Maigret 53 Maigret and the Reluctant Witnesses

by Georges Simenon

  That left Armand and Paulette.

  The drawback with Armand were his epileptic fits. With his back against the wall, wouldn’t he be tempted to have one, either real or simulated?

  ‘I think we’d be better off questioning Paulette Lachaume,’ he decided finally, with a sigh.

  ‘Do you have particular questions to ask her?’

  ‘Some. Others will follow on from her answers.’

  ‘Do you want me to inform her lawyer?’

  Of course, Radel would be present. Everything would be by the book with Angelot. Maigret felt a stab of nostalgia at having to give up his office, his habits, his idiosyncracies – the way he’d send down for sandwiches and beer or coffee at just the right moment, or get one of his inspectors to take over, who would then innocently start the whole interrogation all over again.

  Sooner rather than later, all this would be a thing of the past and Maigret’s work would be done by well-bred Angelots dripping with academic qualifications.

  ‘I telephoned him this morning,’ Maigret admitted.

  The magistrate frowned.

  ‘About the questioning?’

  He was already itching to defend his prerogatives.

  ‘No. To ask him for two of the pieces of information I’ve just given you. Rather than bother the Lachaume family, I thought it best to go through him.’

  ‘Hello! Get me Maître Radel’s chambers, please … André Radel, yes … Hello … André?’

  Maigret hadn’t heard the two men call one another by their first names the day before at Quai de la Gare.

  ‘Listen … I’ve got Detective Chief Inspector Maigret in my office … The investigation has reached a point where it seems necessary to call some people in for questioning … At my office, yes, of course … No, I have no intention of disturbing the old parents … Or him … At least not for the moment … What? What does the doctor say? Oh … Paulette Lachaume, yes … This morning, ideally … OK … I’ll wait for you to call …’

  He hung up, then felt the need to explain:

  ‘We did law together … He’s just told me that Armand Lachaume is in bed … He had a pretty severe fit, yesterday evening … The doctor was called and he’s at his bedside again this morning …’

  ‘What about Paulette?’

  ‘Radel is going to call me back. He’s hoping to bring her here in the late morning.’

  The magistrate gave an embarrassed cough and fiddled with his paper knife.

  ‘It is more customary, at this stage, for me to ask the questions and for you to participate only if necessary … I don’t suppose you have any objections?’

  Maigret had a thousand objections, but what was the use mentioning them?

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘That said, I would find it natural if you indicated in writing before she gets here what you think I should insist on.’

  Maigret nodded.

  ‘Just a few words on a piece of paper. Nothing official.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you learned anything about Léonard Lachaume’s late wife?’

  ‘She served the same purpose as the Zuber girl.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To keep the house by the river and the biscuit factory going, if going is the word for it. She was from a similar background too. Her father started out as a foreman and made a fortune in civil engineering. Her dowry was used as a stopgap.’

  ‘What about the inheritance?’

  ‘There wasn’t one because the father is still alive and looks like he will be for a long time.’

  First Léonard, then Armand.

  Wasn’t there something almost moving about this dogged determination to keep afloat a business which, by all the laws of economics, should have gone under a long time ago?

  Didn’t it have something in common with the disabled ex-serviceman shooting his neighbour because he tormented him from dawn to dusk with his radio on full blast?

  Maigret hadn’t mentioned this case by accident. He had been playing a part with the examining magistrate, it was true, but, deep down, he had been completely honest with himself.

  ‘Hello, yes. What did she say? How long do you think that will take? Around eleven thirty? OK … Of course not! It will be in my office …’

  Was Radel really so afraid that she would be questioned in Maigret’s office? Angelot had reassured him, the implication being:

  ‘In my office, everything will be by the book …’

  Maigret sighed as he got to his feet:

  ‘I’ll be here just before eleven thirty.’

  ‘Don’t forget to jot down any questions that …’

  ‘I’ll have a think.’

  Flanked by two gendarmes, the poor old Monk was still waiting on the bench with an air of resignation until ‘his’ magistrate deigned to see him. Maigret winked at him as he walked past, and then, when he got to his office, slammed the door shut behind him.

  8

  With his elbows resting heavily on his desk, his forehead propped in his left hand, he wrote a few words, taking little puffs on his pipe, then sat staring at the murky rectangle of the window for a long time.

  As on nights before exams in his first two years’ studying medicine, he had re-read all the reports, including the famous inventory. He had read that a third time, just for good measure, and was starting to be sick of it.

  But he was comparing himself less to a student than to a boxer who, in less than an hour, maybe a few minutes, would be staking his reputation, his career, provoking jeers or wild applause.

  The comparison was inaccurate, of course. Angelot had no influence over his career, which, in any case, was soon going to end in retirement. And the newspapers wouldn’t know what went on between the four walls of an office in the Palais de Justice.

  So it wasn’t a question of ovations. All that Maigret risked was a reprimand and, in the future, an array of ironic or pitying glances from the young magistrates to whom Angelot would be sure to tell the story.

  ‘Talking of Maigret and his sixth sense, have you heard …’

  As soon as he had got back to his office, he had called Lucas to give him instructions. All available inspectors were now wearing out the shoe leather, as they say, around Palais-Royal this time, questioning shopkeepers, newspaper sellers, going to the homes and offices of anyone who had been having supper on the ground floor at Chez Marcel that Sunday evening and could have seen something through the windows.

  It was the tiniest of details which at the last moment might nevertheless prove important, if not decisive.

  Maigret had written down his questions, then copied them out because he didn’t think his handwriting was clear enough.

  At 11.10, with some misgivings, he had put the list in an envelope and had it sent over to the Palais de Justice.

  It was gracious of him. He was giving Angelot time to prepare and showing his hand in the process.

  But he wasn’t doing it out of generosity so much as a desire not to arrive until the last moment and thus avoid another conversation with the magistrate before the interrogation.

  ‘If anyone wants me on the telephone, unless it’s one of our men, I’m not here.’

  He wouldn’t talk to the magistrate before Paulette appeared, even on the telephone. He paced around his office, stopping for a moment to look at the Seine, which was a cruel grey, and the black ants swarming on to Pont Saint-Michel, weaving in and out of the buses.

  Now and then he would close his eyes to picture the house on Quai de la Gare more clearly, sometimes saying something in a low voice.

  11.20 … 23 … 25 …

  ‘I’m going over there, Lucas. If anything comes up, let me know, and insist on speaking to me personally.’

  As Maigret’s heavy-set silhouette moved off down the corridor, Lucas’ lips formed an inaudible word that began with ‘sh’.

  From a distance Maigret saw Maître Radel steering Paulette Lachaume, who was wearing a beaver-skin coa
t and matching hat, towards the magistrate’s office. The three of them almost walked in at the same time, which made the magistrate pull a face. Did he think Maigret had cheated by having a quick chat with the young woman and her lawyer first?

  ‘Oh hello, were you behind us?’ asked Radel, unwittingly reassuring the magistrate.

  ‘I came by the little door.’

  The magistrate had stood up, but not come out from behind his desk to greet his visitor.

  ‘I’m sorry to have called you in, madame …’

  She was tired, you could see it in her face which looked dull, almost bruised.

  ‘I understand …’ she murmured, automatically looking around for a chair.

  ‘Take a seat, please. You too, Maître Radel …’

  The two men weren’t addressing one another familiarly any more; it was as if they had only ever been on strictly professional terms.

  ‘I believe you already know Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, madame …’

  ‘We met at Quai de la Gare, yes …’

  He waited for Maigret to sit down too, near the door, slightly behind the others. Organizing everybody took a bit of time. When he finally sat down himself, the magistrate checked that his secretary was ready to record the interview in shorthand, then coughed.

  It was his turn to be embarrassed. The roles were reversed this time: it was up to him to hold the stage, while Maigret was the spectator, the witness.

  ‘Some of my questions, Maître Radel, may strike you, and your client, as strange … But I think she is duty-bound to answer them with complete candour, even if they touch on her private life …’

  She was expecting this; Maigret was sure just by looking at her. So she wasn’t going to be caught off guard. Radel must have warned her that the police were bound to have got wind of her affair with Sainval.

  ‘The first of these questions also concerns you, maître, but I must insist that Madame Lachaume answers … What date, madame, did you feel the need to get a lawyer?’

  Radel was on the verge of objecting. A look from his colleague made him reconsider. He turned to his client who had also turned to him. She whispered timidly:

  ‘Do I have to answer?’

  ‘It’s best if you do.’

  ‘Three weeks ago.’

  Looking at the desk, where the magistrate had purposefully spread out an array of papers, including copies of the reports and the inventory, Maigret noticed that, rather than using his list directly, the questions had been copied on to another piece of paper.

  From now on, Angelot would make a habit of turning to his secretary before he spoke, to make sure he’d had time to record what had been said.

  The atmosphere remained neutral, official. There wasn’t any emotion in the air yet.

  ‘When your father died, his usual notary, Maître Wurmster, dealt with the estate, didn’t he? And he was assisted by a lawyer who was also your father’s lawyer, Maître Tobias.’

  She nodded, but he insisted she answer aloud.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have any reason, three weeks ago, not to go to your father’s lawyer – to Maître Tobias that is – but to another member of the bar?’

  ‘I don’t see the connection between this question and what happened at Quai de la Gare,’ Radel interrupted.

  ‘You will in a moment, maître. If your client would be good enough to answer.’

  ‘I think so,’ Paulette Lachaume said indistinctly.

  ‘You mean you had a reason to change lawyers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t it because you wanted to go to a specialist?’

  Radel was going to object again but the magistrate got in first.

  ‘By specialist, I mean a lawyer particularly renowned for his success in a specific field …’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘In the event, weren’t you going to consult Maître Radel about a possible divorce?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was your husband aware of this at that time?’

  ‘I hadn’t mentioned it to him.’

  ‘Might he have suspected your intentions?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘What about your brother-in-law?’

  ‘I don’t think so either. Not then.’

  ‘Did you pay out money to help with expenses at the end of last month?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you sign the cheque they asked for without question?’

  ‘Yes. I hoped it would be the last one. I didn’t want any fuss.’

  ‘Were the divorce proceedings ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did someone in the house on Quai de la Gare become aware of your intentions?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But that suspicion was in the air, at least recently, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I didn’t get a letter Maître Radel sent me.’

  ‘When should this letter have arrived?’

  ‘A week ago.’

  ‘Who goes through the post?’

  ‘My brother-in-law.’

  ‘So, it’s likely Léonard Lachaume intercepted Maître Radel’s letter. Did you have a feeling something changed in the Lachaumes’ attitude to you after that?’

  She hesitated visibly.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Did you get that impression?’

  ‘I thought my husband was avoiding me. One night when I got back …’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last Friday.’

  ‘Go on. Last Friday, you were saying, when you got back … What time?’

  ‘Seven in the evening … I had gone shopping in town … I found everyone in the living room …’

  ‘Including old Catherine?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, your parents-in-law, Léonard and your husband. Was Jean-Paul there?’

  ‘I didn’t see him. I suppose he was in his bedroom.’

  ‘What happened when you walked in?’

  ‘Nothing. Normally I would have got back later. They weren’t expecting me and they went quiet. It felt as if they were all embarrassed. My mother-in-law didn’t have supper in the dining room that evening, but went straight up to her room …’

  ‘Until recently, if I’m not mistaken, Jean-Paul’s bedroom was on the first floor next to his father’s, the one that used to be his mother’s room … When did he move up to the second floor, to where he is now with the three old people?’

  ‘A week ago.’

  ‘Did the little boy suggest this swap?’

  ‘No. He didn’t want to move.’

  ‘Was it your brother-in-law’s idea?’

  ‘He wanted to turn Jean-Paul’s bedroom into a private office so he could carry on working after dinner.’

  ‘Did he work in the evening sometimes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did you react?’

  ‘I was worried.’

  ‘Why?’

  She looked at her lawyer. The latter lit a cigarette nervously. Maigret was sitting perfectly still in his corner. He would have liked to light his pipe, which he had already filled in his pocket, but didn’t dare.

  ‘I don’t know. I was scared.’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  ‘Nothing in particular … I’d have preferred to work it out without a row, no arguments, no tears, no pleading …’

  ‘You mean your divorce?’

  ‘Yes. I knew it was a disaster for them …’

  ‘Because you’d been supporting the house since you’d got married. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes. I was planning anyway to leave a certain sum to my husband. I had discussed it with Maître Radel. But I wanted to be out of the house the day Armand received the papers …’

  ‘Did Jacques Sainval know this?’

  She blinked at the name, then, without any other sign of surprise, just murmured:

  ‘Of cou
rse …’

  The magistrate remained silent for a while, looking down at his notes. Before resuming with a degree of solemnity, he couldn’t help glancing at Maigret:

  ‘In short, Madame Lachaume, your departure spelled the end for both the family and the biscuit factory.’

  ‘I told you I would have left them some money.’

  ‘Enough to keep going for a long time?’

  ‘A year, at any rate.’

  Maigret remembered the inscription on the brass plate: Est. 1817.

  A century and a half, almost. What was a year by comparison? The Lachaumes had stood firm for a century and a half, and then, just like that, because somebody called Paulette had met an ambitious publicist …

  ‘Did you write a will?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t have any family, for one thing. And also because I planned to remarry as soon as I could.’

  ‘Does your marriage contract stipulate that any money goes to the last surviving spouse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you been scared for?’

  Radel tried to warn her, but it was too late. She had started to answer, without realizing the danger:

  ‘I don’t know … A few days …’

  ‘Scared of what?’

  She reacted this time. They saw her fists clench, a look of dread cross her face.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. Why are you questioning me, not them?’

  The magistrate hesitated; Maigret felt the need to give him an encouraging look.

  ‘Was your decision to divorce final?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing the Lachaumes could have said would have stopped you?’

  ‘No. I’d sacrificed myself for long enough …’

  For once a woman wasn’t exaggerating when she said this. How long after she’d got married had she been able to delude herself about her role in the patrician house on Quai de la Gare?

  She hadn’t rebelled. She had done her best to bail out the business, or at least to stop up the gaps, to stave off total collapse.

  ‘Did you love your husband?’

  ‘I thought so, at first.’

  ‘Did you ever have sexual relations with your brother-in-law?’

  The magistrate read out this question grudgingly, angry with Maigret for making him ask it.