Maigret Hesitates Page 12

  ‘Are you looking for me?’

  ‘Is your name Lise?’

  ‘Yes. I’m the maid. You’ve already passed me in the corridors.’

  ‘Where’s mademoiselle?’

  ‘She could be in the dining room. Or with her father or mother. They’re in the other wing.’

  ‘I know. I went to see Madame Parendon there yesterday.’

  Through an open door, he could see a dining room, wood-panelled from floor to ceiling. The table had been laid for two, although it could easily seat twenty. Soon, Bambi and her brother would be here, separated by a vast expanse of tablecloth and waited on by Ferdinand, stiff in his white cotton gloves.

  In passing, he half opened the door to Parendon’s office. Parendon was sitting in the same armchair as this morning. On a folding table, there were a bottle of wine, a glass and a few sandwiches. Parendon didn’t move. Had he even heard? There was a patch of sunlight on his cranium, which gave the impression he was bald.

  Maigret closed the door again, found the corridor he had walked along the day before and reached the door to the boudoir. Through this, he heard a vehement, tragic voice which he didn’t know.

  He couldn’t make out the words, but there was no mistaking the fury in them.

  He knocked loudly. The voice broke off abruptly, and a moment later the door opened and a young woman stood there, still panting, her eyes bright, her breathing laboured.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Behind her stood Madame Parendon, still in her blue dressing gown. She had turned towards the window, hiding her face from him.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘I suspected as much. So what? Have we lost the right to be here in our own home?’

  She wasn’t beautiful, but she had a pleasant face and a well-proportioned body. She was wearing a simple tailored suit, and her hair was held in place, unfashionably, with a ribbon.

  ‘I was hoping to have a few words with you, mademoiselle, before you go to lunch.’

  ‘Here?’

  He had seen Madame Parendon’s shoulders quiver.

  ‘Not necessarily. Wherever you like.’

  Bambi left the room without looking behind her, closed the door and said:

  ‘Where would you prefer?’

  ‘Your room?’ he suggested.

  ‘Lise’s busy doing my room.’

  ‘One of the offices?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Her hostility wasn’t directed specifically at Maigret. It was more of a mood. Now that her violent harangue had been cut short, her excitement subsided, and she followed him wearily.

  ‘Not in …’ she began.

  Not in Mademoiselle Vague’s office, of course. They entered the office shared by Tortu and Julien Baud, who had both gone to lunch.

  ‘Have you seen your father? … Please sit down.’

  ‘I prefer to stand.’

  She was still too nervous to sit on a chair.

  ‘Whatever you prefer.’

  He didn’t sit down either, but leaned on Tortu’s desk.

  ‘I asked you if you’d seen your father.’

  ‘Not since I got back, no.’

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘At a quarter past twelve.’

  ‘Who told you what had happened?’

  ‘The concierge.’

  Lamure seemed to have watched out for the two of them, Gus and his sister, so as to be the first to break the news.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Ferdinand tried to speak to me, but I didn’t listen to him. I went straight to my room.’

  ‘Did you find Lise there?’

  ‘Yes. She was cleaning the bathroom. Because of what happened, everything’s late.’

  ‘Did you cry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t it occur to you to go and see your father?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t remember. I didn’t go.’

  ‘Did you stay in your room for a long time?’

  ‘I didn’t look at the time. Five minutes or a little more.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  She looked at him and hesitated. It seemed to be a habit in this household. They all had a tendency to weigh their words before speaking.

  ‘Looking at myself in the mirror.’

  She was being defiant. That was another characteristic of this family.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You want me to be honest, don’t you? Well, I will be! I was trying to figure out who I look like.’

  ‘You mean, your father or your mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what conclusion did you come to?’

  She grew sterner.

  ‘My mother!’ she said angrily.

  ‘Do you hate your mother, Mademoiselle Parendon?’

  ‘I don’t hate her. I’d like to help her. I’ve often tried.’

  ‘Help her to do what?’

  ‘Do you think this is leading anywhere?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your questions … My answers …’

  ‘They might help me to understand.’

  ‘You spend a few odd hours with a family, and you claim you can understand? Don’t think I’m hostile to you. I know you’ve been prowling around the place since Monday.’

  ‘Do you also know who sent me the letters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I caught him cutting pieces of paper.’

  ‘Did Gus tell you what he was doing that for?’

  ‘No. It was only later, when people started talking about the letters, that I put two and two together.’

  ‘Who told you about them?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Maybe Julien Baud. I like him. He looks like a freak, but he’s a nice boy.’

  ‘I’m intrigued by something. It was you, wasn’t it, who chose the nickname Bambi for yourself and Gus for your brother?’

  She looked at him with a slight smile.

  ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Was it a protest?’

  ‘You guessed right. A protest against this big, solemn apartment, against the way we live, against the people who come here. I wish I’d been born in a modest family and had to struggle to make my way in life.’

  ‘You are struggling, in your way.’

  ‘Oh, yes, archaeology. I didn’t want a career where I would have taken someone’s place.’

  ‘It’s your mother who annoys you the most, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’d really rather not talk about her.’

  ‘Unfortunately, she’s the one who matters right now, isn’t she?’

  ‘Maybe … I don’t know …’

  She stole a glance at him.

  ‘You think she’s guilty,’ Maigret insisted.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘When I went to the boudoir, I heard you speaking very angrily.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I think she’s guilty. I don’t like the way she behaves. I don’t like the life she leads, the life she makes us lead. I don’t like …’

  She was less good than her brother at controlling herself, even though she was apparently calmer.

  ‘Do you blame her for not making your father happy?’

  ‘You can’t make people happy if they don’t want to be. But when it comes to making them unhappy …’

  ‘Did you like Mademoiselle Vague as much as you like Julien Baud?’

  She didn’t hesitate for a second.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she was a little schemer who convinced my father that she loved him.’

  ‘Did you ever hear them talk about love?’

  ‘Obviously not. She wasn’t going to bill and coo in front of me. You just had to see her when she was with him. I know exactly what happened once the door was closed.’

  ‘Are you speaking f
rom a moral standpoint or—’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about morals. Whose morals anyway? The morals of which social class? Do you think this neighbourhood has the same morals as a little provincial town, or the twentieth arrondissement?’

  ‘In your opinion, did she make your father suffer?’

  ‘Maybe she isolated him more.’

  ‘You mean she distanced him from you?’

  ‘These are questions I haven’t thought about, that nobody thinks about. Let’s just say that if she hadn’t come along, there might have been a chance.’

  ‘A chance for what? For things to be patched up?’

  ‘There was nothing to patch up. My parents have never loved each other. Not that I believe in love anyway. But there’s always the possibility of living in peace, in some kind of harmony.’

  ‘Is that what you tried to bring about?’

  ‘I tried to get my mother to calm down, to be more reasonable.’

  ‘Didn’t your father help you?’

  She didn’t think the same way as her brother and yet, on a small number of points, she had the same ideas.

  ‘My father had given up.’

  ‘Because of his secretary?’

  ‘I’d rather not answer that. I’ve had enough of talking. Put yourself in my place. I get back from the Sorbonne and find—’

  ‘You’re right. All I’m trying to do, believe me, is cause the least possible upset. Imagine an investigation that drags on for weeks, the uncertainty, being summoned to the Police Judiciaire, then to the examining magistrate’s office …’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘No. Neither have you, and your brother’s probably waiting for you in the dining room.’

  ‘Is my father having lunch with us?’

  ‘He’d rather be alone in his office.’

  ‘What about you? Aren’t you having lunch?’

  ‘I’m not hungry for the moment, but I must confess I’m dying of thirst.’

  ‘What would you like to drink? Beer? Wine?’

  ‘Anything, as long as it’s a big glass.’

  She couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Wait a moment.’

  He had understood her smile. She couldn’t see him going to the kitchen or the servants’ hall for a drink, like a delivery boy. Nor could she imagine him sitting down with Gus and her in the dining room while they had lunch in silence.

  When she returned, she hadn’t burdened herself with a tray. In one hand, she held a bottle of six-year-old Saint-Émilion, in the other, a cut crystal glass.

  ‘I’m sorry if I answered your questions so curtly, or if I haven’t been very helpful.’

  ‘You’ve all been very helpful. Now go and have your lunch, Mademoiselle Bambi.’

  It was a strange sensation being there, at one end of the apartment, in the office shared by Tortu and the young Swiss, alone with a bottle and a glass. Because he had mentioned a large glass, she had chosen a water glass, and he wasn’t ashamed to fill it.

  He really was thirsty. He needed a pick-me-up, too, because this had been one of the most exhausting mornings of his career. And now he was sure that Madame Parendon was waiting for him. She couldn’t be unaware that he had questioned everyone else in the household, and she must be fretting, wondering when he would finally get to her.

  Had she sent for something to eat in her boudoir, the way her husband had done?

  Standing at the window, he sipped his wine and looked out vaguely at the courtyard, which he was seeing for the first time empty of cars, with only a ginger cat stretching in a patch of sunlight. As Lamure had told Lapointe that there wasn’t a single animal in the building apart from a parrot, it must have been a cat from the neighbourhood that had sought out a quiet spot.

  He wondered whether he should pour himself another drink, finally poured half a glass, and waited until he had filled a pipe before drinking it.

  After which, he heaved a sigh and headed for the boudoir, along the corridors he was by now familiar with.

  He didn’t need to knock. Despite the carpeting, his footsteps had been heard, and the door opened as soon as he approached. Madame Parendon, still in her blue silk dressing gown, had had time to put on make-up and do her hair, and her face looked pretty much the same as it had the day before.

  Did she look tenser or wearier? He would have been hard put to say. He sensed a difference, as if something had cracked, but he was unable to pinpoint what it was.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘I know. I’m here now, as you can see.’

  ‘Why did you insist on seeing everybody else before me?’

  ‘Perhaps it was to give you time to think.’

  ‘I don’t need to think. Think about what?’

  ‘About what happened. About what’s bound to happen next.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Whenever a murder is committed, it’s followed, sooner or later, by an arrest, a legal process, a trial.’

  ‘And how is that any concern of mine?’

  ‘You hated Antoinette, didn’t you?’

  ‘So you also call her by her first name?’

  ‘Who else does that here?’

  ‘Gus, for example. My husband, I don’t know. He’s quite capable of politely saying “mademoiselle” while making love.’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘So what? Just because a person’s dead, do we have to pretend they were a saint?’

  ‘What did you do last night when your sister left after bringing you back from the Crillon?’

  She frowned, then sniggered:

  ‘I’d forgotten you’d stuck policemen everywhere … As it happens, I had a headache, I took an aspirin and tried to read while waiting for it to take effect. Look, the book’s still there. You’ll find a bookmark on page ten or twelve. I didn’t get very far with it. I went to bed, but couldn’t get to sleep. It happens to me quite often, my doctor knows all about it.’

  ‘Dr Martin?’

  ‘Dr Martin is my husband’s doctor and the children’s. My doctor is Dr Pommeroy, who lives on Boulevard Haussmann. I’m not ill, thank God!’

  She uttered these words vigorously, almost defiantly.

  ‘I don’t follow any treatment, any diet.’

  The subtext seemed to be:

  ‘Unlike my husband.’

  She didn’t say that, but went on:

  ‘The only thing I have to complain about is lack of sleep. Sometimes I’m still awake at three in the morning. It’s exhausting and also painful.’

  ‘Was that the case last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you worried about something?’

  ‘Your visit, you mean?’ she retorted.

  ‘You could have been worried about the anonymous letters, the atmosphere they created …’

  ‘I haven’t slept well for years, and that had nothing to do with any anonymous letters. Be that as it may, I finally got up and took a barbiturate that Dr Pommeroy had prescribed. If you want to see the box …’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘No idea. Judging by the questions you asked me yesterday, I suppose I should be prepared for anything … In spite of that sleeping pill, it still took me at least another half hour to fall asleep, and when I woke up I was amazed to see that it was eleven thirty.’

  ‘I thought you often got up late.’

  ‘Not as late as that. I rang for Lise, and she brought me a tray of tea and toast. It wasn’t until she opened the windows that I realized her eyes were red. I asked her why she’d been crying. She burst into tears again and told me something terrible had happened. My first thought was that it was my husband.’

  ‘What did you think had happened to him?’

  ‘Do you think he’s a strong person? Don’t you think his heart could give out at any moment, like everything else?’


  He didn’t pick her up on the words ‘like everything else’, deciding to keep that for later.

  ‘In the end she told me that Mademoiselle Vague had been killed and that the house was full of policemen.’

  ‘What was your first reaction?’

  ‘I was so astounded that at first I just drank my tea … Then I rushed to my husband’s office. What are they going to do with him?’

  He pretended he didn’t understand.

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘My husband. You’re not going to throw him in prison, are you? With his health …’

  ‘Why would I put your husband in prison? First of all, it’s not up to me, it’s up to the examining magistrate. Secondly, I don’t see any reason at this stage to arrest your husband.’

  ‘Who do you suspect, then?’

  He didn’t reply. He walked slowly up and down on the blue carpet with its yellow leaf pattern, while she settled herself in the wing chair that she had sat in the day before.

  ‘Madame Parendon,’ he asked, speaking slowly and clearly, ‘why would your husband have killed his secretary?’

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  ‘People don’t usually commit murder without a motive.’

  ‘Some people may invent an imaginary motive, don’t you think?’

  ‘And what would that be in this case?’

  ‘What if she was pregnant, for example?’

  ‘Do you have any reason to believe she was pregnant?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Is your husband a Catholic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then if she was pregnant, it’s quite likely he’d have been delighted.’

  ‘It would have complicated his life.’

  ‘You forget we’re no longer in the days when unmarried mothers were pointed at in the street. Times change, Madame Parendon. There are also lots of people who wouldn’t hesitate to turn to a broad-minded gynaecologist.’

  ‘I only mentioned it as an example.’

  ‘Give me another one.’

  ‘She might have been blackmailing him.’

  ‘About what? Is there something shady in your husband’s business affairs? Do you think he’s capable of committing the kind of irregularities that might tarnish his reputation as a lawyer?’

  She was forced to give up and say:

  ‘Certainly not.’

  She lit a cigarette.