She was going to lie again. It could be seen from the way her nose quivered.
‘He told me not to worry. That everything was fine. That in four or five months we’d be married and that we’d get a house on the other side of the straits, over towards Charron, so that we never have to see these people again … He loves me, do you hear? He had no reason to kill a man he didn’t even know …’
Steps on the stairs, in the corridor. A door. It was Méjat coming back and whistling as he undressed.
‘Is that all you have to tell me, Thérèse? Think carefully. Half of what you’ve told me so far has been the truth and half has been lies. Because of the lies, it’ll be hard for me to take the truths into account …’
He had stood up. He was too tall and too broad for the room. Suddenly, just when he was least expecting it, Thérèse threw herself on his chest and began sobbing desperately.
‘There, there …’ he said, as if calming a child. ‘It’s all right. Tell me what’s on your mind …’
She sobbed so loudly that Méjat, who was opposite, opened his door.
‘Calm down, my dear.You’re going to wake the whole house. Don’t you want to talk about it now? …’
She shook her head, still hiding her face in Maigret’s chest.
‘I think you’re wrong. But there it is! Go to bed. Would you like me to give you something to help you sleep?’
Still like a child, she nodded. He put a sleeping pill in the tooth mug and ran some water.
‘It’ll be better tomorrow morning …’
She drank, her eyes and cheeks wet, and as she did so he backed out of the room.
He heaved a sigh of relief as he at last got into his bed, which, like Thérèse’s room, was too small for him.
The following morning was sunny and very cold. Thérèse, as she served him his breakfast, looked more stubborn than ever. Méjat had got hold of some brilliantine from the barber’s in L’Aiguillon and stank of it.
Maigret, his hands in his pockets, went for his little walk, watching the mussel farmers returning, the baskets of mussels, the greenish-blue sea in the distance, the bridge he had never been all the way across and beyond which were the beginnings of a seaside resort, a few holiday villas for people of modest means nestling among the pines.
A gendarme was stamping his feet in front of the judge’s house. The shutters were open. All this constituted a delightful little world which was starting to become familiar to him. Some people said hello to him, others watched him suspiciously. He ran into the mayor, who was loading mussels on to a lorry.
‘There are already some telegrams for you. I put them on your table in the town hall … I think the lieutenant is waiting for you …’
It was late. Maigret had slept in. Now he was calmly on his way to his office, just as in the old days, during slack periods, he would walk to Quai des Orfèvres through the Saint-Antoine district and across the Ile Saint-Louis.
The plaster bust of La République was in its place. The stove was purring. It must have been the mayor who had had the tactful idea of placing a sealed bottle of white wine and some glasses on the desk.
The lieutenant had come in with Maigret. The latter took off his hat and coat, and was about to ask a question when he was pleasantly surprised by a veritable explosion of children’s cries. Right there, beneath his windows, in the sun, the whole school was having its break. Children went sliding across the frozen puddles, each time with a dull thud of clogs. There were red and blue and green scarves, pea jackets, shawls.
‘Well, lieutenant, any news of Marcel Airaud?’
‘No sign of him yet. The marshes are enormous. The cabins have to be searched one by one. At this time of year, some paths are barely passable. There are isolated cabins that can only be reached by boat.’
‘And the judge?’
‘All quiet. Nobody’s been in or out of the house, except for the two maids this morning.’
‘What about Albert Forlacroix?’
‘He went out to the mussel fields as usual this morning. One of my men has his eye on him. Especially as they say he’s a violent lad who loses his temper over nothing.’
Was it an affectation of his to warm himself with his back to the stove and slowly light his pipe when there were telegrams waiting for him on the table? Or was it rather a concern not to confuse things, to do everything in its own time, to have done with L’Aiguillon first before finding out what had happened elsewhere?
The first telegram, as if ironically, was from Madame Maigret.
Have put suitcase with linen and change of clothes on bus. Await news. Love.
‘What time does the coach arrive?’
‘A few minutes from now.’
‘Would you be so kind as to collect a suitcase in my name and have it taken to the Hôtel du Port …’
Another telegram, a longer one, from Nantes.
Flying Squad Nantes to Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.
Stranger discovered L’Aiguillon identified. Stop. Dr Janin, 35, living Rue des Églises, Nantes. Stop. Left home Tuesday 10 January without luggage. Stop. Inquiries continuing. Stop. Phone for further details.
The lieutenant had just returned. Maigret handed him the telegram and casually remarked:
‘He looked older than he was.’
Then he turned the crank of the telephone, bade the postmistress a pleasant good morning and asked her to get him the flying squad in Nantes.
This was all good old traditional work. Let’s see now! A third telegram, from Versailles, in response to a telegram from Maigret.
According to latest information, Madame Forlacroix, née Valentine Constantinesco, lives Villa des Roches-Grises, Rue Commandant-Marchand, Nice.
‘Hello? … The flying squad in Nantes? Maigret … Put me through to him … Guillaume? That’s right, old chap … Yes, fine … You’ve been quick … I’m listening, yes …’
Maigret never took notes. If he had a propelling pencil in his hand and a paper in front of him, it was only to make doodles that had no connection with the case.
‘… Émile Janin … Faculty of Medicine in Montpellier … Very humble family from the Roussillon … One interesting detail: two years as an intern at Sainte-Anne … So, he’s good at psychiatry … Ah-ha! … Quite independent-minded … Enlists as a naval doctor … What ship? … The Vengeur … The Vengeur went around the world three or four years earlier … That explains the clothes bought in Panama … Still too independent … Not a very good record … Returns to civilian life … Settles in Nantes where he specializes in psychoanalysis …
‘Hello, mademoiselle? … One more call, if you don’t mind … Could you put me through as a matter of priority to the Sûreté in Nice, Alpes-Maritimes? … I’m most grateful … Yes, I know you’re doing what you can and, before leaving, I’ll bring you some chocolates … You prefer marrons glacés? … Duly noted …’
And, addressing the lieutenant:
‘I wonder if I’m not going to have to use my blank warrant …’
Was it intuition? He hadn’t finished when the phone rang insistently. The children had gone back to class. It wasn’t Nice yet, of course.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? … One moment … Chief Prosecutor Bourdeille-Jaminet on the line …’
The voice was still distant, as if detached from material things:
‘I gather he’s been identified? … In these circumstances, I wonder … I’ve taken on a great responsibility … Do you still have your arrest warrant? … Well, inspector, in agreement with the examining magistrate, I think it would be prudent to …’
Méjat had come in and sat down quietly in a corner, from where he squinted at the friendly bottle of white wine.
‘Nice!’
‘Thank you … Sûreté Nationale? …’
He gave his instructions, in just a few words, and when he had finished he looked mechanically at the paper lying on his desk and saw that what he had drawn was nothing other than a full mou
th, the kind of well-defined, sensual lips you see in the paintings of Renoir.
He tore the sheet of paper into little pieces and threw them in the fire.
‘I think …’ he began.
Someone was crossing the courtyard: old Élisa’s daughter, who worked with her mother in the judge’s house.
‘Show her in, Méjat.’
‘It’s a letter for Monsieur Maigret.’
He took it, dismissed the girl and slowly tore open the envelope.
It was the first time he had seen the judge’s handwriting, handwriting that was neat, small and careful, elegant but perhaps too refined. Not one line higher than the other. A paper that was plain, but of rare quality and in an unusual format.
Detective Chief Inspector,
Forgive me for writing you this note instead of visiting you in your office at the town hall or in your hotel. But, as I am sure you will realize, it is painful for me to leave my daughter unattended.
I have thought a great deal since our last conversation and have come to the conclusion that I need to make certain declarations.
I am perfectly willing to come and see you wherever and whenever you wish. I admit, however, even though this request may not be very proper, that I would prefer it if you could do me the honour of another visit.
Needless to say, I am at home all day, and whatever time you choose I will make mine.
Thanking you in advance for whatever you decide to do, inspector.
Respectfully yours.
Maigret stuffed the letter into his pocket without showing it to the lieutenant or to Méjat, both of whom were finding it hard to conceal their curiosity.
‘How long ago were the newspapers delivered?’ he asked.
‘We should have copies any minute now. The bus that brings them in with the post arrived while you were on the phone.’
‘Could you go and get me one, Méjat? And can you check once again that the judge didn’t have any visitors this morning apart from his maids?’
He was less cheerful than he had been earlier. His gaze was becoming heavier. He kept moving objects around for no reason as he paced up and down the room. Then he stared at the telephone and finally turned the crank.
‘It’s me again, mademoiselle … I’ll have to double the quantity of marrons glacés … Have you finished sorting the mail? … They haven’t started delivering it yet? … No letter for Judge Forlacroix? … Tell me … Has he made or received any phone calls? … No? … No telegram either? … Thank you … Yes, I’m still waiting for an urgent call from Nice …’
Méjat returned, accompanied by three people, whom he left in the courtyard. As he came in, he announced:
‘Reporters.’
‘I see!’
‘One from Luçon and two from Nantes. Here are the regional papers.’
Although they all published the photograph of the corpse, none of them, obviously, announced yet that the dead man had been identified.
‘What shall I tell them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘They’re going to be furious. You’ll see them at lunch, they’re all staying at the Hôtel du Port.’
Maigret shrugged and put some coal in the stove, then looked at the time, because he could already see the children coming out of school. What did they care, those people in Nice, in that sun that was like a metal disc?
One little detail was nagging at him, one point he couldn’t clarify. Why had the judge written him this letter just when the body had been identified? Did he know? And if he did, how had he found out?
The telephone … Still not Nice … Marans informing him that there was still no trace of Marcel Airaud and that the search was continuing throughout the marshes …
Good! Nice, at the same moment … Three voices on the line …
‘Hang up, Marans … Hang up, for heaven’s sake … Hello, Nice? … Yes, Maigret … You say this person hasn’t left Nice in the last three weeks? … You’re sure of that? … No telegram yesterday or this morning? … What? … I didn’t quite catch the name … Luchet … Van Uchet? … Could you spell it? … V for Victor … Van Usschen … Yes, I’m listening … A Dutchman … Cocoa … Yes, send me everything you can! … If I’m not here, leave a message with my inspector …’
He said in a low voice, more to himself than to the others:
‘The judge’s wife has been living for several years in Nice with a man named Horace Van Usschen, a wealthy Dutchman who made his fortune in cocoa …’
Then he opened the bottle of white wine and drank a glass, two glasses, looking at Méjat as if not seeing him.
‘Don’t move from here until I get back.’
The three reporters tried to follow him, but he had assumed his most stubborn air. It was aperitif hour at the Hôtel du Port, and men came to the doorway to see where he was going. He raised his hand in a brief greeting to the gendarme who was keeping guard outside the judge’s house and rang the bell.
‘This way …’ Élisa said. ‘The judge is waiting for you …’
In the library, so peaceful and so comfortable! Maigret noticed that the judge kept wringing his hands, from which the blood had drained.
‘Sit down, inspector. Take off your coat, this may take a while and the room is very warm. I won’t offer you any port, since I’m sure you’re going to refuse it.’
A hint of bitterness in his voice.
‘Not at all!’
‘And what if, after what I’m about to tell you, you regret drinking with me?’
Maigret sat down in the same armchair as the other night, stretched his legs and filled his pipe.
‘Do you know a Dr Janin?’
The judge really did search in his memory. It wasn’t pretence.
‘Janin? … Let me see … No … I don’t think so …’
‘He’s the man you tried to throw into the sea …’
A strange gesture, as if to say: ‘That’s not what this is about. It’s of no importance.’
He poured the port.
‘Cheers, then!’ he said. ‘I haven’t been trying to trick you. Before anything else, I’d like to ask you a question …’
He turned solemn. His face lit up beneath his light grey hair, which was still as dishevelled as a woman’s.
‘If anything happens and I’m not able to look after my daughter for a while, could you promise me, man to man, that no harm will come to her?’
‘I assume that if … if what you fear does indeed come about, your daughter would be entrusted to her mother, wouldn’t she?’
‘When you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll know she can’t be entrusted to her mother … So …’
‘Provided it stays within the law, I’ll make sure she’s treated as well as possible.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
He slowly finished his glass of port and walked to a drawer to look for cigarettes.
‘You only smoke a pipe, don’t you? Please …’
Finally, exhaling the first puff of smoke, he murmured:
‘In these circumstances, I think, after mature reflection, that it’s preferable for me to spend some time in prison …’
It was unexpected. At that moment, the piano could be heard above their heads. He looked up at the ceiling. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion, as if he were holding back the tears.
‘I killed a man, inspector …’
Outside, the gendarme’s hobnailed shoes could be heard striking the hard stones of the pavement.
‘Do you still want to finish your port?’
He took an old gold watch from his pocket and snapped open the lid.
‘Midday. Not that it matters to me. But if you prefer to go and have lunch first … I don’t dare invite you to eat here.’
He poured himself another drink, then came and sat down facing Maigret, beside the crackling fire.
6. The Two Englishwomen of Versailles
At about one o’clock, the gendarme standing guard outside the judge
’s house started to get nervous, and every time he passed the windows he would go closer and try to see inside.
At 1.30, he stuck his face against the window, and it took him a moment to discover two men sitting in armchairs on either side of the fireplace, their heads emerging strangely from a cloud of smoke.
At about the same hour, the clatter of forks and the murmur of women’s voices could be heard from an adjoining room, and Maigret assumed it was Lise Forlacroix having lunch.
Every now and again, he would cross his legs. Some time later, he would uncross them to tap the bowl of his pipe on his heel. There were already lots of ashes on the tiled floor. What did it matter now? The judge, out of habit, stubbed out his cigarette ends in a green porcelain ashtray, and all these little white and brown ends spoke for themselves.
They talked calmly. Maigret would ask a question, raise an objection. Forlacroix would reply in a voice that was as clear and, in a way, as meticulous as his handwriting.
The ringing of the telephone at 2.15 startled them, as if they had both forgotten the outside world. Forlacroix looked inquisitively at Maigret. Was it all right if he picked up the receiver? Maigret nodded.
‘Hello? … Yes … Just a moment … It’s for you, inspector …’
‘Hello, chief … Sorry to bother you … I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I’ve been getting worried! … Nothing’s happened, has it?’
The judge had sat down again and was playing with his hands and looking at the logs.
‘Get me a taxi … Straight away, yes … It should be here in half an hour … No, nothing special …’
And he in his turn sat down again.
When the taxi drew up outside the front door and Méjat rang the bell, Maigret was alone in the library, walking up and down and devouring a pâté sandwich. On the table stood an almost empty bottle of old Burgundy. They had smoked so much, the air was almost unbreathable.
Méjat stood watching his chief, with a completely stupid look on his face.
‘Are you arresting him? Is it over? Am I going with you?’
‘You’re staying here.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
The Judge's House Page 6