‘On the first floor. The pink room.’
The walls were panelled, the bannister rail carved. The carpet underfoot, secured by brass stair-rods, was pale blue and soft.
‘When I saw you turn up—’
‘Because you were watching through the spyhole?’
‘That’s only natural, isn’t it? I wanted to find out what was going on. When I recognized you, I guessed at once that it spelled trouble for me—’
‘Admit you knew his name.’
‘Yes.’
‘And that of his companion?’
‘Only her first name, I swear. Anne-Marie. They call her the Grasshopper.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s tall and skinny, with long legs and long arms.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I told you, she left first.’
‘And I don’t believe you.’
She pushed open a door into a secluded room where a maid could be seen changing the sheets of a four-poster bed. On a pedestal table was a champagne bottle and two glasses, one of which had lipstick marks and still contained some liquid.
‘You can see for yourself that—’
‘That she’s neither in this room nor in the bathroom. That is correct. How many other rooms do you have?’
‘Eight.’
‘Are some of them occupied?’
‘No. My clients arrive mainly towards the end of the day or much later. I was expecting one at nine o’clock. He must have seen a crowd of people in the street and—’
‘Show me the other rooms.’
There were four on the first floor, all in nineteenth-century style, with heavy furniture and a profusion of hangings in faded colours.
‘You can see there’s no one here.’
‘Let us continue.’
‘Why would she have gone to the top floor?’
‘Let me see it anyway.’
The first two rooms were indeed empty, but in the third a young woman was sitting bolt upright on a garnet-coloured padded velvet chair.
She sprang up. She was tall and slim, with almost no bust or hips.
‘Who is she?’ asked Maigret.
‘She’s the girl who was waiting for the nine o’clock client.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘No.’
But the girl shrugged. She looked under twenty, and now there was a couldn’t-care-less attitude about her.
‘He’ll find out in the end. He’s a policeman, isn’t he?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’
‘No kidding?’
She gazed at him with curiosity.
‘Are you handling this case personally?’
‘As you can see.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
She turned towards Madame Blanche and said reproachfully:
‘Why did you lie to me and say he was only wounded?’
‘I couldn’t tell. I didn’t get anywhere near him.’
‘Who are you, mademoiselle?’
‘Anne-Marie Boutin. I’m his private secretary.’
‘Did you often come here with him?’
‘Around once a week. Always on a Wednesday, because that’s the day I’m supposed to have an English lesson.’
‘Let’s go downstairs,’ grunted Maigret.
He was a little nauseated by all the pastel tones and soft lighting that made people’s faces look a little blurred.
They had stopped in the lounge, but no one had sat down. Voices could be heard, comings and goings outside in the street where the icy wind was blustering, whereas indoors it was too hot, as in a glasshouse. As in a glasshouse too, there were giant plants in Chinese vases.
‘What do you know about your boss’s murder?’
‘What she told me,’ replied the Grasshopper, pointing to Madame Blanche. ‘That someone shot him and wounded him. That the concierge from next door went out and probably phoned the police, because they turned up within a few minutes.’
The police station was just around the corner, in Avenue de Villiers.
‘Did he die more or less straight away?’
‘Yes.’
He thought she turned a little paler, but she didn’t cry. It was as if she had merely received a shock. She went on flatly:
‘I wanted to leave right away, but she wouldn’t let me.’
‘Why not?’ Maigret asked Madame Blanche.
‘She’d have walked into the arms of your colleague, who’d just arrived. I’d rather keep her and my establishment out of all this. If the newspapers get wind of it, it will almost certainly get us closed down.’
‘Tell me exactly what you saw. Where was the man who shot him?’
‘Between two cars, just opposite the front door.’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’
‘No. The lamp post is quite a long way away. I could only see an outline.’
‘Was he tall?’
‘More on the short side, broad shoulders, dark clothes. He fired three or four times, I didn’t count. Monsieur Oscar clutched his stomach, staggered for a moment and then fell on his face.’
Maigret watched the young woman, who was upset but did not appear distraught.
‘Did you love him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How long had you been his mistress?’
She looked taken aback at the word.
‘It wasn’t quite what you think. He let me know when he wanted me, but he never spoke of love. I didn’t think of him as a lover …’
‘What time is your mother expecting you home?’
‘Between half past nine and ten.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Rue Caulaincourt, near Place Constantin-Pecqueur.’
‘Where are Oscar Chabut’s offices?’
‘Quai de Charenton, after the Bercy warehouses.’
‘Will you be there tomorrow morning?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I may need you. Lapointe, go out with her and walk her to the Métro, so that if the press has already been alerted, she won’t be harassed.’
He fiddled with his pipe as if he was hesitant to fill it and light it in these surroundings. In the end he decided to do so.
Madame Blanche had her hands folded over her podgy stomach and looked at him calmly, with the air of someone who has a clear conscience.
‘Are you sure you didn’t recognize the shooter?’
‘I swear.’
‘Did your client sometimes come with married women?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Was he a frequent visitor?’
‘Sometimes I’d see him several times in the same week, then I’d hear nothing from him for ten days or two weeks. That was rare.’
‘No one telephoned you about him?’
‘No.’
The deputy prosecutor and the examining magistrate had left. The chill was even more biting than earlier and the men from the Forensic Institute, who had put the wine merchant’s body on a stretcher, were heaving it into the van.
The experts from Criminal Records were getting back into their van too.
‘Have you found anything?’
‘The cartridge cases. Four. 6.35 calibre.’
A small calibre. An amateur or a woman’s gun, which had to be fired at close range.
‘No reporters?’
‘Two came. They left quite quickly so as not to miss the deadline for their local editions.’
Inspector Fourquet was waiting patiently, pacing up and down and holding a handkerchief in front of his face to keep his nose warm.
‘Did he come out of there?’
‘Yes,’ grunted Maigret.
‘Are you going to tell the press?’
‘I’d rather this was kept out of the papers if possible. Do you have his ID papers, his wallet?’
Fourquet took them out of his pocket and handed them over.
‘His home address?’
‘Pla
ce des Vosges. You’ll see the number on his identity card. Are you going to inform his wife?’
‘It’s better than letting her find out about the murder from tomorrow morning’s papers.’
From the corner of Avenue de Villiers they could see the entrance to the Malesherbes Métro station and Lapointe striding back towards them.
‘Thank you for your phone call, Fourquet. I apologize for leaving you outside for so long. It really is freezing cold.’
He squeezed himself into the little car and Lapointe got in behind the wheel. He darted an inquiring glance at his chief.
‘Place des Vosges.’
They said nothing for a while. In the Parc Monceau, the white powder was still falling, forming a thin layer on top of the railings with their gilded tips. After the Champs-Élysées, they drove along the Seine and soon pulled up in Place des Vosges.
The concierge, invisible in the darkness of her lodge, switched on the light and Maigret grunted as they went past:
‘Madame Chabut …’
The concierge didn’t ask any questions. The two men stopped on the first floor, where on the solid oak door was a small brass plate engraved with Oscar Chabut’s name. The time was only half past ten. Maigret rang the bell. The door opened promptly and a young maid in an apron and cotton lawn cap looked at them with curiosity. She was dark-haired and pretty, and her black silk uniform emphasized her curves.
‘Madame Chabut …’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, from the Police Judiciaire.’
‘One moment.’
They could hear the radio or the television, voices in dialogue as in a play. Then the sound was switched off and, a second later, a woman in an emerald bathrobe came towards them, looking surprised.
Not yet forty, she was beautiful, extremely graceful, and she walked with an elegance that struck Maigret.
‘Please follow me, gentlemen.’
She showed them into a vast drawing room where an armchair was installed in front of the television that had just been turned off.
‘Do sit down, please. Don’t tell me that my husband has had an accident—’
‘I’m afraid that is the case, madame.’
‘Is he injured?’
‘It’s more serious.’
‘You mean …?’
He nodded.
‘Poor Oscar!’
She didn’t cry either, but merely bowed her head in sorrow.
‘Was he alone in the car?’
‘It wasn’t a car crash. He was shot.’
‘By a woman?’
‘No. A man.’
‘Poor Oscar,’ she repeated. ‘Where did it happen?’
And, since Maigret hesitated, she explained:
‘Don’t be afraid to tell me. I knew about everything. We haven’t been lovers for a long time, or husband and wife so to speak, but two friends. He was a kind, cuddly teddy bear. People had the wrong idea about him because he’d thrust out his chest and bang his fist on the table.’
‘Do you know Rue Fortuny?’
‘That’s where he used to take nearly all of them. I even met the charming Madame Blanche because he was keen to show me the place. You see what I mean when I say we were good friends. Who was he with?’
‘A young woman, his private secretary.’
‘The Grasshopper! He gave her that nickname and that’s what everyone calls her.’
Lapointe looked at her intently, astounded by her poise.
‘Did it happen in the establishment?’
‘In the street, just as your husband was making his way back to his car.’
‘Has the murderer been caught?’
‘He had plenty of time to run to the top of the street and probably jumped into a Métro carriage. Since you knew about your husband’s affairs, perhaps you have an idea who the killer might be?’
‘Any one of them,’ she murmured with a disarming smile. ‘Any husband or lover. There are still people in the world who are jealous.’
‘Did he receive any threatening letters?’
‘I don’t think so. He had intimate relations with several of our female friends, but I can’t think of any whose husband would be likely to kill.
‘Make no mistake, inspector. My husband wasn’t a heartbreaker. Nor was he a brute, despite his appearance.
‘You’d doubtless be surprised if I told you that he was shy, and that it was because of his shyness that he needed reassurance.
‘And nothing reassured him as much as knowing that he could have almost any woman.’
‘Have you always consented?’
‘At first, he kept it from me. It took me years to discover that he was sleeping with several of my friends. Once, I caught him in the act and we had a long conversation, which ended in our being good friends.
‘Do you understand now? It is still a great loss for me. We were used to each other. We were fond of each other.’
‘Was he jealous of you?’
‘He left me complete freedom, but he preferred not to know, with his male pride. Where is the body right now?’
‘At the Forensic Institute. I’d like you to go there tomorrow morning, to identify him officially.’
‘Where was he hit?’
‘In the stomach and the chest.’
‘Did he suffer?’
‘He died almost instantaneously.’
‘Was the Grasshopper with him when he was killed?’
‘No. He left first.’
‘He was all alone.’
‘Tomorrow, I’ll ask you to make a list of all the women in your circle of friends, all the mistresses you knew of.’
‘Was it definitely a man who shot him?’
‘According to Madame Blanche, yes.’
‘Was the door still open?’
‘No. She was watching through the spyhole. Thank you, Madame Chabut, and I am sorry to have been the bearer of bad news. By the way, did your husband have any family in Paris?’
‘His father, old Désiré. He’s seventy-three, but he’s still running his bar on Quai de la Tournelle. It’s called Au Petit Sancerre. He’s a widower and lives with a waitress in her fifties.’
Once in the car, Maigret turned to Lapointe and asked:
‘Well?’
‘She’s a strange woman, isn’t she? Do you believe what she says?’
‘Definitely.’
‘She didn’t show much grief.’
‘It’ll come. Later tonight, when she goes to bed alone. Perhaps the maid is the one who’ll cry, because she’s bound to have slept with him too.’
‘He was a sex maniac, wasn’t he?’
‘Pretty much. There are men who need that for their sense of self-worth. His wife made it very clear. Quai de la Tournelle … I wonder if the bar’s still open.’
They arrived just as a man with white hair and a coarse blue-linen apron tied around his waist was lowering the iron shutter. Through the half-open door they could see the chairs on the tables, the sawdust on the floor and a few dirty glasses on the pewter counter.
‘We’re closed, gentlemen.’
‘We simply wish to speak to you.’
He frowned.
‘Speak to me? First of all, who are you?’
‘Police Judiciaire.’
‘Do you want to tell me what business the Police Judiciaire has with me?’
They were now inside, and Désiré Chabut had closed the door behind them. In a corner of the room a large stove was pumping out heat.
‘It’s not about you but about your son.’
He looked at them warily, with the calm, cunning gaze of a country farmer.
‘What’s he done, my son?’
‘He hasn’t done anything. He’s been involved in an accident.’
‘I’ve always told him he drives too fast. Is he badly injured?’
‘He’s dead.’
The man went behind the bar and, without saying a word, poured himself a small glass o
f marc, which he downed in one.
‘Do you want some?’ he asked.
Maigret nodded. Lapointe, who hated marc, said no.
‘Where did it happen?’
‘It wasn’t a traffic accident. Your son was shot with an automatic pistol.’
‘Who by?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
The old man didn’t cry either. His lined face remained inscrutable, his eyes hard.
‘Have you seen my daughter-in-law?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does she say?’
‘She doesn’t know anything either.’
‘I’ve been here for more than fifty years. Come with me.’
He showed them into a kitchen and turned on the light.
‘Look.’
He pointed to the picture of a little boy of seven or eight holding a hoop, then to the same child dressed for his first communion.
‘That’s him. He was born here, on the mezzanine. He went to the local school then to the lycée, where he failed his baccalaureate twice. He got a job as a door-to-door wine salesman. Then he became the right-hand man of a wine merchant in Mâcon who had a subsidiary in Paris. He hasn’t always had an easy life, believe me. He worked hard. And when he got married, he was only earning just enough to keep the two of them.’
‘Did he love his wife?’
‘Of course he loved her. She was a typist for his boss. At first, they lived in a little apartment in Rue Saint-Antoine. They don’t have any children. Oscar eventually set up on his own, ignoring my advice. I was convinced he’d regret it, but, on the contrary, he prospered in everything he did. Have you seen his barges on the Seine, with “Vin des Moines” in big letters?
‘You see, to be that successful, you have to be tough. Unfortunately, because of that, smaller merchants ended up going bankrupt. It wasn’t his fault, naturally. But they still resented him, it’s only human.’
‘You mean the murder could have been committed by an aggrieved competitor?’
‘That’s the most likely, isn’t it?’
Désiré didn’t mention his son’s mistresses, the possibility of a jealous husband or lover. Was he aware of them?
‘Do you know people who bear him a grudge?’
‘I don’t know them, but there are some. You’ll probably find those who can tell you more at the Bercy warehouses. There, my son was seen as someone who had no hesitation on treading on others’ toes.’
‘Did he come and see you often?’
Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 2
