‘He’s gone away.’
‘For long?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me when he’ll be back?’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘Is he in Paris?’
Another pause.
‘If he is, he didn’t leave an address. Does he owe you money?’
Maigret hung up once more. And Madame Maigret, who had overheard him, asked as she served the soup:
‘Has he disappeared?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘You think he might have committed suicide?’
He muttered:
‘I don’t think anything.’
He saw the man again, sitting in their front room, his knuckles white from clasping his fingers together; he saw above all his pale blue eyes staring at him beseechingly.
Planchon, after several drinks, had been under pressure. He had talked a lot. Maigret had allowed himself to go along with that, and there were a number of precise questions he ought to have asked, and had not.
After dinner, he phoned the emergency services. It was the time when duty officers would be eating, watching their switchboards, and the man who replied had his mouth full.
‘No, chief. No suicides reported since I got in … Wait while I check the daytime log. One moment … Old woman threw herself out of a window in Boulevard Barbès. Corpse pulled from the Seine at the bridge at Saint-Cloud at five p.m. Condition suggests it’s been in the water about ten days. Can’t see anything else.’
It was Wednesday evening. Next day, in his office, Maigret began scribbling on a piece of paper.
It had been on the Saturday evening that he had found Planchon waiting for him at home on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.
On Sunday morning, he had telephoned the house in Rue Tholozé and Madame Planchon had told him that her husband was out with his daughter.
That was true, because the painter had confirmed it to him later. Isabelle and her father had gone off hand in hand to the flea market in Saint-Ouen.
On the same Sunday afternoon, Maigret and his wife had walked past the entrance to the house. The van had not been in the yard. No one could be seen behind the curtains, but he had later learned, again from Planchon, that he was at home, asleep.
On Monday morning, Janvier and Lapointe, using methods bordering on the illegal, had gone to Rue Tholozé, where under Renée’s suspicious gaze they had looked in every room, pretending to take measurements.
In the late afternoon, Léonard Planchon had telephoned him at Quai des Orfèvres from a café on Place des Abbesses, or so he said, and Maigret had certainly overheard voices, glasses clinking and the sound of a till.
The man’s last words had been: ‘Well, thank you, anyway …’
He hadn’t mentioned taking a trip, nor given any hint at all of suicide. It was on the Saturday that he had vaguely mentioned that solution, which he was rejecting, so as not to leave Isabelle in the care of Renée and her lover.
On the Tuesday, no phone call. In order to put his mind at rest, Maigret had asked the police in the eighteenth arrondissement to take a look at the house in Rue Tholozé during the night. Not constant surveillance. The officers doing their rounds would just have glanced in to see that nothing unusual was happening and that the van was still in the yard. Which it was.
Wednesday finally. Nothing. No call from Planchon. And when Maigret had phoned the house at about seven p.m., Roger Prou had said that Planchon would not be back that evening. He seemed vague, as if wary. Renée was not home then either.
But as her lover had said, she was there an hour later, and from her replies he had deduced that she did not expect to see her husband again for quite some time.
He attended the daily briefing, as he did every morning, still avoiding any mention of the case, which did not exist officially. A little after ten, in the freezing cold drizzle, he left the Police Judiciaire and took a taxi to Rue Tholozé.
He did not yet know how he would handle this. He had no precise plan.
‘Shall I wait?’ the taxi-driver said.
He preferred to pay, since he might be there for a while.
The van was not in the yard, but a workman in white overalls stained with paint was coming and going in the shed. Maigret went straight to the dwelling-house and pressed the bell. A window opened on the first floor above his head, and he did not budge. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs and the door opened a little way, as it had for Janvier and Lapointe, and he glimpsed black tousled hair, one eye almost as dark, a face with very pale skin, and the red fabric of a dressing gown.
‘What is it?’
‘I would like a word with you, Madame Planchon.’
‘What about?’
The door remained open fifteen centimetres at most.
‘About your husband.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘It’s precisely because I need to see him that I would like to speak to you.’
‘What do you want with him?’
He decided at last to reveal himself.
‘Police.’
‘Do you have a card?’
He showed her his badge. Changing her attitude, she opened the door wider and stood back to let him go past.
‘I’m sorry. I’m alone in the house and there’ve been some mysterious phone calls lately.’
She was looking hard at him, perhaps wondering if he had been the caller.
‘Come in. The house is still in a mess.’
She took him into the living room where a vacuum cleaner was standing in the middle of the carpet.
‘What has my husband done?’
‘I need to get in touch with him to ask him a few questions.’
‘Has he been in a fight?’
She indicated a chair to him, but was hesitating to sit down herself, pulling the dressing gown more tightly around her.
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because he spends the evening and half the night in bars, and when he’s had a few, he gets violent.’
‘Has he ever hit you?’
‘No. Well, I wouldn’t have stood for it. But he has threatened me.’
‘What kind of threat?’
‘To bump me off. He didn’t go into detail.’
‘And has that happened several times?’
‘Several times, yes.’
‘And do you know where he is just now?’
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care.’
‘When did you last see him?’
She took time to think.
‘Wait a minute, it’s Thursday. Wednesday yesterday, Tuesday the day before. It was Monday evening.’
‘At what time?’
‘Late at night.’
‘You don’t remember the exact time?’
‘It must have been about midnight.’
‘You’d gone to bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. No reason I need to lie to you. Everyone round here knows how it is, and I should say they’re all on our side, Roger’s and mine. If it wasn’t for my husband being so obstinate, we’d have got married long ago.’
‘You mean you have a lover?’
Not without a certain pride, she answered, looking him straight in the eye.
‘Yes.’
‘And he lives here in this house?’
‘Why not? When a man like Planchon clings on, and refuses a divorce, you have to …’
‘Since when?’
‘Nearly two years now.’
‘And your husband has accepted the situation?’
‘He’s been my husband in name only for a good while now. And it’s a long time since he was a real man either. I don’t know what you want with him. What he does when he’s out of the house is no business of mine. What I can tell you, and no one will tell you any different, is that he’s a drunk, and you can’t expect anything from him any more. If it wasn’t for Roger, the business would have collapsed.’
‘Can I take you back to
Monday evening? You were in bed, in the bedroom.’
Its door was open, and an orange eiderdown was visible on the bed.
‘Yes.’
‘With this man called Roger.’
‘Roger Prou’s his name, a good sort who doesn’t drink and who’s prepared to put his back into his work.’
She spoke of him with pride and Maigret sensed that she would have flown at anyone who dared disparage him.
‘Did your husband eat with you that night?’
‘No, he hadn’t come home.’
‘Did that happen often?’
‘Quite often. I’m beginning to know what alcoholics are like. For a while, they can keep up a bit of a show, some dignity. But they end up drinking so much they’re not hungry, and instead of eating, they have a few more drinks.’
‘And your husband had reached that stage?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he carried on working, didn’t he? Wasn’t there a danger he might hurt himself falling off a ladder or scaffolding?’
‘He didn’t drink, well not much, during the day. As for his work, if the whole business had depended on him …’
‘You have a daughter, I believe.’
‘How do you know? Oh, I suppose you asked the concierge. Well, it doesn’t bother me, we’ve nothing to hide. Yes, I’ve got a daughter. She’s nearly seven.’
‘So on Monday evening, you ate supper together, Roger Prou, yourself and your daughter …’
‘Yes.’
‘In this room?’
‘In the kitchen. I don’t see what difference that makes. We usually eat in the kitchen. Not a crime, is it?’
She was getting impatient, puzzled by the turn the questions were taking.
‘And I presume your daughter would go to bed first?’
‘Of course.’
‘Upstairs?’
She was clearly surprised to find him so well informed. Had she already made the connection between his visit and that of the two men who came to measure the rooms?
At all events she did not become flustered, but continued to look straight at her visitor, not averting her gaze, then suddenly it was she who asked a question.
‘Wait a minute, aren’t you the famous Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?’
He nodded and she frowned. If an ordinary policeman, a local inspector for instance, had come round to ask about her husband’s doings, that would not be so remarkable, given the life Planchon led in the evenings. But that Maigret in person should trouble to come …
‘So it must be something important.’
And with a certain irony, she said:
‘You’re not going to tell me he’s killed someone?’
‘Do you think he’s capable of it?’
‘He’s capable of anything in my view. When a man reaches that point …’
‘Was he armed?’
‘I’ve never seen a gun in the house.’
‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘To the best of my knowledge, his real enemy was me. In his mind, anyway. He hated me. It was out of hate, pure hate, that he insisted on staying here, in conditions no man would ever accept. If only for his daughter’s sake, he should have realized …’
‘Let’s get back to Monday. When did you go to bed, you and Roger Prou?’
‘Let me think. I went to bed first.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About ten. Roger stayed up doing the invoices in the office.’
‘So he’s been taking care of the paperwork and the accounts?’
‘In the first place if he hadn’t, no one would have, because my husband wasn’t capable of doing it any more. And secondly, Roger has put enough of his own money into the business …’
‘You mean they were partners, he and Planchon?’
‘Practically. There wasn’t anything down on paper. Or rather yes, they did sign something, only about a fortnight ago.’
She interrupted herself to go into the kitchen where something was boiling over on the stove, but came straight back.
‘What else do you want to know? I’ve got to finish the housework and get the lunch. My daughter will be back from school presently.’
‘I’m sorry. I need to keep you a little longer.’
‘You still haven’t told me what my husband’s done.’
‘I’m hoping your answers might help me to find him. Do I understand correctly? Your lover has put his own money into the business?’
‘Every time there wasn’t enough to pay the bills.’
‘And then a fortnight ago, they signed a paper. What sort of paper?’
‘One saying that in exchange for a certain sum of money, Roger would take over the business.’
‘And do you know how much money that was?’
‘I typed the document myself.’
‘You can type?’
‘After a fashion. There’s this old typewriter in the office, it’s been there for years. Planchon bought it before I got pregnant, soon after we got married. I was bored and wanted something to do … So I started typing invoices, just with two fingers, and then I did the letters to customers or suppliers …’
‘And you still do that?’
‘When it’s needed.’
‘Do you have the document here?’
She looked at him more sharply.
‘I’m wondering if you’ve got the right to ask me all these questions. I wonder if I’m obliged to answer them.’
‘For the moment, no, you are under no obligation.’
‘For the moment?’
‘Well, I could summon you to attend my office, as a witness.’
‘A witness to what?’
‘Let’s say your husband’s disappearance.’
‘But he hasn’t disappeared.’
‘Well, what would you call it?’
‘He just left, that’s all. And it was high time he did.’
She stood up, nevertheless.
‘I don’t see why I need to hide anything from you. If this document interests you, I’ll go and fetch it.’
She went to the office and could be heard opening a drawer. She returned a few moments later, holding a sheet of paper. It carried a letterhead in the name of Léonard Planchon, painter and decorator. The text had been typed with a violet ribbon and rather irregularly – some letters were on top of one another and two or three spaces between the words were missing.
I, the undersigned, Léonard Planchon, grant to Roger Prou, in exchange for the sum of 30,000 (thirty thousand) new francs, my share in the painting business located Rue Tholozé, in Paris, which I own equally with my wife, Renée, née Babaud.
This transfer includes the lease of the building, all the equipment and furniture, excluding my personal possessions.
The document was dated 28 December.
‘Normally,’ Maigret objected, looking up, ‘this kind of agreement would be signed in front of a solicitor. Why didn’t you do that?’
‘To save money. What would be the point? When people are in good faith.’
‘So your husband signed it in good faith?’
‘Well, we did, at any rate.’
‘This paper is dated three weeks ago. So Planchon no longer had any part in the business after that. I’m wondering why he went on working for it.’
‘And why he went on living in this house, although he had been nothing to me for even longer.’
‘So he was carrying on, just as a workman?’
‘You could say that.’
‘And being paid?’
‘I suppose so. You’d have to ask Roger.’
‘And the three million old francs were paid by cheque?’
‘No, in cash.’
‘Here?’
‘Well, not in the street!’
‘In front of witnesses?’
‘We were all three present. Our personal affairs don’t concern anyone else.’
‘And no condition was attached to this agreement?’
&nb
sp; This idea seemed to strike her and she stayed silent for a moment.
‘There was one, but he didn’t keep it.’
‘What was that?’
‘That he’d go away and finally let me have a divorce.’
‘Well, he has gone away …’
‘After three weeks!’
‘Let’s get back to Monday.’
‘What, again? Is this going to take long?’
‘I hope not … So you were in bed, Prou came to join you. Were you awake when he came in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you notice the time?’
‘If you really want to know, we had other things to do.’
‘So you were both asleep by the time your husband came home.’
‘No.’
‘He opened the door with his own key?’
‘Well, he didn’t use a biro.’
‘I just thought he might be too drunk to manage it himself.’
‘Yes, he was drunk, but he could get the key in the lock all right.’
‘Where did he sleep as a rule?’
‘Here. On a camp bed.’
She stood up again, opened a cupboard and pointed to a camp bed, folded up.
‘This was already put up for him?’
‘Yes, I would do it myself before I went to bed, so he wouldn’t be making a racket for half an hour.’
‘But on Monday evening he didn’t sleep in it?’
‘No. We heard him go upstairs.’
‘To kiss his daughter goodnight perhaps?’
‘No, he never went to kiss his daughter when he was in that state.’
‘So what was he doing?’
‘That’s what we wondered. We listened. He opened a cupboard on the landing where he keeps his things. Then he went into the little boxroom where we store stuff, because there’s no attic. Then there was a clattering noise on the stairs, and I had to hold Roger back, because he wanted to go and see what was happening.’
‘And what was happening?’
‘He was carrying down his suitcases.’
‘How many?’
‘Two. There were only two in the house, because we hardly ever went away.’
‘And you didn’t talk to him? You didn’t see him leave?’
‘Yes, I did. When he came down and back into the dining room I got up, but I made Roger stay where he was, to avoid a scene.’
‘And you weren’t afraid? You told me that when your husband had been drinking he was violent, and he had threatened you …’
Maigret and the Saturday Caller Page 6