Maigret and the Old People Read online

  Lapointe, whom he had left on guard duty, had probably been sleeping in an armchair.

  ‘Is that you, chief?’

  ‘No news?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Where is Jaquette?’

  ‘At six o’clock this morning, when I was keeping watch in the office, I heard her walking along the corridor, dragging a vacuum cleaner behind her. I hurried to ask her what she was planning to do and she looked at me in astonishment.

  ‘ “Cleaning, of course!”

  ‘ “Cleaning what?”

  ‘ “First the bedroom, then the dining room, then …” ’

  Maigret muttered:

  ‘Did you let her?’

  ‘No. She didn’t seem to understand why.

  ‘ “What am I going to do, then?” she asked me.’

  ‘What did you reply?’

  ‘I asked her to make me some coffee, and she went off to buy croissants.’

  ‘Could she have stopped on the way to make a phone call or post a letter?’

  ‘No. I told the policeman watching the door to follow her from a distance. She really did just go into the bakery and she only stayed there for a moment.’

  ‘Is she angry?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. She walks around moving her lips, as if talking to herself. Right now she’s in the kitchen, and I don’t know what she’s doing.’

  ‘Have there been any phone calls?’

  The French windows to the garden must have been open because Maigret could hear the twittering of blackbirds coming down the line.

  ‘Moers will join you in a few minutes. He’s already on his way. Are you tired?’

  ‘I must confess that I’ve been asleep.’

  ‘I’ll have someone take over from you soon.’

  An idea came into his head.

  ‘Don’t hang up. Go and ask Jaquette to show you her gloves.’

  She was a regular church-goer, and he was sure that she would wear gloves for Sunday mass.

  ‘I’ll stay on the line.’

  He waited, holding the receiver. Quite a long time passed.

  ‘Are you there, chief?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She showed me three pairs.’

  ‘Wasn’t she surprised?’

  ‘She glared at me before going and opening a drawer in her bedroom. I spotted a missal, two or three rosaries, postcards, medals, handkerchiefs and gloves. Two pairs are in white cotton.’

  Maigret could see her in the summer, with white gloves and, probably, a touch of white in her hat.

  ‘And the other pair?’

  ‘Black suede, quite worn.’

  ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Maigret’s question had to do with Moers’ mission. Saint-Hilaire’s murderer could have learned from the newspapers that powder is embedded in a gunman’s hands a certain length of time after firing. If Jaquette had used the gun, mightn’t it have occurred to her to put on some gloves? And in that case, wouldn’t she have got rid of them?

  To be clear in his own mind, Maigret immersed himself in the file that was still spread out in front of him. He found the inventory with the contents of each item of furniture, listed piece by piece.

  Maid’s room … An iron bedstead … An old mahogany table covered with a fringed square of crimson velvet …

  His finger followed the typed lines:

  Eleven handkerchiefs, six of them marked with the initial J … Three pairs of gloves …

  She had shown the three pairs to Lapointe.

  He left without taking his hat and walked to the door that connected the Police Judiciaire with the Palais de Justice. He had never paid a visit to the examining magistrate Urbain de Chézaud, who had previously been in Versailles, and with whom he had never had the opportunity to work before. He had to go to the third floor, where the oldest offices were, and at last found the magistrate’s visiting card on a door.

  ‘Come in, Monsieur Maigret. I am very pleased to see you, and I was in fact wondering if I shouldn’t call you.’

  He was in his forties and intelligent-looking. On his desk Maigret recognized the copy of the file that he had received himself, and noticed that some of the pages were already annotated in red pencil.

  ‘We haven’t got many physical clues, have we?’ the judge sighed, inviting Maigret to sit down. ‘I’ve just had a call from the Foreign Ministry …’

  ‘Young Monsieur Cromières …’

  ‘He claims he’s been trying in vain to get in touch with you and wonders where the morning papers got their information.’

  The clerk behind Maigret was typing. The windows overlooked the courtyard, and it seemed likely that these people never saw the sun.

  ‘Have you any news?’

  Because he liked the magistrate, Maigret didn’t hide his discouragement.

  ‘You’ve read …’ he sighed, pointing at the file. ‘I’ll give you a preliminary report tonight or tomorrow. Theft wasn’t the motive for the crime. Neither does it seem to have been inspired by financial interests, because that would be too obvious. The victim’s nephew is the only one who benefits from Saint-Hilaire’s death. And it would only gain him a few months, or a few years.’

  ‘Does he have pressing financial concerns?’

  ‘Yes and no. It’s hard to extract a firm response from these people without baldly accusing them. And I have no basis for an accusation. Mazeron lives apart from his wife and daughters. He is a cold and rather disagreeable character, and his wife describes him as a kind of sadist.

  ‘Looking at his antique shop, it seems as if no one ever goes in. It’s true that he specializes in military trophies, and there are a few passionate devotees of such objects.

  ‘He sometimes asked his uncle for money. There’s nothing to indicate that he didn’t give it with good grace.

  ‘Was he worried that once Saint-Hilaire was married he might lose his inheritance? It’s possible. I don’t think so. Those families have a particular mentality. Each of them considers himself as the depository of property that he has the duty to pass on, more or less intact, to his direct or indirect descendants.’

  He caught a smile on the magistrate’s lips and remembered that he was called Urbain de Chézaud, another aristocratic name.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I met Madame Mazeron, in her flat in Passy, and I’m struggling to think why she would have gone to kill her husband’s uncle. I’ll say the same of their two daughters. Besides, one of them is in England. The other is working.’

  Maigret stuffed his pipe.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do. I smoke a pipe as well.’

  It was the first time he had found himself face to face with a pipe-smoking magistrate. The latter added:

  ‘At home, in the evening, when I’m studying my dossiers.’

  ‘I went to see Princess of V—.’

  He looked at the magistrate.

  ‘You are aware of her history, aren’t you?’

  Maigret was sure that Urbain de Chézaud moved in circles where people were interested in Isabelle.

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Is it true that her relationship with the count, if we can call it a relationship, is well known to many people?’

  ‘In certain circles, yes. Her friends call her Isi.’

  ‘That’s what the count calls her in his letters as well.’

  ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘Not all of them. Not every word. There are enough to fill several volumes. It seemed to me, but it’s only an impression, that the princess wasn’t as devastated by Saint-Hilaire’s death as might have been expected.’

  ‘In my view nothing in life has ever been able to strip her of her serenity. I met her occasionally. I’ve heard friends talking about her. It sounds as if she never got beyond a certain age, and time stopped for her. Some claim she stopped at twenty, others that she hasn’t changed since convent school.’

  ‘The papers are telling her story. They’ve
started to allude to it.’

  ‘I’ve seen. It was inevitable.’

  ‘When I questioned her, she didn’t tell me anything that gave me a hint of a lead. This morning she’s gone to see the notary about her husband’s will. She’ll be back in the afternoon for Saint-Hilaire’s.’

  ‘Does she stand to inherit?’

  ‘Only the furniture and the personal effects.’

  ‘Have you seen her son?’

  ‘Philippe, his wife and their children. They were all together at Rue de Varenne. Only the son stayed in Paris.’

  ‘What do you make of them?’

  Maigret was obliged to reply:

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Strictly speaking, Philippe too had a reason to kill Saint-Hilaire. He was about to become heir to the historic line of V—, related to all the courts of Europe.

  His father had come to terms with Isabelle’s platonic love of the discreet ambassador, whom she only saw from a distance, and to whom she sent childlike letters.

  Now that he was dead, the situation would change. Even though she was seventy-two and her lover was seventy-seven, the princess was going to marry Saint-Hilaire, lose her title, change her name.

  Was that a good enough motive for a crime and – Maigret kept coming back to this – to risk the death penalty? In short, to replace a fairly anodyne scandal with a much more serious one?

  The inspector murmured, embarrassed:

  ‘I’ve checked what he got up to on Tuesday evening. He stayed in a hotel on Place Vendôme with his family, as he always does. Once the children were in bed he went out on his own and walked up the Champs-Élysées. On the corner of Rue de Berry, he chose from the five or six girls who were available and followed one of them home.’

  Maigret had often seen murderers, after their crimes, chasing after a woman, any woman, as if they felt the need to relax.

  He couldn’t remember a single one acting that way beforehand. To get himself an alibi?

  In that case, the alibi wasn’t complete, because Philippe de V—had left the girl at about 11.30, giving himself time to go to Rue Saint-Dominique.

  ‘That’s as far as I’ve got. I’m going to go on looking for another lead, although I don’t expect to find one, perhaps someone else who was close to the former ambassador, and whom no one has yet mentioned. Saint-Hilaire had regular habits, as most old men do. Almost all his friends are dead …’

  The phone rang. The clerk got up to answer it.

  ‘Yes … He’s right here … Do you want me to pass him to you?’

  And, turning towards the inspector:

  ‘It’s for you. Apparently it’s very urgent.’

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Hello! … Maigret, yes … Who’s speaking?’

  He didn’t recognize the voice because Moers, who eventually gave his name, was over-excited.

  ‘I tried to reach you at your office. I was told that—’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m getting there. It’s so extraordinary! I’ve just finished the test—’

  ‘I know. And?’

  ‘It’s positive.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. There is no doubt that Jaquette Larrieu fired one shot or several within the last forty-eight hours.’

  ‘She agreed to the test?’

  ‘Quite readily.’

  ‘What explanation has she given?’

  ‘None. I haven’t said anything to her. I had to go back to the lab to finish the test.’

  ‘Is Lapointe still with her?’

  ‘He was there when I left Rue Saint-Dominique.’

  ‘Are you sure of your claim?’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He hung up, with a serious expression, a wrinkle in the middle of his forehead, under the questioning gaze of the examining magistrate.

  ‘I was wrong,’ Maigret murmured regretfully.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Quite at random, without believing it, I admit, I asked the lab to try the paraffin test on Jaquette’s right hand.’

  ‘And it’s positive? That’s what I thought I understood, but I found it hard to believe.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He should have felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. So, after barely twenty-four hours of investigation, the problem that had seemed insoluble to him a moment earlier had been solved.

  And yet it gave him no satisfaction.

  ‘While I’m here, would you sign me a warrant?’ he sighed.

  ‘You’re going to send your men to arrest her?’

  ‘I’ll go myself.’

  And Maigret dejectedly relit his pipe, while the magistrate silently filled in the blanks of a printed form.

  7.

  Maigret called in at his office to pick up his hat. Just as he was leaving he had a sudden anxiety and, cross with himself for not having thought of it sooner, dashed to the telephone.

  To gain some time, he dialled the number of Rue Saint-Dominique without going through the switchboard. He was anxious to hear Lapointe’s voice and check that nothing had happened over there. Instead of a ring tone, he heard the intermittent hum of the engaged signal.

  He couldn’t think straight and lost his composure for a few seconds.

  Who would Lapointe have had reason to call? Moers had left him a short time before. Lapointe knew he would immediately contact the inspector to deliver his report.

  If the inspector left in Saint-Hilaire’s flat was on the phone, it meant that something unexpected had happened, and he was calling the Police Judiciaire or maybe a doctor.

  Maigret opened the door of the nearby office and saw Janvier lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Go down and wait for me in the courtyard at the wheel of a car.’

  He made one last attempt to call, and heard the same buzzing noise at the other end.

  A short time later he could be seen running down the stairs, getting into the little black car in a hurry and slamming the door.

  The car raced towards Pont Saint-Michel and turned right along the river, while cars pulled over and passers-by stopped to watch it go by.

  Maigret might have been overreacting, but he couldn’t dispel the image of a dead Jaquette, and Lapointe, nearby, hanging on the telephone. It became so real in his mind that he tried to work out how Jaquette had taken her life. She couldn’t have thrown herself out of the window, because the flat was on the ground floor. She had no weapon at her disposal except the kitchen knives.

  The car stopped. The policeman at his post near the coach-gate, in full sunlight, was surprised by the siren. The bedroom window was half open.

  Maigret ran towards the entrance, climbed the stone steps, pressed the electric doorbell and immediately found himself face to face with Lapointe, who was both calm and baffled.

  ‘What’s going on, chief?’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In her bedroom.’

  ‘When did you last hear her moving about?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘Who were you phoning?’

  ‘I was trying to reach you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s getting dressed as if to go out, and I wanted to ask your instructions.’

  Maigret felt ridiculous in front of young Lapointe, and Janvier, who had just joined them. In contrast with the anxiety of the last few minutes, the flat was calmer than ever; he found the office bathed in sunlight, the door open on to the garden, the lime tree twittering with birds.

  He went back into the kitchen, where everything was tidy, and heard faint sounds in the old housekeeper’s bedroom.

  ‘Can I see you, Mademoiselle Larrieu?’

  He had once called her madame, and she had protested, saying:

  ‘Mademoiselle, if you please!’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

&n
bsp; Lapointe went on in a low voice:

  ‘She had a bath in her master’s bathroom.’

  Maigret had seldom been so dissatisfied with himself, and he remembered his dream, the old people looking at him condescendingly and shaking their heads because he was in short trousers and they saw him only as a small boy.

  The door of the little bedroom opened, and a breath of perfume reached him, a perfume that had long been out of fashion, and which he recognized because his mother wore it on Sundays to go to high mass.

  And high mass was what Jaquette seemed to be dressed for. She wore a black silk dress, a starched black kerchief around her neck, a black hat decorated with white faille and immaculate gloves. The only thing missing was the missal in her hand.

  ‘I am obliged,’ he murmured, ‘to take you to Quai des Orfèvres.’

  He was about to display the arrest warrant signed by the judge, but, contrary to his expectations, she did not appear to be either surprised or indignant. Without a word, she passed through the kitchen, where she checked that the gas had been turned off, and went into the office to shut the door and pull the French windows closed.

  She asked only one question.

  ‘Is anyone going to stay here?’

  And, since she did not receive an answer straight away, she added:

  ‘If not, the bedroom window should be closed.’

  Not only, even knowing that she had been discovered, did she have no intention of killing herself, she had never been so dignified, so self-controlled. She was the first to leave. Maigret said to Lapointe:

  ‘You should stay.’

  She walked ahead, nodding faintly to the concierge, who was watching her through the glass door.

  Wouldn’t it have been ridiculous, hateful, to put handcuffs on this woman of almost seventy-five? Maigret invited her to get into the car and sat down beside her.

  ‘You don’t need the siren now.’

  The weather was still glorious, and they overtook a big red-and-white coach full of foreign tourists. Maigret couldn’t think of anything to say, any questions to ask.

  Hundreds of times he had gone back to Quai des Orfèvres like this with a suspect, male or female, whom he would have to force into a corner. His task was more or less difficult, more or less awkward according to the case. It could go on for hours, and sometimes the interrogation wouldn’t end until daybreak, when the ordinary people of Paris began to go to work.