Maigret's First Case Read online

  It was odd, Le Bret’s mocking tone had become affectionate.

  ‘This morning, while I was reading your report, and then again while I was talking to you, something was niggling me. Like a vague memory. I don’t know if you ever experience that. The harder you try to pin it down, the hazier it becomes. But I knew it was important, that it could even shed an entirely new light on things. And then I finally put my finger on it, just before going to lunch. Contrary to my usual habit, I ate lunch at home because we had guests. As I looked at my wife, I found one of the links. The thing that had been niggling me all morning was something she had said, but what? Suddenly, in the middle of lunch, it came back to me. Yesterday, before leaving Boulevard de Courcelles, I asked, as I often do: “What are you doing this afternoon?” and my wife replied: “I’m going to have tea in Faubourg Saint-Honoré with Lise and Bernadette.” Bernadette is the Countess d’Estirau. And Lise is Lise Gendreau-Balthazar.’

  He stopped and looked at Maigret, a twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘There, my boy. All I needed to do was check whether Lise Gendreau really did have tea with my wife at five o’clock in the Pihan tearooms. She did, my wife confirmed. At no point did she say she was going to Anseval. When I got back to the office, I re-read your report carefully.’

  Maigret’s face lit up and he had already opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Just a moment! Not so fast. Last night, you found this same Lise Gendreau’s bedroom empty. Her brother told you she had gone to the Nièvre.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘That proves nothing. Richard Gendreau wasn’t speaking under oath. You had no search warrant, no grounds for questioning him.’

  ‘But now—’

  ‘None now, either. That is why I’m advising you …’

  Maigret was at a loss to understand. His heart sank, and he wasn’t sure what to do or say. He was hot. He felt humiliated by being treated like a child.

  ‘Have you already made your holiday plans?’

  He nearly gave a rude reply.

  ‘I know that public servants are in the habit of arranging their days off and annual leave well in advance. However, you may take your holiday as of today if you wish. I think that will even ease my conscience. Especially if you were not intending to leave Paris. A police officer on leave is no longer a police officer, and there are steps he can permit himself to take that it would be difficult to sanction officially.’

  Hope again. But Maigret was still afraid. He was expecting another volte-face.

  ‘Of course I hope I won’t receive any complaints about you. Should you have something to tell me, or should you need any information, you can call me at home, Boulevard de Courcelles. You’ll find my number in the telephone directory.’

  Maigret opened his mouth once again, this time to say thank you, but the chief inspector, who was gently shooing him towards the door, suddenly recalled a minor detail, and added:

  ‘Actually, six or seven years ago, Félicien Gendreau − the father − appointed a board of trustees, as if he were some hare-brained young man. And it’s Richard who, since his mother’s death, has effectively been in control of the family’s affairs. Is your wife well? Is she becoming accustomed to living in Paris and her new apartment?’

  A dry handshake and Maigret found himself on the other side of the baize door. Still dazed, he was making his way mechanically over to his black desk when his gaze fell on one of the figures sitting on the bench on the other side of what they called the counter.

  It was Justin Minard the flautist, all in black though not evening dress this time, and minus his beige overcoat. He was sitting quietly, sandwiched between a tramp and a fat woman with a green shawl who was breastfeeding her baby.

  The musician winked at him, as if to ask if he could come up to the barrier. Maigret gave him a little nod of recognition, tidied away his papers, and briefed one of his colleagues on various cases in hand.

  ‘I’m on leave!’ he announced.

  ‘Leave, in April, with a visiting monarch to deal with?’

  ‘Leave.’

  And the colleague, who knew that Maigret had recently married:

  ‘Baby?’

  ‘No baby.’

  ‘Ill?’

  ‘Not ill.’

  That was more than worrying, and the colleague shook his head.

  ‘Well, it’s none of my business! Have a good holiday anyway. Some people have all the luck.’

  Maigret picked up his hat, put on his cuffs − which he had removed on arriving at the office − and went through the gate that separated the police officers from the public. Justin Minard rose quite naturally and, just as naturally, he followed Maigret outside without saying a word.

  Had he received a thrashing from his wife, as Besson had suggested? He stood there, fair-haired and frail, with rosy cheeks and blue eyes, keeping close to Maigret like a stray dog who latches on to a passer-by.

  The sun was streaming down and there were flags in every window. The air seemed to reverberate with the sound of drums and bugles. The crowds were exuberant and most of the men held themselves upright like soldiers, inspired by the military parades.

  When at last Minard drew level with Maigret and walked alongside him, he asked him nervously:

  ‘Have you been fired?’

  He thought, of course, that a public servant could be fired as easily as a flautist and he was distressed to think that he was the cause.

  ‘I haven’t been fired. I’m on leave.’

  ‘Oh!’

  His ‘Oh!’ was uneasy. It contained an anxiety, already almost a reproach.

  ‘They’d rather you weren’t there for the time being, is that it? I assume they’re going to drop the case, and my complaint?’

  His tone hardened.

  ‘They’re not going to ignore my complaint, I hope? I’m telling you now that I won’t let them walk all over me.’

  ‘The complaint will go through the usual channels.’

  ‘Good! Especially since I’ve got some news for you. Well, one piece of news …’

  They had reached Place Saint-Georges, a quiet, provincial little square with a café that smelled of white wine. Maigret, unable to resist, pushed open the door. There was a festive atmosphere that afternoon. The pewter counter had been freshly polished and the Vouvray shimmered pale green in the glasses, making Maigret feel thirsty.

  ‘You saw two maids in the house, didn’t you? That’s what you told me, right?’

  ‘Germaine and Marie,’ Maigret reeled off. ‘As well as Madame Louis, the cook.’

  ‘Well, in fact there was only one!’

  The musician’s eyes lit up with childlike glee, making him look even more like an affectionate dog who had retrieved a stick for its master.

  ‘I had a chat with the woman at the dairy where the Gendreaus buy their milk, just next to the tobacconist’s on the corner of Rue Fontaine.’

  Maigret stared at him in amazement, slightly embarrassed, and he couldn’t help thinking of him being thrashed by that Carmen creature.

  ‘Since Saturday, Germaine, the eldest maid, has been in the Oise, where her sister is about to give birth. I’m completely free during the day, you see?’

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he repeated in a slightly distant voice. ‘I said to myself that if you’re carrying on with the investigation, I could perhaps help you out a little. People are generally nice to me. I don’t know why.’

  And Maigr
et thought: ‘Except for Carmen!’

  ‘Now it’s my round. Yes, I insist. Just because I drink strawberry cordial, it doesn’t mean I can’t buy a round. You’re not really on leave, are you? That was a joke, wasn’t it?’

  Was it breaking professional secrecy to wink?

  ‘I’d have been disappointed if you’d said you were. I don’t know those people. I have nothing against them personally. But the fact is that Louis is a thug and they lied.’

  A little girl in red was selling mimosa freshly arrived from Nice, and Maigret bought a bunch for his wife, who only knew the Riviera from a colour picture postcard of the Baie des Anges.

  ‘Just tell me what I have to do. And please, don’t be afraid that I’ll bring you trouble! I’m used to shutting up and keeping quiet!’

  His eyes were beseeching. He would have liked to buy Maigret another Vouvray to convince him, but he didn’t dare.

  ‘Those houses always conceal dark secrets, only there are some who are in the know. The servants usually talk too much, and the tradesmen are a mine of information.’

  Without thinking, unaware that in a way he was sealing his partnership with the flautist, Maigret muttered:

  ‘Mademoiselle Gendreau is not at Anseval, as her brother claimed.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Since Germaine was away, it was probably Lise Gendreau that I saw in the maid’s room, in her nightdress.’

  That made Maigret uneasy. He had spent his childhood in the shadow of a chateau where his father had been the estate manager. As a result, he had acquired a respect for people in high places, the rich. And strangest of all was that the flautist shared his embarrassment. He said nothing for a good while but sat staring at his strawberry cordial.

  ‘Do you think so?’ he asked at length, troubled.

  ‘In any case, there was a woman in a nightdress in the maid’s room. A plump girl with a stale smell.’

  And that also troubled him, as if young ladies from good families whose names are plastered all over the corridors of the Métro in capital letters weren’t capable of smelling stale like farm girls.

  The two men sitting in front of their drinks, the scent of mimosa mingling with that of white wine and strawberries, the sun on the backs of their necks, were both lost in a vague dream, and Maigret started when his companion’s voice brought him back down to earth. Justin Minard was saying, his voice completely guileless:

  ‘Now what do we do?’

  3.

  A Few Rounds with Old Paumelle

  Police officers are advised to own a black dress suit, a dinner jacket and a morning coat, without which it is not possible to gain admission to some society gatherings.

  This was one of the instructions that were as fresh in his memory as the catechism is in the mind of a boy making his first communion. But the recommendations were rather over-optimistic. Or otherwise the word ‘some’ needed further qualification.

  He had tried on his dress suit the previous evening with the idea of gaining entry to the circles frequented by the Gendreaus, the Hoche club, for example, or the Haussmann, but one little comment from his wife had been enough to bring him back down to earth.

  ‘You’re so handsome, Jules!’ she had exclaimed as he inspected his reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

  She would never have taken the liberty of laughing at him. She was certainly speaking in earnest. All the same there was something indefinable in her tone, in her smile, that warned him not to try to pass himself off as a young clubman.

  Resting their elbows on the window ledge, they could hear the sounds of a torchlight retreat coming from Place de la Bastille. As the coolness of the night enveloped them, Maigret was finding it hard to remain positive.

  ‘You see, if I crack this case, it’s almost a guaranteed passport to Quai des Orfèvres. Once I’m there …’

  What more could he want? To be part of the Sûreté, perhaps the famous murder squad, dubbed the chief’s squad!

  But to get there he had to bring this case to a successful conclusion – in other words, without drawing attention to himself – and uncover the darkest secrets of a wealthy household in Rue Chaptal.

  He spent a restless night and, on waking at six o’clock in the morning, he was once again presented with an ironic reminder of his police manual.

  A cap, a scarf and a worn jacket prove to be a very effective disguise.

  This time, as he inspected his reflection in the mirror, Madame Maigret hadn’t laughed but said affectionately:

  ‘Next month you really must buy yourself a suit.’

  She was tactfully trying to say that his tatty old jacket was hardly more tired than his so-called ‘best’ suit. In other words, he had no need for a disguise.

  So he ended up putting on his collar and tie as well as his bowler hat.

  The weather was still magnificent, as if in honour of the visiting sovereign, who would be driven to Versailles later that day. Nearly two hundred thousand Parisians were already on their way to the royal town, whose parks by evening would be strewn with greasy wrappers and empty bottles.

  Meanwhile, Justin Minard would be taking the train to Conflans where he planned to track down the famous Germaine, the Gendreaus’ maid.

  ‘If I can just find her,’ he had said with his disarming gentleness, ‘I’m sure she’ll tell me everything she knows. I have no idea why, but people always seem to want to tell me their life story.’

  It was seven o’clock when Maigret took possession, as it were, of Rue Chaptal, and he was glad he hadn’t worn a cap and scarf, since the first person he met was an officer from his station who greeted him by name.

  There are bustling streets full of shops and cafés where it is easy to blend in, but Rue Chaptal is not one of them. Short and wide, it has no shops and very few people use it.

  All the curtains of the Gendreau-Balthazar mansion were tightly drawn, as in most of the other houses in the street. Maigret loitered on one corner and then another, feeling rather conspicuous. When a maid came out of one of the buildings to go and fetch the milk from the dairy in Rue Fontaine, next to the tobacconist’s, he had the impression that she was looking at him with suspicion and that she hastened her step.

  It was the worst time of day. Despite the sunshine, there was still a nip in the air, and he had not worn his overcoat, as it would be hot later. The pavements were absolutely empty. The tobacconist’s on the corner didn’t open until 7.30, when Maigret went in and drank a foul cup of coffee that made his stomach heave.

  Another maid with her milk-can, then another. They looked as if they had just got out of bed and hadn’t washed yet. Then shutters opened here and there, and women with their hair in curling papers gazed out into the street, invariably eyeing him with suspicion. But there was no movement at the Gendreaus’; it wasn’t until 8.3o that a chauffeur in a very tight-fitting black uniform arrived from Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette and rang the bell.

  Luckily the Vieux Calvados on the corner of Rue Henner, almost opposite the Gendreaus’, had just opened. It was the only place in the street that offered Maigret a refuge. He stepped inside in the nick of time.

  Louis, wearing a striped waistcoat, opened the door then exchanged a few words with the driver. The door stayed open, as it would do all day. Beyond the porch, Maigret glimpsed a sun-drenched courtyard, some foliage, a garage, and the sound of hooves suggested that there were also stables.

  ‘Are you wanting to eat?’

  A very fat man with a very r
uddy face and beady little eyes was calmly eyeing Maigret, who jumped.

  ‘What say you to a few slices of andouille with a bowl of cider? It’s the best way to start the day.’

  And that was how Maigret’s day began, one that was typical of many that he would experience during his career but which, at this early stage, felt like a dream.

  The place itself was rather extraordinary. In this street of private mansions and expensive apartment buildings, the Vieux Calvados looked like a country inn that had been forgotten when Paris had spread. The building was low and narrow with a little step down into a rather dark, very cool room with a dull pewter counter. The bottles looked as if they had been standing there for ever.

  There was a special smell too. It came perhaps from the open trap door in the floor that led down to the cellar.

  A sort of acidic cloud wafted up from below − cider mingled with calvados, old barrels and must − while cooking aromas came from the kitchen. At the back of the room, a spiral staircase led up to the mezzanine, and the whole effect was that of a stage set. The owner, stubby-legged, very broad, with an obstinate forehead and a glint in his eyes, paced up and down like an actor.

  Did Maigret have any alternative but to accept what was put in front of him? He had never drunk cider at breakfast. This was his first experience and, contrary to his expectations, he felt a warm glow in his chest.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he ventured by way of an explanation.

  ‘It’s no business of mine!’

  But the shrug of his massive shoulders said: ‘I don’t believe you!’

  There was a cynical glint in his eyes, so cynical that after a while Maigret began to feel uncomfortable.

  The owner ate too, at the bar, thick slices of andouille and after a quarter of an hour he had drained the jug of cider drawn from the barrel in the cellar.

  Over the road at the Gendreaus’, Maigret caught an occasional glimpse of the chauffeur in the courtyard. He had removed his jacket and was busy hosing down a car of which only the front wheels were visible. But it wasn’t a De Dion-Bouton. It was a black limousine with huge copper headlamps.