Maigret sat for a few minutes turning the pages of the notebook without saying a word. Then he got up and went into the office next door, where the inspectors, like schoolchildren, all tried to look busy.
In a low voice he gave some instructions to Janvier, thought for a moment about having some beers sent up, then almost mechanically drained the dregs in the glass that was standing on Vacher’s desk.
When he returned, Serre, who had not changed position, had lit up one of his long cigars. Not without a certain insolence, he murmured:
‘If I may?’
Maigret thought about saying no, but merely shrugged his shoulders.
‘Do you have anything to say about that second windowpane, Monsieur Serre?’
‘I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘Then you should. It would be much better for you if you came up with a plausible explanation.’
‘I’m not looking for one.’
‘Do you still maintain that you replaced the windowpane in your office only once?’
‘The morning after the storm.’
‘Would you like me to get the Meteorological Office to verify that there was no storm in Neuilly on the night of Tuesday to Wednesday?’
‘No point. Unless that would give you pleasure. I am speaking of the storm last week.’
‘You went to the hardware shop on Rue de Longchamp and bought a new pane and some putty.’
‘As I have already told you.’
‘Are you claiming that you have not returned to the shop since then?’
And he slid the photograph of the ledger under his nose.
‘Why, in your opinion, would someone go to the bother of buying a second pane of glass and round of putty?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘For what reason did the shopkeeper declare that you came to his shop again around eight o’clock on Wednesday morning?’
‘You’d better ask him.’
‘When was the last time you used your car?’
‘Last Sunday.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Mother and I went for a drive for a couple of hours, as we often do on a Sunday.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘The forest of Fontainebleau.’
‘Did your wife come with you?’
‘No. She wasn’t feeling well.’
‘Had you already decided to separate?’
‘It was never about a separation. She was tired, depressed. She wasn’t getting on with Mother. By mutual agreement we decided that she should return to her own country for a few weeks or months.’
‘Yet she took all her money with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there was a possibility that she wouldn’t be coming back. We aren’t children. We are capable of seeing things as they are. It was a sort of experiment we were trying out.’
‘Tell me, Monsieur Serre, to get to Amsterdam you have to cross two borders, don’t you? French customs are very strict about capital being moved out of the country. Didn’t your wife fear that her gold might be discovered and confiscated?’
‘Do I have to answer that?’
‘I think it would be in your interest to do so.’
‘Even if I risk legal consequences?’
‘They will probably be less serious than being accused of murder.’
‘Very well. One of my wife’s suitcases had a false bottom.’
‘Expressly for this trip?’
‘No.’
‘She has used it on other occasions?’
‘Several.’
‘To go over the border?’
‘The Belgian border, and one occasion the Swiss border. I’m sure you’re aware that, until recently, it was much easier and less troublesome to acquire gold in Belgium and especially Switzerland.’
‘Are you admitting your complicity in these capital transfers?’
‘I am.’
Maigret got up and went out into the inspectors’ room.
‘Could you come in a moment, Janvier?’
Then, to Serre:
‘My colleague will record this part of our conversation. Please repeat to him exactly what you have just said to me. Then get him to sign his statement, Janvier.’
He went out and got Vacher to show him the office where the translator was working.
He was a small man in glasses who was typing up his translation directly on the machine, stopping every now and again to consult the dictionary that he had brought with him.
There were at least forty letters, most of them are several pages long.
‘Where did you begin?’
‘At the beginning. I’m on the third letter now. All three date from a little over two and a half years ago. In the first one, the lady tells her friend that she is going to get married, that her future husband is a distinguished man with a fine bearing, from a very good background, and his mother is like some painting or other in the Louvre. I can give you the name of the painter.’
He looked through his papers.
‘Clouet. She’s always talking about paintings in these letters. Even if she’s talking about the weather she’ll refer to Monet or Renoir.’
‘I’d like you now to start at the end and work backwards.’
‘If you like. You realize that, even if I stay here all night, I won’t get through all this by tomorrow morning?’
‘That’s why I’m asking you to begin at the end. What is the date of the last letter?’
‘Last Sunday.’
‘Could you read it to me quickly?’
‘I can give you a rough idea. Wait.
‘“Dear Gertrude, Paris has never looked as resplendent as it does this morning. I almost went out with G and his mother to the forest of Fontainebleau, which I imagine has all the splendours of a Corot or a Courbet—”’
‘Is there a lot on these splendours?’
‘Shall I skip?’
‘Please.’
The translator scanned the pages, moving his lips silently, as if he were at mass.
‘Here we go:
‘“I wonder what effect it will have on me, seeing Holland again and all its pastel shades, but now that the moment approaches, I feel trepidation. After everything that I have written about my life here, about G and about my mother-in-law, you must be wondering what is going on with me and why I’m not feeling happier.
‘“Perhaps it’s because of my dream last night, which spoiled my day. Do you remember that painting in the museum in The Hague that made us both blush? It had no signature. It was attributed to a painter from the Florentine school whose name I’ve forgotten and it represents a faun carrying over his shoulder a completely naked woman, who is putting up a struggle. Do you remember it? In my dream the faun had G’s face, and he had such a fierce expression that I woke up trembling and bathed in sweat. Not from fear. It was stranger than that. My memory is confused. There was some fear, for sure, but there was another feeling as well. I will try to tell you about it on Wednesday, when we can finally chat properly like we did when you came to see me.
‘“I will leave on Tuesday evening. I’ve made my mind up. There’s no going back. So that’s only two more days to wait. I have a lot of things to do in that time. The time will fly by. Yet it still seems far off to me, almost unreal.
‘“Sometimes I get the feeling, especially since that dream, that something will happen to prevent me leaving.
‘“Don’t be afraid. My decision is final. I will follow your advice. I can’t put up with this life any longer. But—”’
‘Are you there, chief?’
It was Janvier, with the statement in his hand.
‘I’ve finished. He’s waiting for you.’
Maigret took the sheets of paper, left the translator to his work and went back through the inspectors’ room, deep in thought.
No one at this point could guess how long the interrogation was going to take.
Guillaume Serre
looked up at Maigret as he came in and picked up a pen from the desk.
‘I suppose I have to sign it?’
‘Yes. Here. Have you read it?’
‘I’ve read it. Could I ask you for a glass of water?’
‘Would you rather have a glass of red wine?’
The dentist looked at him, gave an indecipherable smile, heavy with irony and bitterness.
‘Ah, that,’ he said disdainfully.
‘Yes, that, Monsieur Serre. You are so frightened of your mother that you are reduced to drinking in secret.’
‘Was that a question? Do I have to reply?’
‘As you wish.’
‘You should know that my mother’s father was a drunk, as were her two brothers, who are both dead now, and her sister ended her days in a mental asylum. My mother has lived in fear of me being a drinker too, because she is convinced that this is a hereditary trait. When I was a student, she would sit up anxiously waiting for me to return home. She would sometimes wander round the cafés of Boulevard Saint-Michel, where I would be out with friends. There have never been any spirits in the house, and though we have wine in the cellar, she has always carried the key about with her.’
‘She allows you a glass of wine with water at each meal, is that correct?’
‘I know that she came to see you and talked to you.’
‘Did she repeat what she told me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you love your mother a lot, Monsieur Serre?’
‘It has mostly been just the two of us, her and me.’
‘A bit like a married couple?’
He reddened slightly.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Is your mother jealous?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I asked you whether your mother, as is often the case with a widow and an only son, displays jealous feelings about your relationships. Do you have many friends?’
‘Does this bear any relation to the alleged disappearance of my wife?’
‘In your house I didn’t find a single letter from a friend or a single photograph of you with a bunch of companions of the sort that you find in most people’s homes.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Nor is there a single photograph of your first wife.’
More silence.
‘Another detail struck me, Monsieur Serre. The portrait hanging above the mantelpiece – is that your maternal grandfather?’
‘Yes.’
‘The one who drank?’
A nod.
‘In a drawer I found a number of portraits of you as a child and a young man, portraits of women and men who must be your grandmother, your aunt and your uncles. All on your mother’s side. Does it not strike you as odd that there isn’t a single portrait of your father and his family?’
‘It’s never struck me.’
‘Were they destroyed after your father died?’
‘My mother is better placed than I to answer that question.’
‘So you don’t remember them being destroyed?’
‘I was quite young.’
‘You were seventeen. What image of your father did you keep in your head, Monsieur Serre?’
‘Is this part of the interrogation?’
‘As you see, neither my questions nor your answers are being recorded. Your father was a lawyer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he run his practice himself?’
‘Not really. His head clerk took on most of the work.’
‘Did he have a social life? Or did he stay at home with the family all the time?’
‘He went out a lot.’
‘Did he have mistresses?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he die in his bed?’
‘On the stairs, going up to bed.’
‘Were you at home?’
‘I had gone out. When I got back, he had been dead for two hours.’
‘Who took care of him?’
‘Doctor Dutilleux.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘He died at least ten years ago.’
‘Were you there when your first wife died?’
He drew his thick eyebrows together and stared hard at Maigret, jutting out his lower lip in an expression of disgust.
‘Answer the question, please.’
‘I was at home.’
‘In which part of the house?’
‘In my study.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Around nine in the evening.’
‘Was your wife in her room?’
‘She had gone to bed early. She wasn’t feeling very well.’
‘Had she been feeling unwell for a few days?’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘Was your mother with her?’
‘She was upstairs too.’
‘With her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it your mother who called you?’
‘I think so.’
‘When you got to the room, was your wife already dead?’
‘No.’
‘Did she die shortly afterwards?’
‘Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes later. The doctor rang at the door.’
‘Which doctor?’
‘Dutilleux.’
‘Is he your family doctor?’
‘He was even when I was a child.’
‘Was he a friend of your father?’
‘Of my mother.’
‘Does he have children?’
‘Two or three.’
‘Have you lost touch with them?’
‘I didn’t know them personally.’
‘Why didn’t you inform the police that someone had tried to break into your safe?’
‘I had nothing to inform them about.’
‘What did you do with the tools?’
‘Which tools?’
‘The ones the burglar left behind when he ran away.’
‘I didn’t see any tools or any burglar.’
‘Did you use your car on the night of Tuesday to Wednesday?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Do you know if anyone else used it?’
‘I haven’t had a reason to go to the garage since then.’
‘When you parked your car last Sunday, were there any scratches on the boot or the right mudguard?’
‘I didn’t notice anything.’
‘Did you or your mother get out of the car at any point?’
He didn’t reply.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘I’m trying to remember.’
‘That doesn’t seem too difficult to me. You were driving down the Fontainebleau road. Did you set foot on the ground?’
‘Yes. We went for a walk in the country.’
‘You mean on a country path?’
‘A small path between the fields to the right of the road.’
‘Would you be able to find this path again?’
‘I think so.’
‘Was it paved?’
‘I don’t think so. No. That seems highly unlikely.’
‘Where is your wife, Monsieur Serre?’
And the inspector rose to his feet without waiting for a reply.
‘Because we have to find her, don’t we?’
7.
In which we see first one woman, then another, in the waiting room, one of whom signals to Maigret not to recognize her
At about five o’clock Maigret had got up for a moment to open the door between his office and the inspectors’ room and winked at Janvier. A little later, he had got up again to go and close the window, in spite of the heat, because of the noise coming from outside.
At 5.50 he went into the next-door office with his jacket in his hand.
‘Over to you!’ he said to Janvier.
The latter and his colleagues had understood the situation a long time ago. From the moment back in Rue de la Ferme when the inspector had ordered Serre to follow him, Janvi
er was sure that he wouldn’t be getting away from Quai des Orfèvres any time soon. What did surprise him was that the chief had made the decision so suddenly, without having all the pieces of the jigsaw in his hand.
‘She’s in the waiting room,’ someone whispered in his ear.
‘Who?’
‘The mother.’
Maigret installed a young officer, Marileux, who knew shorthand, behind the door.
‘The same questions?’ asked Janvier.
‘The same ones. And any others that come into your head.’
The plan was to wear the dentist down. The rest of them would be able to take turns, go and get a coffee or a beer, make contact with the outside world again, while he would be kept for as long as was necessary in the same office, on the same chair.
Maigret went to see the translator first. The latter had decided to take off his jacket and tie.
‘What’s the story?’
‘I’ve translated the last four letters. There’s a bit here in the last but one that might be of interest to you:
‘“My mind is made up, Gertrude. I’m still wondering how it came to this. However, I had no dreams last night or, if I did, I don’t remember them.”’
‘Does she talk about dreams a lot?’
‘Yes. She often mentions them. She interprets them.’
‘Go on.’
‘“You have often asked me what’s wrong, and I’ve told you that you were imagining things and that everything was fine. The truth is, I’ve been trying hard to convince myself that that is true.
‘“I swear that, for the last two and a half years, I have done my best to see this as my home and G as my husband.
‘“The truth is, you see, that I knew it wasn’t true, that I’ve always been an outsider, even more so than in the boarding house that you know and where you and I had such a happy time together.
‘“So how did I suddenly start to see things as they really are?
‘“Do you remember when we were little? How we liked to compare everything we saw – people, streets, animals – to the pictures in our albums? We wished real life was like those pictures. Later, when we started visiting museums, it was the paintings that we used as our point of comparison.
‘“I did the same here, but I did it deliberately, without really believing it, and this morning I saw my mother-in-law, I saw G, with fresh eyes and with no illusions.
‘“I hadn’t had any for a long time – illusions, I mean. I want you to understand. I didn’t have any illusions, yet I was so reluctant to give them up.
Maigret and the Tall Woman Page 10