Maigret is Afraid Read online

Vernoux frowned, sensing the sarcasm in Maigret’s tone. It was possible, in fact, that he was shy. He didn’t look people in the eyes. Hiding behind his thick spectacle lenses, he contented himself with furtive little glances, then stared at a point somewhere in space.

  ‘Would you say that he goes to great lengths to avoid being caught?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘All the same, he attacks three people in one week and all three times he succeeds.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘In all three cases, he could have struck from behind, which would have reduced the chances of one of his victims starting to scream.’

  Maigret stared at him.

  ‘Since even a madman doesn’t do anything for no reason, I infer that the murderer feels the need to taunt fate, or taunt his victims. Some people need to assert themselves, either through a crime or through a series of crimes. Sometimes it’s to prove their power or their importance or their bravery to themselves. Others are convinced that they need to avenge themselves against their fellow creatures.’

  His chin still resting on his hands, Chabot broke in, sounding pleased with himself.

  ‘So far, this murderer has only attacked the weak. Robert de Courçon was an old man of seventy-three. The widow Gibon was an invalid and Gobillard was blind drunk when he was attacked.’

  ‘That occurred to me too. Perhaps it’s a sign, perhaps a coincidence. What I’m trying to find is the logic governing the unknown murderer’s comings and goings. When we have found that out, we will be close to nabbing him.’

  Vernoux said ‘we’ as if he were naturally part of the investigation, and Chabot raised no objection.

  ‘Is that why you were out in the streets last night?’ asked Maigret.

  Alain Vernoux gave a start and reddened a little.

  ‘Partly. I was going to see a friend, but I confess that for the past three days I’ve been combing the streets as often as possible to study the behaviour of the passers-by. This isn’t a very big town. It is likely that the murderer isn’t staying locked up indoors. He’s out and about like everyone else, perhaps having a drink in a café.’

  ‘Do you think you’d spot him if you met him?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘I believe Alain can be a great help to us,’ murmured Chabot with a certain awkwardness. ‘What he’s said to us this morning makes a lot of sense.’

  The doctor rose and, at the same time, there was a noise in the corridor and a knock on the door. Inspector Chabiron poked his head around the door.

  ‘You’re not alone?’ he said, looking not at Maigret, but at Alain Vernoux, whose presence appeared to irk him.

  ‘What is it, inspector?’

  ‘I have someone here whom I’d like you to question.’

  The doctor announced:

  ‘I’ll be off.’

  No one stopped him. As he was leaving, Chabiron said to Maigret, not without resentment:

  ‘So, chief, looks like you’re handling things?’

  ‘So it says in the papers.’

  ‘Perhaps the investigation won’t last long. It could be over in a few minutes. Shall I bring in my witness, sir?’

  And, turning towards the dimly lit corridor:

  ‘Come in! Don’t be afraid.’

  A voice replied:

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  A short, skinny man entered, dressed in navy blue, with a pale face and fiery eyes.

  Chabiron introduced him:

  ‘Émile Chalus, teacher at the boys’ school. Sit down, Chalus.’

  Chabiron was one of those police officers who treated offenders and witnesses with familiarity, convinced that it intimidated them.

  ‘Last night,’ he explained, ‘I started questioning the people who live in the street where Gobillard was killed. Some might say it was routine . . .’

  He shot a look at Maigret, as if he were a personal enemy of routine.

  ‘ . . . but sometimes routine is useful. It’s not a long street. This morning, early, I continued going over it with a fine-tooth comb. Émile Chalus lives thirty metres from the spot where the murder was committed, on the second floor of a house whose ground and first floor are offices. Tell them, Chalus.’

  Chalus didn’t need asking twice, although he clearly had no liking for the investigating magistrate. He turned towards Maigret.

  ‘I heard a noise on the pavement, like the stamping of feet.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Just after ten o’clock at night.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Footsteps fading.’

  ‘In which direction?’

  The investigating magistrate asked the questions, glancing at Maigret each time as if inviting him to speak.

  ‘In the direction of Rue de la République.’

  ‘Hurried steps?’

  ‘No, normal steps.’

  ‘A man’s?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Chabot appeared to think that this was no great revelation, but the inspector interrupted:

  ‘Wait till you hear the rest. Tell them what happened next, Chalus.’

  ‘Some minutes went by and a group of people entered the street, coming from Rue de la République too. They gathered on the pavement, talking loudly. I heard the word “doctor”, then “detective inspector”, and I got up to go and look out of the window.’

  Chabiron was jubilant.

  ‘You see, sir? Chalus heard the stamping of feet. Earlier, he told me that there was also a thud, like that of a body falling on to the pavement. Tell them what you told me, Chalus.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Immediately afterwards, someone headed towards Rue de la République, where the Café de la Poste is. I have other witnesses in the waiting room, customers who were in the café at that time. It was ten past ten when Doctor Vernoux came in and made straight for the telephone booth, without saying anything. After making a call, he spotted Doctor Jussieux playing cards and whispered something in his ear. Jussieux announced to the others that a murder had just been committed and they all raced outside.’

  Maigret stared at his friend Chabot, whose expression was frozen.

  ‘Do you see what that means?’ the inspector went on with a sort of aggressive relish, as if he were exacting a personal revenge.

  ‘According to Doctor Vernoux, he saw a body lying on the pavement, a body already almost cold, and he went into the Café de la Poste to telephone the police. If that were the case, there would have been two sets of footsteps in the street and Chalus, who wasn’t asleep, would have heard them.’

  He didn’t dare crow yet, but his mounting excitement was palpable.

  ‘Chalus doesn’t have a police record. He’s a respected teacher. He has no reason to make up such a story.’

  Again Maigret ignored his friend’s unspoken invitation to say something. A fairly lengthy silence ensued. Probably to keep up appearances, the magistrate scribbled a few words in the file he had in front of him and, when he looked up, he was tense.

  ‘Are you married, Monsieur Chalus?’ he asked in a dull voice.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The hostility between the two men was tangible. Chalus too was tense, and his replies were aggressive. He seemed to be challenging the magistrate to reject his statement.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was your wife with you last night?’

  ‘In the same bed.’

  ‘Was she asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you go to bed at the same time?’

  ‘As usual when I don’t have too much homework to mark. Yesterday was Friday and I didn’t have any at all.’

  ‘What time did you turn in with your wife?’

  ‘At half past nine, perhaps a few minutes later.’

  ‘Do you always go to sleep so early?’

  ‘We get up at half past five in the morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we ta
ke advantage of the freedom enjoyed by all French citizens to get up when they choose.’

  Maigret, who was watching him with interest, would have sworn that he was involved in politics, belonged to a left-wing party and was probably what was known as an activist. He was the sort of man to go on marches, address meetings, and also the sort of man to slip pamphlets through letterboxes and refuse to move on when told to do so by the police.

  ‘So you both went to bed at half past nine and I presume you fell asleep?’

  ‘We chatted for around ten minutes.’

  ‘That takes us to nine forty. Did you both doze off?’

  ‘My wife fell asleep.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘No. I find it hard to get to sleep.’

  ‘So that when you heard a noise on the pavement, thirty metres from your house, you weren’t asleep?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Had you not slept at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you fully awake?’

  ‘Enough to hear stamping of feet and the thud of a body falling.’

  ‘Was it raining?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s no floor above you?’

  ‘No. We’re on the second floor.’

  ‘You must have heard the rain on the roof?’

  ‘After a while you take no notice any more.’

  ‘The water in the guttering?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So the noises you heard were merely sounds among various others?’

  ‘There’s a clear difference between running water and the stamping of feet or the sound of a body falling.’

  The magistrate still would not let up:

  ‘Weren’t you curious enough to get out of bed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’re not far from the Café de la Poste.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘At night, it often happens that people who’ve had too much to drink go past our house, and they sometimes fall flat on their faces in the street.’

  ‘And remain lying there?’

  Chalus had no immediate answer.

  ‘Since you mentioned the stamping of feet, I presume you had the impression that there were several men in the street, or at least two?’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  ‘Only one man ran off in the direction of Rue de la République. Is that right?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Given that a murder took place, two men at least were thirty metres from your house at the time you caught that sound. Do you follow me?’

  ‘It’s not difficult.’

  ‘And you heard one of them leaving?’

  ‘I already said so.’

  ‘When did you hear them arrive? Did they arrive together? Did they come from Rue de la République or from the Champ-de-Mars?’

  Chabiron shrugged, while Émile Chalus racked his brains, his expression steely.

  ‘I didn’t hear them arrive.’

  ‘You don’t really think that, do you, that they had been standing in the rain for long, one waiting for the right moment to kill the other?’

  The school teacher clenched his fists.

  ‘Is that all you can come up with?’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It annoys you that someone from your world is under suspicion. But your question doesn’t make sense. I don’t necessarily hear someone walking past in the street, or to be more precise, I don’t take any notice.’

  ‘And yet . . .’

  ‘Let me finish, will you, instead of trying to trip me up. Until the moment when I heard the stamping of feet, I had no reason to take any notice of what was going on in the street. After that, on the contrary, my mind was on the alert.’

  ‘And you contend that from the moment when the body fell on the pavement until the moment when several people came running from the Café de la Poste, no one walked down the street?’

  ‘There were no footsteps.’

  ‘Are you aware of the importance of that assertion?’

  ‘I didn’t ask to make it. It is the inspector who came to question me.’

  ‘Before the inspector questioned you, did you have any idea of the importance of your testimony?’

  ‘I was unaware of Doctor Vernoux’s statement.’

  ‘Who said anything about a statement? Doctor Vernoux has not been called upon to make a statement.’

  ‘Let’s say I was unaware of his version of events.’

  ‘Was it the inspector who told you about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I imagine you were delighted at the effect you were going to produce? You hate the Vernoux family, don’t you?’

  ‘Them and all those of their kind.’

  ‘And you have singled them out for attack in your speeches?’

  ‘I have done.’

  The magistrate, frosty, turned to Inspector Chabiron:

  ‘Has his wife confirmed his story?’

  ‘Partially. I didn’t bring her in because she was busy with her housework, but I can go and fetch her. They did go to bed at nine thirty. She’s certain of it because she’s the one who wound up the alarm-clock, as usual. They chatted for a bit. She fell asleep and what woke her was not feeling her husband beside her. She saw him standing at the window. That was at ten fifteen, and at that point a group of people were gathered around the body.’

  ‘And neither of them went down?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They weren’t curious to find out what was going on?’

  ‘They opened the window a little and heard that Gobillard had just been knocked out.’

  Chabot, who was still avoiding Maigret’s eye, seemed disheartened. He asked a few more questions, without conviction:

  ‘Have other residents in the street confirmed his story?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Have you questioned them all?’

  ‘The ones who were at home this morning. Some had already left for work. Two or three others were at the cinema last night and know nothing.’

  Chabot turned to the school teacher.

  ‘Do you know Doctor Vernoux personally?’

  ‘I’ve never spoken to him, if that’s what you mean. I’ve often walked past him in the street, like everyone else. I know who he is.’

  ‘You have no particular animosity towards him?’

  ‘I’ve already answered you.’

  ‘Have you ever appeared in court?’

  ‘I’ve been arrested at least a dozen times, during political demonstrations, but I’ve always been released after one night in the lock-up and, of course, a beating.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I see that doesn’t interest you.’

  ‘Do you stand by your statement?’

  ‘Yes, even if you don’t like it.’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  ‘It’s about your friends.’

  ‘You are certain enough of what you heard last night to have no hesitation in sending someone to prison or to the gallows?’

  ‘I’m not the one who killed. The murderer had no hesitation, did he, in killing the widow Gibon and poor Gobillard.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Robert de Courçon.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about him!’

  ‘I’m going to call the clerk so he can take down your statement.’

  ‘Whenever it suits you.’

  ‘Then we’ll speak to your wife.’

  ‘She won’t contradict me.’

  Chabot was already reaching for an electric buzzer on his desk when Maigret, whose presence they had almost forgotten, asked quietly:

  ‘Do you suffer from insomnia, Monsieur Chalus?’

  The latter turned his head abruptly.

  ‘What are you trying to insinuate?’r />
  ‘Nothing. I thought I heard you say earlier that you found it hard to get to sleep, which explains why you were still awake at ten o’clock, having gone to bed at half past nine.’

  ‘I’ve suffered from insomnia for years.’

  ‘Have you seen the doctor?’

  ‘I don’t like doctors.’

  ‘You haven’t tried any remedies?’

  ‘I take pills.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Is that a crime?’

  ‘Did you take one last night, before going to bed?’

  ‘I took two, as usual.’

  Maigret nearly smiled on seeing his friend Chabot come back to life like a thirsty plant that is watered at last. The magistrate couldn’t help taking charge of operations again himself.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that you had taken sleeping tablets?’

  ‘Because you didn’t ask me and it’s my business. Am I supposed to tell you when my wife takes a laxative as well?’

  ‘You took two tablets at half past nine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you weren’t asleep at ten past ten?’

  ‘No. If you were familiar with those drugs, you’d know that after a while they have almost no effect any more. At first, one tablet was enough. Now, with two, it takes me more than half an hour to drop off.’

  ‘So it’s possible that when you heard the noise in the street you had already fallen asleep?’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep. If I’d been asleep, I wouldn’t have heard anything.’

  ‘But you could have been dozing. What were you thinking about?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Do you swear that you weren’t half-asleep and half-awake? Consider my question carefully. Perjury is a serious offence.’

  ‘I was not asleep.’

  The man was honest, deep down. There was no doubt he had been thrilled to be able to bring down a member of the Vernoux clan and he had done so with relish. Now, feeling his triumph slip through his fingers, he was trying to cling on, without daring to go so far as to lie.

  He shot Maigret a sad look that contained reproach but not anger. He seemed to be saying: ‘Why did you betray me, when you’re not on their side?’

  Chabot wasted no time.

  ‘Supposing the pills had begun to take effect, without sending you completely to sleep, it is possible that you could have heard sounds in the street and your drowsiness would explain the fact that you didn’t hear the sound of footsteps before the murder. It took the stamping of feet, the thud of the body falling, to attract your attention. Is it not conceivable that afterwards, once the footsteps died away, you fell asleep again? You didn’t get out of bed. You didn’t waken your wife. You weren’t unduly concerned, you told us, as if it had all happened in a dream. It was only when a group of men down in the street were talking in loud voices that you fully woke up.’