‘Are you going to miss him?’
‘Yes. I won’t hide it.’
‘Did he give you presents?’
‘He never gave me money. He’d sometimes give me a silk scarf he’d seen in a shop window.’
‘What is going to happen now?’
‘I don’t know who’ll run the business. There’s Monsieur Louceck, at Avenue de l’Opéra, who’s a sort of financial adviser. He’s one of the employees who deal with the tax returns and the annual accounts. Only he doesn’t know anything about wine.’
‘What about Monsieur Leprêtre?’
‘I told you he’s got no business sense.’
‘And Madame Chabut?’
‘I suppose she’ll inherit the lot. I don’t know whether she’ll take her husband’s place. She might be capable of it. She’s a woman who knows what she wants.’
He observed her closely, surprised at the common sense of this young woman who was not fazed by any question. There was something direct about her that made her very likeable and, watching her long, slim body gesticulate, it was hard not to smile.
‘Last night I went to Quai de la Tournelle.’
‘To see the old man? I’m sorry, I should have said the father.’
‘How did they get along?’
‘Badly, as far as I know.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. It must go back a long way. I think the father found his son too harsh, insensitive. He never accepted anything from him and I wonder whether it isn’t out of defiance that he hasn’t sold his business yet, despite his age.’
‘Did Chabut talk about him sometimes?’
‘Rarely.’
‘Can you think of anything else to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have other lovers?’
‘No. He was more than enough.’
‘Will you continue to work here?’
‘If they keep me on.’
‘Where is Monsieur Leprêtre’s office?’
‘On the ground floor. The windows overlook the backyard.’
‘I’m going to have a chat with your colleagues.’
Here too the lights were on and two girls were typing, while the third, who appeared to be the oldest, was sorting out the post.
‘Don’t let me disturb you. I’m the inspector in charge of the investigation and I’m sure I’ll have the opportunity to see you all individually. What I’d like to ask right now is whether any of you have any suspicions.’
They exchanged glances and Mademoiselle Berthe, the plump one who was in her thirties, blushed slightly.
‘Do you have an idea?’ he asked her.
‘No. I don’t know anything. I was as shocked as everyone else.’
‘Did you find out about the murder from the newspapers?’
‘No. When I arrived here—’
‘Did he have any enemies that you are aware of?’
They all looked sheepish.
‘There’s no point holding back. I’ve learned a lot about the life he led and in particular about his relations with women. The murderer could be a husband, a lover or even a jealous woman.’
No one seemed inclined to speak.
‘Think about it. The tiniest detail might be important.’
He and Lapointe went downstairs. On the ground floor, Maigret pushed open the door to the book-keeper’s office. He matched the Grasshopper’s description.
‘How long have you worked for the company?’
‘Five months. Before, I was working in a leather goods shop on the Grands Boulevards.’
‘Did you know about your boss’s love life?’
He turned red and opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Among the people he met here, were there some who had reasons to hate him?’
‘Why would they have hated him?’
‘He was a very tough businessman, wasn’t he?’
‘He wasn’t a softie.’
He already regretted his answer, wondering how he could have been so bold as to express an opinion.
‘Do you know Madame Chabut?’
‘She sometimes brought me the bills from her tradesmen. Otherwise she sent them by post. She’s a very nice, uncomplicated person.’
‘Thank you.’
Another employee, the glum Monsieur Leprêtre with a wilting moustache. They found him in his office, which was even more outmoded and provincial than the others. Sitting at a table painted black on which there were wine samples, he watched the two men walk in with suspicion.
‘I presume you know why we’re here?’
He merely nodded. One side of his moustache drooped lower than the other and he was smoking a meerschaum pipe which gave off a strong smell.
‘Someone had a serious motive for killing your boss. How long have you worked here?’
‘Thirteen years.’
‘Did you and Monsieur Chabut get along well?’
‘I never complained.’
‘He trusted you entirely, didn’t he?’
‘He trusted no one but himself.’
‘All the same, he treated you like one of his close colleagues.’
Leprêtre’s face expressed no emotion. He wore a strange cap on his head, and Maigret thought it must be to conceal his baldness. In any case, he made no effort to remove it.
‘You have nothing to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘He never told you that someone was threatening him?’
‘No.’
It was pointless pressing him and Maigret signalled to Lapointe to follow him.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
And Leprêtre rose to close the door behind them.
Once they were in the car, Maigret’s cold, which so far had only been incubating, suddenly made its presence known and, for several minutes, he blew his nose until his face was red and his eyes were watering.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered to Lapointe. ‘I’ve felt it coming on since this morning. Avenue de l’Opéra! We forgot to ask the number.’
They soon found it because giant letters that lit up at night announced: VIN DES MOINES. The building, large and imposing, housed other major businesses, including a foreign bank and a trust company.
On the second floor, they found themselves in a vast, high-ceilinged, marble-floored lobby where ultra-modern metal chairs around chrome-plated pedestal tables were mostly empty. On the walls were three posters like those in the Métro stations. They depicted a delighted-looking monk eagerly anticipating the glass of wine he’s about to drink.
On the first poster, the wine was red, on the second, white, and on the third, rosé.
On the other side of a glass partition they could see a huge office where around thirty people were working, men and women, and, at the back, they glimpsed more offices. Everything was light and bright, the equipment modern, the furniture state-of-the-art.
Maigret went up to the counter and had to take his handkerchief out of his pocket just as he was about to speak to a young receptionist, who waited for him to finish blowing his nose without showing her impatience.
‘Excuse me. I’d like to see Monsieur Louceck.’
‘Who shall I say is asking?’
She held out a notepad on which he read: First name and surname. Then, on another line: Purpose of visit.
He simply wrote: Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.
She disappeared through a door facing the first window and was gone for some time. She then came out of the big office and showed them into a second, more secluded, waiting room that was just as swanky as the first.
‘Monsieur Louceck will see you right away. He’s on the telephone.’
And indeed, they weren’t kept waiting long. Another young woman, who wore glasses, came to fetch them and showed them into a spacious, equally contemporary office.
A very short man stood up and held out his hand.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?
’
‘Yes.’
‘Stéphane Louceck. Do sit down.’
Maigret introduced his companion:
‘Inspector Lapointe.’
‘Please have a seat too.’
He was extremely ugly, repulsively ugly. He had a long, bulbous nose with thin bluish lines, and brown hairs protruding from his nostrils and ears. Meanwhile his eyebrows, nearly two centimetres thick, were bushy and tangled. His suit could have done with ironing and his tie must have been pre-knotted on a celluloid clip.
‘I presume you’ve come about the murder?’
‘It goes without saying.’
‘I was expecting someone from the police to come sooner. I never read the morning papers because I start work early. I only learned the news when I received a telephone call from Madame Chabut.’
‘I was unaware of the existence of these offices and so initially we went to Quai de Charenton. If I understand correctly, that’s where Oscar Chabut mainly worked.’
‘He dropped in here every day. He wanted to see everything for himself.’
His face was neutral, expressionless, and his voice itself had no inflexion.
‘May I ask you whether he had any enemies that you knew of?’
‘Not that I knew of.’
‘He was an important man and, as he forged ahead, he must have been tough with some people.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘I also learned that he was very keen on women.’
‘I did not poke my nose into his private life.’
‘Where was his desk?’
‘Here, facing me.’
‘Did he bring his private secretary here?’
‘No. There are enough secretaries here.’
Loubeck didn’t bother to smile, or to express any feelings.
‘Have you been with him long?’
‘I worked with him before these offices existed.’
‘What was your previous profession?’
‘Financial adviser.’
‘I presume you dealt with the tax returns?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Will you be the person who replaces him now?’
Maigret had to blow his nose again and he could feel perspiration beading on his forehead.
‘Excuse me …’
‘Take your time. It’s hard for me to answer your question. The business isn’t a limited company but was owned by Monsieur Chabut, and so, unless there is a will stating the contrary, his wife will inherit it.’
‘Are you on good terms with her?’
‘I barely know her.’
‘Were you Oscar Chabut’s right-hand man?’
‘I dealt with sales and the warehouses. We have more than fifteen thousand outlets in France. Forty people work here and some twenty inspectors travel up and down the country. Other offices above these are responsible for Paris and the suburbs. That’s also where they handle advertising and export sales.’
‘How many women on your staff?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m asking, how many female staff do you employ?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who chose them?’
‘Me.’
‘Oscar Chabut didn’t have a say?’
‘Not here, in this particular matter.’
‘Did he ever make a pass at any of them?’
‘I didn’t notice anything of the sort.’
‘If I understand correctly, you are the key man for all the sales departments?’
He merely blinked in reply.
‘So it’s likely that you’ll keep your job, and, furthermore, that you’ll take charge of Quai de Charenton?’
He didn’t move a muscle but remained impassive.
‘Might some members of staff have complaints about their boss?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I assume you would like to see the murderer arrested?’
‘Obviously.’
‘So far, you haven’t been very helpful.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What do you think of Madame Chabut?’
‘She’s a very clever woman.’
‘Did you get along well with her?’
‘You already asked me more or less the same question. I said I barely knew her. She very rarely set foot here and I was not a visitor to Place des Vosges. I’m not the sort of man who goes to dinners and parties.’
‘Did Chabut have a busy social life?’
‘His wife will be able to tell you more than I can.’
‘Do you know if there’s a will?’
‘I have no idea.’
Maigret was feeling a little dizzy and he could see that this interview would go nowhere. Louceck had made up his mind to keep quiet and he would keep quiet to the end.
Maigret stood up.
‘I’d like you to send the names, addresses and ages of all the people who work here to me at Quai des Orfèvres.’
Louceck’s face remained blank and he merely inclined his head slightly. He had pressed a button and a young woman opened the door, ready to show the visitors out.
Before getting back in the car, Maigret went into a bar and drank a glass of rum. He hoped it would do him good. Lapointe just had a fruit juice.
‘What do we do?’
‘It’s nearly midday. Too late to go to Place des Vosges. Let’s head back to the office. Then we’ll have a bite to eat at the Brasserie Dauphine.’
He went into a telephone booth and requested his home number on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.
‘Is that you? … What have you got for lunch? … No, I won’t be back but save it for me for tonight … I know my voice is a bit hoarse. I haven’t stopped blowing my nose for the past hour … See you this evening …’
He was in quite a grumpy mood.
‘They all had some reason to want him dead. But one person carried out that wish and shot him. The others are innocent, but, innocent though they may be, it feels as if they’re trying to hinder rather than help us. Except perhaps that strange Grasshopper who doesn’t weigh up every one of her words and who seems to answer our questions honestly. What do you think of her?’
‘She’s strange, as you say. She faces up to life as it is and doesn’t allow herself to be fooled.’
The pathologist’s report was on Maigret’s desk. It contained four pages full of technical jargon and two sketches showing the impact of the bullets. Two had hit Chabut in the abdomen, one in the chest and the fourth had entered just below the shoulder.
‘No telephone calls for me?’
He turned to Lucas.
‘Did you send the report to the prosecutor’s office?’
He was talking about the interview with Stiernet.
‘First thing this morning. I even went down to see him in the cells.’
‘How is he?’
‘Quiet. I’d even say serene. He doesn’t mind being locked up and he’s not anxious about anything.’
A little later, Maigret and Lapointe walked into the Brasserie Dauphine. There were two lawyers in their robes as well as three or four inspectors who didn’t belong to Maigret’s squad but who greeted him. They went through to the dining room.
‘What’s on the menu today?’
‘This will make you happy: veal blanquette.’
‘What do you think of Vin des Moines?’
The owner shrugged.
‘It’s no worse than the table wine that used to be sold by the litre. A blend of different wines from the South and Algerian wine. Nowadays, people prefer wine with a label and a grander-sounding name.’
‘Do you have any?’
‘No, of course not. Shall I serve you a little Bourgueil? It will go perfectly with the blanquette.’
The next moment, Maigret pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket.
‘Here we go! As soon as I’m in a heated room, it starts again.’
‘Why don’t you go home to bed?’
‘Do you think I’d rest?
I can’t stop thinking about this Chabut. It’s as if he did his level best to confound us.’
‘What do you think of his wife?’
‘Nothing yet. Last night, I found her charming and very self-controlled, despite what had happened. Possibly a little too self-controlled. It seems as if she was protective towards her husband. The indulgent wife. We’ll see her later on. Maybe she’ll make me change my mind. I’m always wary of people who are too perfect.’
The blanquette was deliciously creamy, the golden yellow sauce very aromatic. They both had a pear brandy and then a coffee and, a little after two o’clock, they arrived at the apartment building in Place des Vosges.
The same maid as on the previous day opened the door and asked them to sit in the hallway while she went to inform her mistress.
When she came back, she didn’t show them into the drawing room but into a little sitting room where Jeanne Chabut soon joined them.
She wore a very simple but exquisitely cut black dress unadorned with any jewellery.
‘Sit down, gentlemen. I went over there this morning and I wasn’t able to touch my lunch.’
‘I presume they’re going to bring the body here?’
‘This afternoon, at five o’clock. Before that, I’m expecting a visit from the funeral director to discuss where to set up the chapel of rest. Probably in this room, because the drawing room is too big.’
The small sitting room, lit by a very high window that was almost floor-to-ceiling, was bright and cheerful like the rest of the apartment, with a slightly more feminine touch.
‘Was it you who chose the furniture and the wall coverings?’
‘I’ve always been interested in interior decoration. I’d have liked to be a designer. My father has a bookshop in Rue Jacob. It’s not far from the École des Beaux-Arts and there are a lot of antique shops in the neighbourhood.’
‘How is it that you ended up a typist?’
‘Because I wanted to be independent. I thought I could take evening classes, but I realized that it was impossible. Then, I met Oscar.’
‘Did you become his mistress?’
‘The first evening. With him, that won’t surprise you.’
‘Was he the one who proposed marriage?’
‘Can you see me asking him? He was probably tired of living alone in a small room, in lodgings where he cooked his meals on a spirit stove. He was earning very little at that time.’
‘Did you carry on working?’
Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 4
