Maigret and the Reluctant Witnesses Read online

  Originally white, the walls had turned yellow, with browner patches here and there, and the plaster was cracked and flaking off in places. The staircase was marble for the first three steps, then wood. It can’t have been swept for a long time and creaked underfoot as they climbed it.

  It was like one of those municipal offices you walk into and immediately think you’ve got the wrong door. If one of them had started talking, wouldn’t the echo have thrown his words back at him?

  They heard someone on the first floor, then a man leaned over the banisters: a youngish, tired-looking figure, who introduced himself when Maigret reached the landing.

  ‘Legrand, Ivry station secretary … The chief inspector is waiting for you …’

  Another hall upstairs, with marble flagstones and a window without curtains, framing the Seine and the rain.

  The house was enormous, with doors on all sides, corridors like a government building and the same drabness wherever you looked, the same smell of very old dust.

  At the end of a narrower passage on the left, the secretary knocked on a door, then opened it, revealing a bedroom which was dark enough for the chief inspector to have left the light on.

  The bedroom looked out on to the courtyard, and the chimney Maigret had noticed outside was visible through the dusty muslin curtains.

  He vaguely knew Ivry’s chief inspector, who was of a younger generation and shook his hand with exaggerated respect.

  ‘I came as soon as I got the call …’

  ‘Has the doctor left?’

  ‘He had an emergency. I didn’t think I need detain him, because anyway the pathologist won’t be long …’

  The dead man was lying on the bed. Apart from the chief inspector there was no one else in the room.

  ‘Where’s the family?’

  ‘I sent them to their rooms or the living room. I thought you’d rather …’

  Maigret took his watch out of his pocket. It was 9.45.

  ‘When were you notified?’

  ‘About an hour ago. I’d just got to the office. Someone rang my secretary asking me to come here.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘Yes. The brother, Armand Lachaume.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Only by name. He must have come by the station a few times to get a signature certified or for some formality like that. They’re not people we pay much attention to …’

  The phrase struck Maigret. Not people we pay much attention to. He understood, because the house, like Lachaume Biscuits, seemed at one remove from time, from the present.

  It had been years since Maigret had seen a bedroom like this, which must have been identical, in every last detail, a century earlier. There was even a wash-basin with drawers and a grey marble top, on which stood a floral-patterned china bowl and ewer, with matching trays for the soap and the combs. In themselves the furniture and china weren’t especially ugly. Some would probably have fetched a decent price at auction or in an antique dealer’s, but there was something gloomy and oppressive about the way they were arranged.

  It was as if suddenly, long ago, life had stopped here, not the life of the man lying on the bed but the life of the house, of the world it represented, and even the factory chimney that could be seen through the curtains looked obsolete and absurd, with its ‘L’ picked out in black brick.

  ‘Anything stolen?’

  Two or three drawers were open. Ties and underwear were scattered on the floor in front of the wardrobe.

  ‘Apparently a wallet with some money in it is missing.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  Maigret was pointing to the dead man on the bed. The sheets and blankets were rumpled. The pillow had fallen on the floor. An arm dangled off one side. He could see blood on the pyjamas, which were torn, or rather burned by gunpowder.

  It may have been the high-contrast black and white of silent films that was on Maigret’s mind that morning, but in this bedroom he suddenly remembered the illustrations in Sunday papers in the days before photography, when engravings were used to depict the week’s crime.

  ‘Léonard Lachaume, the eldest son.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Widower.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Last night. According to Doctor Voisin, the deceased would have come back around two in the morning.’

  ‘Who was in the house?’

  ‘Let’s see … The old couple, the mother and father, on the floor above, in the left wing … That makes two … Then the little boy …’

  ‘Which little boy?’

  ‘The deceased’s son … A boy of twelve … He’s at school now …’

  ‘Despite the tragic circumstances?’

  ‘Apparently no one knew at eight this morning when he went to school.’

  ‘So no one heard anything? Who else is there in the house?’

  ‘The maid. I think she’s called Catherine. She sleeps near the old couple and the little boy upstairs. She looks the same age as the house and is equally decrepit. Then the younger brother, Armand …’

  ‘Whose brother?’

  ‘The deceased’s … He sleeps across the corridor, as does his wife.’

  ‘They were all here last night, and the gunshot didn’t wake any of them up?’

  ‘So they say. I kept the questioning brief. It’s not easy, you’ll see!’

  ‘What’s not easy?’

  ‘To know. When I got here, I had no idea what this was about. Armand Lachaume, the one who rang me, opened the door downstairs as soon as my car stopped. He seemed half asleep. Without looking at me, he said: “My brother has been killed, chief inspector.”

  ‘He showed me in here and pointed to the bed. I asked him when it had happened, and he said that he didn’t have a clue. I pressed him: “Were you in the house?”

  ‘ “I suppose so. I slept in my room.” ’

  The chief inspector seemed annoyed with himself.

  ‘I don’t know how to explain it. Usually when there’s a family tragedy like this you find everyone crowded around the body, people crying, explaining what happened, talking too much, if anything. In this case it took me a while before I realized the men weren’t alone in the house …’

  ‘Have you seen anyone else?’

  ‘The wife.’

  ‘The wife of Armand who rang you, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. At some point I heard a rustling in the corridor. I opened the door and I found her behind it. She looked tired, like her husband. She didn’t seem embarrassed. I asked her who she was, and Armand answered for her: “She’s my wife …”

  ‘I wanted to know if she’d heard anything during the night, and she said she hadn’t, she’s in the habit of taking some tablets or other to help her sleep …’

  ‘Who found the body? And when?’

  ‘The old maid, at a quarter to nine.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Yes. She must have gone back to the kitchen now. I’ve a feeling she might be a little deaf. She became worried when the older son didn’t appear at the breakfast table – they usually all have breakfast in the dining room. Eventually she came and knocked on the door. She had a look inside, then went and told the others.’

  ‘What about the parents?’

  ‘They’re not saying anything. The wife is half-paralysed and stares into space as if she’s not all there. Her husband seems so overwhelmed he barely understands what you’re saying to him.

  ‘You’ll see!’ the chief inspector repeated.

  Maigret turned to Janvier.

  ‘Do you want to have a look?’

  Janvier set off, and Maigret finally went over to the dead man, who was lying on his left side, his face turned towards the window. Someone had already closed his eyes. His mouth was half open, framed by a droopy brown moustache flecked with grey. His thinning hair was plastered against his temples and forehead.

  It was hard to gauge the expression on his face. He didn’t seem to have
suffered, and the predominant emotion was probably shock. But wasn’t that because his mouth had fallen open? That must have happened after he’d died, mustn’t it?

  Maigret heard footsteps in the hall on the first floor, then in the corridor. Opening the door, he greeted one of the deputy public prosecutors whom he’d known for a long time. The man shook his hand without saying anything, his eyes on the bed. Maigret also knew the court clerk, to whom he gave a wave, but he’d never seen the tall young man without a coat or a hat who was behind them.

  ‘Angelot …’

  The young magistrate, who had just been appointed, held out a firm, well-manicured hand, a tennis-player’s hand. Not for the first time, Maigret thought a new generation was taking over. Although it was true that old Doctor Paul was following close behind, short of breath but spry, a trencherman’s cast to his eyes and mouth.

  ‘Where’s the stiff?’

  Maigret noticed that the grey-blue eyes of the examining magistrate remained cold and that he was frowning, no doubt disapprovingly.

  ‘Are the photographers done?’ Doctor Paul asked.

  ‘They haven’t got here yet. I think I can hear them.’

  They had to wait for them to finish, as well as the forensics experts from Criminal Records who crammed into the bedroom and set to work.

  Retreating to a corner, the deputy asked Maigret:

  ‘Domestic?’

  ‘Something’s been stolen, apparently.’

  ‘Did anyone hear anything?’

  ‘They say not.’

  ‘How many people are there in the house?’

  ‘Let me count … The old couple and the maid, that’s three … The little boy …’

  ‘What little boy?’

  ‘The dead man’s son … That’s four … Then the brother and his wife … Six! Six people, aside from the one who was killed, who all heard nothing …’

  Moving closer to the door frame, the deputy ran his hand over the wallpaper.

  ‘Thick walls but still! Any sign of a weapon?’

  ‘I don’t know … Ivry’s chief inspector hasn’t said anything to me about one … I’m waiting for them to get the formalities over with, then I’ll start the investigation …’

  The photographers looked for sockets for their spotlights and ended up having to take the bulb out of the overhead light in the middle of the room. They bustled around, grumbling, jostling one another, calling out instructions, while the examining magistrate, who looked like a student athlete, stood perfectly still, dressed in grey, not saying a word.

  ‘Do you think I can go now?’ asked the chief inspector. ‘My waiting room must be packed. I could send you two or three men in a moment in case you get gawpers congregating on the pavement …’

  ‘Please do. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you want one of my inspectors who knows the area as well?’

  ‘I’ll probably need someone later. I’ll call you. Thanks again.’

  As he left, the chief inspector repeated:

  ‘You’ll see!’

  ‘See what?’ the deputy asked in a low voice.

  Maigret replied:

  ‘The family … The atmosphere in the house … There wasn’t anyone in the bedroom when the chief inspector got there … Everyone’s keeping to their rooms or the dining room … No one’s stirring … You can’t hear a thing …’

  The deputy looked at the furniture, the damp-stained wallpaper, the mirror above the fireplace, where generations of flies had left their mark.

  ‘I’m not surprised …’

  The photographers left first, allowing them a little more space. Doctor Paul set about conducting a cursory examination while the technicians swept the room for fingerprints and searched the furniture.

  ‘Time of death, doctor?’

  ‘I’ll be more definite after the post-mortem, but, in all events, he’s been dead a good six hours.’

  ‘Was he killed outright?’

  ‘He was shot at point-blank range … The external wound is the width of a saucer, the flesh scorched …’

  ‘The bullet?’

  ‘I’ll find it later, inside the body. There’s no exit wound, which suggests it was a small calibre.’

  His hands were covered in blood. He went over to the wash-basin, but the ewer was empty.

  ‘There must be a tap somewhere …’

  The door was held open for him. Armand Lachaume, the younger brother, was in the corridor. Without a word, he showed him to a dilapidated bathroom dominated by an ancient bathtub with curved legs. The tap was dripping, as it probably had been for years, given the brown streaks on the enamel.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, Maigret,’ sighed the deputy, turning to the examining magistrate. ‘I’m going back to the Palais de Justice.’

  ‘Sorry I won’t be joining you,’ the magistrate muttered. ‘I’m going to stay.’

  Maigret gave a start, then almost blushed when he saw the young magistrate had noticed.

  ‘You mustn’t hold it against me, detective chief inspector,’ the latter went on quickly. ‘I’m a novice, as you know, and this is the perfect opportunity for me to learn.’

  Was that a trace of irony in his voice? He was polite, too polite even. And absolutely cold beneath his amiable façade.

  He was one of the new school, one of those who held that an investigation was the examining magistrate’s exclusive preserve from start to finish, and that the police’s job was merely to follow his orders.

  Janvier, who had heard what he said from the doorway, exchanged an eloquent look with Maigret.

  2

  Maigret couldn’t hide his irritation, and it almost made him furious to think that the magistrate had not only noticed but would inevitably attribute it to his presence, which was only partly true. That business with the scarf had triggered off a string of morose thoughts the moment he had left Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, hadn’t it?

  Brimming over with youthful alertness, this Angelot was barely out of college. Either he was an exceptionally high achiever, one of the select few in each generation who you can count on the fingers of one hand, or he had powerful people pulling strings for him, and if it weren’t for them he would be cooling his heels in some sub-préfecture’s court for years to come, rather than taking up a prime job in Paris.

  When the deputy had introduced them just now, the magistrate had shaken Maigret’s hand with a vigour that might have passed for warmth, but he hadn’t said any of the things Maigret was used to hearing. Admittedly he could hardly say, like the old timers:

  ‘Pleasure to see you again.’

  But other magistrates invariably muttered:

  ‘Delighted to be working with you.’

  It was hard to believe Angelot had never heard of him. And yet he hadn’t shown any satisfaction or curiosity.

  Was this deliberate, to make Maigret understand that his popularity didn’t impress him? Or was it a lack of curiosity, the younger generation’s genuine indifference?

  Judging by some looks he caught him giving, Maigret wondered if it mightn’t be more a case of shyness, a kind of reticence.

  In which case that was even more off-putting than intelligence. Feeling under scrutiny, Maigret tried to look unruffled, saying to Lapointe in a low voice:

  ‘Get on with the routine stuff …’

  They both knew what that meant.

  Then he turned to Armand Lachaume, who hadn’t shaved and wasn’t wearing a tie.

  ‘I imagine there’s somewhere it will be easier for us to talk?’

  Noticing the chill in the air, he added:

  ‘Somewhere heated, preferably.’

  He had just touched the radiator, an old model, and realized the central heating wasn’t working.

  Lachaume wasn’t much of a one for politeness either. He seemed to think for a moment, then said with what seemed like resignation, his shoulders slumped forwards:

  ‘This way …’

  It wasn’t just the house’s atmosphere
, it was also its occupants’ attitude that felt suspect somehow. As Ivry’s chief inspector had said, rather than crying, chaotic milling about, people talking at once, all they could hear were muffled footsteps. Every so often they’d see a door open a crack and sense a face peering out at them.

  A door opened like this in the dimly lit corridor, and through the crack Maigret glimpsed an eye, a shock of dark hair and what looked like a woman’s silhouette.

  They reached the hall on the first floor. Turning into the west wing, Armand Lachaume pushed open the door of a strange living room, in which two old people were sitting in front of a cast-iron stove.

  The son said nothing, made no introductions. The father was at least seventy-five, maybe eighty. Unlike Armand he was closely shaven and wore a clean shirt, a black tie.

  He stood up, as calm and dignified as if he were at a board of directors’ meeting, bowed slightly, then bent down to his wife. She must have been his age, but half her face was frozen, with one eye staring straight ahead as if it were made of glass.

  He helped her out of her chair, and, without a word, they both disappeared through another door.

  This was the room where the family usually gathered – you could tell from the way the furniture was arranged, the assortment of things lying about. Maigret sat down in a chair, turned towards Angelot.

  ‘Do you want to ask the questions?’

  ‘You do it, please.’

  The magistrate leaned against the door frame.

  ‘Would you mind sitting down, Monsieur Lachaume?’ Maigret went on.

  It was so hard getting a grip on anything he might have been grappling with cotton wool; only the rain still falling outside seemed real.

  ‘Please tell me what you know.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Everything about him, even his voice, was neutral, impersonal. He didn’t look Maigret in the eye.

  ‘The deceased is your elder brother, isn’t that so?’

  ‘My brother Léonard, as I have already told your colleague.’

  ‘Is the biscuit factory still going?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Did he run it?’

  ‘Our father is still chair of the board of directors.’