Maigret and the Reluctant Witness Read online

  It was cold and damp. A door opened off on either side of the passage, and Maigret, wondering which to choose, opened the one on the right; evidently the right choice, for it revealed a kind of hall and the foot of a wide staircase.

  The walls, once white, had taken on a yellow tinge with browner patches here and there, and the cracking plaster had fallen off in places. The three lowest steps were of marble; the others were wooden, looked as though they had not been swept for a long time, and creaked when trodden on.

  It was rather like one of those municipal offices where you always feel, on entering, that you have come to the wrong place. Each man felt that if he spoke his voice might echo back at him.

  Footsteps were heard on the second floor and a man leaned over the banisters, a youngish, tired-looking man, who introduced himself as soon as Maigret reached the top of the stairs.

  “My name’s Legrand, I’m the secretary of the Ivry Police Station.… The superintendent is waiting for you.…”

  Another hall upstairs, with a marble floor, an uncurtained window looking out on the Seine and the falling rain.

  It was an enormous house, with doors on all sides, corridors like some government building, and everywhere the same drab aspect and the same smell of long-settled dust.

  At the end of a narrower passage, on the left, the secretary knocked at a door and opened it, revealing a bedroom so dark that the local superintendent had kept the light on.

  This room looked into the courtyard, and through the dusty muslin curtains could be seen the chimney that Maigret had already noticed from outside.

  He was vaguely acquainted with the Ivry superintendent, who was of a younger generation and shook his hand with exaggerated respect.

  “I came as soon as I got the phone call…”

  “Has the doctor left?”

  “He had an urgent case. I didn’t think I need keep him, because in any case the official pathologist will be here soon.…”

  The body was lying on the bed, and except for the superintendent there was no one in the room.

  “What about the family?”

  “I told them to go to their own rooms or to the drawing room. I thought you’d rather…”

  Maigret took his watch out of his pocket. It was a quarter to ten.

  “When did you hear about it?”

  “An hour or so ago. I’d just got to the office. Someone called up my secretary to ask me to come here.”

  “Did he say who he was?”

  “Yes. The brother, Armand Lachaume.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Only by name. He must have come to the station sometimes, to have a signature witnessed for some other formality. They’re not people one takes much notice of.…”

  Maigret was struck by the phrase. Not people one takes much notice of. He could understand it, for like Lachaume biscuits, the house seemed to be at one remove from time, from present-day life.

  It was years since Maigret had seen such a bedroom, which must have remained for a century without the slightest change. There was even a washstand with drawers, topped with a slab of gray marble on which stood a flowered china jug and basin, and dishes of the same china to hold soap and combs.

  The furniture and other objects were not in themselves particularly ugly. Some of them would perhaps have brought good prices at an auction, or in an antique shop, but there was something dreary and oppressive about the way they were arranged.

  It seemed as though suddenly, long ago, life in this place had stopped, not the life of the man on the bed, but the life of the house, the life surrounding it, and even the factory chimney, seen through the curtains, looked absurd and old-fashioned, with its “L” inlaid in black bricks.

  “Theft?”

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

  “It seems that a wallet with a big sum in it has disappeared.”

  “Who is he?”

  Maigret pointed to the dead man on the bed. The sheets and blankets were in disorder. The pillow had fallen on the floor. One arm was dangling. There was blood on the pajama jacket where it had been torn or burned by the powder.

  Just as Maigret had been thinking earlier that morning of the sharply contrasted black and white of silent films, now, in this room, he was suddenly reminded of those illustrations in the old-time Sunday papers, before photographs began to be reproduced and the week’s sensations were depicted in engravings.

  “Léonard Lachaume, the eldest son.”

  “Married?”

  “A widower.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “In the night. According to Dr. Voisin, death took place at about two in the morning.”

  “Who was in the house?”

  “Let me see… The old couple—his father and mother—on the floor above, in the left wing… That’s two… The little boy…”

  “What little boy?”

  “The dead man’s son… A boy of twelve… He’s at school now.…”

  “In spite of the tragedy?”

  “Apparently no one knew about that at eight o’clock, when he went to school.”

  “So no one heard anything…? Who else lives here?”

  “The maid … I think her name is Catherine… She sleeps up above, near the old couple and the boy. She looks as old as the house and just as rickety… Then there’s Armand, the younger brother…”

  “Whose brother?”

  “The dead man’s … He sleeps on the other side of the hall, and so does his wife.”

  “They were all here last night, and the shot didn’t wake one of them?”

  “So they say. I only asked them a few questions. It’s difficult. You’ll see!”

  “What’s difficult?”

  “To know. When I got here, I had no idea what it was all about. Armand Lachaume, the one who called me up, opened the downstairs door the minute my car stopped. He seemed as though he were still half asleep, and said, without looking at me:

  “ ‘My brother has been killed, Superintendent.’

  “He brought me here and pointed to the bed. I asked him when it had happened and he said he hadn’t the remotest idea.

  “I insisted:

  “ ‘But you were in the house?’

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

  The police superintendent seemed to be annoyed with himself.

  “I don’t know how to explain. Usually, when there’s a tragedy like this in a family, you find everyone gathered around the corpse, some in tears, others explaining, a bit too talkative if anything.…

  “But in this case it took me a long time to discover that the men weren’t alone in the house…”

  “Have you seen the others?”

  “The wife.”

  “You mean the wife of Armand, the one who telephoned you?”

  “Yes. At one point I heard a rustling sound in the hall. I opened the door and found her outside. She had the same air of weariness as her husband. She didn’t seem embarrassed. I asked her who she was, and Armand answered for her:

  “ ‘She’s my wife…’

  “I asked whether she had heard anything in the night and she said no, she always took some tablets—I forget what—so as to sleep.…”

  “Who found the body? And when?”

  “The old servant, at a quarter to nine.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Yes. She must have gone back to her kitchen. I think she’s a little deaf. She got worried when the eldest son didn’t appear at breakfast, which they all have together in the dining room. In the end she came and knocked on his door. Then she went in, and it was she who told the others.”

  “What about the old people?”

  “They don’t say a word. The wife is half paralyzed and stares straight ahead of her as though she didn’t have all her wits. Her husband seems so distressed that he can hardly follow what one says to him.”

  Once more the sup
erintendent added:

  “You’ll see!”

  Maigret turned to Janvier.

  “Will you go and take a look around?”

  Janvier departed and the chief inspector at last went over to the body, which was lying on its left side, facing the window. Someone had already closed the man’s eyes. His mouth was half open, beneath a drooping brown mustache with some gray hairs in it. His thin hair clung to his temples and forehead.

  It was difficult to gauge the expression on his face. He did not seem to have felt pain, and looked more astonished than anything else. But perhaps that came from the open mouth, and he hadn’t looked like that till he was dead.

  Maigret heard steps in the upstairs hall, then along the corridor. Opening the door, he encountered one of the public prosecutor’s deputies, whom he had known for a long time and who shook his hand silently, looking across at the bed. He knew the clerk, too, and nodded to him, but he had never set eyes on the tall young man who came in behind them, hatless and coatless.

  “This is Monsieur Angelot, the examining magistrate.…”

  The young man, thus named, extended a firm, well-manicured hand, the hand of a tennis player, and Maigret reflected once again that a new generation was already taking over.

  However, old Dr. Paul came in shortly afterward, out of breath, but alert, with a well-fed look about his eyes and mouth.

  “Where’s the stiff?”

  Maigret noticed that the gray-blue eyes of the examining magistrate remained cold and that he frowned slightly, doubtless in disapproval.

  “Have the photographers finished?” went on Dr. Paul.

  “They haven’t arrived yet. I think I can hear them now.”

  That meant waiting till the photographers were through, and then the Judicial Identity experts invaded the room and went to work.

  In a corner, the public prosecutor’s deputy asked Maigret:

  “A family quarrel?”

  “Apparently there’s been theft.”

  “No one heard anything?”

  “They say no.”

  “How many people in the house?”

  “Wait ’till I count… The old couple and the servant, 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 besides the fellow who got killed, and none of them heard a thing.…”

  The public prosecutor’s deputy went over to the doorway and ran his hand over the wallpaper.

  “The walls are thick, but all the same…! No weapon been found?”

  “I don’t know… The Ivry police superintendent said nothing about that. I’m waiting till the formalities are over, before beginning my investigation.…”

  The photographers were looking for electric outlets where they could plug in their lamps, and finding none, they had to take the bulb out of the center light. They strode about, grumbling, getting in one another’s way, calling out instructions, while the examining magistrate, who looked like an athletic student, stood waiting, gray-suited and motionless, without a word.

  “Do you think I could go now?” asked the local superintendent. “There must be a mob in my waiting room. I could send you two or three men in case the rubberneckers start collecting outside the house later on…”

  “That would be very kind. Thank you.”

  “Would you like to have one of my inspectors as well, one who knows the neighborhood?”

  “I expect I’ll need one later. I’ll call you up. Thank you again.”

  As he went out, the superintendent said once again:

  “You’ll see!”

  The public prosecutor’s deputy asked in an undertone:

  “See what?”

  “The family… The whole setup… There was no one in the room when the police superintendent arrived… They’re all in their own rooms, or in the dining room… Nobody stirs… There isn’t a sound…”

  The deputy glanced at the furniture, the damp-marked wallpaper, the mirror above the fireplace, where generations of flies had left traces of their passage.

  “It doesn’t surprise me…”

  The photographers were the first to leave, which cleared the room a bit. Dr. Paul was able to make a preliminary examination, while the identity experts looked for fingerprints and went through drawers and cupboards.

  “What time, Doctor?”

  “I’ll be able to say more definitely after the post-mortem, but he’s been dead a good six hours, if not more.”

  “Killed instantaneously?”

  “The shot was fired at very close range… The external wound is as big as a saucer, the flesh scorched…”

  “What about the bullet?”

  “I’ll find it inside him soon, because it didn’t go right through, which suggests that it was of small caliber.”

  His hands were covered with blood. He went across to the wash-stand, but the jug was empty.

  “There must be a faucet somewhere…”

  One of the others opened the door for him. Armand Lachaume, the younger brother, was in the corridor, and it was he who, without a word, led him to an old-fashioned bathroom where stood an antique, claw-footed bathtub, whose faucet must have been dribbling for years past, for it had left rusty streaks on the enamel.

  “I’ll leave you to it, Maigret,” sighed the public prosecutor’s deputy, turning toward the examining magistrate. “I’m going back to the Palais de Justice.”

  Whereupon the magistrate murmured:

  “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t come with you. I’m staying here.”

  Maigret started, and almost blushed to see that the young judge had noticed it. The latter went on at once:

  “I hope you have no objection, Chief Inspector. I’m only a beginner, you know, and this will be valuable experience for me.”

  Wasn’t there the faintest trace of irony in his voice? He was polite, too polite even. And completely cold beneath his surface friendliness.

  He was one of the new school, the school that regards an investigation as the affair of the examining magistrate from start to finish, with the role of the police reduced to obeying his instructions.

  Janvier, who appeared in the doorway at that moment and had heard what was said, exchanged a highly expressive glance with Maigret.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  « ^ »

  Maigret could not hide his annoyance and almost lost his temper altogether at the thought that the examining magistrate was not only noticing it but must inevitably be putting it down to his own presence, which in fact was only part of the reason. For hadn’t that muffler business, even as he left Boulevard Richard Lenoir, started a procession of gloomy reflections!

  This fellow Angelot, so fresh and brisk, he’d only just left college. Either he was an exceptional fellow, one of the few in each generation, whom you can count on your fingers, or else he was being backed by people in high places; otherwise, instead of getting a job in Paris, he’d have been sent to kick his heels for years in some sub-prefecture magistrate’s court.

  Just now, when the deputy had introduced them, the examining magistrate had simply shaken Maigret’s hand with an energy that might be taken for warmth, but hadn’t said any of the things people usually said to the chief inspector. Naturally he couldn’t say, as the older men did:

  “Nice to run into you again.”

  But there were some who always murmured:

  “So glad to be working with you.”

  It was hard to believe that Angelot had never heard of him. Yet he had shown neither satisfaction nor curiosity.

  Was it a deliberate pose, intended to show Maigret that he wasn’t impressed by his reputation? Or simply lack of curiosity, the genuine indifference of the young generation?

  Catching certain glances, the chief-inspector wondered whether it might be more in the nature of shyness, a kind of modesty.

  That embarrassed him even more than smartn
ess would have done. Feeling himself under observation, he struggled for composure.

  He said to Lapointe in an undertone:

  “You go through the routine stuff…”

  They both knew what that meant.

  Then he turned to Armand Lachaume, who was unshaved and wearing no tie.

  “I suppose there is some room where we could talk more comfortably.” And, noticing the raw cold, he added:

  “One that’s heated, preferably.”

  He had just touched the radiator, an old-fashioned type, and discovered that the central heating was not working.

  Lachaume did not go out of his way to be polite either. He seemed to think for a moment, then, his shoulders slumped in resignation, he said:

  “This way…”

  There was something ambiguous, not only in the atmosphere of the house, but in the attitude of its occupants. As the Ivry superintendent had remarked, one expected weeping, confused hurrying back and forth, people talking all at once; but here there were only stealthy footsteps, doors opening slightly, faces peering through the crack.

  For instance, going along the dimly lit corridor, Maigret glimpsed, through the narrow chink of a doorway, an eye, dark hair, a silhouette that seemed to be that of a woman.

  They reached the upstairs hall, and Armand Lachaume opened a door in the left wing, to reveal a strange drawing room where two old people were sitting in front of an iron stove.

  The son said nothing, made no introductions. The father was a man of at least seventy-five, perhaps eighty. Unlike Armand, he was freshly shaved and had on a clean shirt, a black tie.

  He stood up, as placid and dignified as though this were a directors’ meeting, bowed slightly, then stepped forward to bend over his wife, who seemed to be the same age as himself; one side of her face was motionless, with a staring eye like a glass eye.

  He helped her out of her armchair, and both of them, without a word, vanished through another door.

  This was the room where the family usually assembled; that was evident from the arrangement of the furniture and from the oddments lying about. Maigret sat down on a chair and turned to Angelot, the examining magistrate.

  “Do you wish to ask any questions?”