more than play-acting. He would be hard put to say what exactly he was looking for. Basically it was a test to see whether at any given moment, in any particular part of the house, Serre would display any signs of nervousness. When they searched the living room, for example, he hadn’t turned a hair but had merely stood there, motionless and impassive, with his back to the brown marble mantelpiece.
Now he was staring at Maigret as if wondering what he might be searching for among his papers, but he seemed more curious than afraid.
‘You don’t have many patients, Monsieur Serre.’
He shrugged his shoulders but didn’t reply.
‘I note that you have significantly more female patients than male.’
Serre merely glared at him as if to say: ‘So what?’
‘I note also that you first met Maria Van Aerts in your capacity as a dentist.’
She had made five visits in all, over a space of two months; the records showed the treatment she had received.
‘Did you know that she was rich?’
Another shrug.
‘Do you know Doctor Dubuc?’
He nodded.
‘He is your wife’s doctor, if I am not mistaken. Was it you who introduced him to her?’
Finally, he said something!
‘Doctor Dubuc tended to Maria Van Aerts before she became my wife.’
‘When you married her, were you aware that she had a heart condition?’
‘She had spoken to me about it.’
‘Was her condition serious?’
‘Dubuc will fill you in if he sees fit.’
‘Your first wife had heart problems too, didn’t she?’
‘You will find her death certificate among my papers.’
Janvier was the one who felt most ill at ease. He was happy when the specialists from Criminal Records arrived and relieved the heavy atmosphere somewhat. When the car pulled up outside the gate, Maigret went to open the door himself and said to Moers in a low voice:
‘The full works. Go over the house with a fine tooth-comb.’
Moers got the message. Seeing the heavy silhouette of Guillaume Serre, he murmured:
‘Do you think that will impress him?’
‘I think it’ll impress somebody, in the end.’
A few minutes later it was as if auctioneers had moved into the house with a view to putting all the contents up for sale. The forensics team left no stone unturned. They took down the portraits and the pictures, moved the piano and the furniture to look under the carpets, emptied out drawers, spread out papers.
At one point they caught sight of Madame Serre, who popped her head round the door to see what was going on, then went away again, looking upset. Then Eugénie turned up and grumbled:
‘I hope you’re going to put all that away again when you’re finished.’
She complained some more when her kitchen was searched, even down to the broom cupboard.
‘If you just told me what you are looking for.’
They weren’t looking for anything in particular. Perhaps, if he was honest, Ma
igret wasn’t looking for anything at all. He was observing the man who was following in their tracks and who never let his calm demeanour slip for a moment.
Why had Maria written to her friend that Serre was nothing but an overgrown child?
While the men were working, Maigret picked up the telephone and got Doctor Dubuc on the other end of the line.
‘Will you be at home for a while? Can I come and see you? No, it won’t take long. I’ll tell the maid, thanks.’
Dubuc had five patients in his waiting room and he told the inspector that he would let him in through the back door. It was a short distance away, on the riverside. Maigret went there on foot. On the way he passed by the hardware shop, where the young assistant of the day before waved to him.
‘Weren’t you going to take photographs of the book?’
‘Soon.’
Dubuc was a man in his fifties with a red goatee and glasses.
‘You were Madame Serre’s physician, is that right, doctor?’
‘The young Madame Serre, or at least the younger.’
‘Did you ever treat anyone else in the house?’
‘Let’s see. Yes. There was a cleaning lady who cut her hand, about two or three years ago.’
‘Was Maria Serre really ill?’
‘She was in need of treatment, yes.’
‘Heart?’
‘Enlargement of the heart, yes. She also ate too much and complained of dizzy spells.’
‘Did she call you often?’
‘About once a month. Other times, she came to see me.’
‘Did you prescribe any medicine for her?’
‘A sedative in pill form. Nothing too strong.’
‘Do you believe her heart could have given out?’
‘Definitely not. Another ten or fifteen years, maybe . . .’
‘Did she never attempt to lose weight?’
‘Every four or five months she would say that she was going on a diet, but her resolution never lasted more than a few days.’
‘Have you met her husband?’
‘I’ve had occasion.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘From what point of view? Professionally? One of my patients was treated by him and said he was very skilful and gentle.’
‘And as a man?’
‘He strikes me as a very unsociable type. What has happened to him?’
‘His wife has disappeared.’
‘Ah!’
Dubuc couldn’t give a damn, in all honesty, and made only a token gesture of concern.
Maigret and the Tall Woman Page 8