The Murders at Impasse Louvain

by Richard Grindal

  Now he decided that he could procrastinate no longer and must speak frankly to his chief. Leaving his room he went down to the director’s office on the first floor and there he found Courtrand speaking on the telephone. Although the telephone was rapidly becoming more common in Paris and all police stations and offices were now equipped with it, the system seldom worked smoothly. A caller was at the mercy of the telephone operators who were an autocratic breed, only giving their favours in rare moments of good humour and disconnecting a call or even refusing to put one through, if a subscriber should make so much as a hint of a complaint.

  Today Courtrand was having difficulty with his call and more than once felt obliged to remind the operator of his authority and importance. After several interruptions he eventually concluded his conversation and put down the instrument.

  ‘That was a journalist speaking to me from Madame Hassler’s house,’ he told Gautier. ‘There has been a most important development in the case.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The manservant has been caught with some of the stolen property in his possession.’

  ‘I hope this is not going to be another false accusation.’

  ‘You’re too sceptical by far, Gautier.’ Courtrand crossed the room to fetch his hat and gloves which he always kept on a small table by the door, and his frock coat which hung near them. ‘The stolen jewelry was found in Mansard’s wallet,’ he told Gautier, ‘And there were two journalists present when it happened.’

  ‘How very convenient!’ An instinct fashioned over long years of dealing with crimes and criminals told him to distrust this unlikely coincidence. He remembered that only the previous day he and Josephine Hassler had discussed the matter of the stolen jewelry.

  We must both get down to Impasse Louvain at once,’ Courtrand told him.

  They drove to the Hasslers’ house in a fiacre. Public interest in the Impasse Louvain affair had swollen enormously since Le Matin’s sensational story of the arrest of York and Claudine Verdurin and its subsequent rebuttal. All the daily newspapers were giving the case headline coverage and a fair-sized crowd were gathered outside the house when they arrived. Someone in the mob recognized Courtrand and a voice from the back of the throng shouted jeering abuse.

  ‘Hey, Monsieur le Director, is this a professional visit or have you come to renew your intimate friendship with the lady?’

  ‘Intimate friendship? More likely carnal knowledge.’

  ‘He’ll have to take his turn then,’ another voice jeered. ‘She takes her lovers in order of precedence, the president first.’

  ‘Why don’t you arrest the whore?’ A woman screamed. ‘She’s the one who killed her husband. And her own mother, cruel bitch!’ Three policemen were standing guard outside the gate of the house and with their help Courtrand and Gautier managed to elbow a path through the crowd. Gautier noticed that all the policemen were big, husky men which was a sure sign that the superintendent of the arrondissement was expecting trouble.

  Inside the drawing-room of the house several people were assembled, waiting for them. Besides Josephine Hassler, Gautier recognized Cros and another journalist from Le Matin, a pretty, nervous girl of about seventeen whom he assumed to be the Hasslers’ daughter, a middle-aged couple and the manservant Mansard. The couple were introduced as the cousins of Félix Hassler, a Monsieur Charon and his wife, who were now living in the house since, as Josephine Hassler explained, she and her daughter were afraid to live alone with a hostile crowd outside. The manservant stood apart from the rest of the party, looking pale and frightened.

  ‘Now, what’s all this about?’ Courtrand demanded.

  ‘Monsieur le Directeur,’ Cros began formally, as though he were already addressing a jury. ‘This fellow Mansard was asked in our presence to produce and open his wallet. Inside we found this.’ He handed Courtrand an object wrapped in tissue paper. ‘The discovery was witnessed by myself and my colleague as well as by Monsieur and Madame Charon. Naturally we will be ready to make sworn statements to that effect.’

  After unwrapping the tissue paper, Courtrand held in the palm of his hand an oval brooch of pearls set in gold. He looked towards Josephine Hassler. ‘And is this yours, Madame?’

  ‘Not mine, no. It belonged to my mother. The inspector will remember that it was one of the pieces of jewelry I described to him only yesterday for the list of stolen property he was compiling.’ Courtrand turned towards Mansard. ‘Do you admit stealing this brooch?’

  ‘No! No!’ Mansard shook his head in agitation. ‘I’ve never even seen it before.’

  ‘Then how did it come to be in your wallet?’

  ‘Someone must have put it there, Monsieur.’

  ‘You scoundrel!’ Courtrand exclaimed. ‘Are you insolent enough to suggest that it was one of these people here?’ He waved a hand in the general direction of Madame Hassler and her relatives. ‘Are you saying that they would have deliberately tried to implicate you in this affair?’

  ‘I don’t know who put it there, but I tell you I never stole it.’

  ‘A likely story!’ Cros scoffed. ‘When would anyone have had an opportunity to plant the brooch in your wallet? Why don’t you confess that you were the accomplice of those criminals who murdered your master? Give us their names and then perhaps the director will see that things go easier for you. Instead of being guillotined for conspiracy to murder, you may merely end up in prison.’

  Mansard began to tremble with fear and his face twitched so violently that he could scarcely speak. ‘It isn’t true! I know nothing about this!’ He looked at Gautier imploringly. ‘Tell them that I’m innocent Monsieur l’Inspecteur. You know I’ve done no wrong.’

  What impertinence!’ Cros laughed derisively. ‘Now he’s appealing for police protection!’

  Gautier could see that Cros was thoroughly enjoying the central part which he had been called upon to play in the scene, a scene which in all probability he had contrived. The man was an egotist and when the story came to be written in Le Matin, he would give himself all the credit for finding the stolen jewels and putting the police on the right track to find the murderers of the Impasse Louvain affair. From the moment they had arrived, Courtrand should have taken a firm stand against this attempt to interfere in a police investigation. As it was Cros was now in charge, asking the questions and ready to pronounce a verdict.

  ‘In what circumstances was the jewelry found?’ Gautier asked Josephine Hassler.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Who searched this man’s wallet and why?’

  What does that matter?’ Cros demanded. ‘You have the evidence so what more do you need?’

  Ignoring him, Gautier addressed himself squarely to Josephine Hassler. Was it you, Madame?’

  ‘Allow me to ask the questions, Inspector,’ Courtrand said and his tone made it clear that this was a reprimand. ‘Madame, would you be so kind as to tell me who actually found the brooch in this man’s possession?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘In the presence of these gentlemen?’ Courtrand pointed towards the journalists.

  ‘Yes. And my husband’s cousin and his wife were here too,’

  ‘But why did you decide to look in Mansard’s wallet? And was it not rather convenient that these gentlemen from the newspaper were here at the time?’

  Josephine Hassler flushed and for a moment Gautier thought she was going to lose her temper. Then, controlling her emotions, she said slowly: ‘It didn’t happen like that.’

  ‘Then tell me what did happen, Madame.’

  ‘Yesterday I was discussing the murders with Monsieur Cros and he pointed out, as many of my friends have, that the people who killed my dear husband must almost certainly have had an accomplice who let them into the house. And the more I thought about this, the more likely it seemed that the accomplice must be Remy. For one thing he has never been able to explain why he did not come down to help us when we were being attacked that night. It’s quite inconceivab
le that he did not hear the noise that those dreadful people were making. I remembered also that several times he told us contradictory stories about himself: the town where he was born, his childhood and the jobs he has previously held. This morning I mentioned my suspicions to Monsieur Charon here and it was he who suggested that I should ask Remy to show us his identity card. Remy was out of the house at the time as he had gone to buy oil for the lamps from a man in the street, but I noticed that he had left his coat hanging on the back of the kitchen door. His wallet was in one of the pockets, so I opened it to see if it contained his identity card. There didn’t seem to be any harm in doing that and at least we would find out the truth about him. I was horrified when I found the brooch and ran in to show it to my husband’s cousins. They advised me to put the wallet back in Remy’s pocket, to telephone the newspapers and then, once Monsieur Cros arrived and we had a witness, to confront Remy and make him produce the wallet. You know what happened after that.’

  ‘I see, Madame,’ Courtrand said stiffly, ‘and may I ask why you summoned the press and not the police to be your witnesses?’

  ‘You know very well why,’ Josephine Hassler replied defensively. ‘Because I believed that the police were no longer interested in the case and would do nothing.’

  Courtrand pressed his lips together so that the corners of his mouth slanted downwards, a sign of extreme anger which Gautier recognized only too well. ‘Perhaps, Madame, you do not realize who your real friends are.’ He turned and faced Mansard. ‘And you, Mansard, what do you have to say to this accusation?’

  ‘It’s false. Monsieur le Directeur! I swear it’s false! I’ve never seen this brooch before and I know nothing of the robbery or the murders.’

  ‘We shall see as to that. You will come with us to the headquarters of the Sûreté, where you will be questioned by the examining magistrate.’

  ‘O, Holy Mother!’ Mansard covered his face with his hands and began to cry. What will become of me?’

  He was led away, escorted by police, to a horse-drawn police van which Courtrand had summoned by telephone and which was waiting outside the house. When they saw him being put into the van, the crowd gave an ironic cheer. This particular head did nothing to satisfy them.

  ‘Leave the servants in peace!’ a man shouted. ‘And lock up the whore.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ someone yelled back. ‘The president will see that she comes to no harm.’

  When Courtrand and Gautier left the house a short time later several fists were shaken in their direction. Even this modest demonstration upset the director who was inordinately proud of what he supposed to be his universal popularity. His vanity blinded him to the truth which was that everyone knew his was a political appointment and accepted him because they accepted the system. Failed politicians, unsuccessful generals and the other misfits of public life had to be rewarded with a sinecure of an official post, if only to get them out of the way. Courtrand might be vain and pompous, but at least he was not dangerously incompetent or corrupt.

  On the way back to Quai d’Orfevres, he remarked to Gautier: ‘Now at last we should get to know the truth. Mansard is the type who will break down under interrogation and tell everything.’

  ‘That’s assuming he really is implicated in this business.’

  ‘There’s not much doubt about that. You saw how he burst into tears.’

  ‘If tears were a proof of guilt,’ Gautier replied dryly, ‘we would have to lock up every woman in France.’

  IX

  STARTING FROM THE couturier in Rue St Honoré which Josephine Hassler had visited after leaving the Sûreté the previous day, Gautier followed the route she had taken to the Rue Cambon entrance of the Ritz. He found only one jeweller’s shop on the way, an establishment whose imposing, discreet facade told him that it must be exclusive and forbiddingly expensive. Seeing it, he realized that his thinking had been all wrong when he had sent policemen knocking on the doors of dubious businesses which were known to be not too fussy about what they bought. Josephine Hassler would know nothing about that kind of shop and if she had jewelry to conceal, what better place could there be than a fashionable jeweller who catered only for ladies of society? The shop which faced him now was exactly the type which she and her friends would patronize.

  Inside the shop a faded, middle-aged woman in a grey dress was taking rings out of display cases and polishing them with a chamois-leather. Gautier introduced himself, took from his pocket the photograph of Josephine Hassler which he had found in the official dossier of the case and showed it to the woman.

  ‘This woman came into your shop yesterday, Madame. Can you recall having seen her?’

  The shop assistant looked at the photograph and then at Gautier carefully. ‘It would be better if you were to speak to my patron, Monsieur Heuze.’

  She opened a door at the back of the shop which led into a small office, where a man sat at a desk checking entries in a leather-bound accounts book. The jeweller’s small imperial beard and long, thin nose gave him an aristocratic air and he wore a heavy gold watchchain looped across his waistcoat. When Gautier explained the purpose of his visit, he closed the ledger deliberately and then adjusted the position of his watchchain. Gautier recognized the gesture as defensive, a retreat to a prepared position. In his experience people reacted in one of two ways when faced unexpectedly by the police: either they blustered aggressively or they took refuge in an attitude of injured innocence.

  ‘It’s unlikely that I would have seen this woman,’ Heuze said, ‘for clients are usually attended to by one of my two assistants; the lady to whom you have already spoken and a young man who has just gone to collect some pieces from our workshop.’

  ‘A pity,’ Gautier remarked. ‘You would be a much more reliable witness, I’m sure. In my experience ladies like your assistant grow frightened and confused when they go before a magistrate.’

  ‘Magistrate?’ Heuze asked sharply. ‘Are you suggesting that some offence has been committed in this establishment?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but the woman who visited your premises yesterday is involved in an important criminal matter. We are trying to trace certain items of missing jewelry.’

  ‘Mine is not that sort of business!’ Heuze said indignantly. ‘I’m sure it isn’t, but you must be prepared for some unfortunate publicity if the newspapers learn that one of your staff has appeared before the examining magistrate of this affair.’

  ‘A number of very important and influential people are included among my clients, Inspector; royalty from more than one European country, for example.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  The jeweller was silent for a time, as though he were trying to decide how much of the truth he would have to tell in order to satisfy Gautier. Finally he said with great reluctance: ‘The pearls were not stolen. When they were offered to me I made discreet enquiries both in Paris and abroad and it became clear that the necklace had been given to Madame Murat by a very important personality. So she was entirely within her rights to sell it.’

  ‘Madame Murat?’

  ‘Yes. She must, I assume, be the lady of whom you are making these enquiries.’

  Gautier pushed the photograph of Josephine Hassler across the desk towards him. ‘Is that her?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so, although it’s hard to be certain for she always wears a veil when she comes into the shop. She’s been selling the pearls to me one or two at a time for some years now. They are a wonderful matched set and of course she would have got much more by selling the necklace as it was, but I understand she decided that this was not possible.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to make enquiries about a pearl necklace.’

  ‘In that case I don’t see how I can help you.’

  ‘Perhaps you can, perhaps not.’ Gautier handed Heuze a copy of the list of the jewelry which Josephine Hassler had reported as stolen. ‘Did this Madame Murat, by any chance, ever bring you any pieces of jewelry that would fit
the description of these? To clean, perhaps or possibly to repair?’

  Heuze read through the list and then tapped the paper with his forefinger. ‘These three rings could be the ones which she brought in last week.’

  ‘To sell?’

  ‘Certainly not! She wished to have the rings re-shaped and the stones set in a different form. I understand that she intends to give them to her daughter as a wedding present. The work is even now being carried out in our workshop.’

  ‘And the other pieces?’

  ‘I know nothing of these.’ Heuze glanced down the list again. ‘Except perhaps for the last item, the pearl brooch. That could be the brooch which Madame Murat brought in at the same time as her rings. It isn’t a very good piece.’

  ‘And is that also being reset?’

  ‘No. That was why Madame Murat came in yesterday. She was going to have it re-made but she came to tell me she had changed her mind and wished to keep it as it was. I gather it had once belonged to her mother. She took the brooch away with her.’

  * * *

  Courtrand spoke scarcely a word to Gautier as they were being driven together to Impasse Louvain. Gautier could not remember having seen his chief so angry before and he suspected that at least part of the anger was aimed at himself, for having proved Courtrand wrong. It was true that at least the director had been spared the humiliation of having his mistake recorded in the files of the case because, by sheer chance, the examining magistrate Bertin had been engaged on other work that afternoon and Mansard had not been taken before him. So when Gautier had returned to the Sûreté with a signed statement from the jeweller, Heuze, about the pearl brooch, Courtrand had been able to release Mansard from custody without having actually arrested the manservant. Even so, Courtrand was very, very angry.