The Late Monsieur Gallet Page 8

  Before deciding to go the long way round by the bank again, Maigret shook the gate, and contrary to his expectations it gave way.

  ‘Hey, it’s not locked after all!’ said the gardener in surprise, leaning over the lock. ‘Funny thing, that!’

  Maigret almost recommended him not to mention his visit to Saint-Hilaire, but looking the man up and down he thought him too stupid to heed it and decided not to make matters more complicated.

  ‘Why did you call me just now?’ he asked Moers a little later.

  Moers had lit a candle and was looking through the sheet of glass almost entirely covered with black. ‘Do you know a Monsieur Jacob?’ he asked, putting his head back to examine his work as a whole with satisfaction.

  ‘Good heavens! What have you found?’

  ‘Nothing much. One of the burned letters was signed Monsieur Jacob.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Just about. The letter was written on squared paper torn out of a notebook or some kind of register. I’ve only found a few words on that kind of paper. Absolutely, or I suppose so because the ab is missing. Then Monday …’

  Maigret waited for more, frowning, teeth clenched on his pipe.

  ‘After that?’

  ‘There’s the word prison underlined twice. Unless something’s lost and the word is prisoner. Then there’s cash, or it could be cashier. And there’s also a number written in words, twenty thousand …’

  ‘No address?’

  ‘I told you just now, Clignancourt. The trouble is that there’s no way I can reconstruct the order of the words.’

  ‘Any clue in the handwriting?’

  ‘There isn’t any – it was done on a typewriter.’

  Monsieur Tardivon was in the habit of serving Maigret’s meals himself, and he did so making a great show of discretion together with a touch of conspiratorial familiarity. Now, before knocking, he called from outside the door, ‘A telegram, inspector!’

  He very much wanted to enter the room, as Moers and his mysterious work intrigued him. Seeing that the officer was about to close the door again, he asked cheerfully, ‘And what can I bring you for lunch, inspector?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Maigret curtly. He had opened the telegram. It was from headquarters in Paris; Maigret had asked for certain information. It said:

  Émile Gallet left no will. Estate consists of Saint-Fargeau house, estimated value a hundred thousand with furniture, three thousand five hundred francs deposited in bank.

  Aurore Gallet gets life insurance three hundred thousand taken out by husband with Abeille company 1925.

  Henry Gallet back at work Sovrinos bank.

  Éléonore Boursang out of Paris on holiday in Loire valley.

  ‘Good heavens,’ muttered Maigret, looking into space for a moment and then, turning to Moers, said, ‘Do you know anything about life insurance?’

  ‘That depends,’ said the young man modestly. He was wearing a pair of pince-nez fitting so tightly that his whole face looked contracted.

  ‘In 1925 Gallet was over forty-five. And he had liver trouble. How much a year do you think he had to pay for life insurance worth 300,000 francs?’

  Moers moved his lips silently. The arithmetic took him less than two minutes.

  ‘About 20,000 francs a year,’ he said at last. ‘All the same … it can’t have been easy to persuade a company to take the risk!’

  The inspector cast a furious glance at the portrait photo, still standing on the mantelpiece at the same angle as on the piano in Saint-Fargeau.

  ‘Twenty thousand! And he was spending barely 2,000 a month! In other words, about half of what he was painfully squeezing out of the supporters of the Bourbons!’

  His eyes moved on from the photograph to the shapeless black trousers, baggy at the knees and shiny, stretched out on the floor. And he summoned up the image of Madame Gallet with her mauve silk dress, her jewellery, her cutting voice.

  He might almost have been about to ask the photograph, ‘Did you love her as much as all that?’

  Finally, shrugging his shoulders, he turned to the brightly sunlit wall up which, exactly eight days earlier, Émile Gallet had hoisted himself in his shirtsleeves, his starched shirt-front jutting out of his waistcoat.

  ‘There are still some ashes left,’ he told Moers, sounding rather weary. ‘Try to find me something else about this Monsieur Jacob. Who’s that idiot who said he only knew the Jacob in the Bible?’

  A boy with a freckled face had his elbows propped on the window-sill, grinning from ear to ear, as a man’s voice called up half-heartedly from the terrace, ‘You let those gentlemen get on with their work, Émile!’

  ‘Oh no, not another Émile!’ grumbled Maigret. ‘At least this one’s alive! Whereas the other …’

  But he had enough control over himself to leave the room without looking at the photograph again.

  7. Joseph Moers’ Ear

  The temperature was still scorching. Every morning, the papers had reports of storms breaking in many different parts of France, but it was three weeks since a drop of rain had fallen in and around Sancerre. In the afternoon, the rays of the sun shone directly into the room where Émile Gallet had stayed, making it uninhabitable.

  That Saturday afternoon, however, all Moers did was to lower the cream-coloured blind over the open window. Less than half an hour after lunch, he was leaning over his glass sheets and bits of blackened paper, working with the regularity of a metronome.

  Maigret prowled round him for several minutes, touching everything, dragging his feet, looking hesitant. At last he sighed, ‘Listen, old fellow, I can’t take this any more! I admire you, but you don’t weigh as much as I do. I must go and get some fresh air.’

  But where could he go on a day like this? There was a little fresh air on the terrace, but he would have to put up with the hotel guests and their children. And it was unusual for half an hour to go by in the café without the irritating click of billiard balls being heard.

  Maigret went into the courtyard, half of which was in shade, and called to a young waitress passing by, ‘Bring me a lounger, will you?’

  ‘Do you want to sit here? You’ll be close to all the noise from the kitchens.’

  He preferred that, and the clucking of chickens into the bargain, to other people’s conversations. He took his lounger over to near the well, spread a newspaper over his face to protect himself from the flies and was soon overcome by a delightful sleepiness. Little by little, the noise of plates being washed in the scullery became unreal, and the drowsy Maigret escaped his obsession with the late Monsieur Gallet.

  Exactly when did he notice what sounded like two loud bangs? They did not entirely rouse him from his torpor, because a dream explaining those misplaced sounds surfaced in his mind …

  He was sitting on the hotel terrace. Tiburce de Saint-Hilaire was passing by in a bottle-green suit, followed by a dozen long-eared hounds …

  ‘Weren’t you asking the other day if there’s any game to be found in this part of the country?’ he said.

  Raising his gun to shoulder level, he fired it at random, and a whole flock of partridges looking like autumn leaves fell to the ground …

  ‘Inspector! Quick!’

  He jumped and saw a chambermaid in front of him.

  ‘It’s in the bedroom … someone’s firing a gun!’

  The inspector was ashamed of feeling so heavy. People were already running into the hotel, and he was far from being the first to reach Gallet’s room, where he saw Moers standing by the table with both hands over his face.

  ‘Everyone out of here!’ he ordered.

  ‘Shall I call a doctor?’ asked Monsieur Tardivon. ‘Look … there’s blood!’

  ‘Yes, go!’

  Once the door was closed he went over to
the young man from Criminal Records. He was feeling remorseful.

  ‘What’s the matter, lad?’ Although, as he could see, there was blood – blood everywhere! On Moers’ hands, on his shoulders, on the sheets of glass and on the floor.

  ‘It’s nothing serious, inspector … just my ear, look!’

  He let go of his left earlobe for a moment, and blood immediately spurted out. Moers was pale, but all the same he tried to smile and above all to stop his jaws moving convulsively.

  The shutter was still down, filtering the sunlight and giving the air an orange tinge.

  ‘It’s not dangerous, is it? There’s nothing like an ear for bleeding …’

  ‘Calm down and get your breath back.’ For the Fleming’s teeth were chattering so much that he could hardly speak.

  ‘I ought not to get myself into such a state,’ he said. ‘But I’m not used to this sort of thing! I had just got up to fetch some new plates …’

  He dabbed his wounded ear with his bloody handkerchief, leaning on the table with his free hand.

  ‘And so I was standing just here when I heard a bang. I swear I felt the draught of a bullet passing through the air, so close to my eyes that I thought it had taken my pince-nez off. I flung myself backwards, and then at the same time, at once, I mean after the first shot a second one was fired. I thought I was a dead man … there was such a racket in my head, as if my brain were boiling!’

  His smile was less forced now.

  ‘Well, as you can see, it was nothing, just a little nick in my ear. I ought to have run to the window, but I simply couldn’t move. I thought more shots might be fired – I had no idea what it felt like to be under fire before …’

  He had to sit down. In some sort of delayed reaction, the shock had hit him, and he had gone weak at the knees. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he told Maigret. ‘Find whoever was firing that gun.’

  Drops of sweat suddenly stood out on his forehead, and Maigret, seeing that he was about to faint, ran to the door.

  ‘Tardivon!’ he called. ‘See to Monsieur Moers here. Has a doctor come?’

  ‘He’s not at home. But one of the guests staying here is a male nurse at the Hôtel-Dieu hospital in Paris …’

  Maigret pulled aside the blind and went out over the window-sill, automatically putting the stem of his empty pipe in his mouth. The nettle lane was deserted, half of it in the shade, the other half vibrant with light and warmth. The Louis XIV gate at the end of it was closed.

  The inspector could see nothing unusual about the white wall facing the room. As for footprints, it would be no use looking for any in the dry grass, which, like places where the soil was too stony, did not preserve prints. He made for the bank, where some twenty people had gathered, but hesitated to go any further.

  ‘Were any of you on the terrace when those shots were fired?’

  Several voices replied, ‘I was!’ Their delighted owners stepped forward.

  ‘Did you see anyone starting off along this road?’

  ‘No, no one! Not for the last hour, anyway.’

  ‘I never moved from the spot, inspector!’ said a thin little man in a multi-coloured sweater.

  ‘Go back to Mama, Charlot! I was here, inspector. If the murderer had gone along the nettle lane I’d have been bound to see him. It could have been fatal!’

  ‘Did you hear the shots?’

  ‘Everyone did … I thought they were hunting in the property next door. I even took a few steps …’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone on the road?’

  ‘No one at all.’

  ‘But of course you wouldn’t have looked behind every tree trunk.’ Maigret did exactly that, to put his mind at rest, and then made for the front entrance of the chateau, where he saw the gardener pushing a wheelbarrow full of gravel along a path.

  ‘Your master’s not in, is he?’

  ‘No, he’ll be at the notary’s place. This is the time of day when they play cards.’

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘I saw him as clearly as I see you now! It was about an hour and a half ago.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone in the grounds?’

  ‘Not a soul. Why?’

  ‘Where were you ten minutes ago?’

  ‘Right beside the water, loading up this gravel.’

  Maigret looked into his eyes. The man appeared to be telling the truth – in fact he looked too stupid to be telling a plausible lie.

  Without bothering about him any more, the inspector went over to the barrel propped against the wall enclosing the property, but he saw no indication that the murderer had gone that way. He had no more luck when he examined the rusty barred gate. It did not look as if it had been opened since he himself had pushed it back into place that morning.

  ‘Yet someone fired a gun, twice!’

  The people at the hotel were sitting down again now, but the conversation was general.

  ‘I don’t expect it means anything.’ Monsieur Tardivon came over to the inspector. ‘But I’ve just heard that the doctor has gone to see Petit, the notary. Should I send someone for him?’

  ‘Where’s the notary’s house?’

  ‘In the square beside the Commercial.’

  ‘Whose is that bicycle?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you can take it … are you going yourself?’

  The bicycle was too small for him, but Maigret mounted it, making the springs of the saddle groan under him. Five minutes later he was setting off a chime of bells at the front door of a huge house, very neat and clean, and an old maidservant in a blue checked apron was looking out at him through a peephole.

  ‘Is the doctor here?’

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  But a half-open window was flung wide, and a man of jovial appearance holding playing cards in his hands leaned out.

  ‘Is it for the guard’s wife? I’m just coming!’

  ‘No, there’s a man wounded, doctor! Would you go straight to the Hôtel de la Loire, please?’

  ‘Not another crime, at least I hope not!’

  Three other men, sitting at a table with gleaming crystal glasses on it, rose to their feet. Maigret recognized Saint-Hilaire among them.

  ‘Yes, a crime! Come on, quick!’

  ‘Anyone dead?’

  ‘No … and make sure you bring something to dress a wound.’ Maigret was keeping his eyes on Saint-Hilaire, and he realized that the owner of the little chateau was absolutely thunderstruck.

  ‘One question, gentlemen,’ he began.

  ‘Just a moment!’ the notary interrupted. ‘Why hasn’t anyone let you in?’

  Hearing this, the maid finally opened the door. The inspector went along a corridor and into the sitting room, where there was a pleasant smell of cigars and well-aged spirits.

  ‘What has happened?’ asked the master of the house, a well-groomed old man with silky hair and skin as clear as a baby’s.

  Maigret pretended not to have heard him. ‘Gentlemen, I’d like to know how long you have been playing cards.’

  The notary glanced at a pendulum clock. ‘A good hour.’

  ‘And none of you has left this room during that time?’

  They looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘Good heavens, no! There are only four of us – just the right number for bridge.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

  Saint-Hilaire was crimson in the face.

  ‘Who is the victim?’ he asked. His throat was evidently dry.

  ‘An officer from Criminal Records. He was working in the room where the late Émile Gallet had stayed, concentrating on a part of the case involving the identity of one Monsieur Jacob …’

  ‘Monsieur Jacob,’ repeated the notary.

  ‘Do you know a
nyone of that name?’

  ‘Why, no. Sounds like a Jewish surname.’

  ‘Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire, I’m going to ask you a favour. I’d like you to move heaven and earth to find the key of that barred gate. If necessary I’ll lend you officers to search the villa.’

  The owner of the chateau tossed the contents of a glass of spirits down his throat in a single gulp, something that did not escape Maigret’s notice.

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, gentlemen.’

  ‘Won’t you take a glass of something with us, inspector?’

  ‘Not now, thank you … maybe another time.’

  He set off on the bicycle again, turned left and soon came to a rather dilapidated house with a barely legible board outside giving its name: Pension Germain.

  It was a poor sort of place, and Maigret doubted its cleanliness. A little boy, not very well washed, was standing in the doorway, where a dog was gnawing a bone picked up from the dusty road outside.

  ‘Is Mademoiselle Boursang here?’ he asked.

  A woman carrying a baby in her arms appeared at the back of the room. ‘She’s gone out, same as every afternoon, but you’ll probably find her on the hill near the old chateau. She took a book with her, and that’s her favourite place.’

  ‘Does this road lead there?’

  ‘Yes, turn right after the last house.’

  Halfway up the hillside, Maigret had to get off the bicycle and push it. He was feeling more nervous than he would have liked, perhaps because once again he had the impression that he was on the wrong track.

  It wasn’t Saint-Hilaire who fired those shots, that’s for sure, he told himself. Yet all the same …

  The road he was following crossed a kind of public garden. On the left, where the ground sloped, a little girl was sitting near three goats tethered to stakes. The road went round a sudden bend, and just above him, a hundred metres uphill, Maigret saw Éléonore sitting on a bench with a book in her hands. He called to the girl, who looked about twelve.

  ‘Do you know the lady sitting up there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Does she often come to sit on that bench and read?’