He opened a door, and Maigret found himself facing a middle-aged man, stout and very dignified, standing up, who pointed him to a chair, not without a certain solemnity.
‘I’ve been waiting for you, Monsieur Maigret.’
The morning newspaper was on his desk. He sat down in turn, slowly, as if it was a ritual gesture, and rested his arms on the sides of his armchair.
‘I don’t need to tell you that I am in a very unpleasant situation.’
He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t look as if he smiled often. He was a calm and level-headed man who weighed each of his words.
3.
The office could have been Maigret’s before the premises of the Police Judiciaire were modernized, and on the mantelpiece the inspector found the same black marble clock which he had in front of his eyes all day, and which he had never managed to set correctly.
As to the man, he was the image of the clock. His attitude was plainly that of the senior civil servant who was both cautious and self-assured, and who must have been deeply humiliated suddenly finding himself in the hot seat.
His features were soft. His thinning brown hair was combed over a bald patch that it only partially concealed, and he had a small moustache so black that it must have been dyed. The white skin of his hands was covered with long hairs.
‘I am grateful to you, Monsieur Maigret, for not summoning me to the Police Judiciaire, and for troubling yourself to come in person.’
‘I’m trying to give this event the minimum of publicity.’
‘Indeed, there are hardly any details in this morning’s papers.’
‘Had you known Joséphine Papet for long?’
‘About three years. I’m sorry if the name made me start, but I always called her Josée. I didn’t find out her real name for several months.’
‘I understand. How did you meet her?’
‘In the most ordinary way … I’m fifty-five, inspector. So I was fifty-two at the time, and you will have trouble believing me if I tell you that I have never cheated on my wife.
‘And yet about ten years ago she fell ill, and our relationship has not been easy, because she suffers from nervous exhaustion.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘Three daughters. The oldest is married to a shipowner in La Rochelle. The second teaches at a school in Tunis, and the third, also married, lives in Paris, in the sixteenth arrondissement. I have five grandchildren in all, the oldest of whom is about to turn twelve. We have lived in the same building, in Versailles, for thirty years. You can see that for a long time I have lived an untroubled life, the ordinary life of a scrupulous civil servant.’
He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, a prudent man. There was no trace of humour in what he said, or in the expression on his face. Did he ever burst out laughing? It was unlikely. And if he ever smiled, it must have been a lifeless kind of smile.
‘You asked me where I met her. Sometimes, after work, I stop for a moment in a brasserie on the corner of Boulevard Saint-Germain and Rue de Solférino. That was what happened that day. It was raining, and I still remember the water trickling down the windows.
‘I sat down in my usual place, and the waiter, who has known me for years, brought me my glass of port.
‘At the next table a young woman was busy writing a letter and having problems with the bar’s fountain pen. The violet ink in the inkwell had started to dry out.
‘She was a respectable person, modestly dressed in a well-cut navy-blue suit.
‘“Waiter, is this the only pen you have?”
‘“Unfortunately it’s the only one we have. These days all the customers have their own ballpoint pens.”
‘Without any ulterior motive, I took mine out of my pocket and held it out to her.
‘“If you’ll allow me …”
‘She looked at me and smiled gratefully. That’s how things started. She didn’t write for long. She drank some tea.
‘“Do you come here often?” she asked me, returning my pen.
‘“Almost every day.”
‘“I love the atmosphere of these old brasseries, with all their regular customers.”
‘“Do you live locally?”
‘“No. I live on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, but I come to the Left Bank quite often.”’
His innocence was there to be seen in his expression.
‘You see how fortuitous our meeting was. She didn’t come the next day. The day after that, I found her in the same place, and she gave me a faint smile.
‘She seemed gentle and calm, with something reassuring about her demeanour and her facial expressions.
‘We exchanged a few words. I told her I lived in Versailles, and I think that from that day onwards I talked to her about my wife and daughters … She saw me getting into my car.
‘I may surprise you by telling you that it went on like that for over a month, and that on the days when I didn’t find her in the brasserie I felt frustrated.
‘In my eyes she was just a friend, and I had nothing else in mind. With my wife I have to watch my words, to risk being misunderstood and causing a fit of hysterics.
‘In the days when my daughters lived with us, the apartment was noisy and full of life, my wife was still active and cheerful. You can’t imagine how it feels to go back to an apartment that’s too big, too empty, where all that awaits you are anxious, suspicious eyes.’
Maigret was lighting his pipe and held out his tobacco pouch.
‘Thank you. I haven’t smoked for a long time … Don’t imagine that I’m trying to excuse my conduct.
‘Every Wednesday I used to go to a meeting of a charitable association of which I’m a member. One Wednesday I didn’t go, and Mademoiselle Papet took me to her place …
‘I learned that she lived on her own, on a very modest allowance left to her by her parents, and that she’d tried in vain to find work.’
‘She didn’t talk to you about her family?’
‘Her father, who was an officer, was killed in the war when she was only a child, and she was brought up by her mother in the provinces. She had a brother.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Only once. He’s an engineer and travels a lot. One Wednesday when I turned up early I found him in the apartment, and she took advantage of the fact to introduce us.
‘A distinguished fellow, intelligent, much older than her. He developed a new method of eliminating toxins from car exhaust fumes.’
‘Is he tall, thin, with an agile face and pale eyes?’
François Paré looked surprised.
‘Do you know him?’
‘I have met him, yes. Tell me, did you give Josée a lot of money?’
The civil servant blushed and looked away.
‘I enjoy a certain degree of affluence, and perhaps even a little more than that. A brother of my mother’s left me two farms in Normandy, and I could have retired years ago. But what would I have done with my days?’
‘Could it be said that you kept her?’
‘Not exactly. I enabled her not to worry about minor expenses, to surround herself with a little more comfort.’
‘You saw her only on Wednesdays?’
‘It’s the only day of the week that I have an excuse to stay in Paris for the night. The older my wife and I get, the more jealous she becomes.’
‘It’s never occurred to her to follow you when you leave the ministry?’
‘No. She barely leaves the apartment. She has grown so thin that she can hardly stand up, and one doctor after another has given up on healing her …’
‘Did Mademoiselle Papet claim that you were her only lover?’
‘At first, that was a word that we never uttered. It’s accurate in a sense, because I won’t conceal the fact that we had intimate relations.
‘But there was a different bond between us. We were both lonely people, doing our best in the face of fate. I don’t know if you understand. We could talk openly to one another. She was my friend, and I w
as her friend.’
‘Were you jealous?’
He started and gave Maigret a harsh look, as if he resented the question.
‘I’ve told you that all my life I’ve never had affairs. I told you how old I am. I haven’t hidden from you the importance that this trusting friendship had assumed in my eyes. I waited impatiently for Wednesdays. I lived for Wednesday evening. It enabled me to bear everything.’
‘So you would have been devastated if you had learned that she had another lover?’
‘Certainly. That would have been the end.’
‘The end of what?’
‘Of everything. Of the small happiness granted to me for three years.’
‘You only met the brother once?’
‘Yes.’
‘You had no suspicions?’
‘What would I have suspected?’
‘You didn’t find anyone else in the apartment?’
He smiled faintly.
‘Once, a few weeks ago. When I was coming out of the lift, quite a young man was leaving the apartment.’
‘A red-haired man?’
He was stunned.
‘How did you know? In that case, you will also be aware that he’s an insurance agent. I confess that I followed him and saw him going into a bar on Rue Fontaine, where they seemed to know him.
‘When I questioned Josée, she wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest.
‘“It’s the third time he’s tried to get me to sign up for a life insurance policy,” she explained. “On whose behalf would I take out life insurance? I must have his card somewhere …”
‘She looked in her drawers and actually found a visiting card in the name of Jean-Luc Bodard, a sales representative with Continentale, on Avenue de l’Opéra. It isn’t a big company, but it has an excellent reputation. I called the head of personnel, who confirmed to me that Jean-Luc Bodard was one of their agents.’
Maigret was smoking slowly, taking little puffs, trying to gain some time, because there was nothing pleasant about the task ahead of him.
‘Did you go to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette yesterday?’
‘I was detained by the minister’s private secretary. I rang the bell and was surprised that no one came and opened the door. I rang again, knocked, but there was no answer.’
‘You weren’t curious enough to ask the concierge?’
‘I’m scared of that woman and have as little to do with her as possible. I didn’t go home immediately. I dined on my own, in a restaurant at Porte de Versailles, because I was supposed to attend the charity meeting.’
‘When did you find out what had happened?’
‘This morning, when I was shaving. They mentioned it on the radio without going into details. It wasn’t till I got here that I read the paper … I’m crushed … I don’t understand …’
‘You didn’t happen to go there yesterday, between three and four?’
The man’s mood turned bitter.
‘I understand what you’re getting at. I didn’t leave the office in the afternoon and my colleagues will be able to confirm that. But I would rather my name wasn’t mentioned.’
Poor man! He was worried, anxious, overwhelmed. Everything he had clung to lately was crumbling, and he was struggling to preserve his dignity.
‘I thought that the concierge, or the brother, if he is in Paris, might talk to you about me.’
‘There is no brother, Monsieur Paré.’
The man frowned in disbelief, ready to lose his temper.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have to tell you the truth. The person introduced to you under the name of Léon Papet is really called Léon Florentin, and as chance would have it we were fellow pupils at the lycée in Moulins …’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘As soon as you left Joséphine Papet he entered the apartment. He had a key. Did you ever have one?’
‘No. I never asked for one … It would never have occurred to me …’
‘He regularly stayed in the apartment and only disappeared when visitors were expected.’
‘You said visitors? In the plural?’
Very pale, he remained rigid in his armchair.
‘There were four of you, not counting Florentin.’
‘You mean …?’
‘That Joséphine Papet was kept by four different lovers. One of them preceded you by several years, and a very long while ago they lived together in the apartment.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Who is he?’
Deep down, François Paré was still sceptical.
‘A certain Fernand Courcel, who runs a ball-bearings company with his brother. The factory is in Rouen, the Paris offices are on Boulevard Voltaire. He’s about your age, and quite fat.’
‘I can hardly believe it.’
‘His day is Thursday, and he’s the only one who spends the night in the apartment.’
‘I don’t suppose this is a trap?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. They say the police sometimes use unexpected methods. This whole business seems so unlikely to me.’
‘There’s another one, the Saturday man. I have little information about him, but I know he walks with a limp.’
‘And the fourth one?’
The man struggled to maintain his composure; but his hands, covered with their long hairs, were clenched so tightly on the arm of the chair that the knuckles were pale.
‘He’s the redhead, the insurance salesman you met one day by chance.’
‘He really is an insurance salesman. I checked myself.’
‘You can be an insurance salesman and the lover of a pretty woman at the same time.’
‘I don’t understand anything any more … You didn’t know her, or you’d be as incredulous as me. I’ve never met such a wise, simple, calm woman. I have three daughters, and they’ve taught me about women … I would have trusted Josée more than any of my children.’
‘I’m sorry to have had to open your eyes.’
‘I assume you’re sure about everything you’ve just told me?’
‘If you like, I’ll have Florentin repeat it to you.’
‘I have absolutely no desire to meet this individual, or any of the three others. If I understand correctly, this fellow Florentin was what you might call her live-in lover?’
‘More or less. He’s tried a bit of all sorts of things in his life. He’s failed at all of them. But he still exerts a certain charm on women.’
‘He’s almost my age.’
‘Give or take a couple of years, but yes … His advantage over you is that he’s available day and night. And he doesn’t take anything seriously. To him, every day is a blank page that you fill up as you see fit, according to your mood.’
Paré, however, had a conscience, problems, regrets. His face, his whole demeanour expressed everything to do with the serious side of life.
One might almost have imagined that he carried his office with him, if not the whole ministry, and Maigret had difficulty imagining his tête-à-têtes with Josée.
It was a good thing that she was placid. She must have been able to listen with a smile, for hours on end, to the confidences of a man worn down by fate and misfortunes.
All of a sudden, Maigret started forming a more precise idea of her. She had a strong practical sense, and was good at doing calculations. She had bought herself a house in Montmartre, and she had forty-eight thousand francs stowed away. Wouldn’t a second house have followed, and then a third?
Some women count in houses, as if stone were the only solid thing in the world.
‘You weren’t expecting any drama, then, Monsieur Paré?’
‘The prospect never occurred to me for a single second. There was nothing more reassuring than her, her life, her apartment …’
‘Did she tell you where she came from originally?’
‘Poitiers, if I remember correctly.’
Out of prudence, she must have given each of them a different place of birth.
‘Did she seem educated?’
‘She graduated from secondary school before spending time as secretary to a lawyer.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘I paid it no attention.’
‘She never married?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘You weren’t surprised by the books she read?’
‘She was sentimental, essentially quite naive, and that’s why she preferred pulp novels. She was the first to laugh at that little flaw.’
‘I won’t trouble you more than is absolutely necessary. I only ask you to think, to search through your memories. An apparently insignificant phrase or detail might help us.’
François Paré got to his feet, tall and heavy, and paused before extending a hand.
‘For now, nothing comes to mind.’
Then, hesitantly, and in a fainter voice:
‘Do you know if she suffered a great deal?’
‘According to the pathologist, death was instantaneous.’
His lips moved. He was probably praying.
‘Thank you for showing so much tact. I’m only sorry that we didn’t meet under different circumstances.’
‘Me too, Monsieur Paré.’
Ouf! Maigret exhaled noisily as soon as he was on the stairs. He felt as if he had just emerged from a tunnel, back in the open air, in the real world.
Certainly, he had learned nothing precise, nothing immediately usable, but his interview with the head of Navigable Waterways had brought the image of the young woman to life.
Was the letter written in a brasserie with a middle-class clientele her usual tactic, or had that only been a matter of chance?
The first of her known lovers, Fernand Courcel, seemed to have met her when she was twenty-five. What had she been doing in those days? He couldn’t imagine her, with her modest appearance, walking the pavements near the Madeleine or the Champs-Élysées.
Was she really a secretary to somebody, lawyer or not?
A light breeze stirred the leaves of the trees on Boulevard Saint-Germain, and Maigret looked as if he was going for a stroll, breathing in the morning air. On a little street that led him towards the river embankments, he passed by an old-fashioned bistro where a lorry was unloading barrels of wine.
Maigret's Childhood Friend Page 5
