Signed, Picpus Page 11

  ‘Very well! …’ he declares and then, to the examining magistrate, he says: ‘I’m now going to explain a few things, sir … Give me a glass of that, Lucas. Isn’t there anything stronger in the house?’

  The old man intervenes:

  ‘There must be a half-bottle of cognac in her bedroom …’

  Meaning, of course: in the bedroom of Antoinette Le Cloaguen.

  ‘This is the story in a few words. At Saint-Raphaël, Le Cloaguen leads the easy life of a man who has 200,000 francs a year to spend. I phoned his bank. Ten years ago he had savings of no more than a few tens of thousands of francs. Then all of a sudden he dies unexpectedly. Maybe one day, his widow, Madame Le Cloaguen will be so good as to tell us what he died of … Did he get too much sun one day when out fishing and died of a stroke? …

  ‘However that may be, his wife and daughter will no longer have any money coming in … There are people, sir, who cannot accept such a prospect …

  ‘Now as it happens, there is a down-and-out who hangs around the marinas at Cannes, not very bright but not at all dangerous, who bears a striking resemblance to the retired ship’s doctor …’

  The counterfeit Le Cloaguen grins, in no way offended by the slighting judgement passed on his level of intelligence.

  ‘A short while ago, gentlemen, the Saint-Raphaël police, following my directions, found the remains of the real Le Cloaguen walled up in one of the cellars in the villa. That’s all I have. Or rather, there is just one more detail I should give you. When the offer of leading a comfortable and carefree life under another name was put to the tramp, and when the poor devil, fed up with hanging around the port and sleeping rough, agreed, there was an unexpected hitch: how would he sign the receipts for the money handed over by the solicitor each year without giving the game away? All attempts to teach him to copy the dead man’s signature failed … I mean, he is hardly capable of writing his own name in a clumsy scrawl! …

  ‘That is why they made him cut off the top joint of the index finger of his right hand, which would provide a reasonable excuse …

  ‘Too many people know him on the Côte d’Azur. And so they decide to move to Paris …

  ‘Le Cloaguen’s sister would obviously spot the substitution. So a way is found so hurtful that, having her pride, she will never have anything to do with her brother and his family ever again …’

  ‘This woman,’ mutters Madame Biron, ‘sent me a letter telling me I was a sponger. I wrote to my brother, but he never replied, and now I know why. At the time, I told myself that she had finally got him entirely under her thumb.’

  ‘Money!’ says Maigret. ‘Don’t you see? This entire case boils down to a sordid matter of money, the most squalid it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. Imagine, it involved making a body disappear. Then the somewhat lopsided shape of the tramp had to be modified, for unfortunately he had one shoulder higher than the other …

  ‘The man can barely read. He is given lessons in French and arithmetic. People might well be shocked to meet a former ship’s doctor who is so uncouth. He is made to appear not all there, half mad … The fact that he has lived in the Far East provides an excellent explanation …’

  Maigret looks round him with a sudden feeling of disgust.

  ‘The most depressing part of all this is that the money cannot be freely enjoyed. The second Le Cloaguen might die like the first, and there’s no way a replacement could be found. So from now on, they count every penny. They have to set aside almost the entire annual sum of 200,000 francs. In this way, over a period of ten years, these women have saved almost a million and a half. That is correct, Madame Le Cloaguen, is it not? …’

  ‘As for you, Picard …’

  The old man seems shocked at being called by his real name.

  ‘You sold your birthright for a mess of pottage. You have a roof over your head, it’s true. You are fed, because it is vital that you be kept alive. But no smoking, because the original Le Cloaguen didn’t smoke. No drinking, because he hated alcohol. No this or that … No everything! … You’re like a dog on a leash, and the only fun you get is from wandering through the streets just like you used to, and then the minute you get back you get locked up. When the lawyer comes on his annual visitation, they put you to bed, they take good care of you, they make out that you’re ill, and your room is kept as dark as possible.

  ‘Even so, you managed to escape the vigilance of your jailers … For despite everything you managed to keep one thing secret.’

  Picard becomes agitated and looks away. He is clearly trying to hold back the tears which are welling up in his eyes.

  ‘From a marriage in the dim and distant past you had a daughter. You discovered her here in Paris. Every week you went to see her. Your daughter had set herself up in Rue Coulaincourt as a clairvoyant …’

  The same dusty light from the chandelier, the same great swathes of shadow, the faces blurred, like faces under the varnish of a painting in a museum. Maigret has stopped talking. The magistrate, visibly uneasy, crosses and uncrosses his legs and eventually says in an uncertain voice:

  ‘Madame Le Cloaguen, did you kill Mademoiselle Jeanne?’

  ‘It’s not true!’

  ‘Madame Le Cloaguen, did you follow your sham husband to Rue Coulaincourt and did you enter an apartment at number 67A?’

  ‘It’s not true!’ she repeats.

  ‘Do you admit that you walled up the body of your lawful husband in the cellar of your villa at Saint-Raphaël?’

  ‘And if I did?’

  ‘Do you admit that you have improperly received money which you were no longer entitled to receive?’

  ‘I have no idea. It wasn’t me who received the money. The solicitor gave it directly to this man, and that is no affair of mine … I know exactly what the risks are for me …’

  ‘Dear Lord above!’ stammers the priest’s housekeeper, appalled by such an attitude.

  And even those men here who have seen it all before stare in amazement as Madame Le Cloaguen, bony and prickly, states calmly, like a woman who knows exactly what she is saying, has done her homework and taken every precaution:

  ‘I am sure you are quite aware that I am not running much of a risk. A fine of between sixteen and fifty francs and anything from six days to two months in prison … Article 368 of the Penal Code …’

  She is very pleased with herself, so much so that she cannot prevent a faint quiver of pride from playing across her lips.

  ‘I had no idea that this man had a daughter and that he went to see her … As for my husband, I fail to see the difference, from his point of view, between burial in a cemetery and …’

  ‘Stop it, you unfeeling woman!’ cries Madame Biron, who can contain herself no longer. ‘Don’t you realize that you are a monster, that no one ever heard a woman, one of the good Lord’s creatures, come out with such abominations! … When I think of poor Octave … I can’t breathe, sir … Give me some air …’

  Indeed the blood has drained from her face, and there are beads of perspiration on her upper lip. Maigret opens the window. The green curtain swells, the breath of the wind blows on every face, and the din of the storm bursts savagely into the room, where no one moves.

  ‘Over to you, Maigret,’ the magistrate, intrigued, seems to say.

  He has the impression that the inspector has lost his usual self-confidence. He smokes his pipe, slowly, stands in front of Madame Le Cloaguen, a bulky, formidable presence, with an expression that seems set in stone.

  ‘You are absolutely right, madame. There’s not much the courts can do to you. Still, this is the first time in the whole of my career that I have seen love of money taken to such extremes and trigger such ignoble actions … I would almost prefer it if you had killed Le Cloaguen in a fit of anger …’

  There is a cry from behind him. It is Madame Biron, who cannot understand what is happening.

  ‘I’m sorry, madame … But there are things which must be said … The examinin
g magistrate has just spoken of the poor young woman who was murdered in Rue Coulaincourt in particularly disturbing circumstances. Of course, Madame Le Cloaguen has only to say the word to throw light on the whole business, and we would have our murderer in a matter of minutes … Am I wrong, madame?’

  She glowers at him. She hesitates for a split second. Then her expression becomes harder still if that is possible and she pronounces one word:

  ‘No! …’

  ‘You have our attention …’

  ‘I’ll not say anything, do you hear …’

  A sudden change comes over her: she erupts, she turns into a raging fury.

  ‘Never, do you understand? … I will not say anything, because I hate you all, and you, Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, more than anybody! From the first day you set foot in this apartment and gave me that look I have hated, loathed you! … I won’t say anything! You won’t find anything! I shall serve my two months in prison, so be it, but you … you …’

  ‘Who did you give the 200,000 francs to?’

  ‘I won’t say …’

  She corrects herself, but it’s too late.

  ‘What 200,000 francs?’

  ‘The 200,000 francs you arranged to be taken out of the bank last Saturday.’

  She does not answer.

  ‘Where did you go on Sunday between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon?’

  She rakes him with a look of fierce irony. Maigret realizes that she has made no idle boast, that a woman like her is capable of keeping her mouth shut, that no amount of questioning will extract one word from her.

  He turns to the examining magistrate.

  ‘Would you be so good, sir, as to sign a warrant for the arrest of this woman and her daughter …’

  ‘My daughter? … What has my daughter got to do with all this? … You’re a magistrate, so you must know that you have no right to do this. I haven’t killed anybody, even the inspector has conceded that … At the time when I buried my husband secretly, which is the only charge that can be made against me, my daughter was still a minor … She was a child and, I repeat, you have no right …’

  Tragedy alternates with farce, minute by minute, second by second. Maigret is dealing with a woman determined to defend herself to the end with tooth and claw …

  ‘I did not kill a woman who I never even knew existed!’

  ‘So who did kill her?’

  ‘I have no idea … I won’t say anything … I hate you! … You are a monster! …’

  By monster, she means Maigret, who pours himself a glass of cognac and wipes his forehead. And on him, never leaving him for an instant, is fixed the doubtful gaze of the examining magistrate, who only moments before thought the case was all wrapped up and now realizes that it has never been more delicately balanced.

  ‘Lucas, take this old lady away.’

  Maigret has used the world old deliberately, and it earns him another savage glare.

  ‘Janvier, will you look after the daughter? … Look out! … Lucas … Janvier …’

  For Madame Le Cloaguen has made a dash for the open window. But, contrary to what the inspector was fearing, she is not trying to do away with herself. She has reached such a pitch of frustration that she hopes to start a commotion, she intends to scream, call for help, without realizing that there’s not a soul now on Boulevard des Batignolles, where the ground under the trees is furrowed with rivulets, like a relief map.

  ‘Use handcuffs on her, Lucas … Janvier, close the window! …’

  There is a laugh, a strained laugh, and it is just as dramatic. It’s the old tramp, who can’t stand the tension any longer, laughing till he cries to see the harpy who has terrorized him for so long grappling with the bantamweight sergeant, punching, scratching, kicking out at his legs.

  How could he ever have imagined that one day …

  ‘I want, I demand someone to ring at once for a lawyer … You’ve no right … no one has the right …’

  It was written that the evening’s proceedings will not end without reaching the height of absurdity. The doorbell rings. The bell has been rung again … Maigret strides to the door and opens it …

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry … Is my friend …’

  A middle-aged lady in a flounced skirt, accompanied by a tall, shy young man. She stares in amazement at the curious assortment of guests who stand stock-still in the drawing room … Then she sees Madame Le Cloaguen and makes her way eagerly towards her, with a delighted smile on her face …

  ‘Dear Antoinette! Just imagine, with this storm …’

  She comes to a dead stop. The hands she was about to shake so fulsomely … How is it possible that handcuffs? …

  ‘But … I don’t …’

  Then the penny drops. The men are police, and she, born into the noble family of Cascurant de Nemours, who has almost agreed to the marriage of her son with …

  ‘Come, Germain! … It’s … It’s …’

  There are no words strong enough, to her mind, to express what she feels … It’s a trap! … It’s … All that is missing are journalists and photographers! … And what if she is not allowed to leave, what if her name were to get all over tomorrow’s papers? …

  She can hardly believe she has managed to reach the landing outside with her son in tow, without being detained.

  With one forefinger, Maigret presses a few shreds of tobacco into his pipe and takes one last look around the room. Then a nod to Lucas and Janvier.

  ‘Let’s be off.’

  The little old lady asks if she is going to be left to make her own way home, but he reassures her. No, he hasn’t forgotten her …

  ‘You, madame, if you will allow me, I shall take home personally, in a taxi …’

  To her he behaves with the tenderness that one shows only to an aged mother.

  9. The Night of Onion Soup

  At times like these, there is in Maigret a curious mix of, on the one hand, grossly epicurean self-indulgence and voluptuous surrender to the cravings of the flesh and, on the other, intense cerebral activity and an inner life lived almost to breaking-point.

  Despite the storm, the night was warm, and the front windows of the big brasserie on Boulevard de Clichy were wide open. The two men were sitting where the terrace met the bar. On one side a hot, brightly lit bustle, the comings and goings of waiters, the lively groups of diners; on the other, tables deserted under the awning, which bulged with water; two young women with empty glasses in front of them; the rain, which was still falling, but not with the same intensity as earlier. Place Blanche with its electric signs, beyond a patch of darkness where taxis skidded on the wet asphalt, and the glowing reflection of the sails of the Moulin Rouge, which turned tirelessly …

  Alternating mugginess and cooling breezes, summer’s end turning into a Paris autumn and back again … The two men had just eaten onion soup with croutons and, after bringing plates of luscious sauerkraut with frankfurters, the waiter was already serving more beers. Strains of music floated in from somewhere. The elderly man did not miss a mouthful, not one whiff of the aroma, not a single second of this special moment, and when he raised his eyes and looked at the inspector, he had an apologetic air.

  It was midnight. Just as Lucas was holding the door for the two women to get into the taxi, Maigret had caught him by the sleeve.

  ‘Where are you taking them, you clown?’

  ‘To the cells, sir, just like you told me …’

  ‘Take them back to our place. I want you and Janvier to keep an eye on them until I get back …’

  As a result, they had not yet been put with the tarts who were regularly rounded up by the prison van in the usual night raids. They were each given a chair in an empty office in Quai des Orfèvres, where they waited. They were determined not to say anything and sat as stiff-backed as if they were in a drawing room. Except that Antoinette Le Cloaguen’s lips moved silently the way old women’s lips do behind a pillar in a church, but what she recited to herself was in
fact what she intended to say in due course to her lawyer.

  The little old lady, Madame Biron, had gone back to the priest’s house, where she had been accompanied by Maigret. In the taxi she confided:

  ‘How can it be that one of the good Lord’s creatures could do such things?’

  That left the old man, whom Maigret had taken out to eat on Boulevard de Clichy. The onion soup and the sauerkraut and frankfurters had sent him into paroxysms of ecstasy.

  ‘Did they feed you badly?’

  ‘They said I didn’t have any table manners, they always brought me my grub to eat in my room. Just enough so I didn’t starve to death. I was always left with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. The daughter wasn’t so bad. Sometimes she used to give me something to eat in secret …’

  ‘Why didn’t you just leave?’

  The look the wretched man gave Maigret spoke volumes and needed no comment. It was the look of a man who has been terrorized all his life and cannot conceive that it should occur to anyone to resist their tormentors!

  ‘You don’t know what they’re like. She treated me so cruelly that there were some evenings I thought she was going to hit me. She used to say that if I told on her, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. I saw her in Saint-Raphaël when she made me wall up the body. She worked next to me in the cellar, like a man … She helped me carry the corpse like it was any old parcel …’

  ‘Who killed your daughter, Picard?’

  Maigret had let him eat up all his sauerkraut in peace before asking this question in a natural voice, while looking out casually at the sparkling lights on the boulevard and the moving reflection of the sails of the windmill.

  ‘I swear to you, inspector, that it wasn’t her … I don’t know who did it … If I knew …’

  His voice grows muted, as if regretting that this amazing moment should be interrupted so soon with a reminder of that awful event.

  ‘Once, Marie told me … Because I always called her Marie … Jeanne was just for her clients … Once she said I mustn’t go and see her at just any time of day, I had to send a little note to let her know. But I used to go anyway, couldn’t help it. I’d wait for a few minutes on the pavement on the opposite side of the road to see if anyone went in … That day, she was by herself …’