‘A Cézanne,’ Grosjean murmured after turning it the right way up.
There was a Louis XV desk in a corner. The leather desk blotter bore the same crown with, below it, a name: Philippe Lherbier.
‘Come and look at this, Grosjean.’
He showed him the crown on the desk blotter, then the writing paper.
‘Do you recognize it? The famous leather merchant in Rue Royale.’
A sixty-year-old man, with thick, immaculately white hair that made his face look fresher and younger.
Not only was the shop the most elegant leather merchant’s in Paris, but it had branches in Cannes, Deauville, London, New York and Miami.
‘What should I do? Should I give him a call?’
‘That’s up to you.’
He picked up the phone and dialled the number inscribed on the writing paper.
‘Hello. Is this Monsieur Lherbier? Monsieur Philippe Lherbier, yes. He isn’t at home. Do you know where I could get hold of him? I’m sorry. At Monsieur Legendre’s office in Boulevard Saint-Germain. Do you have the number?’
He took the pencil out of his pocket and wrote the numbers down on the fine writing paper embellished with a crown.
‘Thank you.’
Legendre, the lawyer, was also a Parisian society figure.
Maigret looked at the paintings, two more Cézannes, a Derain, a Sisley. He opened a door and found a smaller, more feminine drawing room, its walls covered with Bouton d’Or silk paper. It reminded him of Quai d’Anjou. He had found himself in the same world again, and the two men probably knew each other, if only from meeting in places that they both frequented.
Philippe Lherbier often appeared in the papers, particularly with reference to his marriages and divorces. He was called the most divorced man in France. Five times? Six times?
The strangest thing was that after each divorce he waited less than six months to get married again. And always to the same kind of woman! All but one of them, an actress, were models with long, supple bodies and a more or less fixed smile. It was as if he only married them to dress them in gorgeous clothes and make them play a purely decorative role.
‘Yes. Thank you for putting me through … Hello! … Monsieur Lherbier? … This is Detective Inspector Grosjean, of the Sûreté Nationale … I’m in your villa, at Jouy-en-Josas … What am I doing there? … I’ve just arrested three burglars who were after your paintings.’
Grosjean, with his hand over the receiver, whispered to Maigret:
‘He laughed.’
And, speaking normally:
‘What’s that you say? That you’re insured? Fine. You’re not coming this evening? I can’t leave the door open and I have no way of closing it. That means that one of my men will have to stay in the villa until you send someone, with a locksmith … I would …’
He paused for a moment listening, his face very red.
‘He’s hung up,’ he murmured at last.
He was so furious that he had trouble breathing.
‘Those are the people … the people …’
He probably wanted to add:
‘… we risk our lives for …’
But he realized that in the end it would seem redundant at the very least.
‘I don’t know if he was involved, but he seemed to consider this business to be a happy joke.’
He instructed one of his men to stay in the villa until new orders were issued.
‘Are you coming, Maigret?’
He still couldn’t get over it.
‘Paintings by Cézanne … By … It doesn’t matter … Hundreds of thousands of francs’ worth of paintings in a villa where you only ever go to spend the weekend …’
‘He has a much bigger villa at Cap d’Antibes. It’s also called the Golden Crown. If the papers are to be believed, he marks his cigars and cigarettes with the same gold crown. His yacht is called The Golden Crown.’
‘Is that true?’ Grosjean sighed in disbelief.
‘Apparently so.’
‘And no one makes fun of him?’
‘That’s up to whoever gets an invitation to one of his residences.’
They found themselves outside and stopped for a moment to look at the swimming pool, which must have been heated because a light steam rose from it.
‘Will you come to Rue des Saussaies?’
‘No. The burglary has nothing to do with me, because it didn’t happen in my territory. I’d just like, tomorrow if possible, to question them about something else. I think Poiret, the examining magistrate, would like to speak to them too.’
‘The case in Rue Popincourt?’
‘That’s what put us on to them.’
‘That’s true, but …’
Standing near the cars, the two men shook hands, each nearly as stout as the other, with the same careers, the same experiences behind them.
‘I’m going to spend the rest of the night there … Ah well …’
Maigret sat down beside Janvier. Lourtie, on the back seat, smoked his cigarette, which appeared as a small red dot.
‘And here we are, boys! So far, we’ve only been working for Rue des Saussaies. Tomorrow we’ll try to work for us.’
And Janvier asked him, alluding to the less than cordial relations that had always existed between the two police bodies:
‘Do you think they’ll lend them to us?’
4.
It must have been a busy night at Rue des Saussaies, where journalists and photographers, alerted as always by God knows who, soon came running and invading the corridors.
As he shaved, at 7.30, Maigret automatically turned on the radio. It was time for the news, and, as he expected, they were talking about the villa in Jouy-en-Josas and the famous millionaire Philippe Lherbier, the man with six wives and golden crowns.
… Four men are in custody, but Detective Chief Inspector Grosjean remains convinced that none of them is the true head of the gang, the brains behind the operation. On the other hand, there are rumours that Detective Chief Inspector Maigret might intervene, not in the case of the theft of the paintings but with regard to another crime they may have committed. We are maintaining the greatest discretion on the subject.
It was also from the radio that he learned a detail: the three robbers and the lookout were unarmed.
By nine o’clock he was in his office and, just after the briefing, he called Grosjean at Rue des Saussaies.
‘Have you been able to get some sleep?’
‘Barely three hours. I wanted to question them straight away. None of them is budging. There’s one in particular who’s exasperating me. It’s Julien Mila, the barman, the most intelligent of the three. When you ask him questions he looks at you stupidly and says in a soft voice:
‘“Unfortunately I have nothing to say.”’
‘Didn’t they ask for a lawyer to be present?’
‘Of course they did. Monsieur Huet, inevitably. I’m expecting him this morning.’
‘When will you be able to send me these fine fellows? Monsieur Poiret is waiting for them too.’
‘At some point in the afternoon, I hope. I suppose he’ll have to let me have them, because I don’t expect to be spending long with them. The list of burglaries of the same kind committed around Paris over the past two years is a long one, twelve at least, and I’m sure they’re responsible for most if not all of them. What about you? Rue Popincourt?’
‘No news.’
‘Do you think my customers had anything to do with it?’
‘I don’t know. One of the burglars, the little, broad-shouldered one with the scar on his cheek, was wearing a light raincoat with a belt, wasn’t he? And a brown hat.’
‘Demarle, yes. We’re studying his police record. Apparently he’s a hard case, and he’s been in trouble with the law on more than one occasion.’
‘Branchu, known as Mimile? The framer?’
‘No criminal record. He lived in Marseille for a long time, but he’s originally from Roubaix.’<
br />
‘I’ll see you later.’
The newspapers published photographs of the criminals on the front page, handcuffs on their wrists, as well as a photograph of the leather merchant by the weighing station at Longchamps, in tails and a light-grey top hat.
Mila stared at the camera with an ironic smile. Demarle, the sailor with the scar, seemed quite surprised by what was happening to him, while the framer held his hands in front of his face. The lookout, poorly dressed in a suit that was too big for him, looked like a lowly stooge.
After an investigation that Detective Chief Inspector Grosjean of the Sûreté Nationale has been leading for almost two years, a good haul …
Maigret shrugged. He was thinking not so much about the crooks but, in spite of himself, about Antoine Batille. Almost always, he had often repeated, it was by getting to know the victim that one was led to his murderer.
The sun was pale. The sky was a very light blue. The temperature was still two or three degrees, and most of France was freezing, except the west coast.
He put on his coat, picked up his hat and called in at the inspectors’ office.
‘I’m going out for an hour or so, boys.’
Alone, for once. He wanted to go to Quai d’Anjou by himself. He went on foot, walking along the embankments to Pont Marie, which he crossed. He smoked his pipe slowly and kept his hands plunged in his pockets.
Once again his thoughts turned to the journey that the young man with the tape recorder had made that night, the night of 18 to 19 March, which was to be his last one.
Even from a distance he could see the black drapes that framed the coach-gate, with an enormous B, fringes and silver droplets. Passing in front of the lodge, he noticed the concierge following the comings and goings.
She was still young and attractive. Her black dress was brightened by a white collar and trimmings which made it look like a uniform. He hesitated about going into the lodge for no reason, because he wasn’t looking for anything in particular.
He thought better of it and took the lift. The Batilles’ door was on the latch. He pushed it open and walked to the little drawing room that had been turned into a chapel of rest. A very dignified old lady stood by the door and nodded to him. Was she a relative? A friend or a governess who represented the family?
A man, standing up, held his hat in front of him and moved his lips, reciting a prayer. A woman, who must have been a local shopkeeper, knelt on a prie-dieu.
Antoine hadn’t yet been placed in his coffin, but was lying on the mortuary cot, his clasped hands wrapped in a rosary.
By the dancing candlelight, his face looked very young. He looked more like fifteen than twenty-one. Not only had he been shaved, but his long hair had been cut, probably so that those who filed past didn’t take him for a hippie.
Maigret too mechanically moved his lips without conviction, then returned to the entrance hall and looked for someone to speak to. He found a valet in a striped waistcoat vacuuming in the big drawing room.
‘I’d like to see Mademoiselle Batille,’ he said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
The valet hesitated and finally walked away, grumbling:
‘If she’s got up!’
She had, but she seemed not to be ready because he had to wait a good ten minutes and, when she appeared, she was in a dressing gown, her feet bare in her slippers.
‘Have you found anything?’
‘No. I would just like to visit your brother’s bedroom.’
‘I’m sorry for receiving you like this, but I slept very badly, and in any case I don’t usually get up early.’
‘Is your father here?’
‘No. He had to go to the office. My mother is in her apartment, but I haven’t seen her this morning. Come with me.’
They walked along a corridor, then another that crossed it at right angles. Passing through an open door, beyond which Maigret could see an unmade bed and a breakfast tray, she explained:
‘That’s my bedroom. Ignore it. It’s a mess.’
Two doors further on was Antoine’s bedroom, overlooking the courtyard, which received the oblique rays of the sun. The Scandinavian furniture was simple and harmonious. One wall was covered with shelves full of books, records and, on two of the shelves, cassette tapes.
On the desk there were books, notebooks, coloured pencils and, in a glass bowl, three tiny turtles swimming in two centimetres of water.
‘Did your brother like animals?’
‘He’d moved on a bit. There was a time when he brought back all kinds of animals, a crow with a broken wing, for example, hamsters, white mice, a grass snake more than a metre long. He claimed that he tamed them, but he never did.’
There was also an enormous globe on a stand, a flute on a pedestal table and musical scores.
‘Did he play the flute?’
‘He took five or six lessons. There must be an electric guitar somewhere. He took piano lessons.’
Maigret smiled.
‘Not for long, I suppose?’
‘Nothing ever lasted for long.’
‘Except his tape recorder.’
‘That’s true. That passion lasted for almost a year.’
‘Did he have an idea of what he wanted to do in the future?’
‘No. Or at least he didn’t talk to anyone about it. Father would have liked him to sign up for the Science Faculty and do chemistry, so that he could take over the company, etcetera.’
‘He didn’t agree?’
‘He hated business. I think he was ashamed of being the son of Mylène Perfumes.’
‘What about you?’
‘I don’t care either way.’
It was pleasant in this room, among objects that were different, certainly, but which felt like familiar objects. Someone had spent a lot of time in that room, and made it his kingdom.
Maigret picked up one of the cassettes from the shelf, but on the label there was only a number.
‘His notebook, which he used as a catalogue, must be here,’ Minou said. ‘Wait.’
‘Hang on. I imagine it must be up to date, because he was very serious about it.’
It was a simple school exercise book with squared pages. On the cover, Antoine had written in fancy letters, with pencils in several colours:
My experiments
It started with:
Cassette 1: Family at the dinner table one Sunday.
‘Why one Sunday?’ he asked.
‘Because on the other days my father rarely comes home for lunch. And in the evening, he and my mother often go into town for dinner, or have guests over.’
Even so, he had devoted his first recording to the family.
Cassette 2: Autoroute du Sud one Saturday evening.
Cassette 3: Fontainebleau Forest at night.
Cassette 4: Métro 8 o’clock in the evening.
Cassette 5: Midday, Place de l’Opéra.
Then came the interval at the Théâtre du Gymnase, then the sounds of a self-service restaurant on Rue de Ponthieu, the drugstore on the Champs-Élysées.
Cassette 10: A café in Puteaux.
His curiosity widened, and very gradually changed social class: workers leaving the factory, accordions on Rue de Lappe, a bar in Rue des Gravilliers, the area around Canal Saint-Martin, the Bal des Fleurs at La Villette, a café in Saint-Denis.
It was no longer the centre of Paris that he was interested in, but the periphery, and one of the addresses was on the edge of a slum.
‘Is it true that it was dangerous?’
‘More or less. Let’s say that it wasn’t to be recommended, and he was right not to bring you along. The people who frequent such places don’t like people poking their noses into their business, particularly not with a tape recorder.’
‘You think it was because of that.’
‘I don’t know. I have my doubts. In order to be certain, I would need to have heard all the tapes. From what I can tell it would take hours, if not several days.’
‘If I could take them away temporarily, I would give one of my inspectors the task of—’
‘I don’t dare to assume that responsibility. Since he died, my brother has become someone sacred, and everything that belonged to him has been given a new value, do you understand? Before, we used to treat him a little like a big kid, which sent him into a fury. It’s true that in some senses he did stay very young.’
Maigret’s eye wandered along the wall to photographs of nudes cut from an American magazine.
‘That’s very young too,’ she broke in. ‘I’m sure that my brother had never slept with a girl. He courted two or three of my friends, without ever going all the way.’
‘Did he have a car?’
‘My parents gave him a little English car for his twentieth birthday. For two months he spent his free time in the countryside and fitted the car with every imaginable accessory. Afterwards he lost interest in it, and only ever took it out when he really needed it.’
‘Not for his night-time expeditions?’
‘Never. I’ll ask Mother if I can let you have the cassettes. I hope she’s got up.’
It was 10.30. She went away for quite a long time.
‘She trusts you,’ she announced when she came back. ‘All she asks is that you catch the murderer. My father, I should add in passing, is even more devastated than she is. He was his only son. Since it happened, he hasn’t said a word to us, and he goes to his office early in the morning. How are we going to wrap all this up? We would need a suitcase, or a big cardboard box. A suitcase would be better. Wait. I think I know where to find what we need.’
The suitcase she brought a little later bore the gilded crown of the leather merchant in Rue Royale.
‘Do you know Philippe Lherbier?’
‘My parents know him. They’ve been to his house for dinner two or three times, but he’s not what you would call a friend. He’s the man who spends his time getting divorced, isn’t that right?’
Maigret and the Killer Page 7
