Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 6

  ‘It’s me again. May I introduce Inspector Lucas, my oldest colleague?’

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I am. I have a few important questions to ask you, one in particular.’

  He sat down in Chabut’s chair, in front of the cylinder desk.

  ‘Who knew that on Wednesday, your boss and you would be going to Rue Fortuny?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Here or elsewhere.’

  ‘Here, everyone. Oscar was the opposite of discreet. The minute he had a new mistress, he wanted to tell the world.’

  ‘Did you leave the office at the same time as him?’

  ‘Yes. And we both got into his car, which is quite conspicuous.’

  ‘Was it the same routine almost every Wednesday?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Was Monsieur Louceck aware of it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He hardly ever came here. It was the boss who’d spend a couple of hours at Avenue de l’Opéra every day.’

  ‘Will you let me have his schedule?’

  ‘I can give you a rough one, because it wasn’t the same every day. Generally, he left home at around nine in the morning, at the wheel of the Jaguar, leaving the driver and the Mercedes for his wife’s use. First he’d stop at Quai de Bercy to check the warehouses where the wines are blended and bottled.’

  ‘Who’s in charge of that operation?’

  ‘In principle, it’s supervised by Monsieur Leprêtre, who goes back and forth, but there’s a sort of assistant manager who’s from Sète, I think.’

  ‘Does he come here too?’

  ‘Rarely.’

  ‘Does he know about your relationship with the boss?’

  ‘It’s possible that someone’s told him.’

  ‘Has he ever made a pass at you?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s even noticed me.’

  ‘Right. Next?’

  ‘Monsieur Chabut would get here at around ten and go through his post. If he had one or several appointments, I’d remind him. He often met suppliers who’d come up from the South.’

  ‘How did he behave towards you?’

  ‘It depended. Some mornings, he was barely aware of my presence. Other times, he’d say:

  ‘“Come here.”

  ‘And he’d lift up my skirt. It didn’t bother him that the door wasn’t locked and we’d make love on a corner of the desk.’

  ‘You were never caught?’

  ‘A couple of times by one of the typists and once by Monsieur Leprêtre. The typists weren’t surprised, because the same thing happened to them.’

  ‘What time did he leave?’

  ‘On days when he went home for lunch, at around midday. When he had lunch in town, which was quite often, at around half past twelve.’

  ‘Where do you eat?’

  ‘A couple of hundred metres away, by the river. There’s a little restaurant where the food’s not bad.’

  ‘What about the afternoons?’

  Poor old Lucas was listening to all this in amazement and looked the Grasshopper up and down, unable to comprehend her attitude.

  ‘Almost every day, he’d drop in to Avenue de l’Opéra, where he’d stay until around four o’clock. He shared an office with Monsieur Louceck.’

  ‘Did he have affairs there too?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s a very different set-up with a very different atmosphere. Besides, I think he’d have been embarrassed in front of Monsieur Louceck. He’s the only person he seemed to be a little afraid of. Afraid is a bit strong, but he didn’t treat him like the others and I don’t think he ever yelled at him.’

  ‘At around four, did he come back here?’

  ‘Between four and four thirty. He devoted a certain amount of time to Monsieur Leprêtre. Sometimes he’d attend the unloading of a barge. Then he’d come up, ring for one of the typists and dictate letters to her.’

  ‘Did he not dictate any to you?’

  ‘Rarely. Or just personal correspondence. He needed someone in his office, a person of no importance in front of whom he could think out loud. That was my role. If I hadn’t done any work at all it would have made no difference to him.’

  ‘What time did he leave then?’

  ‘Six o’clock in general, unless he felt like staying with me or with one of the other girls for a while.’

  ‘He never spent the evening with you?’

  ‘Only Wednesdays, until around nine o’clock.’

  ‘Did you always come out of Madame Blanche’s after him?’

  ‘No. Sometimes we’d leave together and he’d drop me off in Rue Caulaincourt, a hundred metres from where I live. Last Wednesday, he was in a hurry and I told him not to wait for me.’

  ‘Keep thinking about it. Try and remember who knew about your visits to Rue Fortuny.’

  After blowing his nose, he put his hat back on his head. Madame Maigret had been right: the sun had come out and was making the Seine twinkle.

  ‘Come on, Lucas. Thank you, mademoiselle.’

  Just as the car was turning into the courtyard of the Police Judiciaire, for a fleeting moment, Maigret’s gaze lighted on a man standing near the parapet on the embankment of Quai des Orfèvres. At the time, Maigret attached no importance to it, especially since the man immediately started heading towards Place Dauphine, dragging his leg a little.

  ‘Did you notice him?’ he asked Lucas later.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A man wearing a gabardine. He was standing opposite the gate and looking at the windows. Then, when we drew level with him, he stared at me. I’m sure he recognized me.’

  ‘A tramp?’

  ‘No. He was clean-shaven and decently dressed. But he can’t be very warm in his gabardine.’

  Now in his office, Maigret was still thinking about the stranger and he went over to look out of the window, as was his habit. The man was no longer outside, of course.

  He tried to work out what had struck him so forcefully about him and ended up wondering if it wasn’t the intensity of his gaze. It was the pathetic gaze of a man faced with a serious problem or who was suffering.

  Could it have been a sort of plea for Maigret’s help?

  He shrugged, filled a pipe and sat down at his desk. He would still, for no apparent reason, break into a sudden sweat and have to mop his face.

  He had promised Madame Maigret he’d come home for lunch but had forgotten to ask her what she was cooking. He liked to know before he left, so he could look forward to it.

  The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver.

  ‘A call for you, inspector. The caller refuses to give his name or the reason for his call. Will you take it anyway?’

  ‘I’ll take it. Hello …!’

  ‘Inspector Maigret?’ asked a slightly muffled voice.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you not to worry about the wine merchant. He was a filthy scoundrel.’

  Maigret asked:

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  But the man on the other end of the line had already hung up. Maigret did likewise and stared pensively at the telephone. This was perhaps what he’d been expecting since Chabut’s death: a starting point.

  This phone call hadn’t taught him anything, admittedly, other than that someone, in this case probably the murderer, was one of those people incapable of remaining completely anonymous. So they write, or they telephone. They are not necessarily mad.

  He had known several similar cases and, in one of them at least, the criminal had not rested until he was caught.

  His head heavy, he trawled through his post, signed reports and other paperwork that gave him almost as much work as the investigations.

  At midday, he walked down to Boulevard du Palais and, after a moment’s hesitation, went into the café on the corner. His mouth felt furry and he wondered what to drink. He ordered a glass of rum because he’d had one the previous day. He actually drank two, since the glass was small.

&n
bsp; A taxi took him home where he slowly climbed the stairs. On reaching his floor, he found the door opening and his wife watching him.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Better. Except that I kept breaking out into a sudden sweat. What’s for lunch?’

  He removed his coat, scarf and hat and went into the living room.

  ‘Braised calf’s liver à la bourgeoise.’

  It was one of his favourite dishes. He sat down in his armchair and glanced at the newspapers, his mind elsewhere.

  Could the man who had telephoned him be the man he’d noticed earlier in the street, opposite the entrance to the Police Judiciaire?

  He’d have to wait until he called again. Perhaps he would even phone him at home, because the newspapers had often mentioned his apartment on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. Besides, nearly all the taxi-drivers knew his address.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Madame Maigret as she set the table.

  ‘About a man I saw earlier. Our eyes met and now I think he wanted to communicate some sort of message.’

  ‘In a look?’

  ‘Why not? I don’t know if he’s the person who called me a little later to tell me that Chabut was a filthy scoundrel. Those were his words. He hung up before I could ask any questions.’

  ‘Are you hoping he’ll ring again?’

  ‘Yes. They nearly always do. They get a thrill out of playing with fire. Unless he’s a poor crackpot who knows nothing about the case except what he’s read in the papers. That also happens.’

  ‘Do you want me to turn on the television?’

  They ate almost in silence because Maigret’s mind was on his investigation and its cast of characters.

  ‘Have you made enough for us to have the rest cold tomorrow as a starter?’

  He loved cold calf’s liver, especially served the next day. For dessert, he ate walnuts, figs and almonds. Although he’d only drunk two glasses of Bordeaux he felt less numb and he went and sat in his armchair by the window.

  He closed his eyes and for a long while he remained as if suspended between sleep and wakening. He realized that he was slipping imperceptibly and it was a pleasant sensation that he didn’t want to dispel.

  He saw the man outside the Police Judiciaire again, with his gammy leg. Was it the left or the right? In his drowsy state, the question took on an importance that was hard for him to explain.

  Madame Maigret bustled about noiselessly clearing the table, and he was only aware of her comings and goings because he sometimes felt a faint draught.

  Then, nothing. He didn’t even know that he was breathing through his mouth and snoring gently. When he woke with a start, surprised to find himself in his armchair, the clock showed 3.05. He looked around for his wife. Muted sounds from the kitchen told him that she was busy ironing.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Wonderfully. I could sleep all day.’

  ‘Do you want to take your temperature?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  This time, it was thirty-seven point six.

  ‘Do you really have to go to the office?’

  ‘I ought to, yes.’

  ‘Then take an aspirin before you leave.’

  Obediently, he took one, then, to get rid of the taste, he poured himself a tiny glass of plum brandy, which his sister-in-law had sent from Alsace.

  ‘I’ll call you a taxi right away.’

  The pale-blue sky was clear and the sun was shining, but the air was still very cold.

  ‘Would you like me to put the heating on, chief? You sound as if you have a cold. My wife and kids have got flu. It’s always one after the other. Tomorrow or the next day it will be my turn.’

  ‘No heating, please. I keep breaking out in a sweat as it is.’

  ‘You too? I’ve found myself drenched three or four times since this morning.’

  The staircase seemed steeper than usual and he was happy to sit down at his desk at last. He buzzed Lucas to come and see him.

  ‘Nothing new?’

  ‘No, chief.’

  ‘No anonymous phone calls?’

  ‘No. Lapointe has just returned to the office and I think he’s waiting to speak to you.’

  ‘Tell him to come in.’

  He chose one of the pipes lined up on his desk, the lightest one, and filled it slowly.

  ‘Have you already got all the information?’

  ‘More or less all, yes. I was quite lucky.’

  ‘Sit down. Pass me the list.’

  ‘You won’t understand my notes. I’d rather read them to you before I make my report. I’ll start with the minister, Xavier Thorel. I didn’t have to question anyone. I found out from the Thursday papers that he was representing the government at the world première of a film about the Resistance.’

  ‘With his wife?’

  ‘Yes, Rita was beside him, so was their eighteen-year-old son.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I then realized that other people on the list were at the same gala, but their names hadn’t been published. That applies to Doctor Rioux, who lives in Place des Vosges two doors down from the Chabuts.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘His concierge, quite simply. The traditional sources of information are still the best. Apparently Doctor Rioux is Madame Chabut’s physician.’

  ‘Is she often ill?’

  ‘She appears to call him quite frequently. He’s a fairly stout man, with a few strands of brown hair carefully combed over his bald patch. His wife is a large, red-haired mare who was probably of no interest to Oscar Chabut.’

  ‘That’s two. Next?’

  ‘Henry Legendre, the industrialist, was in Rouen, where he has a pied-à-terre which he goes to once or twice a week. I got that from his driver, who mistook me for a door-to-door salesman.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘She’s been in bed for a week with flu. I couldn’t find out anything about Pierre Merlot, the stockbroker, other than that he was supposed to have dined in town, as he and his wife Lucile often do. I haven’t had the time to check out all the gourmet restaurants. Apparently he’s a food lover.’

  ‘And Caucasson, the art publisher?’

  ‘At the same cinema on the Champs-Élysées as the minister.’

  ‘Maître Poupard?’

  ‘At a formal dinner being given by the American ambassador on Avenue Gabriel.’

  ‘Madame Poupard?’

  ‘She was there too. There’s also a Madame Japy, Estelle Japy, widow or divorcee, who lives on Boulevard Haussmann and was one of Chabut’s mistresses for a long time. To find out about her, I had to sweet-talk her maid. She stopped seeing Chabut months ago after he treated her badly. On Wednesday, she ate alone at home and spent the evening watching television.’

  Maigret’s telephone rang and he picked it up.

  ‘It’s someone asking for you in person. I think it’s the same man as this morning.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’

  There was a lengthy silence during which he could hear the caller’s breathing.

  ‘Are you there?’ he eventually asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m listening.’

  ‘It’s just to repeat once more that he was a scoundrel. Get that clear.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  But the man had already hung up.

  ‘Perhaps he’s the murderer, or perhaps he’s a prankster. If he keeps hanging up on me, I’ve no way of judging. No way of finding him, either. We’ll have to wait until he either talks too much, or makes a mistake.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘The same as this morning: that Chabut was a scoundrel.’

  Scores of people must have shared that opinion, including the Chabuts’ habitual dining companions. He had done his utmost to arouse antipathy, if not hatred, both as a result of his attitude towards women and the way he treated his staff.

  It was as if he actively sought to annoy people. But until last Wednesday, no one
had ever tried to put him in his place. Had he been slapped and refrained from broadcasting the fact? Had no jealous spouse ever punched him in the face?

  His attitude was provocative and he was cocksure, permitting himself to defy fate.

  And yet someone – a man, according to Madame Blanche – had eventually had enough and had waited for him outside the establishment in Rue Fortuny. That someone must have had even stronger reasons than the others to hate him because, in killing him, he had jeopardized his own freedom if not his life.

  Should Maigret seek the killer among his friends? The information unearthed by Lapointe was rather disappointing. People were less and less likely to kill in revenge for a marital infidelity, especially in some social circles.

  Did the murderer belong to the group based at Quai de Charenton? Or was he a member of staff at Avenue de l’Opéra?

  And lastly, was he the anonymous caller who had telephoned Maigret twice to unburden himself?

  ‘Had you finished with the list?’

  ‘There’s Philippe Borderel and his mistress. He’s a theatre critic for a major daily newspaper. They were at a dress rehearsal at the Théâtre de la Michodière. And then Trouard, the architect, who was having dinner at the Brasserie Lipp with a prominent property developer.’

  How many others were not on the list and had valid reasons to resent the wine merchant? They would have had to question dozens and dozens of people, men and women, one at a time, looking them in the eyes. It was unthinkable, of course, and that was why Maigret was so keen to track down his anonymous caller, who was perhaps the man he’d seen that morning close to the parapet.

  ‘Do you know when the funeral will be?’

  ‘No. When I left Madame Chabut, she was about to meet the funeral director. The body must have been taken to Place des Vosges yesterday, in the late afternoon. Incidentally, why don’t we go over there and pay our respects?’

  A little later, they were on their way to Place des Vosges. On the first floor, finding the door ajar, they went in, and were immediately engulfed by the scent of church candles and chrysanthemums.

  Oscar Chabut lay in his coffin, which had not yet been sealed. An elderly woman in mourning was kneeling on a prie-dieu while a youngish couple stood facing the body, which was illuminated by the dancing flames of the candles.