Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 3

‘Almost never. After he set up in business, we didn’t get along very well.’

  ‘Because you thought him hard-hearted?’

  ‘That, and the rest. It doesn’t matter.’

  And suddenly, with a slightly trembling forefinger, he crushed a tear, a solitary tear, on his cheek.

  ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘Tomorrow, if you wish, at the Forensic Institute.’

  ‘It’s a bit further down, on the other side of the river, isn’t it?’

  He refilled the two glasses, drained his, staring ahead of him. Maigret drank up too and, a few minutes later, they were back in the car.

  ‘My place, if you don’t mind. You can keep the car tonight and drive yourself home.’

  It was almost midnight when he set foot on the stairs. He saw the door of their apartment open a fraction and his wife waiting for him on the landing. He’d called her at eight o’clock to say he’d be back late because he’d been expecting to spend longer with young Stiernet.

  ‘You haven’t caught a chill, have you?’

  ‘I barely poked my nose outside. Only to get in and out of the car.’

  ‘You sound as though you’ve got a cold.’

  ‘But I’m not coughing and my nose isn’t running.’

  ‘Wait till tomorrow morning. I’d better make you a nice hot grog and give you two aspirins. Did the boy confess?’

  All she knew was that Stiernet had knocked his grandmother unconscious.

  ‘Without any trouble. He didn’t deny it for a second.’

  ‘Did he want money?’

  ‘He’s unemployed. He’d just been thrown out of his lodgings because he hadn’t paid the rent for two months.’

  ‘Is he a monster?’

  ‘No. He has the mental age of a ten-year-old. He doesn’t realize what’s happened to him or what lies in store. He answers the questions as best he can, concentrating hard, as if he were at school.’

  ‘Do you think he’s not really responsible for his actions?’

  ‘That’s for the court to decide, not me, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Is there a chance he’ll be given a good lawyer?’

  ‘It will be a young one, not known in the criminal court, as always. He’s got three francs left in his pocket. It wasn’t his case that was delaying me, but an important man who was shot dead just as he was coming out of the most exclusive brothel in Paris.’

  ‘Just a minute. I can hear the water boiling and I’m going to make your grog.’

  Meanwhile he undressed and put on his pyjamas, in two minds over filling one last pipe, although of course he ended up doing so. And the tobacco somehow left the unpleasant taste of a cold in his mouth.

  2.

  When Madame Maigret came in and touched his shoulder, a cup of coffee in her hand, he was tempted to say he didn’t feel well and needed to stay warmly tucked up in bed, as he used to do when he was a child,

  His head hurt, especially his sinuses, and his forehead felt clammy. The windowpanes were a milky white, as if they were made of frosted glass.

  He took a sip and eventually got out of bed, grumbling, and went to have a look outside: the first passers-by were hastening towards the Métro station, their hands thrust deep in their pockets, mere silhouettes in the fog.

  He roused himself slowly, drank the rest of his coffee and lingered under the shower. Then, while he was shaving, he started thinking about Chabut, who intrigued him.

  Who had given the most accurate portrait of him? For Madame Blanche, he was simply a client, one of her best clients, who never failed to order champagne on each of his visits. He needed to spend lavishly to flaunt his wealth. He was probably fond of repeating:

  ‘I started out as a door-to-door salesman and my father still runs a bar on Quai de la Tournelle. He barely knows how to read and write.’

  What exactly did the Grasshopper think of him? She hadn’t cried, but Maigret had the impression that she had some feelings for Chabut. She knew she wasn’t the only woman to go with him to the discreet private residence in Rue Fortuny, but she didn’t appear to be jealous.

  The wine merchant’s wife was even less so. Images he’d registered subconsciously came back to him. For example, the life-sized oil painting that occupied pride of place in the drawing room at Place des Vosges. It was a meticulous portrait of Chabut that was a very good likeness. Chabut was looking straight ahead of him, defiantly, and his fist was closed as if he were about to punch someone.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘After my second cup of coffee, I’ll be absolutely fine.’

  ‘Take an aspirin anyway and don’t stay outdoors any longer than you have to. I’m going to call a taxi.’

  When he reached Quai des Orfèvres, the wine merchant was still in his thoughts, an indistinct presence he was trying to bring to life. He was certain that once he knew him better, he would have no trouble identifying his killer.

  The fog was just as dense and Maigret had to switch on the lights. He sifted through his post, signed a few administrative documents and, at nine o’clock, made his way to the commissioner’s office for the morning briefing.

  When it was his turn, he summed up the Théo Stiernet case.

  ‘Do you think he’s simple-minded?’

  ‘That’s probably what his defence lawyer will argue, unless they go for the unhappy childhood scenario. Except that he struck his victim some fifteen times and the prosecution will call it savagery, especially since she was his grandmother. He has no idea what fate awaits him. He answers the questions to the best of his ability and doesn’t seem to think that what he’s done is out of the ordinary.’

  ‘What about the Rue Fortuny case, which was mentioned in this morning’s papers?’

  ‘There’ll be more about it. The victim is well known, a man of means. There are posters advertising Vin des Moines in the corridors of the Métro.’

  ‘A crime of passion?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. He did his utmost to make bitter enemies of everyone around him and there’s no reason to follow one line of investigation rather than another.’

  ‘Is it true he was coming out of a brothel?’

  ‘Did you read that in the newspaper?’

  ‘No. But I know Rue Fortuny and I immediately made the connection.’

  When Maigret went back into his office, he was still mulling over the previous day’s events. Jeanne Chabut intrigued him too. She hadn’t cried either, even though she’d had a shock. She must be five or six years younger than her husband.

  Where had she acquired her elegance, the ease she exuded with her every movement, her every word?

  Chabut had met her during his lean days, when she was a simple typist.

  Although Oscar was dressed by the finest tailors, he still remained a sort of brute, and there was still something awkward about him.

  He couldn’t get over having become so successful, and he felt the need to flaunt his affluence.

  She was definitely the one who had furnished the apartment, though, apart from the somewhat ridiculous portrait. Modern and traditional styles blended harmoniously, creating a pleasing unity. At this hour, she must be getting ready to go to the Forensic Institute, where an autopsy had most likely already been carried out. She wouldn’t bat an eyelid. She’d be able to cope with the depressing atmosphere of what used to be called the morgue.

  ‘Are you there, Lapointe?’

  ‘Yes, chief.’

  ‘We’re going out.’

  He slipped on his heavy overcoat, wound his scarf around his neck, put on his hat and lit a pipe before leaving his office. In the courtyard, as they were getting into one of the cars, Lapointe asked:

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Quai de Charenton.’

  They drove along Quai de Bercy, with its warehouses rising up behind the railings. Each one bore the name of a major wine merchant, and three of the largest were those of Vin des Moines.

  Further along, at the bottom of the stre
et, was a sort of port where dozens of barrels stood in rows and more were being unloaded from a barge. All Vin des Moines. All Oscar Chabut’s.

  The building on the opposite side of the road was old, surrounded by a vast yard cluttered with more barrels. At the far end, lorries were being loaded with crates of bottles and a man with a droopy moustache wearing a blue apron appeared to be in charge of operations.

  ‘Shall I come with you? I’ll park the car in the yard.’

  ‘Please.’

  Even outside there was a strong smell of wine. After reading an enamel plate saying ‘Come straight in’, they found themselves in a wide, tiled corridor which also reeked of wine.

  A door was open to the left, and in a gloomy room a young woman with a slight squint was sitting at a telephone switchboard.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Is Monsieur Chabut’s private secretary here?’

  She looked at them suspiciously.

  ‘Do you want to speak to her in person?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what’s happened?’

  ‘Yes. Tell her Detective Chief Inspector Maigret is here.’

  She studied him at length, then switched her gaze to young Lapointe, who interested her more.

  ‘Hello! Anne-Marie? There’s a certain Detective Chief Inspector Maigret and someone whose name I don’t know who’d like to see you. Yes. Right. I’ll send them up.’

  The staircase was dusty and the paint on the walls was none too fresh. A young man passed them on the stairs, a bundle of papers in his hands. They found the Grasshopper on the landing, standing by a half-open door, and she showed them into an office that was vast but without the smallest luxury.

  It looked as if it had been fitted out fifty years earlier, and was dark. Here too was the pervasive smell of wine, as in the yard and throughout the building.

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘Yes. Do you know her well?’

  ‘When he had flu, I would sometimes go and work at Place des Vosges. She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she? She’s very clever. He had no hesitation in asking for her advice on some matters.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to find such an old-fashioned decor here.’

  ‘There are other premises in Avenue de l’Opéra. They’re very different, with a neon sign across the entire façade, and they’re modern, stylish, brightly lit and comfortable. They’re the offices that liaise with the fifteen thousand sales outlets and set up new ones every month. They have computers and nearly everything is done electronically.’

  ‘What about here?’

  ‘This is the original place. There’s still the atmosphere of the past here, and that reassures the customers from the provinces. Chabut used to go to Avenue de l’Opéra every day, but he much preferred working here.’

  ‘Did you go there with him?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not often. There was another secretary.’

  ‘Who, apart from him, managed the business?’

  ‘Actually managing, nobody. He didn’t trust anyone. At this site, there’s Monsieur Leprêtre, the head cellarman, who’s in charge of production. There’s also a book-keeper, Monsieur Riolle, who’s only been with the company for a few months. In the office opposite are three typists.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘You saw the telephonist. And lastly there’s me. It’s hard to explain. We form a sort of management team, but the bulk of the work is carried out at Avenue de l’Opéra.’

  ‘How long did he spend there each day?’

  ‘An hour? Sometimes two.’

  The desk was a cylinder desk, as in the good old days, and was covered in paperwork.

  ‘Are the other typists as young as you?’

  ‘Do you want to see them?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘There’s one who’s a lot older, Mademoiselle Berthe. She’s thirty-two and is the eldest. The youngest is twenty-one.’

  ‘How come he chose you to be his private secretary?’

  ‘He was looking for a beginner. I read the ad and applied. That was over a year ago. I wasn’t yet eighteen. He found me amusing and asked me if I had a suitor or a lover.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. I was fresh out of secretarial college.’

  ‘After how many days did he start wooing you?’

  ‘He didn’t woo me. The very next day, he called me in, on the pretext of showing me some documents, and he caressed me.

  ‘“I have to appraise,” he whispered.’

  ‘What next?’

  ‘A week later, he took me to Rue Fortuny.’

  ‘Weren’t the others jealous?’

  ‘They’ve all been through it, you know.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Here or elsewhere. It’s hard to explain. He did it so naturally that you couldn’t hold it against him. I know of only one girl who arrived after me and who walked out on her third day, slamming the door.’

  ‘Who knew that Wednesday was your day?’

  ‘Everyone, I think. I’d go downstairs at the same time as him and get into his car. He didn’t make a secret of it. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘Who worked in this office before you?’

  ‘Madame Chazeau. Now she’s across the corridor. She’s twenty-six and is divorced.’

  ‘Is she an attractive woman?’

  ‘Yes. She has a beautiful body. You couldn’t call her the Grasshopper.’

  ‘Does she not resent you?’

  ‘At first, she’d look at me with a strange smile. I suppose she was expecting that he’d soon tire of me.’

  ‘Did she continue to have relations with him?’

  ‘I presume so, because she sometimes stayed after hours. We knew what that meant.’

  ‘Did she ever appear to be bitter?’

  ‘Not in front of me. I told you, it was more as if she was making fun of me. A lot of people don’t take me seriously. Even my mother, who still treats me like a little girl.’

  ‘Might she have wanted to take her revenge?’

  ‘It’s not her style. She saw other men. She went out several nights a week and, the next day, she found it hard to do any work.’

  ‘And the third girl?’

  ‘Aline, the youngest apart from me. She’s twenty-two and has very dark hair, a bit fanciful, a bit of a drama queen. This morning, she fainted – or pretended to – and then she started crying and whining.’

  ‘Was she here before you?’

  ‘Yes. She worked in a department store before seeing the ad. They were all hired following an ad …’

  ‘None was passionate enough to have shot him?’

  Madame Blanche, looking through her spyhole, claimed she’d glimpsed the shape of a man between two cars. But could that not have been a woman? Perhaps a woman in trousers? It had been dark.

  ‘She’s not the type,’ replied the Grasshopper.

  ‘His wife neither?’

  ‘She’s not jealous. She has the lifestyle she enjoys. For her, he was a pleasant companion.’

  ‘Was he pleasant?’

  She seemed to be thinking about it.

  ‘When you got to know him, yes. At first, people found him arrogant, aggressive. He acted the big boss. With women, he took his success for granted. When you knew him better, you realized that he was perhaps more naive than he seemed. More vulnerable too.

  ‘“What do you think of me?” he’d often ask, after making love.

  ‘“What should I think?”

  ‘“Do you love me? Admit you don’t.”

  ‘“It depends what you mean. I feel good with you, if that’s what you want to know.”

  ‘“If I were to tire of you, what would happen?”

  ‘“I don’t know. I’d have to get used to it.”

  ‘“What about the other girls, opposite, what do they say?”

  ‘“No
thing. You know them better than I do.”’

  ‘And what about the men?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘The ones who work here? First of all, there’s Monsieur Leprêtre, who I told you about. Before, he used to work for himself. But he wasn’t a good enough businessman to succeed. Now he’s nearly sixty. He doesn’t say much. He knows his job admirably and he works quietly.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Yes. So are two of his children. He lives in a house right at the end of the wharf, in Charenton, and he cycles here.’

  Outside, the fog was turning slightly rosy, hinting at the presence of the sun beyond, and wisps of steam were rising from the Seine. Lapointe made jottings in a notepad on his knee.

  ‘When his business took a downturn, was Vin des Moines already in existence?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How did he behave towards Chabut?’

  ‘He was always respectful, but he kept very much to himself.’

  ‘Did they ever argue?’

  ‘Never in front of me, and, since I was nearly always there …’

  ‘If I understand correctly, he’s a taciturn man?’

  ‘Taciturn and sad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh, and his droopy moustache made him look even more hangdog.’

  ‘Who else works here?’

  ‘The book-keeper, Jacques Riolle. Or rather he’s the cashier. He has his office downstairs. He only deals with certain bills, what we call petty cash. It would be too complicated to explain the inner workings of the business. The real invoicing is done at Avenue de l’Opéra, and so is the correspondence with the warehouses. Here, we deal mainly with purchasing and relations with the wine producers who regularly come up from the South.’

  ‘Riolle isn’t in love with any of you?’

  ‘If he is, he doesn’t show it. You’ll see for yourself. He’s around forty and a confirmed bachelor, and he smells rancid. He’s shy, jittery, and he has all sorts of funny little habits. He lives in a boarding house in the Latin Quarter.’

  ‘There’s no one else?’

  ‘In the offices, no. Downstairs, in the warehouses and dispatch department, there are five or six men I know by name and by sight, but with whom I have no real contact. You probably think that we’re strange people, don’t you? If you’d known the boss, you’d find it completely natural.’