Maigret is Afraid Read online

  Chabiron turned to Maigret:

  ‘What do you think, chief?’

  ‘I don’t think anything.’

  ‘Three in one week isn’t bad for a godforsaken place like this.’

  ‘What do we do with him?’ Féron asked the magistrate.

  ‘I don’t think we need to wait for the prosecutor. Wasn’t he at home?’

  ‘No. His wife is trying to get hold of him on the telephone.’

  ‘I think the body can be taken to the morgue.’

  He turned to Doctor Vernoux.

  ‘You didn’t see or hear anything else, I assume?’

  ‘Nothing. I was walking quickly, with my hands in my pockets. I almost tripped over him.’

  ‘Is your father at home?’

  ‘He came back from Niort this evening; he was having dinner when I left.’

  As far as Maigret could gather, he was the son of Vernoux de Courçon, his travelling companion earlier on the slow train.

  ‘You can take him away, boys.’

  The reporter wouldn’t leave Maigret in peace.

  ‘Are you going to handle things now?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Not even privately?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aren’t you intrigued?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you also think it’s the work of a madman?’

  Chabot and Doctor Vernoux, who had overheard, exchanged glances, still with that air of belonging to the same set, of knowing one another so well that there was no need for words.

  This was natural. It is the same everywhere. But Maigret had rarely experienced such cliqueyness. In a small town such as this, of course, the dignitaries are few and inevitably meet each other several times a day, even if it is only in the street.

  Then there are the others, like those who stood huddled on the sidelines looking disgruntled.

  Without Maigret asking him anything, Inspector Chabiron volunteered:

  ‘Two of us have come. Levras, who was with me, had to leave this morning because his wife is about to give birth any minute now. I’m doing my best. I’m trying every angle of the case at once. But as for getting these people to talk . . .’

  It was the first group, the bigwigs, that he indicated with a jerk of his chin. His sympathies were clearly with the others.

  ‘The police chief is also doing his utmost. He only has four officers. They’ve been working all day. How many have you got on patrol right now, Féron?’

  ‘Three.’

  As if to confirm his words, a uniformed cyclist stopped by the kerb and shook the rain from his shoulders.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I checked the identities of the half-dozen or so people I met. I’ll give you the list. They all had a good reason to be out and about.’

  ‘Will you come back to my place for a moment?’ Chabot asked Maigret.

  He hesitated. If he went, it was because he needed a drink to warm himself up and he didn’t expect to be able to find one at the hotel.

  ‘I’ll walk with you,’ announced Doctor Vernoux. ‘Unless I’m intruding?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  This time the wind was behind them and they were able to talk. The ambulance had driven off with Gobillard’s body and its red tail light could be seen near Place Viète.

  ‘I haven’t introduced you properly. Vernoux is the son of Hubert Vernoux, whom you met on the train. He studied medicine but is not a practitioner, he is chiefly interested in research.’

  ‘Research!’ protested the doctor vaguely.

  ‘He was a junior doctor at Sainte-Anne for two years. He developed a keen interest in psychiatry and visits the Niort insane asylum two or three times a week.’

  ‘Do you think these three murders are the work of a madman?’ asked Maigret, more out of politeness than anything else.

  What he had just been told did not make him warm to Vernoux because he had little time for amateurs.

  ‘It is more than likely, if not certain.’

  ‘Do you know any madmen in Fontenay?’

  ‘There are mad people everywhere, but generally they are discovered only when they go berserk.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it could be a woman?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of the force with which all three victims were hit. It can’t be easy to kill three times in that manner, without ever having to strike twice.’

  ‘First of all, a lot of women are as strong as men. Secondly, when it comes to the insane . . .’

  They had already reached the house.

  ‘Anything to add, Vernoux?’

  ‘Not for the time being.’

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  Chabot rummaged in his pocket for the key. In the hall, he and Maigret stamped their feet to shake the rain from their clothes, making puddles on the tiled floor. The two women, the mother and the servant, were waiting in a small, gloomy sitting room looking on to the street.

  ‘You can go to bed, Mother. There’s nothing else we can do tonight other than ask the gendarmerie to send all their available men out on patrol.’

  She eventually decided to go upstairs.

  ‘I’m really embarrassed that you’re not staying with us, Jules!’

  ‘I promise you that if I stay longer than twenty-four hours here, which I doubt, I’ll avail myself of your hospitality.’

  They were back in the timeless study, where the bottle of brandy was still in its place. Maigret poured himself a drink and went and stood with his back to the fire, glass in hand.

  He could tell that Chabot was ill at ease, and that it was the reason he had invited him back. But first of all, the magistrate telephoned the gendarmerie.

  ‘Is that you, lieutenant? Were you asleep? I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour . . .’

  A clock with a bronze face on which the hands were barely visible showed half past eleven.

  ‘Another one, yes . . .Gobillard . . . In the street, this time . . . And from the front, yes . . . He’s already been taken to the morgue . . . Jussieux must be in the middle of doing the autopsy, but I doubt it’ll tell us anything new . . . Do you have any men to hand? . . . I think it would be a good idea for them to patrol the town, not so much tonight as from first thing tomorrow, so as to reassure people . . . You understand? . . . Yes . . . I felt it earlier too . . . Thank you, lieutenant.’

  Hanging up, he muttered:

  ‘A charming fellow, who spent some time in Saumur . . .’

  He must have realized what that meant – another reference to a clique! – and he reddened a little.

  ‘You see! I’m doing my best. This must seem childlike to you. You probably think we’re fighting with toy guns. But we don’t have an organization like the one you’re used to in Paris. Take fingerprints, for instance – each time I have to call in an expert from Poitiers. The same with everything else. The local police are more accustomed to petty offences than murder. As for the squad from Poitiers, they don’t know the people of Fontenay . . .’

  After a silence, he went on:

  ‘I so wish I didn’t have a case like this to deal with three years before I retire. Actually, we’re around the same age. You too, in three years’ time . . .’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Do you have any plans?’

  ‘I’ve even bought a little house in the country, on the banks of the Loire.’

  ‘You’ll be bored.’

  ‘Are you bored here?’

  ‘It’s not the same thing. I was born here. My father was born here. I know everyone.’

  ‘The townsfolk don’t seem happy.’

  ‘You’ve only just arrived and you’ve already sensed that? You’re right. I think it’s inevitable. One murder, fair enough. Especially the first one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was Robert de Courçon.’

  ‘Was he disliked?’

  Chabot did not answer straight a
way. He seemed to be choosing his words first.

  ‘To be honest, the people in the street didn’t really know him other than in passing.’

  ‘Married? Children?’

  ‘An old bachelor. An eccentric, but a good man. If he’d been the only one, people would have been fairly indifferent. Just the little excitement that a murder always arouses. But on top of that one, there was the old Gibon woman and now Gobillard. Tomorrow, I’m expecting—’

  ‘It’s begun.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The group that was standing to one side, the people from the street, I suppose, and those who came out of the Café de la Poste, looked the most hostile to me.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as all that. But—’

  ‘Is the town very left-wing?’

  ‘Yes and no. That’s not exactly it either.’

  ‘The Vernoux aren’t popular?’

  ‘Is that what you were told?’

  Playing for time, Chabot asked:

  ‘Won’t you sit down? Another drink? I’m going to try and explain. It’s not easy. You know Vendée, even if only by repute. For a long time, the people who were gossiped about were the château owners, counts, viscounts, minor aristocrats who kept to themselves and formed a closed society. There are still a few left, nearly all of them ruined, and they are no longer of any importance. But some of them continue to put on airs and graces. Do you understand?’

  ‘It’s the same everywhere in the countryside.’

  ‘Now, others have taken their place.’

  ‘Vernoux?’

  ‘You’ve met him. Guess what his father used to do.’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea! How do you expect . . .?’

  ‘Livestock dealer. The grandfather was a farmhand. Old Vernoux used to buy the animals locally and take them to Paris, entire herds, on the roads. He made a lot of money. He was a brute, always half-drunk, and died of delirium tremens, incidentally. His son—’

  ‘Hubert? The man on the train?’

  ‘Yes. They sent him to college. I think he went to university for a year. In his old age, the father started buying farms and land as well as livestock, and that’s the profession Hubert took up.’

  ‘So he’s an estate agent.’

  ‘Yes. His offices are near the station. The big stone house, that’s where he lived before he got married.’

  ‘Did he marry into money?’

  ‘In a way, yes. But not entirely. She was a Courçon. Are you interested?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘It will give you a better picture of the town. The Courçons were actually called Courçon-Lagrange. Originally, they were simply Lagrange. They added Courçon to their name when they bought the Château de Courçon. That was three or four generations back. I can’t remember what the founder of the dynasty used to sell. Livestock as well, probably, or scrap iron. But that was forgotten by the time Hubert Vernoux appeared. The children and grandchildren no longer work. Robert de Courçon, the man who was murdered, was accepted into the aristocracy and he was the local expert on heraldry. He wrote several books on the subject. He had two sisters, Isabelle and Lucile. Isabelle married Vernoux, who immediately started signing his name as Vernoux de Courçon. Are you with me?’

  ‘It’s not too difficult! I imagine that at the time of that marriage, the Courçons had fallen on hard times and were penniless?’

  ‘More or less. They still had a mortgaged château in the forest of Mervent and the mansion in Rue Rabelais, which is the finest house in the town and which the town council tried on numerous occasions to list as a historic building. You’ll see it.’

  ‘Is Hubert Vernoux still an estate agent?’

  ‘He has a lot of financial commitments. Lucile, his wife’s elder sister, lives with them. His son, Alain, the doctor, whom you just met, refuses to practise and is engaged in research that doesn’t earn him anything.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘He married a young lady from Cadeuil, a proper aristocrat, who has already given him three children. The youngest is eight months.’

  ‘Do they live with the father?’

  ‘The house is big enough, as you’ll see. That’s not all. As well as Alain, Hubert has a daughter, Adeline, who married a certain Paillet, after a holiday romance in Royan. I don’t know what he does for a living, but I believe it’s Vernoux who provides for them. They spend most of their time in Paris. They put in the occasional appearance for a few days or weeks and I presume that means they’re broke. Do you get the picture now?’

  ‘What picture?’

  Chabot gave a glum smile which briefly reminded Maigret of his friend of the old days.

  ‘It’s true. I’m talking to you as if you were from here. You’ve seen Vernoux. He is more the country squire than all the local squires. As for his wife and her sister, they seem to vie with each other to make themselves as hateful as possible to the hoi polloi. All that constitutes a clan.’

  ‘And this clan only socializes with a small number of people.’

  Chabot turned red for the second time that evening.

  ‘Inevitably,’ he muttered, as if guilty.

  ‘So the Vernoux, the Courçons and their friends are a world unto themselves in this town.’

  ‘You’ve guessed it. Because of my position, I have to see them. And actually, they’re not as dreadful as they seem. Take Hubert Vernoux, for instance, I’d swear he’s overburdened with worries. He was once very well-off. These days he is less so and I even wonder if he is wealthy at all, because since most of the farmers have become landowners, selling land isn’t what it used to be. Hubert is crushed by responsibilities and has a duty to provide for all his relatives. As for Alain, whom I know better, he is a man obsessed.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘It’s best that you know. You will also understand why, earlier, in the street, he and I exchanged worried glances. I told you that Hubert Vernoux’s father died from delirium tremens. On his wife’s side – that is, the Courçons – the history is no better. Old Courçon committed suicide in rather mysterious circumstances that have been hushed up. Hubert had a brother, Basile, whose name is never mentioned, who killed himself at the age of seventeen. Apparently, as far back as you care to go, you’ll find insanity or cranks in the family.’

  Maigret listened, lazily puffing on his pipe, occasionally taking a sip of brandy.

  ‘That’s why Alain studied medicine and chose to work at Sainte-Anne as a junior doctor. It is said, and it’s plausible, that most doctors specialize in the diseases to which they think they’re susceptible.’

  ‘Alain is haunted by the idea that he belongs to a family of lunatics. According to him, Lucile, his aunt, is half-mad. He hasn’t told me, but I’m convinced he spies, not only on his father and mother, but also on his own children.’

  ‘Was this common knowledge?’

  ‘Some talk about it. In small towns, people always gossip and are wary of those who are a bit different from everyone else.’

  ‘Was it mentioned after the first murder in particular?’

  Chabot hesitated for a second and nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because people knew, or thought they knew, that Hubert Vernoux and his brother-in-law Courçon didn’t get on. Perhaps too because they lived right opposite one another.’

  ‘Did they see each other?’

  Chabot gave a reluctant little laugh.

  ‘I wonder what you’re going to think of us. I have the feeling you don’t come across situations like this in Paris.’

  In other words, the investigating magistrate was ashamed of a world that was his, in a way, because he lived in it all year round.

  ‘I told you that the Courçons were penniless when Isabelle married Hubert Vernoux. It was Hubert who gave his brother-in-law Robert an allowance. And Robert never forgave him for it. When he spoke of him, he’d say sarcastically: “My brother-in-law the millionaire”, or: “I’ll go and ask old moneybags.” He never set f
oot inside the big house in Rue Rabelais, whose every coming and going he could see. He lived across the road, in a smaller but very nice house, and had a cleaning woman come every morning. He polished his shoes and cooked his meals himself, made a show of going to the market got up like a landowner inspecting his estate, and brandished a bunch of leeks or asparagus as if it were a trophy. He must have thought that he incensed Hubert.’

  ‘And was Hubert incensed?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s possible. But he still continued to provide for his brother-in-law. Several times we saw them exchange acrimonious words when they bumped into one another in the street. One detail you couldn’t make up: Robert de Courçon never drew his curtains, so the family opposite watched him going about his life all day long. Some say he’d sometimes poke his tongue out at them.

  ‘But from that to accusing Vernoux of getting rid of him, or of hitting him over the head in a moment of anger . . .’

  ‘Is this what people thought?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you think so too?’

  ‘Professionally, at the outset I don’t rule out any hypothesis.’

  Maigret couldn’t help smiling at his pompous words.

  ‘Have you questioned Vernoux?’

  ‘I didn’t summon him to my office, if that’s what you mean. There wasn’t enough evidence to point to a man like him.’

  He had said: ‘a man like him’.

  And Chabot realized that he’d given himself away, that he’d admitted he was more or less part of the clique. Maigret’s visit that evening must have been torture for him. It wasn’t a pleasure for Maigret either, even though right now he was no longer in such a hurry to leave.

  ‘I saw him in the street, as I do every morning, and asked him a few casual questions.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That he hadn’t left his apartment that evening.’

  ‘What time was the murder committed?’

  ‘The first? Around the same time as today, at approximately ten p.m.’

  ‘What are the Vernoux usually doing at that hour?’

  ‘Apart from bridge on Saturday, which sees the entire family gathered in the sitting room, they all live separate lives without taking any notice of the others.’

  ‘Vernoux doesn’t share a bedroom with his wife?’