Maigret Hesitates Read online

  ‘Now I understand why she was surprised. She must have understood what you said, but didn’t imagine it could really be you. I’m very pleased to hear your voice, Monsieur Maigret. I’ve often thought about you. I’ve even occasionally been on the verge of writing to you to ask your opinion about certain matters. Knowing how busy you must be, I didn’t dare.’

  There was a shyness to Parendon’s voice, and yet it was Maigret who was the more embarrassed of the two. He felt ridiculous now, with his meaningless letter.

  ‘As you can see, I’m the one disturbing you. And what’s more, over a trifle. I’d prefer to talk to you about it in person, because I have a document to show you.’

  ‘When would you like to do that?’

  ‘Are you free at all this afternoon?’

  ‘Would three thirty suit you? I confess I’m in the habit of taking a short nap and don’t feel well when I miss it.’

  ‘Three thirty would be fine. I’ll come to your home. And thank you for your kind cooperation.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m delighted you’re coming.’

  When he hung up, he looked at Lapointe as if emerging from a dream.

  ‘Did he seem surprised?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. He didn’t ask any questions. He’s apparently delighted to make my acquaintance. Just one thing puzzles me. He claims he almost wrote to me several times to ask my opinion. But he doesn’t deal with criminal cases, only civil ones. His speciality is the maritime code, about which I know absolutely nothing. Ask my opinion about what?’

  Maigret cheated that day. He phoned his wife and told her he was detained at work. He felt like celebrating this spring sunshine by having lunch at the Brasserie Dauphine, where he even indulged himself in a pastis at the counter.

  Maybe he was going to land in the shit, as Lapointe had said, but at least things were starting pleasantly enough.

  Maigret had taken the bus as far as the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées, then walked along Avenue Marigny, and in those hundred metres he did on foot he came across at least three faces he thought he recognized. He had forgotten that he was walking past the gardens of the Élysée and that the area was heavily guarded, day and night. The ‘guardian angels’ recognized him, too, and greeted him with discreet but respectful nods.

  The building where Parendon lived was vast and solid, built to defy the centuries. The carriage entrance was flanked by bronze candelabra. Once through the archway, what came into view was not so much a concierge’s lodge, more a veritable drawing room, with a table covered in green velvet, the kind you would find in a ministry.

  Here, too, Maigret encountered a familiar face, a man named Lamule or Lamure, who had worked for a long time in the Sûreté.

  He was wearing a grey uniform with silver buttons and seemed surprised to see Maigret loom up in front of him.

  ‘Who have you come to see, chief?’

  ‘Maître Parendon.’

  ‘Lift or stairs on the left. It’s on the first floor.’

  There was a courtyard at the far end, with cars and garages and low buildings that must once have been stables. Maigret automatically knocked his pipe against his heel to empty it, then set off up the marble staircase.

  When he rang at the only door, a butler in a white jacket opened it as if he had been listening out for him.

  ‘Maître Parendon. I have an appointment.’

  ‘This way, inspector.’

  He took his hat from him without asking and admitted him to a library such as Maigret had never seen. The room was long and narrow, with a very high ceiling, and books entirely covered the walls, apart from the marble fireplace, on which stood the bust of a middle-aged man. All the books were bound, most of them in red. The only furniture consisted of a long table, two chairs and an armchair.

  He would have liked to examine the titles of the volumes, but a young secretary in glasses was already advancing towards him.

  ‘Will you follow me, inspector?’

  Through windows that were more than three metres high, sunlight streamed in and played on the carpets, the furniture, the paintings. The corridor was filled with antique consoles, period furniture, busts and portraits of gentlemen in costumes of every period.

  The young woman opened a light oak door and a man who had been sitting at his desk stood up and came to greet his visitor. He, too, was wearing glasses, with very thick lenses.

  ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Vague.’

  There was a long way to walk, because this office was as vast as a reception room. Here, too, the walls were lined with books, as well as a few portraits, and the sun cast diamond-shaped patches of light on everything.

  ‘If only you knew how happy I am to see you, Monsieur Maigret.’

  He held out his hand, a small white hand that seemed boneless. By contrast with his surroundings, the man appeared even smaller than he probably was, short and frail and oddly light.

  And yet he wasn’t thin. If anything, he was quite rotund, but the overall impression was that he lacked weight and substance.

  ‘Come this way. Let’s see, now, where would you prefer to sit?’

  He indicated a fawn leather armchair near his desk.

  ‘I think you’ll be best here. I’m a little hard of hearing.’

  Maigret’s friend Bouvier had been right to say that Parendon’s age was hard to pin down. On his face, in his blue eyes, there was still an almost childlike expression, and he looked at Maigret with a kind of awe.

  ‘You can’t imagine the number of times I’ve thought about you. When you’re on a case, I devour several newspapers to make sure I don’t miss anything. You could say I’m all agog to know how you’ll proceed.’

  Maigret felt awkward. Over the years, he had grown used to the curiosity of the public, but the enthusiasm of a man like Parendon put him in an embarrassing position.

  ‘You know, I proceed the way anyone would if they were me.’

  ‘Anyone perhaps. But there’s no such thing as just anyone. It’s a myth. What isn’t a myth is the penal code, the magistrates, the jurors. And each juror, who the day before was just anyone, becomes a different person as soon as he enters a courtroom.’

  He was dressed in dark grey, and the desk on which he was leaning with his elbows was much too large for him. All the same, he wasn’t ridiculous. Nor, perhaps, was it innocence that made his pupils look so big behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  As a child at school, he might well have suffered from being called a runt, but he had come to terms with it and now gave the impression of being a benevolent gnome who had to restrain his exuberance.

  ‘May I ask you a personal question? How old were you when you started understanding people? I mean, understanding those we call criminals?’

  Maigret blushed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’m not even sure I do understand them.’

  ‘Oh, but you do. And they know it. That’s partly why they’re almost relieved to confess.’

  ‘It’s the same with all my colleagues.’

  ‘I could prove the contrary by reminding you of a number of cases, but that would bore you. You studied medicine, didn’t you?’

  ‘Only for two years.’

  ‘From what I’ve read, your father died and as you were unable to pursue your studies, you joined the police.’

  Maigret’s position was increasingly delicate, almost ridiculous. He had come to ask questions and he was the one being questioned.

  ‘I don’t see two vocations in that switch, but a different way for the same personality to find fulfilment. Forgive me, I literally threw myself on you as soon as you arrived. I couldn’t wait to see you. I’d have opened the door to you myself as soon as you rang the bell, but my wife wouldn’t have liked that, she insists on a degree of decorum.’

  He had lowered his voice to utter these last words. Now, pointing to a huge, almost life-size painting of a magistrate dressed in ermine, he whispered:

  ‘My fat
her-in-law.’

  ‘Chief Justice Gassin de Beaulieu.’

  ‘You know him?’

  For a few moments, Parendon seemed so much like a little boy that Maigret thought it best to confess:

  ‘I made inquiries before coming here.’

  ‘Did you hear bad things about him?’

  ‘Apparently, he’s a great magistrate.’

  ‘Oh, yes! A great magistrate! … Do you know the works of Henri Ey?’

  ‘I’ve looked through his Manual of Psychiatry.’

  ‘What about Sengès? Levy-Valensi? Maxwell?’

  He pointed towards a section of the library where there were books bearing these names. They were all psychiatrists, none of whom had ever dealt with maritime law. Maigret recognized other names in passing that he had seen quoted in the bulletins of the International Society of Criminology, others whose works he had read: Lagache, Ruyssen, Genil-Perrin, and so on.

  ‘Aren’t you smoking?’ his host asked suddenly in a surprised tone. ‘I thought you always had your pipe in your mouth.’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘What can I offer you? My cognac isn’t amazing, but I have a forty-year-old armagnac.’

  He trotted over to a wall where a full panel between rows of books hid a drinks cabinet containing some twenty bottles as well as glasses of different sizes.

  ‘Just a little, please.’

  ‘My wife only allows me a drop on special occasions. She says I have a fragile liver. According to her, everything in me is fragile, and I don’t have a single solid organ.’

  It amused him. He spoke of it without bitterness.

  ‘Your good health! … The reason I’ve asked you these personal questions is that I’m fascinated by Article 64 of the Penal Code, which I’m sure you know better than I do.’

  Maigret did indeed know it by heart. He had gone over it often enough in his head:

  There is no crime or offence if the accused was in a state of insanity at the time of the act, or if he was compelled by a force he was unable to resist.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ the gnome asked, leaning towards him.

  ‘I’ve never wanted to be a magistrate. That way, I don’t have to judge.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say that. Faced with a guilty person in your office, or someone presumed guilty, are you able to determine to what extent he can be held responsible?’

  ‘Not often. But then later, the psychiatrists—’

  ‘This library is full of psychiatrists. The old ones, most of them, would say: “Yes, he’s responsible,” and go on their way with an easy conscience. But take another look at Henri Ey, for instance.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes, very badly.’

  ‘You know what the English mean when they talk about a hobby?’

  ‘Yes. A pastime, a pointless activity, an odd habit.’

  ‘Well, my dear Monsieur Maigret, my hobby, my odd habit, as some say, is Article 64. And I’m not the only one. The French code isn’t alone in having an article like this. There’s something more or less identical in the United States, England, Germany, Italy …’

  He was becoming animated. His face, rather pale earlier, was growing pink, and he was moving his chubby little hands about with unexpected energy.

  ‘There are thousands of us in the world, no, tens of thousands, whose mission is to change that shameful Article 64, which is a remnant of bygone days. I’m not talking about a secret society. There are official groups in most countries, magazines, journals … Do you know what people say to us?’

  And as if to personalize this us, he glanced at the portrait of his father-in-law.

  ‘They say: “The Penal Code is a totality. If you change one stone, the whole edifice might well come crumbling down.” Another objection is: “If you had your way, sentences would be left up to a doctor rather than a judge.” I could talk about this for hours. I’ve written lots of articles on the subject. I’ll take the liberty of getting my secretary to send you some. I’m sorry if that seems presumptuous of me. You know all about criminals, at first hand, if I can put it that way. As far as magistrates are concerned, they’re people who fit into one or other category almost automatically. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your good health.’

  He caught his breath. He seemed surprised himself to have got so carried away.

  ‘There aren’t many people with whom I can have a heart-to-heart talk. I hope I haven’t shocked you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘By the way, I haven’t asked you why you wanted to see me. I was so delighted by this opportunity that it never even occurred to me to ask.’

  He added ironically:

  ‘I hope it’s not about maritime law?’

  Maigret had taken the letter from his pocket.

  ‘I received this message in the post this morning. It isn’t signed. I can’t be certain that it came from here. I’d just like you to take a look at it.’

  Curiously, as if he was particularly sensitive to touch, Parendon began by fingering the paper.

  ‘It feels like mine. It’s not easy to find. The last time I had to have it ordered from the manufacturer by my engraver.’

  ‘That’s the reason I’m here.’

  Parendon had changed glasses and crossed his short legs, and was now moving his lips as he read, occasionally murmuring certain syllables:

  … A murder will be committed soon, probably in a few days. Perhaps by someone I know, perhaps by myself …

  He reread the paragraph carefully.

  ‘It seems as if each word has been carefully chosen, doesn’t it?’

  ‘That’s the impression I had, too.’

  … In a way, it is inevitable …

  ‘I don’t like that phrase so much, it has something redundant about it.’

  Then, handing the paper back to Maigret and again changing his glasses:

  ‘Curious.’

  He wasn’t one for big words or bombast. Curious. That was his only comment.

  ‘Something struck me,’ Maigret said. ‘Whoever wrote this letter doesn’t call me inspector, as most people do, he or she uses my official title: detective chief inspector.’

  ‘I noticed that, too. Have you placed the ad?’

  ‘It’ll be in Le Monde this evening and Le Figaro tomorrow morning.’

  What was particularly strange was that Parendon wasn’t surprised, or, if he was, he wasn’t showing it. He was looking through the window at the gnarled trunk of a chestnut tree when his attention was drawn to a slight sound. He wasn’t surprised by that either. Turning his head, he murmured:

  ‘Come in, darling.’

  And getting to his feet:

  ‘Let me introduce Detective Chief Inspector Maigret in person.’

  The woman was in her forties, elegant and vivacious, with extremely mobile eyes. It only took her a few seconds to examine Maigret from head to foot. If he’d had a little mud stain on his left shoe, she would probably have noticed.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, inspector. I hope you’re not here to arrest my husband? With his poor health, you’d be obliged to put him in the prison infirmary.’

  There was nothing sharp about this. She wasn’t saying it in any nasty way, but she was saying it all the same, with the most cheerful of smiles.

  ‘I assume you’re here for one of our servants?’

  ‘I haven’t received any complaint about them, and that would be a job for the local station anyway.’

  She was clearly dying to know why he was there. Her husband sensed this, as did Maigret, but as if in a game neither of them made the slightest reference to it.

  ‘What do you think of our armagnac?’

  She had noticed the glasses.

  ‘I hope you only had a drop, darling?’

  She was wearing a light-coloured tailored suit, as if ready for spring.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, I’ll lea
ve you to your business. I just wanted to tell you, darling, that I won’t be back before eight. You can always reach me at Hortense’s after seven.’

  She didn’t go out immediately. While the two men stood there in silence, she contrived to walk around the room, shifting an ashtray on a pedestal table, straightening a book.

  ‘Goodbye, Monsieur Maigret. I’m delighted to have met you, believe me. You’re an extremely interesting man.’

  The door closed behind her. Parendon sat down again. He waited another moment or two, as if the door were about to open again. At last he gave a childlike laugh.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  Maigret didn’t know what to say.

  ‘“You’re an extremely interesting man” … She hates it that you didn’t tell her anything. Not only does she not know why you’re here, but you didn’t say anything about her dress, or above all, how young she looks. The greatest joy you could have given her would have been to take her for my daughter.’

  ‘Do you have a daughter?’

  ‘Yes, she’s eighteen. She just passed her baccalauréat and is studying archaeology. I don’t know how long that’ll last. Last year, she wanted to be a laboratory assistant. I don’t see much of her, except at mealtimes — when she condescends to eat with us. I have a son, too, Jacques. He’s fifteen and is in his fourth year at the Lycée Racine. That’s the whole family.’

  He was speaking in a light tone, as if the words were of no importance or as if he were making fun of himself.

  ‘Anyway, I’m wasting your time. Let’s get back to your letter. Look, this is a sheet of my writing paper. I’m sure your experts will be able to tell you if it’s the same paper, but I know in advance what they’re going to find.’

  He rang a bell and waited, turning towards the door.

  ‘Mademoiselle Vague, would you be so kind as to bring me one of the envelopes we use for the suppliers?’

  He explained:

  ‘We pay our suppliers by cheque at the end of the month. It would be pretentious to use the engraved envelopes when we send them payment. We have ordinary white envelopes for that.’

  The young woman brought one.

  ‘You’ll be able to compare these two. If the envelope and paper match, you can be almost completely certain that the letter came from here.’