Maigret and the Old People Page 11

  For Maigret, this phase of an inquiry was always disagreeable.

  For the first time, he was going to perform the operation on an old woman.

  In the courtyard of the Police Judiciaire, he helped her out of the car, and she waved away the hand he extended, walking with dignity towards the staircase, as if crossing the square in front of a church. He gestured to Janvier to join them. All three of them climbed the big staircase and reached the inspector’s office, where the breeze swelled the curtains.

  ‘Please, sit down.’

  Even though she had been shown to an armchair, she chose an ordinary chair, while Janvier, who knew the routine, sat down at one end of the desk, picking up a pad and a pencil.

  Maigret coughed a little, stuffed a pipe and walked to the window, then came back to stand in front of the old woman, who looked at him with motionless, keen little eyes.

  ‘Before we do anything else, I must tell you that the examining magistrate has just signed a warrant for your arrest.’

  He showed it to her. She gave the document only polite attention.

  ‘You are accused of the deliberate homicide of your employer, Count Armand de Saint-Hilaire, during the night of Tuesday to Wednesday. An expert from the forensic department has recently carried out a paraffin test on your right hand. This test consists of collecting the fragments of powder and chemicals that have become embedded in the skin of a person when they use a firearm, particularly an automatic ejecting pistol.’

  He watched her, hoping for a reaction, and she was the one who seemed to be studying him, she was the calmer of the two, the more in control of herself.

  ‘You’re not saying anything?’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘The test was positive, which establishes beyond any possible error that you recently used a firearm.’

  Quite impassive, she could just as easily have been in church listening to the sermon.

  ‘What did you do with that weapon? I imagine that on Wednesday morning you went to Quai d’Orsay and threw it into the Seine along with the cartridge cases? I should warn you that every means necessary will be employed to recover the pistol, that divers will go down to the river bed.’

  She had decided to say nothing and she said nothing. Her expression remained so serene that one might have thought she was not the focus of attention, that she was there by chance, witnessing a conversation that had nothing to do with her.

  ‘I don’t know what your motive might have been, although I have my suspicions. You lived for almost fifty years with the Count of Saint-Hilaire. You were as intimate with him as two people can be.’

  A very faint smile hovered around Jaquette’s lips, a smile that contained both coquettishness and a profound feeling of satisfaction.

  ‘You knew that, after the death of the prince, your employer would make his youthful dream come true.’

  It was irritating, like talking to a brick wall, and from time to time Maigret had to stop himself from shaking the old woman by the shoulders.

  ‘If he hadn’t died, he would have got married. Is that what you think? Would you have kept your position in the house? And if you had, would that position have been exactly the same?’

  Pencil in the air, Janvier was still waiting for a reply to record.

  ‘On Tuesday evening you went into the count’s office. He was revising the proofs of his book. Did you have a conversation with him?’

  Another ten minutes of questions without answers, and Maigret, exasperated, felt the need to go and unwind in the inspectors’ office. It reminded him that Lapointe had been at Rue Saint-Dominique since the previous evening.

  ‘Are you busy, Lucas?’

  ‘Nothing urgent.’

  ‘Go and take over from Lapointe.’

  Then, because it was after midday, he added:

  ‘Drop in at the Brasserie Dauphine. Have them send up a tray of sandwiches, some beer and some coffee.’

  And, thinking of the old woman:

  ‘A bottle of mineral water as well.’

  In his office, he found Jaquette and Janvier still sitting motionless in their places as if in a painting.

  For half an hour he paced the room, puffing on his pipe, stopping at the window and standing a few steps away from the housekeeper to look her in the eyes.

  It wasn’t an interrogation, because she remained stubbornly silent, but a long and more or less disconnected monologue.

  ‘It’s possible, I can tell you straight away, that experts will concede diminished responsibility. Your lawyer will certainly argue for a crime of passion …’

  It seemed ridiculous, but it was true.

  ‘It’s not in your interest to remain silent, while by pleading guilty you have every chance of moving the jury. Why not start now?’

  Children play this kind of game: it’s about not opening your mouth whatever your partner says and does, and particularly not laughing.

  Jaquette wasn’t speaking or laughing. She watched Maigret’s every move, still as if it had nothing to do with her, without flinching, without refusal.

  ‘The count was the only man in your life.’

  What was the point? He was trying in vain to find the tender spot. There was a knock on the door. It was the waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine, who set the tray down on Maigret’s desk.

  ‘It would do you good to eat something. At the rate we’re going, we’re likely to be here for some time.’

  He held out a ham sandwich to her. The waiter had gone. She lifted a corner of the white bread and, by a miracle, opened her mouth at last.

  ‘It’s over fifteen years since I last ate meat. Old people don’t need it.’

  ‘Would you rather have some cheese?’

  ‘I’m not hungry anyway.’

  He went back to the inspectors’ office.

  ‘Phone down to the brasserie for some cheese sandwiches.’

  He ate while walking, as if taking his revenge, his pipe in one hand, his sandwich in the other, and every now and again he stopped to take a sip of beer. Janvier had abandoned his pencil to eat as well.

  ‘Would you rather talk to me with no one else present?’

  He received only a shrug.

  ‘You have the right to have a lawyer of your choice present. I’m ready to call whoever you suggest. Do you know a lawyer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you like me to give you the list?’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘Would you rather I appointed a duty solicitor?’

  ‘That won’t help.’

  They were making progress, because she had opened her lips.

  ‘You admit you shot your employer?’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘In other words, you have sworn to remain silent, whatever happens?’

  That exasperating silence fell again. Pipe smoke floated in the office, with the sunlight coming in from one side. The air began to smell of ham, beer and coffee.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘I only drink coffee in the morning, with a lot of milk.’

  ‘What do you want to drink?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you plan to go on hunger strike?’

  That was a mistake, because she smiled at the idea, perhaps even finding it appealing.

  He had seen suspects of all kinds here, in similar circumstances, hard men and softies, some who wept or who turned more and more pale, others who defied or mocked him.

  It was the first time that anyone sitting on that chair had shown such indifference and calm obstinacy.

  ‘You still don’t want to say anything?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘When do you think you will speak?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you waiting for something?’

  Silence.

  ‘Do you want me to call the Princess of V—?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Is there anyone you would like t
o send a message to, or anyone you would like to see?’

  Cheese sandwiches were brought, which she looked at with indifference. She shook her head and said over and over again:

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘So you’ve made up your mind not to talk, not to drink, not to eat.’

  Her chair was uncomfortable, and almost everyone who had sat on it had soon felt ill at ease. After an hour she was still sitting just as straight, without moving her feet or her arms, without having changed position.

  ‘Listen, Jaquette …’

  She frowned, shocked by this familiarity, and it was the inspector who was embarrassed.

  ‘I should warn you that we will stay in this room for as long as necessary. We have the physical proof that you fired at least one shot. I am just asking you to tell me why and in what circumstances. With your stupid silence …’

  The word had slipped out, and he started over again.

  ‘With your silence, you risk misleading the police, and putting suspicion on other people. If in half an hour you haven’t answered my questions, I will ask the princess to come here and put her in your presence. I will also summon her son, and Alain Mazeron and his wife, and we will see if this general confrontation …’

  He shouted angrily:

  ‘What is it?’

  There had been a knock at the door. Old Joseph pulled him into the corridor and whispered, with his head lowered:

  ‘There’s a young man who insists—’

  ‘What young man?’

  Joseph held out a visiting card in the name of Julien de V—, Isabelle’s grandson.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the waiting room. He says he’s in a hurry because he has an important class that he can’t miss.’

  ‘Keep him waiting for a moment.’

  He came back into the office.

  ‘Isabelle’s grandson, Julien, is asking to see me. He has something to say to me. Are you still planning to keep your mouth shut?’

  It was certainly exasperating, but it was also pathetic. Maigret saw that the old woman was in a state of inner conflict and he was reluctant to press her. Janvier himself, who was only an onlooker, seemed to be struggling with his conscience.

  ‘You’ll have to speak eventually. So why don’t you …’

  ‘Am I allowed to see a priest?’

  ‘Do you want to confess?’

  ‘I’m just asking permission to talk to a priest for a few minutes, Abbé Barraud.’

  ‘Where can I reach Abbé Barraud?’

  ‘At the presbytery of Sainte-Clotilde.’

  ‘Is he your spiritual adviser?’

  He didn’t want to let the slightest chance go and picked up the phone.

  ‘Put me through to the presbytery of the parish of Sainte-Clotilde … Yes … I’ll stay on the line. Abbé Barraud … It doesn’t matter how it’s spelt …’

  He rearranged the pipes on his desk, and lined them up in single file like lead soldiers.

  ‘Hello … Abbé Barraud? … This is the Police Judiciaire … Maigret, detective chief inspector … I have in my office one of your parishioners who wants to talk to you … Yes, it’s Mademoiselle Larrieu … Can you take a taxi to Quai des Orfèvres? … Thank you … Yes, she’s waiting for you.’

  And, to Janvier:

  ‘When the priest gets here, bring him in and leave them on their own together … There’s someone I have to see in the meantime.’

  He made for the glazed waiting room, where there was no one but the young man in black he had seen the previous day on Rue de Varenne with his parents and his brothers and sisters. At the sight of Maigret he got up and followed the inspector into a little empty office.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘I haven’t got long. I have to go back to Rue d’Ulm, where I have a class in half an hour.’

  In the tiny room he looked taller and lankier. The expression on his face was serious and slightly sad.

  ‘I almost spoke to you yesterday, when you came to see my grandmother.’

  Why did Maigret find himself thinking that he would have liked to have a son like this boy? He had a natural ease as well as a kind of innate modesty, and if he seemed a little withdrawn, one had a sense that it was only out of delicacy.

  ‘I don’t know if what I have to say will be of any use to you. I thought a lot about it last night. On Tuesday afternoon I went to see my uncle.’

  ‘Your uncle?’

  The young man blushed, a faint redness that disappeared again immediately, making way for a shy smile.

  ‘That’s what I called the Count of Saint-Hilaire.’

  ‘Did you spend time with him?’

  ‘Yes. I talked to my parents about it. I didn’t hide it either. Even when I was very small I’d heard people talking about him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My governesses first of all, then later my fellow pupils. My grandmother’s love story is almost legendary.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘At the age of ten or eleven I asked her about it, and we used to talk about Saint-Hilaire together. She read me certain letters, the ones in which he talked about diplomatic receptions, for example, conversations with heads of state. Have you read his letters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He wrote very well, with great vivacity, a bit like Cardinal de Retz. Perhaps it’s because of the count and his stories that I chose a career in the diplomatic service.’

  ‘When did you meet him in person?’

  ‘Two years ago. I had a classmate at Stanislas whose grandfather was also in the diplomatic service. One day at his house I met the Count of Saint-Hilaire and asked to be introduced to him. I thought I could feel his emotion as he examined me from head to toe, and I was quite moved too. He asked questions about my studies, my plans.’

  ‘Did you go and see him at Rue Saint-Dominique?’

  ‘He had invited me there, although he added:

  ‘ “As long as your parents don’t think it awkward.” ’

  ‘Did you visit him often?’

  ‘No. About once a month. It depended. For example, I asked his advice after my baccalaureate, and he encouraged me in my plan to go to the École Normale. He too thought that, even if it didn’t help my career, it would still give me a solid foundation.

  ‘One day I said without thinking:

  ‘ “I sometimes have a sense that I’m confiding in my uncle.”

  ‘ “And I in a nephew,” he answered with a laugh. “Why don’t you call me ‘uncle’?”

  ‘That explains the word that slipped out just now.’

  ‘Didn’t you like your grandfather?’

  ‘I didn’t know him very well. While he and the Count of Saint-Hilaire might have belonged to the same generation, they were very different men. For me my grandfather was always an imposing and inaccessible figure.’

  ‘And your grandmother?’

  ‘We were great friends. We still are.’

  ‘Was she aware of your visits to Rue Saint-Dominique?’

  ‘Yes. I reported our conversations back to her. She demanded details and, sometimes, she was the one who reminded me that I hadn’t been to see our friend for a long time.’

  Maigret, drawn though he was to the young man, was nonetheless studying him with amazement, almost with suspicion. Meeting young people of this kind is a rare occurrence at Quai des Orfèvres, and once again he had the sensation of an unreal universe, of people who had come not from life but from the pages of an edifying book.

  ‘So on Tuesday afternoon you went to Rue Saint-Dominique.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have any particular reason to pay this visit?’

  ‘More or less. My grandfather had died two days before. I thought my grandmother would like to know what her friend’s reaction was.’

  ‘Didn’t you have the same curiosity?’

  ‘Perhaps I did. I knew they had sworn they would marry if they had the chance one day.’

  ‘And yo
u were charmed by that prospect?’

  ‘To some extent, yes.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘I never talked about it to my father, but I have every reason to think that he wouldn’t mind. My mother, perhaps …?’

  As he didn’t finish his sentence. Maigret insisted:

  ‘Your mother …?’

  ‘I’m not being mean about her if I say that she attaches more importance to titles and privilege than the rest of the family.’

  Probably because she wasn’t born a princess, but plain Irène de Marchangy.

  ‘What happened during that conversation at Rue Saint-Dominique?’

  ‘Nothing that I can clearly explain. Nonetheless, I thought it was better to talk to you about it. The Count of Saint-Hilaire seemed concerned at first, and I suddenly saw that he was very old. Before, he was a man who didn’t look his age. One had a sense that he loved life, that he savoured every aspect, every moment. In my eyes he was a character who had strayed from the eighteenth century into our own. Do you understand what I mean?’

  Maigret nodded.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see him seriously affected by the death of my grandfather, who was two years his senior, particularly since the death was accidental, and we knew that my grandfather had barely suffered. And yet on Tuesday afternoon, Saint-Hilaire was downcast and avoided my eye as if he was hiding something from me.

  ‘I said something like:

  ‘ “In a year you will marry my grandmother at last …”

  ‘As he turned his head away, I pressed the point:

  ‘ “Does that trouble you?”

  ‘I wish I could remember his exact words. It’s strange that I can’t, given that I was so struck by their meaning and all that they implied.

  ‘Essentially he replied:

  ‘ “They won’t let me.”

  ‘And when I looked at his face, I thought I read fear in it.

  ‘You see, it’s all quite vague. At the time I didn’t attach too much importance to it, thinking that it was the natural reaction of an old man learning of the death of another old man and thinking that it would soon be his turn.

  ‘When I learned that he had been murdered, that scene came back to me.’

  ‘Did you talk to anyone about it?’