Maigret Gets Angry Read online

  He declared that he had indeed been to Orsenne the Monday of the previous week. And yes, Bernadette Amorelle has asked him to draw up a new will. He could not say anything about the contents of the will itself, of course. It was there, in his antiquated safe.

  Whether there had been other, previous wills? Perhaps ten, perhaps more? Yes, his old friend was in the habit of making wills, an innocent habit, wouldn’t you agree?

  Was Monita Malik named in this new document? The lawyer was sorry, but he couldn’t say anything on that subject. Professional confidentiality!

  ‘She’s as fit as a fiddle! I’m certain that this is not her last will and that I will once again have the pleasure of going to visit her.’

  So Monita had died twenty-four hours after the lawyer’s visit to Orsenne. Were the two events connected?

  Why on earth had someone taken the trouble to throw this new information in Maigret’s face, as it were?

  He walked along the Seine. He was on his way home to have dinner with his wife, Georges-Henry and Mimile. From the Pont de la Cité, he saw a tug-boat chugging up the Seine with its five or six barges. An Amorelle and Campois tug-boat. Just then, a spanking new big yellow taxi, the latest model, drove past, and these two minor details probably influenced his decision.

  He didn’t stop to think. He raised his arm. The taxi drew up by the kerb.

  ‘Have you got enough petrol for a long drive?’

  Maybe if the car’s fuel tank hadn’t been full …

  ‘Route de Fontainebleau. After Corbeil, I’ll direct you.’

  He hadn’t had dinner, but he had eaten a late lunch. He asked the driver to stop at a tobacconist’s so he could buy a packet of shag and some matches.

  It was a mild evening and the taxi had its roof down. He had sat next to the driver, perhaps with the intention of starting a conversation. But he barely opened his mouth.

  ‘Turn left here.’

  ‘Are you going to Orsenne?’

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Years ago I sometimes drove guests to L’Ange.’

  ‘We’re going further. Continue along the towpath. It’s not this house, or the next one. Keep going.’

  They had to take a narrow track on the right to reach the Campois house, which could not be seen from the outside for it was completely enclosed by walls and, instead of an iron gate, there was a solid double door, painted light green.

  ‘Wait for me!’

  ‘I’ve got plenty of time! I’d just had dinner when you flagged me down.’

  Maigret pulled the bell cord and from the garden came a pleasant peal like that of a presbytery. There was an ancient boundary stone either side of the entrance and a little door set in one of the big wooden panels.

  ‘Doesn’t look as if anyone’s going to answer,’ commented the driver.

  It was not late – just after eight o’clock in the evening. Maigret rang again and this time footsteps could be heard crunching the gravel; an elderly cook in a blue apron turned a heavy key in the lock, opened the little door a crack and eyed Maigret warily.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He glimpsed a densely planted secluded garden, full of simple flowers and unexpected nooks and crannies overgrown by weeds.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Monsieur Campois.’

  ‘He’s left.’

  She was already about to close the door, but he had stepped forwards to stop her.

  ‘Can you tell me where I might find him?’

  Did she know who he was from having seen him prowling around Orsenne?

  ‘You won’t be able to find him. Monsieur Campois has gone abroad.’

  ‘For long?’

  ‘For at least six weeks.’

  ‘Forgive me for insisting, but it is about a very important matter. May I at least write to him?’

  ‘You can write to him if you like, but I doubt he’ll receive your letters before his return. Monsieur is on a cruise to Norway aboard the Stella-Polaris.’

  Just then, Maigret heard, in the garden behind the house, the sound of an engine spluttering to life.

  ‘Are you sure he has already left?’

  ‘I’m telling you—’

  ‘What about his grandson?’

  ‘He has taken Monsieur Jean with him.’

  Maigret had a struggle to push the door open because the cook was trying to close it forcefully.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Where are your manners?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me is that Monsieur Campois hasn’t left yet.’

  ‘That’s his business. He doesn’t want to see anyone.’

  ‘But he will see me.’

  ‘Will you get out of here, you rude man!’

  Rid of the cook, who was meticulously locking the door behind him, Maigret crossed the garden and came upon a modest pink house with climbing roses invading the green-shuttered windows.

  As he looked up, his gaze lighted on an open window and at this window stood a man who was watching him with a sort of terror.

  It was Monsieur Campois, the late Amorelle’s partner.

  There were trunks in the wide hall, where the atmosphere was pleasantly cool and smelled of ripening fruit. The elderly cook joined him:

  ‘Well, if Monsieur said it’s all right for you to come in …’ she grumbled.

  And she reluctantly showed him into a sitting room that resembled a parlour, with, in one corner, by a window with half-closed shutters, one of those old black desks that evoked trading companies of the past, with their green filing cabinets, the clerks perched on tall chairs, a ring of leather under their buttocks and a peaked cap pulled down over their eyes.

  ‘Just wait here! Too bad if he misses his ship.’

  The walls were covered in faded wallpaper and, against this wallpaper, photographs stood out in their black or gilt frames. There was the inevitable wedding photo, a Campois already plump, his hair in a crew cut, and, leaning against his shoulder, the face of a woman with full lips and a gentle, sheeplike gaze.

  Immediately to the right, a young man aged around twenty, his face more elongated than that of his parents, his eyes softer, he too looking shy and timid. And, beneath that frame, a black crepe bow.

  Maigret was walking over to a piano covered in photographs when the door opened. Campois stood in the doorway and Maigret thought he looked smaller and older than when he had first set eyes on him.

  He was already a very old man, despite his sturdy farmer’s build.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said straight off. ‘I couldn’t refuse to see you, but I have nothing to say to you. I’m leaving in a moment for a long trip.’

  ‘Where are you sailing from, Monsieur Campois?’

  ‘From Le Havre, which is where the cruise leaves from.’

  ‘You’re probably catching the 10.22 train from Paris? You’ll make it.’

  ‘Please excuse me, but I haven’t finished packing. Nor have I had dinner yet. I repeat that I have absolutely nothing to say to you.’

  What was he afraid of? Because it was clear that he was afraid of something, that was clear. He was dressed in black, with a black detachable tie, and the paleness of his complexion contrasted sharply with the darkness of the room. He had left the door open, as if to signal that this conversation would have to be brief, and he did not invite his visitor to sit down.

  ‘Have you been on many cruises of this kind?’

  ‘It’s …’

  Was he about to lie? He certainly wanted to. He gave the impression that
he needed someone beside him to feed him his lines. His old honesty prevailed. He didn’t know how to lie. He admitted:

  ‘It’s the first time.’

  ‘And you are seventy-five years old?’

  ‘Seventy-seven!’

  Go for it! It was best to stake his all. The poor man wasn’t capable of defending himself for long and his frightened gaze showed that he was beaten from the start, and was perhaps already resigned to the fact.

  ‘I am certain, Monsieur Campois, that up until three days ago, you had no idea you would be going on this voyage. I would even wager that you’re a little afraid! The Norwegian fjords, at your age!’

  He stammered, as if giving a rehearsed answer:

  ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Norway.’

  ‘But you weren’t planning on going there this month! Someone planned it for you, didn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. My grandson and I—’

  ‘Your grandson must have been as surprised as you. For the moment it matters little who arranged this cruise for you. By the way, do you know where the tickets were purchased?’

  Campois had no idea, as his alarmed expression showed. He had been given a part to play. He was playing it to the best of his ability, but there were events that had not been foreseen, including Maigret’s sudden intrusion, and the poor man didn’t know which way to turn.

  ‘Listen, inspector, I repeat that I have nothing to say to you. I am in my own home. I’m leaving shortly for a cruise. Acknowledge that I have the right to ask you to leave me alone.’

  ‘I came to talk to you about your son.’

  As he had foreseen, old Campois became perturbed, turned ashen and shot an anguished look at the portrait.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ he repeated, clinging to those words that no longer meant anything.

  Maigret listened out, having heard a faint noise in the corridor. Campois must have heard it too, and he made for the door:

  ‘Leave us, Eugénie. The luggage can be put in the car. I’m coming straight away.’

  This time, he closed the door and went and sat mechanically in his place, at the desk which must have followed him throughout his long career. Maigret sat down opposite him without being invited to do so.

  ‘I’ve thought long and hard about your son’s death, Monsieur Campois.’

  ‘Why have you come to talk to me about that?’

  ‘You know very well. Last week, a young girl whom you know died in the same circumstances. Earlier, I left a young man who very nearly came to the same end. And it’s your fault, isn’t it?’

  He protested emphatically:

  ‘My fault?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Campois! And you know it. You may not want to admit it, but deep down—’

  ‘You have no right to come to my house and say such dreadful things to me. I’ve been an honest man all my life.’

  But Maigret did not allow him the time to wallow in protestations.

  ‘Where did Ernest Malik meet your son?’

  The old man drew his hand across his forehead.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Were you already living in Orsenne?’

  ‘No! In those days I lived in Paris, on the Île Saint-Louis. We had a big apartment above our offices, which weren’t as big as they are nowadays.’

  ‘Did your son work in those offices?’

  ‘Yes. He had just obtained his law degree.’

  ‘Did the Amorelles already have their house in Orsenne?’

  ‘They arrived here first, yes. Bernadette was a very busy woman. She loved to entertain. She was always surrounded by young people. On Sundays, she would invite lots of friends to the country. My son used to come too.’

  ‘Was he in love with the eldest Amorelle daughter?’

  ‘They were engaged.’

  ‘And did Mademoiselle Laurence love him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I imagine so. Why are you asking me that? After all these years …’

  He would have liked to release himself from this sort of spell that Maigret had cast over him. Twilight was gathering in the room where the portraits stared down at them with their dead eyes. Mechanically, the old man had picked up a meerschaum pipe with a long cherrywood stem, which he didn’t think of filling with tobacco.

  ‘How old was Mademoiselle Laurence at the time?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I’ll have to count. Wait …’

  He muttered dates half-heartedly, as if saying a rosary. His brow furrowed. Perhaps he still hoped that someone would come and save him?

  ‘She must have been seventeen.’

  ‘So her younger sister, Mademoiselle Aimée, was barely fifteen?’

  ‘That must be right, yes. I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘And your son met Ernest Malik, who, unless I’m mistaken, was at the time private secretary to a municipal councillor. It was through that councillor that he himself met the Amorelles. He was a brilliant young man.’

  ‘Maybe …’

  ‘He became friends with your son and, under his influence, your son changed?’

  ‘He was a very good boy, a very gentle boy,’ protested the father.

  ‘Who started gambling and got into debt—’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Bigger and bigger debts, more and more blatant. Things got so bad that he ended up having to live by his wits.’

  ‘It would have been better if he’d told me everything.’

  ‘Are you sure you would have understood?’

  The old man hung his head and admitted:

  ‘At that time, I might—’

  ‘You might not have understood, you might have thrown him out. If he had told you, for example, that he’d taken the money from your partner’s coffers, or that he’d falsified the accounts, or—’

  ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘He preferred to die. Perhaps because he was advised to kill himself? Perhaps …’

  Campois wiped both hands over his anguished face.

  ‘But why come and speak to me of all this today? What are you hoping for? What are you trying to achieve?’

  ‘Admit, Monsieur Campois, that at that time, you thought what I am thinking today.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are thinking … I don’t want to know!’

  ‘Even if at the time of your son’s death you weren’t suspicious straight away, you must have started to wonder when Malik married Mademoiselle Amorelle a few months later. You follow me, don’t you?’

  ‘I couldn’t do anything.’

  ‘And you attended the wedding!’

  ‘I had to. I was Amorelle’s friend, his partner. He worshipped Ernest Malik, who in his eyes could do no wrong.’

  ‘So you kept quiet.’

  ‘I had a daughter who was still unmarried and I needed to find her a husband.’

  Maigret rose, burly, threatening, and gave the crushed old man a look full of intense anger.

  ‘And, for years and years, you have …’

  His voice, which had risen, softened again as he watched the face of the elderly man, whose eyes filled with tears.

  ‘But for goodness’ sake,’ Maigret went on with a sort of dread, ‘you knew all along that it was Malik who killed your son.

  ‘Yet you said nothing!

  ‘Yet you carried on shaking hands with him!

  ‘Yet you bought this house close to his!

  ‘And still today, you’re willing to do as he tells you!’

  ‘What choice d
id I have?’

  ‘Because he drove you to the brink of poverty. Because, through God-knows-what cunning schemes, he managed to divest you of most of your shares. Because now you are merely a name in the Amorelle and Campois concern. Because—’

  And his fist came down on the desk.

  ‘But dammit! Don’t you realize you are a coward, that it’s because of you that Monita is dead like your son and that a boy, Georges-Henry, nearly followed suit?’

  ‘I have my daughter and my grandson. I am old!’

  ‘You weren’t old when your son died. But you were already so obsessed with money that you weren’t even capable of standing up to a Malik.’

  It was almost dark now in the long room where it hadn’t occurred to either of the two men to switch on the light.

  Visibly terrified, the old man asked in a dull voice:

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What about you?’

  Campois’ shoulders slumped.

  ‘Are you still planning to go on this cruise that doesn’t appeal to you at all? You can’t see, can you, that you’re being sent away in haste, the way the weak are sent away in a crisis? When was this cruise decided on?’

  ‘Malik came to see me yesterday morning. I didn’t want to, but in the end I gave in.’

  ‘What excuse did he give?’

  ‘That you were poking around in our business affairs and trying to cause trouble for us. That it would be better if I weren’t around.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  The old man did not reply, and continued after a while in a weary voice:

  ‘He’s already been here three times today. He caused havoc to speed up my departure. Half an hour before you arrived, he telephoned me again to remind me that it was time to leave.’

  ‘Are you still intent on going?’

  ‘I think it’s best, given what is probably going to happen. But I could stay in Le Havre. It depends on my grandson. He used to spend a lot of time with Monita. I think he cherished hopes about her. He was very upset by her death.’

  The old man suddenly sprang up and rushed towards the old-fashioned telephone on the wall. It had given a strident ring, calling him to order.

  ‘Hello! Yes … The luggage is in the car. I’m leaving in five minutes … Yes … Yes … No … No … It wasn’t for me … Probably …’