‘For the first two months. Then he didn’t want me to. This may sound strange, but he was very jealous.’
‘Was he faithful in the early days?’
‘I thought he was.’
Maigret watched her and felt a little uneasy, as if he had a vague sense that something didn’t quite add up. Her face was beautiful, but her features were rigid, as if she’d passed through the hands of a plastic surgeon.
Her eyes almost never blinked. They were big and light blue, and she opened them wide as if to make them look even more innocent.
He had to blow his nose and, while he did so, she remained silent.
‘Excuse me.’
‘I thought about the list you asked me for and I tried to draw one up.’
She went to fetch a sheet of writing paper from the Louis XV desk. Her handwriting was large and firm, executed with confidence.
‘I have only noted down the names of those whose wives probably had an affair with my husband.’
‘You aren’t certain?’
‘For most of them, no. But from the way he spoke about them and his behaviour when we gave parties, I knew fairly quickly.’
He read the names out in an undertone.
‘Henry Legendre.’
‘Manufacturer. He travels back and forth between Paris and Rouen. Marie-France is his second wife and she’s fifteen years younger than him.’
‘Jealous?’
‘I think so. But she’s much smarter than he is. They have a property in Maisons-Laffitte, where they entertain every weekend.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘Only once, because we entertained on Sundays too, at our house in Sully-sur-Loire. In the summer, we’d go to Cannes, where we own the top two floors of a new apartment building close to Palm Beach, as well as the roof, which we’ve made into a garden …’
‘Pierre Merlot,’ he read.
‘The stockbroker. Lucile, his wife, is a petite blonde with a pointed nose who’s over forty but still acts like a little girl. That must have amused Oscar.’
‘Does the husband know?’
‘Definitely not. Her husband is a fanatical bridge player and whenever we threw a party, a few of them would always shut themselves up in this room to play.’
‘Did your husband play?’
‘Not that sort of game.’
She gave a hazy smile.
‘Jean-Luc Caucasson.’
‘The art publisher. He married a young model who’s quite foul-mouthed and is an absolute hoot.’
‘Maître Poupard. The criminal lawyer?’
‘He’s a member of the bar and his name is often in the newspapers. His wife is American and has a large fortune.’
‘He didn’t suspect anything?’
‘He often appears in court cases around the country. They have a magnificent apartment on the Île Saint-Louis.’
‘Xavier Thorel. Is that the minister?’
‘Yes. Xavier is a delightful friend.’
‘You say that as if he’s a particularly good friend of yours.’
‘I’m very fond of him. As for Rita, she throws herself at all men.’
‘Does he know?’
‘He’s resigned to it. As a matter of fact, he pays her back.’
Other surnames, other first names, an architect, a doctor, Gérard Aubin, from the Aubin and Boitel Bank, a renowned couturier from Rue François-1er.
‘The list could be longer, because we know a lot of people, but I chose the ones with whom I’m almost certain Oscar had an intimate relationship.’
Abruptly, she asked:
‘Have you been to see his father?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘I got the impression that his relationship with his son was rather cool.’
‘Only since Oscar started earning a lot of money. He wanted his father to give up his bar and he offered to buy him a lovely house in Sancerre, not far from the farm where the old man was born. They didn’t understand each other. Désiré thought we were trying to get rid of him.’
‘What about your father?’
‘He still has his bookshop, and my mother lives on the mezzanine floor. She’s housebound because she has trouble walking and she has a weak heart.’
The maid knocked at the door and came in.
‘It’s the funeral director.’
‘Tell him I’ll be with him right away.’
And, turning to the two men:
‘I must ask you to excuse me. I’m going to be very busy over the coming few days. However, if there are any developments or if you need to know anything, don’t hesitate to call me.’
She gave them her wan, robotic smile and showed them to the door, gliding suavely across the room.
In the hallway, they met the funeral director, who recognized Maigret and greeted him respectfully.
The fog, which had mostly dispersed by midday, was gradually descending again and blotting out everything.
As for Maigret, he blew his nose again, muttering disgruntledly.
3.
Maigret had never been comfortable in certain circles, among the wealthy bourgeoisie, where he felt clumsy and awkward. The people on the list that Jeanne Chabut had given him, for example, nearly all belonged to the same social set, which had its rules, customs and taboos, and its own language. They met up at the theatre, in restaurants or nightclubs. On Sundays, they gathered at country houses that were all alike and, in the summer, in Cannes or Saint-Tropez.
Built like a labourer, Oscar Chabut had hauled himself up into this little world through sheer hard work and, to convince himself that he was accepted, he felt the need to sleep with most of the women.
‘Where are we going, chief?’
‘Rue Fortuny.’
Hunched in his seat, he glumly watched the streets and boulevards file past. The lamps were lit, and there were lights in most windows. What’s more, there were fairy lights strung across the roads, gold and silver fir trees, and Christmas trees in the shop windows.
The cold and the fog did not stop shoppers from thronging the streets, going from one window display to the next and queueing in the stores. He wondered what to give Madame Maigret but couldn’t think of anything. He kept having to blow his nose, and he couldn’t wait to get to bed.
‘When we leave there, I’ll give you the list. See if you can find out where each person was last Wednesday at around nine in the evening.’
‘Should I question them?’
‘Only if you can’t get the information any other way. Talk to the drivers and servants, for example, and you’re likely to discover something.’
Poor Lapointe wasn’t thrilled with the task he’d been given.
‘Do you think it’s one of them?’
‘It could be anybody. This Oscar must have made himself obnoxious to everyone, to men, at any rate. You can wait for me in the car. I’ll only be a few minutes.’
He rang the bell of the private mansion and, although he hadn’t heard footsteps, the spyhole cover was soon raised a fraction. Madame Blanche let him in reluctantly.
‘Now what is it you want? I’m expecting my clients any time now, and it would be preferable if the police weren’t seen here.’
‘Would you look at this list?’
They were in the large sitting room where only two lamps were lit. She went to fetch her glasses from the grand piano and scanned the list of names.
‘What do you want of me?’
‘For you to tell me whether any of your clients are among these people.’
‘First of all, I’ve already told you that I only know their first names and that surnames are never mentioned.’
‘Knowing you, you still have all the lowdown on them.’
‘We are in a position of trust, like a doctor or lawyer, and I don’t see why we aren’t granted professional confidentiality too.’
He listened patiently, then murmured, without raising his voice:
‘Answer.’
And she knew very well that with him she wouldn’t have the last word.
‘There are two or three.’
‘Which ones?’
‘Monsieur Aubin, Gérard Aubin, the banker. He’s involved in Protestant high finance and takes great precautions to ensure no one knows about his visits.’
‘Does he come often?’
‘Two or three times a month.’
‘Does he bring someone with him?’
‘The lady always arrives first.’
‘Always the same one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he ever run into Chabut in the passage or on the stairs?’
‘I ensure that doesn’t happen.’
‘He might have seen him outside in the street, or have recognized his car. Has his wife ever been here?’
‘With Monsieur Oscar, yes.’
‘Who else do you know?’
‘Marie-France Legendre, the industrialist’s wife.’
‘Has she come here often?’
‘Four or five times.’
‘Always with Chabut?’
‘Yes. I don’t know her husband. It is possible that he’s a client but under another name. That’s what some of them do. The minister, for example, Xavier Thorel. He telephones me in advance asking me to procure him a young woman, preferably a fashion or artist’s model. He goes by the name of Monsieur Louis but, seeing as his photo’s often in the papers, everyone recognizes him.’
‘Are there some who tend to come on Wednesdays?’
‘No. They don’t have a specific day.’
‘Was Madame Thorel one of Oscar Chabut’s mistresses?’
‘Rita? She’s come with him and with others. She’s a sexy little brunette who can’t do without men. I’m not sure whether it’s a matter of temperament. She desperately wants attention.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you finished with me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If you have to come back, please be so kind as to phone me, so I can avoid any chance meetings that would be very damaging to me. Thank you for not mentioning me to the press.’
Maigret returned to his car. He was barely any the wiser, but, for lack of a starting point, he had to pursue all avenues.
‘Now what, chief?’
‘To my place.’
His forehead was hot, his eyes were stinging and his left shoulder hurt.
‘Good luck, my friend. Have you got the list? Go to the office and have it Photostatted, so we don’t have to ask Jeanne Chabut for it again.’
Madame Maigret was surprised to see him home early.
‘You look as if you’ve got a cold. Is that why you’re back so soon?’
His face was damp, as if covered in a mist.
‘I think I might be going down with flu. This is not good timing.’
‘It’s a strange business, isn’t it?’
Generally, she learned about the case Maigret was working on from the newspapers or the radio, as at present.
‘Just a moment. I have to make a phone call.’
He rang Rue Fortuny. Madame Blanche answered in a honeyed voice initially.
‘Maigret here. There’s a question I forgot to ask you earlier. Would Chabut telephone before coming to your establishment?’
‘Sometimes yes, other times no.’
‘Did he telephone on Wednesdays?’
‘No. There was no point because he came almost every Wednesday.’
‘Who knew?’
‘No one here.’
‘Except for your maid.’
‘She’s a young Spanish girl who barely understands French and is incapable of remembering names—’
‘But someone knew, someone knew at what time Chabut was in the habit of leaving your establishment and they waited outside, despite the cold.’
‘I’m sorry, I have to go, there’s someone ringing the doorbell.’
He got undressed, put on his pyjamas and dressing gown, and sat down in the living room in his leather armchair.
‘Your shirt is dripping wet. You’d better take your temperature.’
She went to fetch the thermometer from the bathroom and he kept it in his mouth for five minutes.
‘What is it?’
‘Thirty-eight point four.’
‘Why don’t you go straight to bed? Would you like me to give Pardon a call?’
‘If all his patients troubled him for a little dose of flu!’
He hated bothering doctors, especially since his old friend Pardon so rarely managed to finish a meal in peace.
‘I’m going to turn down the bed.’
‘Just a moment. Did you save me some choucroute?’
‘You’re not going to eat that now, are you?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s heavy. You’re not well.’
‘Heat it up for me anyway. And don’t forget the salt pork.’
He always ended up back at square one. Someone knew that Chabut would be at Rue Fortuny that Wednesday. It was unlikely that he’d followed him. First of all, it is difficult to follow a person in Paris, especially in a car. And secondly, the wine merchant had arrived at around seven in the evening in the company of the Grasshopper.
Was it likely that the murderer had waited for nearly two hours outside, in the chill wind, without being noticed? He couldn’t have come by car because, having done the deed, he’d run to the Malesherbes Métro entrance.
All this was fairly jumbled in Maigret’s mind, and he had to make an effort to think.
‘What will you drink?’
‘Beer, of course. What else would I drink with choucroute?’
He thought he had more appetite than he did, and he soon pushed his plate away. It wasn’t like him to go to bed at half past six in the evening, but he did so anyway. Madame Maigret brought him two aspirin.
‘What else could you take? I seem to remember that the last time, three years ago, Pardon prescribed some medicine that did you a lot of good.’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘Do you really not want me to phone him?’
‘No. Draw the curtains and put out the light.’
After just ten minutes, he was sweating profusely and his thoughts were becoming hazy. Shortly afterwards, he was asleep.
The night felt long. He woke up several times, his nose blocked, struggling to breathe. He would lie for a while in a state of semi-consciousness and nearly every time, he heard – or thought he heard – his wife’s voice.
Once, he found her standing by the bed. She was holding a pair of clean pyjamas.
‘You need to change, you’re soaked. I wonder whether I shouldn’t change the sheets too.’
He did as he was told, his gaze unfocused. Then he found himself in a church that resembled Madame Blanche’s lounge, only much bigger. Couples followed one another down a central aisle, like at a wedding. Someone was playing the piano, but it was organ music that could be heard.
He had a mission to accomplish, but he didn’t know what it was, and Oscar Chabut was looking at him with a sardonic expression. As the couples filed past, he greeted the women, calling them by their first names.
He half-awoke again and was relieved at last to see the room bathed in greyish light and to smell the aroma of coffee coming from the kitchen.
‘Are you awake?’
He was no longer sweating. He was tired, but he didn’t feel unwell.
‘Will you bring me my coffee?’
He had the impression that he hadn’t drunk such good coffee for a long time. He took little sips, savouring each one.
‘Pass me my pipe and my tobacco, would you? What’s the weather like?’
‘A little foggy, but a lot less than yesterday. The sun will be out soon.’
On rare occasions when he was a child, he used to pretend to be ill because he hadn’t done his homework. Wasn’t this a little similar? No, because he’d been running a temperature.
Before giving him his pi
pe, Madame Maigret held out the thermometer. He obediently slid it under his tongue.
‘Thirty-six point five. Below normal.’
‘Not surprising, you were sweating so much.’
He smoked his pipe and drank a second cup of coffee.
‘I hope you’re going to take at least one day off?’
He didn’t answer straight away. He was torn. He felt good, snug in bed, especially now he no longer had a headache. Lapointe was busy establishing alibis for each of the men on the list.
It was dispiriting. The investigation was stalling. He was all the more irritated since he felt that it was his fault, that the truth was within his grasp and he just needed to think of it.
‘Is there anything new in the papers?’
‘They claim you have a lead.’
‘That’s exactly the opposite of what I told them.’
By nine o’clock, he’d drunk three large cups of coffee and the room was filled with a blue haze of pipe smoke.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m getting up.’
‘Do you want to go out?’
‘Yes.’
She didn’t argue, knowing it would be no use.
‘Do you want me to telephone your office to ask one of the inspectors to drive over and pick you up?’
‘That’s a good idea. Lapointe probably won’t be there. Ask if Janvier’s free. No, I was forgetting, he’s on a case. But Lucas should be available.’
Once he was on his feet, he didn’t feel as good as when he’d been lying down, and his head was swimming. His hand trembled as he was shaving and he nicked his skin.
‘I hope you’ll be able to come home for lunch. What good would it do you to fall seriously ill?’
She was right, but he couldn’t help it. His wife knotted his thick scarf around his neck, and he went down the stairs while she gazed after him from the landing.
‘Good morning, Lucas. The big chief hasn’t asked for me?’
‘I told him last night that you weren’t feeling well.’
‘Nothing new?’
‘Lapointe spent the entire evening chasing up the names on the list. This morning he’s still working on it. Where would you like me to drive you to?’
‘Quai de Charenton.’
He already felt on familiar territory and he went straight up to the first floor, followed by Lucas for whom the place was new. He knocked at the door, pushed it open and found the Grasshopper typing away in her corner.
Maigret and the Wine Merchant Page 5
