Maigret in Court Page 5

  ‘Lamblin got his hooks into her in the corridor during the adjournment …’

  Maître Lamblin, whose silhouette resembled that of a starving dog, was the subject of a great deal of gossip at the law courts, rarely complimentary, and had almost been suspended from the bar several times. As if by chance, he was sitting next to the young woman and whispering to her in a congratulatory manner.

  The man walking towards the witness box dragging his foot was an entirely different species of humanity. Whereas beneath her make-up Ginette Meurant had the pallor of women who live in hothouses, he, on the other hand, was pasty-faced and made of soft, unhealthy stuff.

  Had he grown so thin as a result of his operation? In any case, his clothes were much too big and flapped around his body, which seemed drained of all energy and suppleness.

  It was easier to imagine him in his slippers, huddled in the frosted-glass office of his establishment, than walking in the streets of the city.

  He had bags under his eyes, folds of skin under his chin.

  ‘Nicolas Cajou, aged sixty-two. You were born in Marillac, in the Cantal, and your profession is manager of a lodging house in Rue Victor-Massé, Paris?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘You are neither a relative nor a friend, nor are you employed by the defendant … You swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth … Raise your right hand … Say: I swear …’

  ‘I swear …’

  An assessor leaned towards the judge to make an observation, which must have been pertinent because Bernerie seemed struck by it. He thought for a while, and eventually shrugged. Maigret, who had missed nothing of the scene, thought he knew what it meant.

  Witnesses who have previous convictions entailing loss of civil rights or who engage in immoral activities are not allowed to take the oath. Now, did not the owner of the lodging house carry out immoral activities, since he accepted in his establishment couples under conditions prohibited by the law? Was it certain that he did not have a criminal record?

  It was too late to check, and the judge cleared his throat before asking in a neutral tone:

  ‘Do you keep an up-to-date register of the clients to whom you rent out rooms?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘All the clients?’

  ‘All those who spend the night in my hotel.’

  ‘But you don’t register the names of those who only stay for a few hours during the daytime?’

  ‘No, your honour. The police will be able to tell you that …’

  That he was above-board, of course, that there had never been any scandal in his establishment, and that every so often he provided the Hotel Agency or the Vice Squad with vital tip-offs.

  ‘Did you look closely at the witness who was before you on the stand?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘Did you recognize her?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘Tell the gentlemen of the jury in what circumstances you saw this young woman previously.’

  ‘In the usual circumstances.’

  One look from Judge Bernerie stifled the laughter.

  ‘In other words?’

  ‘In other words, she often used to come in the afternoon, in the company of a gentleman who rented a room.’

  ‘What do you mean by often?’

  ‘Several times a week.’

  ‘How many, for example?’

  ‘Three or four times.’

  ‘Was she always with the same companion?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘Would you recognize him?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘The day before I went into hospital, that is 25 February. I remember the date because of my operation.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Not tall … On the short side … I suspect that like some men who suffer from being small, he wore special shoes … Always well dressed, I’d even say dressed to the nines … In our neighbourhood, we know that type … It’s even the thing that surprised me …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because those gentlemen aren’t generally in the habit of spending the afternoon in a hotel, especially with the same woman …’

  ‘I suppose you know the Montmartre locals pretty much by sight?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I mean the men you’re talking about …’

  ‘I see them go past.’

  ‘But you have never seen that man anywhere but in your establishment?’

  ‘No, your honour.’

  ‘And you’ve not heard of him either?’

  ‘I only know that people call him Pierrot.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because sometimes the lady called him Pierrot in front of me.’

  ‘Did he have an accent?’

  ‘Not really. But I always thought he was from the south, or that maybe he was Corsican.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Again, this time, disappointment was on people’s faces. They had been expecting a dramatic confrontation and nothing was happening, other than a seemingly innocent series of questions and answers.

  The judge looked at the time.

  ‘The hearing is adjourned and will continue at half past two.’

  The same din as earlier, only this time the entire courtroom emptied and people thronged to watch Ginette Meurant walk past. It seemed from a distance to Maigret that Maître Lamblin was keeping close behind her and that she turned around every so often to make sure that he was following her.

  Maigret had barely stepped outside when he bumped into Janvier, who shot him an inquiring look.

  ‘We’ve nabbed them, chief. They’re both at headquarters.’

  It took Maigret a good moment to realize that Janvier was talking about another case, an armed bank robbery in the 20th arrondissement.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lucas arrested them at the home of the mother of one of the boys. The other one was hiding under the bed and the mother didn’t know. They hadn’t been outside for three days. The poor woman thought her son was ill and was making him hot toddies. She’s the widow of a railway worker and she works in a local ironmonger’s—’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘The son, eighteen, his friend, twenty.’

  ‘Do they deny it?’

  ‘Yes. But I think you’ll catch them out easily.’

  ‘Shall we have lunch together?’

  ‘I warned my wife I wouldn’t be home, in any case.’

  It was still raining when they crossed Place Dauphine on their way to the brasserie that had become a sort of annexe of the Police Judiciaire.

  ‘And how’s it going in court?’

  ‘Nothing definite yet.’

  They waited at the bar for a free table.

  ‘I’ll have to telephone the judge to request permission to absent myself from the hearing.’

  Maigret had no wish to spend the afternoon sitting still among the crowd, in the humid heat, listening to witnesses who from now on would have nothing surprising to contribute. Those witnesses he had questioned in the peace and quiet of his office. And he had visited most of them in their homes, in their habitual surroundings.

  Attending court had always been the most painful, most dismal part of his job, and each time he felt the same dread.

  Did the court not distort everything? Not through the fault of the judges, juries or witnesses, nor because of the law or the process, but because human beings suddenly found themselves summed up, as it were, in a few phrases, a few sentences.

  He sometimes talked about this with his friend Pardon, the neighbourhood doctor, with whom he and his wife were in the habit of having dinner once a month.

  One day when his surgery had been relentlessly busy, Pardon had given vent to his disenchantment, if not bitterness.

  ‘Twenty-eight patients this afternoon alone! Barely time to invite them to sit do
wn and ask them a few questions … How are you feeling? Where does it hurt? How long has it been going on? … The others wait, staring at the baize door, wondering if their turn will ever come … Put your tongue out! Get undressed! … In most cases, an hour wouldn’t be long enough to find out everything I need to know. Each patient is a unique case, and yet I have to work on a production line …’

  Maigret had then talked to him about the ultimate aim of his own work, in other words the courts, since that is where most investigations culminate.

  ‘Historians,’ he’d said, ‘learned scholars, spend their lives studying a character from the past, about whom there are already countless books. They go from library to library, archive to archive, looking for the briefest of letters in the hope of getting a little closer to the truth.

  ‘People have been analysing Stendhal’s correspondence for over fifty years so as better to understand his personality …’

  ‘Is a crime almost always committed by a person who’s out of the ordinary? By that I mean someone who’s harder to comprehend than the man in the street? I’m given a few weeks, if not days, to enter a new world, to question ten, twenty, fifty people about whom I knew nothing until that day, and to distinguish if possible between the true and the false.

  ‘I’m criticized for going to the scene in person instead of sending my men. On the other hand, it’s a miracle that I still have that privilege!

  ‘The examining magistrate who handles the case after me now almost never has that opportunity and only sees people removed from their personal lives, in the neutral surroundings of his chambers.

  ‘In short, what he has in front of him are brush-stroke figures.

  ‘He too only has a limited amount of time; hounded by the press, by public opinion, hampered by a hodge-podge of regulations, swamped by red tape that takes up most of his time, what is he going to find out?

  ‘If they are disembodied creatures when they come out of his chambers, what is left of them by the time they end up in court, and on what will the juries decide the fate of one or several of their kind?

  ‘Now it is no longer a question of months, or weeks, or even days. The number of witnesses is kept to a minimum, likewise the number of questions they are asked.

  ‘They come and repeat in front of the court a condensed version, a digest, as it were, of what they said earlier.

  ‘The case is set out in a few broad outlines, the characters are no more than sketches, if not caricatures …’

  Had he not had that impression once again that morning while giving his own testimony?

  The press would write that he had spoken at length, perhaps to their surprise. Any judge other than Xavier Bernerie would certainly not have allowed him more than a few minutes, whereas he had been in the witness box for nearly an hour.

  He had endeavoured to be precise, to communicate to those who were listening to him a little of what he felt.

  He glanced at the cyclostyled menu and held it out to Janvier.

  ‘I’m going to have the calf’s head …’

  Inspectors stood clustered around the bar. There were two lawyers in the restaurant.

  ‘My wife and I have bought a house, by the way.’

  ‘In the country?’

  He had sworn he wouldn’t talk about it, not because he liked to be mysterious but out of modesty, because people would be bound to make the connection between this purchase and his retirement, which was not so far off.

  ‘In Meung-sur-Loire?’

  ‘Yes … It’s like a presbytery …’

  In two years, there would be no more court appearances for him, other than on the third page of the newspapers. There he would read the testimonies of his successor, Detective Chief Inspector—

  But who was going to take his place, in fact? He had no idea. Perhaps they were already beginning to discuss it on high, but of course it was out of the question to mention it in front of him.

  ‘Who do those two kids think they are?’

  Janvier shrugged.

  ‘They’re all like that nowadays.’

  Through the windows, Maigret watched the rain, the grey parapet of the Seine, the cars that had moustaches of dirty water.

  ‘What was the judge like?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I’ve instructed Lapointe to tail her. She’s fallen into the clutches of a rather dubious lawyer, Lamblin …’

  ‘Did she admit to having a lover?’

  ‘She wasn’t asked. Bernerie is cautious.’

  It was important to remember that it was Gaston Meurant who was on trial, not his wife.

  ‘Did Cajou recognize her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did the husband take that?’

  ‘Right then, he would gladly have killed me.’

  ‘Will he be acquitted?’

  ‘It’s too soon to tell.’

  Steam rose from the plates, smoke from the cigarettes, and the names of the recommended wines were painted in white on the mirrors surrounding the room.

  There was a little wine from the Loire, very close to Meung and the house that looked like a presbytery.

  4.

  At two o’clock, Maigret, with Janvier still in tow, climbed up the main staircase of Quai des Orfèvres, which was always dank and gloomy, even on the most cheerful summer morning. Today a damp draught was blowing and the wet footprints on the steps would not dry.

  Already on the first-floor landing they could hear a clamour, then came the sound of voices, comings and goings indicating that the press had been alerted and was there, with the photographers and probably people from the television, if not the cinema.

  At the Palais de Justice, one case was coming to a close, or seemed to be, while another was beginning here. At one end of the building, there was already a crowd, at the other, there were only the professionals.

  Quai des Orfèvres also had a sort of witnesses’ room, the glazed waiting room nicknamed the glass cage, and Maigret paused in passing to glance at the six people sitting beneath the photographs of police officers killed in the line of duty.

  Was it possible that all witnesses were alike? This lot belonged to the same world as those at the Palais de Justice, ordinary people, humble workers, and, among them, two women who sat staring straight ahead, their hands resting on their leather bags.

  The reporters raced towards Maigret, who raised a hand to subdue them.

  ‘Calm down! Calm down! Don’t forget, gentlemen, that I don’t know anything yet and that I haven’t seen the boys …’

  He opened the door to his office, promising:

  ‘In two or three hours maybe, if I have any news for you …’

  He closed the door behind him and said to Janvier:

  ‘Go and see if Lapointe is here yet.’

  He slipped back into his old routine from before the holidays, almost a ritual which for him was comparable to the courtroom ceremonial. Removing his coat and hat, he hung them in the cupboard which also contained an enamel basin for him to wash his hands. Then he sat down at his desk and fiddled with his pipes before selecting one and filling it.

  Janvier came back with Lapointe.

  ‘I’ll see your two blockheads in a few minutes.’

  And to the young Lapointe:

  ‘So, what did she do?’

  ‘She was mobbed by a bunch of journalists and photographers who followed her along the corridors and down the main staircase and there were more waiting for her outside. There was even a cinema newsreel bus parked by the kerb. I only glimpsed her face a couple of times. You could tell she was terrified, and I’m told she begged them to leave her in peace.

  ‘All of a sudden, Lamblin barged through the crowd, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her over to a taxi which he’d found in the meantime. He made her get in and the car drove off in the direction of Pont Saint-Michel.

  ‘It was like a conjuring trick. I didn’t manage to find a taxi so I couldn’
t follow them. Just a few minutes ago, Macé, from Le Figaro, came back to the Palais de Justice. He was lucky, he had his car nearby and was able to tail the taxi.

  ‘According to him, Maître Lamblin took Ginette Meurant to a restaurant on Place de l’Odéon that specializes in seafood and bouillabaisse. They had a leisurely lunch there, just the two of them.

  ‘Now, everyone’s back in the courtroom and they’re just waiting for the judge.’

  ‘Go back in there. Telephone me from time to time. I’d like to know whether the chambermaid’s testimony causes a stir …’

  Maigret had managed to get hold of the judge on the phone and had been given permission not to waste his afternoon in court.

  The five inspectors scattered among the public that morning had found out nothing. They’d studied the crowd with as keen an eye as the spotters in a casino, but none of the men present corresponded to the description of Ginette Meurant’s companion given by Nicolas Cajou. As for Alfred Meurant, the defendant’s brother, he wasn’t in court, or in Paris, as Maigret already knew after a telephone call from the Toulon Flying Squad.

  Two inspectors stayed in the courtroom, just in case, as well as Lapointe, who went back to the neighbouring building via the internal corridors.

  Maigret called Lucas, who had been dealing with the bank raid.

  ‘I didn’t want to question them before you’d seen them, chief. Earlier, I held an identity parade.’

  ‘Did the witnesses recognize both of them?’

  ‘Yes. Especially the one whose mask had fallen off, of course.’

  ‘Bring in the youngest one.’

  His hair was too long, and he had a spotty face. He looked unhealthy and unwashed.

  ‘Remove his handcuffs …’

  The boy glowered at him warily, determined not to fall into any of the traps they were bound to set him.

  ‘Leave me alone with him.’

  In cases like this, Maigret preferred to be on his own with the suspect. There would be plenty of time later to take his statement in writing and have him sign it.

  He puffed rapidly on his pipe.

  ‘Sit down.’

  He nudged a packet of cigarettes towards the youth.