Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 9

  Your Estelle

  ‘Is the bill enclosed in the letter?’

  ‘I didn’t find it and so I don’t know how much or what it was for. A piece of jewellery? A fur coat? She was at the church this morning, but not at the cemetery.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you would permit me to take these letters home with me, so I could spend Sunday reading them?’

  ‘I don’t like to say no to you, but it would be hard for me to part with them, even temporarily.

  ‘Come back whenever you like, tomorrow if you wish, and I’ll let you read them in peace. There’s a letter from Robert Trouard, the architect, who was trying to interest my husband in a luxury-apartment construction project.’

  ‘Did he sometimes accept this kind of proposal?’

  ‘Never, to my knowledge.’

  ‘Trouard’s wife?’

  ‘Of course, like the others. Only I don’t think he knew about it.

  ‘Look, this is the most effusive letter. It’s six pages long, full of unbridled eroticism. Not only does this Wanda – whoever she may be – feel the need to recall every single detail of what they did the previous day, but she fantasizes wildly about what they will do when they next meet. She would appear to be Russian or Polish. Oscar must have had difficulty getting rid of her.

  ‘Another. This one is from Marie-France, Henry Legendre’s wife.’

  She held out the pale-blue sheet of paper. The ink was a darker blue.

  You naughty darling,

  I ought to hate you and that is what will happen if you don’t come this week and implore my forgiveness. I have found out some pretty things about you. I shan’t say from whom, because she’s another of your conquests. Doubtless you probably can’t remember all of them.

  In short, a few days ago, you were at a cocktail party and it so happened that someone talked about me. Now I know for certain that you said out loud, in front of at least five people:

  ‘It’s a pity she has sagging breasts.’

  I already knew you were a boor. This proves it. But I don’t have the willpower not to see you any more.

  The ball’s in your court.

  ‘You would find it a lot more appetizing if you knew the personalities involved, if you could see, for instance, the lovely Madame Legendre walk into a drawing room in the company of her husband, her bosom dripping with diamonds.

  ‘Now you are going to have to leave me, because Gérard is about to arrive any moment. Gérard Aubin, the banker, that is. I need his advice and I trust him completely.

  ‘If you’d like to come tomorrow afternoon—’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I understand that you wish to spend your Sunday with your family.’

  She had no idea that the Maigrets would be content, as always, to spend the afternoon at a local cinema and then to go home arm-in-arm.

  Outside, in the square, Maigret spotted Lapointe.

  ‘You were right, chief. But he gave me the slip. That man is like an eel. I looked for him near the apartment building, but I didn’t dare go too close. After around half an hour, I glanced at the Place des Vosges garden surrounded by railings. Because of the rain, there weren’t many people about. On a bench, on the opposite side, I noticed a man I would swear I recognized. He was wearing a shabby brown hat, a raincoat and a darkish suit.

  ‘I slipped through the gate and started walking towards him, but I hadn’t taken ten steps when he got up from the bench and disappeared into Rue de Birague.

  ‘I ran, to the surprise of two old ladies who were chatting under one umbrella. By the time I reached Rue Saint-Antoine, there was no sign of my man. I get the feeling he’s following you, as if to reassure himself that you are pursuing the investigation.’

  ‘He probably knows more than I do. If only he’d speak! Have you got a car?’

  ‘I came by bus.’

  ‘Let’s take the bus, then.’

  And Maigret thrust his hands in his pockets.

  5.

  They didn’t go to the cinema as Maigret had planned the previous day. The rain was heavier, beating down on the pavement, and from ten o’clock that morning a blustery wind had been blowing. There were hardly any pedestrians on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir and only at Mass times could a few dark shapes be seen hunched under umbrellas and keeping close to the walls.

  And it wasn’t until around ten that Maigret decided to get dressed, which was rare. Until then, he stayed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, doing nothing in particular.

  He had a temperature again, not high, thirty-seven point six, but it still made him feel weak and lethargic. Madame Maigret took advantage of it to pamper him, and each time she did something for him, he pretended to complain.

  ‘What are you making for lunch?’

  ‘I’ve got a roast with celery and mashed potato.’

  Just like when he was a child. The Sunday roast. In those days, he wanted the meat well done. As the day went on, he had several whiffs of his childhood.

  They were snug in the apartment, from where they could see the rain coming down. At around midday, Maigret muttered, tentatively:

  ‘I think I’m going to have a little glass of plum brandy as an aperitif.’

  She didn’t protest and he opened the cupboard in the dresser. He had the choice between plum and raspberry brandy. Both came from his sister-in-law in Alsace. The raspberry was more fragrant and it only required one tiny sip for the taste to remain in the mouth for nearly half an hour.

  ‘Won’t you have a drop?’

  ‘No. You know very well it makes me sleepy.’

  The apartment was filled with wonderful aromas, barely dulled by his cold, and he skimmed the papers that he hadn’t had time to read during the week.

  ‘It’s curious how, in some circles, the usual rules no longer apply …’

  She didn’t ask what he meant. In spite of everything, in spite of himself, he was still deeply preoccupied by the Chabut case and every so often he would utter some comment in connection with it.

  ‘When at least one hundred people all more or less want to kill an individual …’

  So who was the short man with a limp who so swiftly melted into the crowd? And how was it that he happened to be at the places Maigret went to, almost always ahead of him?

  He had a nap in his armchair. When he opened his eyes, his wife was busy sewing because she couldn’t bear doing nothing with her hands.

  ‘I slept longer than I intended.’

  ‘It’s good for you.’

  ‘If only this flu would make up its mind …’

  He went to switch on the television. There was a western showing and he was quite content to watch it. There was a villain, of course, and he had some things in common with Chabut. The bad guy also wanted to prove to others and to himself that he was strong and, in order to do so, he humiliated people.

  When the film was over, remembering his tête-à-tête with Madame Chabut the previous day in the little sitting room at Place des Vosges, he muttered:

  ‘Strange woman.’

  ‘Who’s going to take care of the business?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Does she know how?’

  ‘Not really. She’ll take to it quickly and I’m almost certain she’ll make a go of it. I’ll wager that before a year is up, she’ll boot out Monsieur Louceck.’

  He was reading an article about the ocean floor when a thought suddenly dawned on him. What was it the Grasshopper had said about the book-keeper? That he was a newcomer. That he’d only been there for a few months. Had his predecessor left of his own accord or had he been dismissed?

  He wanted an answer right away. Fired up by this idea, he looked the young woman up in the telephone directory and found her number.

  The phone rang for a long time, but no one answered. The Grasshopper and her mother must be at the cinema or visiting family. He called again at around half past seven, still with no luck.

  ‘Do you believe that she knows something?�
��

  ‘She didn’t think it could be important so she didn’t tell me about it. Besides, it’s highly likely that it’s a red herring. I am following up so many at the moment …’

  A good Sunday, despite everything. They had a supper of cold meat and cheese. By ten o’clock, they were both in bed.

  The next morning, instead of going in to his office Maigret telephoned Lapointe and asked him to drive over and pick him up.

  ‘Have you had a rest, chief?’

  ‘I didn’t get out of my armchair all day. I feel stiff all over. Quai de Charenton, my boy!’

  The employees were all there, but there was no frenzy, almost no activity, except at the back of the yard where men wearing bags over their heads to protect them from the rain were rolling barrels.

  ‘While you’re waiting for me, go and have a little chat with the book-keeper.’

  He climbed the stairs, knocked at the door and was greeted by the Grasshopper’s usual open and seemingly amused smile.

  ‘You weren’t at the funeral?’ he commented.

  ‘The staff were asked not to attend.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By Monsieur Louceck. He sent round a memo.’

  ‘It occurred to me yesterday that something had escaped me. When you talked to me about the book-keeper, I think you told me he was new.’

  ‘He’s been here since the first of July. It’s odd that you should come and talk to me about him today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I thought of it yesterday at the cinema and I was going to tell you about him when you came. The previous book-keeper was Gilbert Pigou. He left the company in June – towards the end of June – I believe, and that’s why I didn’t think there was any point mentioning him.’

  Maigret was sitting in Oscar Chabut’s swivel chair and the Grasshopper sat with her long legs crossed, her mini-skirt revealing more than half her thighs.

  ‘Did he leave of his own accord?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘He had almost no personality and he kept himself to himself. You’ve seen the accounts office downstairs overlooking the yard. We call it accounts, but the real accounts department is Avenue de l’Opéra. He only dealt with bits and pieces.’

  ‘Was he married?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. I’m even sure he was. I remember one day he phoned in to say he couldn’t come to work because his wife was having emergency surgery. Acute appendicitis, if I recall correctly.

  ‘He didn’t talk willingly. He seemed afraid of people and tried to make himself as small as possible.’

  ‘Was he a good worker?’

  ‘His job didn’t require any initiative. It was purely routine.’

  ‘Did he make a pass at you? Or at any of the other typists?’

  ‘He was too shy for that. He started working here more than fifteen years ago, when the business began to take off. He was a sad case.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I’m thinking about his last conversation with the boss. I’d have given anything not to have witnessed that scene, the most painful I’ve ever experienced. I can picture Oscar, at ten o’clock in the morning, when he arrived from Avenue de l’Opéra, rubbing his hands together and saying to me: “Call Pigou and tell him to come up.” He already seemed to be relishing what was coming and I felt worried.

  ‘“Sit down, Monsieur Pigou. A little more to the left so you’ll be in the light. I hate talking to people I can’t see clearly. How are you?”

  ‘“Fine, thank you.”

  ‘“Your wife too?”

  ‘“Yes.”

  ‘“Is she still working in Rue Saint-Honoré, in a gentleman’s outfitters, if my memory’s correct?”’

  The Grasshopper paused to comment:

  ‘He had an extraordinary memory for people and the minutest details. He’d never met Madame Pigou, but he remembered that she was a sales assistant in a gentleman’s outfitters in Rue Saint-Honoré.

  ‘“My wife isn’t working any more.”

  ‘“That’s a pity.”

  ‘The book-keeper looked at him not knowing what to think. And Chabut said with the utmost calm:

  ‘“You’re fired, Monsieur Pigou. You have just spent your last morning as an employee of this company. Since I have no intention of giving you a reference, you are unlikely to find work for a long time.”

  ‘He was playing cat and mouse, and I found that upsetting.

  ‘Pigou, sitting on the edge of his seat, didn’t know where to put himself or what to do with his hands, and he appeared so distraught that I expected him to start crying.

  ‘“You see, Monsieur Pigou, when you want to become a dishonest man, it is better to be a dishonest man on a large scale and to do it with a certain flamboyance.”

  ‘The book-keeper still struggled a little, raised his hand and opened his mouth to say something.

  ‘“Here! Take this sheet of paper. I have a copy of it. It’s the list of the amounts you’ve stolen from me over the past three years.”

  ‘“For fifteen years—”

  ‘“You’ve worked for me, that’s true. And I wonder why you only began your fiddling three years ago.”

  ‘Tears rolled down Pigou’s cheeks. He was very pale. He made as if to get up and Chabut ordered:

  ‘“Sit down. I hate talking to people who are standing. In three years, as you can see from this list, you have stolen three thousand, eight hundred and forty-five francs. In small sums. Initially fifty francs at a time, almost every month. Then seventy-five. Then, once, a larger amount: five hundred francs.”

  ‘“It was Christmas.”

  ‘“So what?”

  ‘“It was supposed to be my bonus.”

  ‘“I don’t understand.”

  ‘“My wife had already stopped working. She’s not in very good health.”

  ‘“Are you telling me you stole because of your wife?”

  ‘“That’s the truth. She was constantly berating me. She kept saying I had no ambition, that my employers were taking advantage of me and should have paid me more.”

  ‘“Really!”

  ‘“She nagged me to ask for a rise.”

  ‘“And you didn’t have the guts to do so.”

  ‘“There wouldn’t have been any point, would there?”

  ‘“True, it’s easy to come by employees like you, a small-timer with no special expertise and no initiative.”

  ‘Pigou sat stock still, staring at the desk in front of him.

  ‘“I told Liliane that I’d asked for a pay rise and that I’d got a fifty-franc increase.”

  ‘“Your boss hasn’t been exactly generous, but still it’s a start.”’

  The Grasshopper broke off again.

  ‘The scene was becoming more and more agonizing, and the more defenceless the book-keeper appeared, the more the boss’s eyes lit up.

  ‘“A year ago, the rate was one hundred francs. And it was last Christmas that I was supposed to have given you a bonus of five hundred francs. In your wife’s eyes, at least, you had become an indispensable member of staff, I presume?”

  ‘“Please forgive me …”

  ‘“Too late, Monsieur Pigou. As far as I’m concerned, you no longer exist. It is possible that one day Monsieur Louceck will decide to steal from me. I don’t trust him any more than anyone else. Perhaps he has already begun to do so, but he’s smart enough not to get found out. And he won’t waste small sums to have his wife believe that he’s a wonderful man. He’ll steal from me on a large scale and I think I’ll take my hat off to him.

  ‘“You see, Monsieur Pigou, you are a miserable wretch, you always have been and will be all your life. A miserable wretch and a frightened rabbit. Come here, please.”

  ‘Seeing Chabut get to his feet, I almost shouted: No!

  ‘Pigou walked towards him, one arm raised to protect his face, but Oscar was faster and his hand came down on the book-keeper’
s cheek.

  ‘“That’s for taking me for a fool. I could hand you over to the police, but I’m not interested in doing that. You will go through that door for the last time, gather your belongings and disappear. You are a little swine, Monsieur Pigou, and, worst of all, you are a fool.”’

  The Grasshopper fell silent.

  ‘Did he leave?’

  ‘What else could he do? He even left a pen in his drawer and he never came back to fetch it.’

  ‘Have you heard from him at all?’

  ‘Not during the initial months.’

  ‘Did his wife not telephone?’

  ‘Not until September or at the beginning of October. She came here.’

  ‘Was it Chabut who received her?’

  ‘She was in the office when he arrived. She wanted to know whether her husband still worked here.

  ‘“Did he not tell you that he had lost his job in June?”

  ‘“No. He carried on leaving the house at the same time every morning, keeping the same hours and handing over his salary at the end of every month. He said he had too much work to go away this summer: ‘We’ll make up for it this winter. I’ve always wanted to go on a winter sports holiday.’”

  ‘“Were you surprised?”

  ‘“You know, I paid him so little attention …”

  ‘She was much prettier than I expected, with a trim little figure, and she was well dressed.

  ‘“I hoped you would be able to give me news of my husband. He disappeared two months ago.”

  ‘“And you didn’t come sooner?”

  ‘“I told myself he’d be back one of these days.”

  ‘She was casual, her dark-brown eyes expressionless.

  ‘“Now I’m at the end of my tether and—”’

  Chabut came in, looked her up and down, then turned to his secretary.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Madame Pigou,’ she had no option but to reply.

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘She thought her husband still worked here. He’s gone missing.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘For two or three months, he handed over the equivalent of his salary to her.’

  He looked her in the eye.