Maigret went back downstairs. As there was a little milk left in the earthenware jug, he gave it to the cat.
‘What now?’ he said aloud, as if talking to the cat.
What must they look like, the two of them, there in the empty house?
He had never realized how solitary and desolate a bistro could look, without the owner behind the counter, without customers. Yes, this was how the room looked every night once the last customers had gone and Calas had put up the shutters and turned the key in the lock.
They were both there then, he and his wife, and there was nothing left to do but turn out the lights, walk through the kitchen and go upstairs to bed. Madame Calas was most often in a state of dazed lethargy from all the swigs of cognac she’d taken during the day.
Did she have to hide from her husband to drink? Or else, pleased with the outside recreations he himself enjoyed every afternoon, did he treat his wife’s passion for the bottle with indulgence?
It suddenly occurred to Maigret that there was one person about whom they knew almost nothing, and that was the dead man. From the first, for everyone, he had been the dismembered man. An odd thing, which Maigret had often noticed, was that people don’t have the same reactions, the same pity for example, or the same revulsion, faced with scattered limbs as opposed to an intact corpse. It is as if the dead person becomes more anonymous, almost comical, and you’re lucky if they don’t smile when they talk about it.
He hadn’t seen Calas’ head, which still hadn’t been found and might never be found, or a photograph of him.
The man was from a peasant background, short and thickset. Every year, he went to buy wine from vineyards around Poitiers. He wore quite thin woollen suits and played billiards in the afternoon somewhere near Gare de l’Est.
Apart from his wife, was there a woman in his life? Were there several? Was he unaware of what happened in his own house when he was away?
He must have met Pape and, if he had even the slightest insight, had surely guessed at the relationship that had developed between that man and his wife.
Both gave the impression, not so much of a couple of lovers, but rather of an already old relationship, people united by a deep, calm feeling, founded on mutual understanding and indulgence, that particular tenderness only encountered in couples of a certain age who have a lot to forgive each other for.
If he knew that, was he resigned to it? Did he turn a blind eye or, on the contrary, did he quarrel with his wife?
What was his reaction to the others, those like young Antoine, who sneaked in and took advantage of Aline Calas’ weakness? Did he know about that, too?
Maigret had finally headed for the bar, and his hand hesitated among the bottles of spirits, finally grabbed a bottle of calvados. It struck him that he mustn’t forget to put some money in the till. The cat had gone and sat down near the stove and, instead of falling asleep, was restless, surprised at feeling no warmth.
Maigret could understand the relationship between Madame Calas and Pape. He could understand Antoine, too, and the ones who merely passed through.
What he didn’t understand was Calas and his wife. How and why had they got together, then married, lived together for so many years and even had a daughter whom they seemed to have lost interest in, as if she had nothing in common with them?
There was no photograph to enlighten him, no correspondence, none of those things in a house that make it possible to get an idea of the state of mind of those living in it.
He finished his drink and poured himself another. He was in a bad mood. Glass in hand, he went and sat down at the table where he had seen Madame Calas sit as if it was her usual place.
He knocked his pipe against his heel, filled another, lit it, his eyes fixed on the counter, the glasses, the bottles. He wondered now if he wasn’t in the process of finding the answer to his question, or at least part of his question.
When it came down to it, what did the house consist of? A kitchen where nobody ate, because the couple had their meals at the table at the far end of the bistro, and a bedroom where they did nothing but sleep.
Whether it was Calas or his wife, it was here that they lived, in the bistro, which for them was what the dining room or living room is in an ordinary household.
When the couple had arrived in Paris, hadn’t they almost immediately settled on Quai de Valmy, never to move from it?
Maigret even had the impression that this, too, shed a new light on the relationship between Madame Calas and Dieudonné Pape, and he smiled.
It was still quite vague and he would have been unable to express his thoughts in clear sentences. All the same, he was losing the sluggishness that had been affecting him for the last few hours. Finishing his drink, he went to the phone booth and dialled the number of the cells.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret here. Who am I speaking to? … Joris? How’s your new customer? … Yes, the Calas woman, as you call her … What? And what did you do?’
He felt sorry for her. She had called the guard twice. Both times, she had tried to persuade him to bring her a little brandy, promising to pay him any amount of money. It hadn’t occurred to Maigret how much she would suffer from being deprived of it.
‘No, of course not …’
He couldn’t tell Joris to give her some in spite of the regulations. Maybe he would bring her some himself tomorrow morning, or give her some in his office?
‘I’d like you to look in the papers that were taken from her. Her identity card must be there. I know she comes from somewhere near Gien, but I can’t remember the name of the village.’
He had to wait quite a long time.
‘What? … Boissancourt, near Saint-André. Boissancourt with an a? … Thanks, my friend! Goodnight! Don’t be too hard on her.’
He called Directory Inquiries and gave his name.
‘Would you be so kind, mademoiselle, as to find me Boissancourt, near Saint-André, between Montargis and Gien, and read me out the list of subscribers.’
‘Will you stay on the line?’
‘Yes.’
It didn’t take long. The woman was excited at the thought of assisting the famous Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.
‘Are you taking this down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aillevard, Route des Chênes, unemployed.’
‘Go on.’
‘Ancelin, Victor, butcher. Don’t you want the number?’
‘No.’
‘Honoré de Boissancourt, chateau of Boissancourt.’
‘Go on.’
‘Dr Camuzet.’
‘Give me his number.’
‘17.’
‘Next?’
‘Calas, Robert, cattle merchant.’
‘Number?’
‘21.’
‘Calas, Julien, grocer. His number is 3.’
‘Any other Calases?’
‘No. There’s a Louchez, who’s unemployed, a Piedbœuf, who’s a blacksmith, and a Simonin, who’s a grain merchant.’
‘Could you call me the first Calas on the list, then probably the second one as well?’
He heard the telephone girls talking to each other down the line, then a voice announced:
‘Saint-André on the line.’
Number 21 was rung. The ringing went on for a long time until a woman’s voice was heard.
‘What is it?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret here, from the Police Judiciaire in Paris. Are you Madame Calas? Is your husband at home?’
He was in bed with flu.
‘Are you related to a man named Omer Calas?’
‘What’s he been up to? Has he done something wrong?’
‘So you know him?’
‘Actually, I’ve never seen him, because I’m not from here, I’m from the Haute-Loire, and he’d already gone when I married.’
‘Is he a relative of your husband’s?’
‘His first cousin. He still has a brother around here, Julien, who�
�s a grocer.’
‘Do you know anything else about him?’
‘About Omer? No, and I have no desire to know anything more.’
She must have hung up, because another voice asked:
‘Do you want me to put the second call through, inspector?’
This time, the answer came more quickly. The man who came on the line was even more reticent.
‘I hear what you’re saying. But what exactly do you want of me?’
‘Was Omer Calas your brother?’
‘I had a brother named Omer.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘I have no idea. I haven’t heard from him in twenty, almost twenty-five years.’
‘A man named Omer Calas has been murdered in Paris.’
‘I heard that earlier on the radio.’
‘Did you also hear his description? Does he sound like your brother?’
‘After so long, it’s hard to say.’
‘Did you know he lived in Paris?’
‘No.’
‘Or that he was married?’
Silence.
‘Do you know his wife?’
‘Listen. I have nothing to tell you. I was fifteen when my brother left. I haven’t seen him since. I’ve never had a letter from him. I have no desire to know. If you want information, you should call Maître Canonge.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The lawyer.’
When he finally got hold of Canonge’s number, the man’s wife exclaimed:
‘Well, that’s a coincidence!’
‘What is?’
‘That you should be phoning now. How did you know? Earlier, after hearing the news on the radio, my husband wondered if he should phone you or go to see you. In the end, he decided to go to Paris. He took the 8.22 train. He’ll be at Gare d’Austerlitz just after midnight, I don’t know the exact time.’
‘Where does he usually stay?’
‘In the old days, the train arrived at Gare d’Orsay. He still stays at the Hôtel d’Orsay.’
‘What does your husband look like?’
‘A handsome man, tall, strong, with grey hair. He’s wearing a brown coat, a brown suit, and, apart from his briefcase, he took a pigskin suitcase with him. I’m still wondering what it was that made you think of him.’
When Maigret hung up, he had a smug smile on his face in spite of himself and almost poured himself another drink. Then he told himself he would have plenty of time for a drink at the station.
All that remained was to telephone Madame Maigret and tell her he would be back quite late tonight.
8. The Lawyer from Saint-André
Madame Canonge hadn’t exaggerated. Her husband really was a handsome man of about sixty who looked more like a gentleman farmer than a country lawyer. Standing by the gate at the end of the platform, Maigret immediately recognized him from a distance as he strode among the passengers from the 12.22 train, towering over the others, a pigskin suitcase in one hand, his briefcase in the other, and it was clear from his self-confident demeanour that he was a regular in this station and even on that train.
Tall and strong, he was the only one to be dressed with an almost overly studied elegance. His overcoat wasn’t just any brown, but an unusual soft chestnut colour that Maigret had never seen, and the cut bore the mark of a high-class tailor.
His complexion was ruddy beneath his silvery hair, and even in the bad light of the station forecourt Maigret could tell this was a man who took good care of himself. He was closely shaven and probably wore a discreet eau de Cologne.
Some fifty metres from the gate, he had spotted Maigret among the people waiting and had frowned, like a man trying to remember something. He, too, must often have seen the inspector’s photograph in the newspapers. Coming closer, he was still unsure whether or not to smile and hold out his hand.
It was Maigret who took two steps forwards.
‘Maître Canonge?’
‘Yes. Are you Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?’
He put his suitcase down at his feet and shook the proffered hand.
‘You’re not going to tell me you’re here by chance?’
‘No. I phoned your house this evening. Your wife told me you’d taken the train and that you’d be staying at the Hôtel d’Orsay. To be on the safe side, I thought it best to come here and wait for you.’
There was still one thing the lawyer didn’t understand.
‘Did you read my ad?’
‘No.’
‘Strange! Before anything else, I think we should get out of here. Will you come with me to the Hôtel d’Orsay?’
They took a taxi.
‘I came to Paris to see you and was planning to phone you first thing tomorrow.’
Maigret had not been mistaken. His companion gave off a slight aroma of eau de Cologne and good cigars.
‘Have you put Madame Calas in prison?’
‘Judge Coméliau has signed an arrest warrant.’
‘It’s a remarkable story …’
They drove along the river. A few minutes later, they pulled up outside the Hôtel d’Orsay, where the doorman greeted the lawyer like an old guest.
‘I don’t suppose the restaurant is still open, Alfred?’
‘No, Monsieur Canonge.’
‘Before the war, when all the Paris–Orléans trains arrived here,’ Canonge explained to Maigret, who knew it perfectly well, ‘the station restaurant stayed open all night. It was practical. I don’t suppose you really want to talk in a hotel room, do you? How about going for a drink somewhere?’
They had to walk quite some way along Boulevard Saint-Germain to find a brasserie still open.
‘What are you drinking, inspector?’
‘A beer.’
‘Could you bring me your finest brandy, waiter?’
Both of them, having taken off their coats and hats, sat down on the banquette. While Maigret lit his pipe, Canonge cut the end off his cigar with a silver pocket knife.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Saint-André?’
‘No, never.’
‘It’s off the main road and there’s nothing to attract tourists. If I understood correctly what the radio announced this afternoon, the dismembered man from the Canal Saint-Martin is none other than that rascal Calas?’
‘His fingerprints match those found in the house on Quai de Valmy.’
‘When I read the few lines the newspapers devoted to the discovery of the body, I had a feeling it was him and I almost phoned you.’
‘Did you know Calas?’
‘I used to. I knew the woman who became his wife rather better. Cheers! What I’m wondering now is where to begin. It’s a more complicated story than you might think. Has Aline Calas mentioned me?’
‘No.’
‘Do you believe she’s mixed up in the murder of her husband?’
‘I don’t know. The examining magistrate is convinced she is.’
‘What has she said in her defence?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Has she confessed?’
‘No. She refuses to say a word.’
‘I think, inspector, that she’s the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met in my life. And yet the countryside is full of eccentric characters, I can assure you.’
He must have been used to being listened to and he clearly liked the sound of his own voice. He held his cigar between his well-tended fingers in a pose that must have been personal to him, one that displayed his gold signet ring.
‘I’d better begin at the beginning. Obviously you’ve never heard of Honoré de Boissancourt?’
Maigret shook his head.
‘He is, or rather he was until a month ago, the richest man in our region. Apart from the chateau of Boissancourt, he owned about fifteen farms comprising 2,000 hectares in all, plus a good thousand hectares of woods and two lakes. If you’re familiar with the provinces, you probably get the idea.’
‘I was born in the country.’
No
t only had Maigret been born in the country, but his father had been the manager of a similar estate.
‘Now, it’s useful for you to know who this Boissancourt was. For that, I have to go back to his grandfather, whom my father, who was also a lawyer in Saint-André, already knew. His name wasn’t Boissancourt but Dupré, Christophe Dupré. The son of a tenant farmer, he first established himself as a cattle merchant and was tough and crafty enough to quickly amass a fortune. I suppose you know that kind of man, too.’
Listening to him, Maigret felt somewhat as if he was reliving his own childhood. In the region he came from, there had been someone like Christophe Dupré, who had become one of the richest men in the country and whose son was now a senator.
‘After a while, Dupré started buying and selling corn. His speculating made him a lot of money. With his profits, he bought land, one farm at first, then two, then three, so that by the time he died, the chateau of Boissancourt, which used to belong to a widow without children, had passed into his hands along with its outbuildings. Christophe had married the daughter of a cavalry officer and they had one son and one daughter. When he died, his son, Alain, started to call himself Dupré de Boissancourt. Gradually, he dropped the Dupré and eventually, when he was elected to the departmental council, he obtained a decree legalizing his new name.’
This, too, brought many memories back to Maigret’s mind.
‘So much for the older generations. Honoré de Boissancourt, the grandson of Christophe Dupré, who could be called the founder of the dynasty, died a month ago. He’d married Emilie d’Espissac, from an old local family that had fallen on hard times. After giving him a daughter, she died in a riding accident when the child was still very young. I knew her well, a charming woman, who bore her own ugliness with melancholy and who had let herself be sacrificed by her parents without protest. It was claimed that Boissancourt gave them a million, to buy her, so to speak. As the family lawyer, I can tell you the figure is exaggerated, but it’s true all the same that old Comtesse d’Espissac received a large sum the day the contract was signed.’
‘What kind of man was the last Boissancourt?’
Maigret and the Headless Corpse Page 12
