Maigret Hesitates Read online

  Ready to weep with annoyance, she cried:

  ‘My children have nothing to do with all this, don’t you understand? They don’t care about us, only themselves. They have their own lives to get on with. They don’t give a damn about ours, what’s left of it.’

  She had again spoken vehemently, as if certain subjects automatically set her off.

  ‘Well, there you are! Forgive me if I don’t see you out … I wonder what it was I expected … What will be, will be! Go and see my husband again, or that girl … Goodbye, Monsieur Maigret.’

  She had opened the door for him and waited for him to leave before shutting it. Once out in the corridor, it already seemed to Maigret that he was emerging from another world. All that blue he had just left still haunted him.

  Through a window, he looked out at the courtyard, where a different chauffeur from the one in the morning was polishing a different car. It was still sunny, and there was a light breeze.

  He was tempted to get his hat from the cloakroom, with which he was familiar, and to leave without saying anything. Then, almost reluctantly, he walked to Mademoiselle Vague’s office.

  A white coat over her dress, she was photocopying documents. The blinds were closed, letting only thin rays of light filter in.

  ‘Were you hoping to see Monsieur Parendon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just as well. He’s in a meeting with two important clients, one from Amsterdam, the other from Athens. They’re both shipowners, and they …’

  He wasn’t listening. She went and opened the blinds, and the sun streamed in.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I just spent an hour with Madame Parendon.’

  ‘I know.’

  He looked at the switchboard.

  ‘Was it you who put her through to Quai des Orfèvres?’

  ‘No. I didn’t even know she’d phoned. I heard it from Lise when she came to ask me for a stamp.’

  ‘Tell me about Lise.’

  ‘She’s the maid.’

  ‘I know that. I’m asking what kind of person she is.’

  ‘A simple girl like me. We’re both from the provinces. I’m from a small town, and she’s from the country. As I had a bit of education, I became a secretary, and as she didn’t have any, she became a maid.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty-three. I know everyone’s age, because I fill out the Social Security forms.’

  ‘Is she conscientious?’

  ‘Whatever she’s told to do, she does well. I don’t think she has any desire to change jobs.’

  ‘Any boyfriends?’

  ‘Yes, on her day off, which is Saturday.’

  ‘Is she bright enough to write the letters you read?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Did you know that Madame Parendon caught you with her husband about a year ago?’

  ‘I told you it happened once, but there may have been other times when she opened and closed the door without making any noise.’

  ‘Did Parendon tell you that, ever since, his wife has been refusing to have sex with him?’

  ‘They didn’t have it that often anyway!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t love her.’

  ‘Doesn’t love her or doesn’t love her any more?’

  ‘That depends on what you mean by the word “love”. I suppose he was grateful to her for marrying him and for years tried his best to show his gratitude.’

  Maigret smiled at the thought that, on the other side of the wall, two important oil magnates from opposite ends of Europe were putting their wealth in the hands of the little man he and Mademoiselle Vague were talking about in this way.

  For them he wasn’t a colourless, half-helpless gnome, withdrawn and brooding on unhealthy thoughts, but one of the leading lights of maritime law. Weren’t the three of them playing with hundreds of millions while Madame Parendon, angry or demoralized, disappointed in any case, was getting ready for her four o’clock appointment?

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to sit down?’

  ‘I think I’ll have a look next door.’

  ‘You’ll only find Julien Baud there. Tortu’s at the Palais de Justice.’

  He made a vague gesture.

  ‘Julien Baud will do!’

  4.

  Maigret might have thought he was entering a different apartment. In contrast to the orderliness of the rest of the place, frozen as it was in the solemn atmosphere established by Chief Justice Gassin de Beaulieu, what was immediately striking about the office that René Tortu shared with young Julien Baud was the untidiness, the air of sloppiness.

  By the window stood a desk, the kind found in all commercial offices, cluttered with files, and there were green binders on pine shelves, piled one on top of the other as the need arose. There were even some on the polished wooden floor.

  As for Julien Baud’s desk, it was a former kitchen table covered in wrapping paper held on with drawing pins. On the wall, stuck on with adhesive tape, were pictures of naked women cut out of magazines. As Maigret opened the door, Baud was busy weighing and stamping envelopes. He raised his head and looked at him without surprise or alarm, as if wondering what he was doing here.

  ‘Are you looking for Tortu?’

  ‘No. I know he’s at the Palais de Justice.’

  ‘He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘It’s not him I’m looking for.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  A well-built, red-haired young man with freckles on his cheeks. His porcelain-blue eyes expressed total calm.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  He continued weighing letters, some of them in large-format manila envelopes, then consulting a little book that indicated the postage rates for different countries.

  ‘Having fun?’ Maigret asked.

  ‘Oh, you know, as long as I’m in Paris …’

  He had a delightful hint of an accent and dragged out some of the syllables.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Morges, on the shores of Lake Léman. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ve been through there.’

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is … What’s it like to work here?’

  ‘It’s a big place,’ Baud replied, slightly misunderstanding the question.

  ‘How do you get on with Monsieur Parendon?’

  ‘I don’t see much of him. I put stamps on envelopes, I go to the post office, I run errands, I wrap parcels. I’m not exactly important. Every now and again, the boss comes in, pats me on the shoulder and asks: “Everything all right, young man?” The servants all call me “the little Swiss”, even though I’m one metre eighty tall.’

  ‘Do you get on well with Mademoiselle Vague?’

  ‘She’s nice to me.’

  ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘Well, you know, she’s also on the other side of the wall, the boss’s side.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, they have their work there, and we have ours here. When the boss needs someone, he doesn’t call for me, he calls for her.’

  There was an innocent expression on his face, but Maigret wasn’t sure this innocence wasn’t feigned.

  ‘I hear you want to be a playwright?’

  ‘I try to write plays. I’ve written two so far, but they’re no good. When you come from the canton of Vaud like me, you have to get used to Paris first.’

  ‘Does Tortu help you?’

  ‘Help me with what?’

  ‘Getting to know Paris. By taking you out, for instance.’

  ‘He’s never taken me out. He has other things to do.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘See his fiancée, his friends … As soon as I got off the train at Gare de Lyon, I realized it’s every man for himself here.’

  ‘Do you often see Madame Parendon?’
r />   ‘Quite often, especially in the mornings. When she’s forgotten to phone a supplier, she comes to see me. “Dear boy, would you be so kind as to order a leg of lamb and ask for it to be delivered right away? If they don’t have anyone, pop over to the butcher’s yourself, would you?” So I go to the butcher’s, the fishmonger’s, the grocer’s. I go to her bootmaker’s if there’s a scratch on her shoe. It’s always “dear boy”. It’s either that or putting stamps on envelopes.’

  ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘I may put her in one of my plays.’

  ‘Because she’s such an extraordinary character?’

  ‘Nobody here is ordinary. They’re all crazy.’

  ‘Your boss, too?’

  ‘He’s intelligent, of course, or he wouldn’t be in the profession he’s in, but he’s a fanatic, right? With all the money he makes, he could at least do something more than just sit behind his desk or in an armchair. OK, he may not be very strong, but all the same …’

  ‘Are you aware of his relationship with Mademoiselle Vague?’

  ‘Everyone is. But he could afford dozens of girls, hundreds of them, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘What about his relations with his wife?’

  ‘What relations? They live in the same apartment, they meet in the corridors the way people pass each other in the street. Once, I had to go into the dining room during lunch, because I was alone in the office and I’d just received an urgent telegram. Well, they were sitting there like strangers in a restaurant.’

  ‘You don’t seem to be especially fond of them.’

  ‘I could have done worse. At least they provide me with characters.’

  ‘Comic ones?’

  ‘Comic and tragic at the same time. Just like life.’

  ‘Have you heard about the letters?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who wrote them?’

  ‘It could be anybody. It could be me.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘No. It never occurred to me.’

  ‘Does the daughter get on well with you?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Bambi?’ He shrugged. ‘I wonder if she’d even recognize me in the street. When she needs something — paper, scissors, whatever — she comes in, doesn’t say a word, just helps herself and goes out again.’

  ‘Is she arrogant?’

  ‘Maybe not … Maybe it’s just her nature.’

  ‘Do you also think something terrible might happen?’

  He looked at Maigret with his big blue eyes.

  ‘Something terrible can happen anywhere. Last year, for instance, on a day as sunny as today, a sweet little old lady out for a walk was knocked down by a bus just outside the building. A few seconds earlier, she’d had no idea—’

  They heard hurried steps in the corridor. A brown-haired young man of about thirty, of medium height, stopped dead in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, Monsieur Tortu.’

  He was carrying a briefcase and had a self-important air.

  ‘Inspector Maigret, I assume?’

  ‘You assume correctly.’

  ‘Is it me you want to see? Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘Actually, I’m not waiting for anyone.’

  He was quite a handsome young man, with dark hair, well-drawn features and an aggressive expression. He was clearly someone determined to make his way in life.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ he asked, walking over to the desk and putting his briefcase down on it.

  ‘I’ve been sitting for a good part of the day. Your young colleague and I were chatting.’

  The word ‘colleague’ clearly shocked René Tortu, who glared at Baud.

  ‘I had an important case to deal with at the Palais de Justice.’

  ‘I know. Do you often appear in court?’

  ‘Whenever mediation proves impossible. Maître Parendon seldom appears in person. We prepare the files together and then I get to plead the case.’

  ‘I see.’

  Tortu clearly had no doubts about his own importance.

  ‘What do you think of Maître Parendon?’

  ‘As a man or as a jurist?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘As a jurist, he’s far beyond his peers, and nobody has his skill at spotting the weak point in the opponent’s argument.’

  ‘And as a man?’

  ‘Working for him, being his only close colleague, so to speak, it’s not up to me to judge him in that respect.’

  ‘Do you think he’s weak?’

  ‘That’s not the word I would have used. Let’s just say that if I were him, and at his age, I’d lead a more active life.’

  ‘Being present at the parties his wife gives, for instance, going to the theatre with her, dining out?’

  ‘Perhaps. You can’t live surrounded by nothing but books and files.’

  ‘Have you read the letters?’

  ‘Maître Parendon showed me the photostats.’

  ‘Do you think they’re a hoax?’

  ‘Perhaps. I must admit I haven’t given it much thought.’

  ‘Even though they suggest that something bad is going to happen here soon?’

  Tortu said nothing. He took papers from his briefcase and put them away in the binders.

  ‘Would you marry a girl who was a younger version of Madame Parendon?’

  Tortu looked at him in surprise.

  ‘I’m already engaged, or haven’t you heard? So there’s no question of—’

  ‘It was my way of asking you what you think of her.’

  ‘She’s active, intelligent, and is able to get on well with—’

  He turned abruptly towards the door, and there in the doorway stood the woman they were talking about. She was wearing a leopard-skin coat over a black silk dress. Either she was about to go out, or she had just got back.

  ‘You’re still here,’ she said in surprise, turning her calm, cold gaze on Maigret.

  ‘As you can see.’

  It was difficult to know how long she had been standing in the corridor or how much of the conversation she had heard. Maigret understood what Mademoiselle Vague had meant when she had talked about a household where you never knew if you were being spied on.

  ‘Dear boy,’ she said to Baud, ‘could you call the Countess of Prange immediately and let her know I’ll be at least a quarter of an hour late because I was detained at the last moment? Mademoiselle Vague is busy with my husband and these gentlemen.’

  She gave Maigret a final harsh look and left the room. Julien Baud picked up the telephone. As for Tortu, he was presumably pleased: if Madame Parendon had heard his last answers, she couldn’t help but be grateful to him.

  ‘Hello? Is that the Countess of Prange’s residence?’

  Maigret shrugged slightly and left the room. Julien Baud amused him, and he had a feeling the boy would do well as a playwright. As for Tortu, he didn’t like him, but for no particular reason.

  Mademoiselle Vague’s door was open, but the office was empty. Passing Parendon’s office, he heard a murmur of voices.

  Just as he reached the cloakroom to get his hat, Ferdinand appeared as if by chance.

  ‘Do you stand by the door all day?’

  ‘No, inspector. I just thought you’d be leaving soon. Madame went out a few minutes ago.’

  ‘I know. Have you ever been in prison, Ferdinand?’

  ‘Just military prison, in Africa.’

  ‘Are you French?’

  ‘Yes, from Aubagne.’

  ‘How did you come to join the Foreign Legion?’

  ‘I was young. I’d done a few stupid things.’

  ‘In Aubagne?’

  ‘In Toulon. You know how it is, I’d got into bad company. When I realized things were about to go wrong, I joined the Legion. I told them I was Belgian.’

  ‘And you’ve never been in trouble since?’

  ‘I’ve been in Monsieur Parendon’s service for eight years, and he’s never had any
complaints about me.’

  ‘Do you like the job?’

  ‘There are worse ones.’

  ‘Is Monsieur Parendon good to you?’

  ‘He’s the best of men.’

  ‘What about madame?’

  ‘Between you and me, she’s a bitch.’

  ‘Does she give you a hard time?’

  ‘She gives everyone a hard time. She’s everywhere, checks on everything, complains about everything. It’s a good thing I have my room over the garage.’

  ‘To have your girlfriends round?’

  ‘If I made the mistake of doing that and she found out, she’d fire me on the spot. As far as she’s concerned, servants ought to be neutered. But at least being over there means I can breathe in peace. I can also go out when I feel like it, although I’m linked to the apartment by a bell and I’m supposed to be on call, as she puts it, twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘Has she ever sent for you at night?’

  ‘Three or four times. To make sure I was there, I suppose.’

  ‘On what pretext?’

  ‘Once, she’d heard a suspicious noise and she went round all the rooms with me looking for a burglar.’

  ‘What was it, a cat?’

  ‘There are no cats or dogs in the apartment. She wouldn’t allow them. When Monsieur Gus was younger, he asked for a puppy for Christmas but instead got an electric train set. I’ve never seen a boy throw a tantrum like that.’

  ‘What about the other times?’

  ‘One other time, it was a smell of burning. The third time … Hold on. Oh, yes! She’d listened at monsieur’s door and hadn’t heard him breathing. She sent me to see if he was all right.’

  ‘Couldn’t she have gone herself?’

  ‘I suppose she had her reasons. I’m not complaining, mind you. Since she goes out every afternoon and most evenings, there are long periods when it’s quiet.’

  ‘Do you get on well with Lise?’

  ‘Quite well. She’s a pretty girl. For a while … Well, you know what I mean … But she likes change … A different man almost every Saturday … And since I don’t like to share …’

  ‘What about Madame Vauquin?’

  ‘She’s an old cow!’

  ‘Doesn’t she like you?’

  ‘She measures out our portions like we were schoolkids, and she’s even stricter with the wine, I guess because her husband’s a drunkard who beats her at least twice a week … Because of that, she hates all men.’