‘Did they have just the one child?’ asked Maigret softly.
‘I believe they have a son, but I don’t think he’s in Les Sables d’Olonne. I confess I didn’t have the courage to question them at length. The prosecutor will be here later, and the gentlemen from Poitiers will do what must be done …’
Mansuy thus admitted that he wasn’t born for this job. He covertly watched Maigret, who seemed afraid to go into the second bedroom, whose door was closed.
‘No one has touched anything?’ he said, automatically, because it was the professional thing to ask.
Mansuy shook his head.
‘Let’s go in …’
He pushed open the door and was surprised to catch a strong whiff of tobacco. Then he spotted a man silhouetted against the window, who turned to them.
‘I left one of my men in this room as a precaution,’ said Mansuy.
‘You promised to relieve me,’ protested the officer.
‘A bit later, Larrouy.’
There were two beds in the room, and between them just room for a bedside table. The beds were of iron, the black bars standing out against the bluish wallpaper. The bed against the left-hand wall had not been slept in. On the other, a huddled form was entirely covered with a sheet.
A big wardrobe stood against the opposite wall, and there was a table covered with a towel, with a white enamel basin on it, a comb, a brush, soap and a saucer; and, under the table, a pitcher of water and a blue enamel pail. That was all. This was Lucile’s room, which she must have shared with her brother.
‘Do you know who the old lady is, in the kitchen?’
‘She wasn’t there this morning. Or if she was, I didn’t see her, because the place was full of curious folk and we had a job getting them out.’
‘Did the mother not hear anything?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Has the coroner been?’
‘He must have come by because I telephoned him before coming myself. I’ll call him again once I’m back in the office.’
Maigret finally did what was expected of him. He walked slowly over to the bed and bent over to lift the sheet. He only looked for a few seconds and then went straight over to the window.
Mansuy stood close to him. The three men gazed out at the little garden surrounded by pickets linked together by barbed wire. In one corner was a rabbit hutch, in the other, a shed where Duffieux must keep his tools and probably pottered about in his free time. A few vegetables grew in the sandy soil, pale green leeks, lettuces, cabbages. Five tomato plants tied to stakes bore their red fruits.
They did not need to speak. This was how the man had got in. It was easy to climb over the barbed wire, even easier to clamber over the window-sill. Beyond the garden was a patch of waste ground and, further away, some disused buildings which must once have been a factory.
‘If he left any footprints,’ said the inspector quietly, ‘this morning’s rain will have washed them away. My colleague Charbonnet had a look …’
He sought the approval of Maigret, who didn’t move a muscle. Had he ever bothered with footprints?
He went into the garden, however, through the kitchen where two people had just arrived. There was a little path made of flat stones scavenged from the waste ground. The rabbits watched him, wrinkling their noses, and he grabbed a handful of cabbage leaves, opened the hutch and closed it again.
This greyness was so typical of the squalid surroundings in which women like Madame Duffieux, thin and sickly, spent their lives counting out every single sou.
‘What time is it?’ he asked, without thinking to take his watch out of his pocket.
‘Five to nine.’
‘The funeral is due to take place at ten thirty, isn’t it?’
It took Mansuy a second to understand, the idea of a funeral becoming confused in his mind with the small body they had just seen. Then he remembered the other dead girl, and looked at Maigret more attentively.
‘Are you going?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think there’s a connection?’
Had Maigret heard? He did not appear to have. He returned slowly to the kitchen. The old woman, sighing deeply and continually wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, was telling the newcomers about the tragedy, a brother of Duffieux’s and his wife, who had been informed by neighbours. It was odd, these people spoke loudly, with coarse language which was very graphic, without giving any thought to the mother lying in the next room whose door was open, so that her moans accompanied the old woman’s account like a monotonous chant:
‘I said to Gérard: “It can only be a madman …”
‘Because I knew the girl, better than anyone perhaps − she used to come and play at my house when she was little and I gave her the doll that belonged to my daughter who passed away …’
‘Excuse me one moment …’
Maigret touched her on the shoulder. She suddenly became respectful. For her, all those she saw that day in the house were gentlemen, official figures.
‘Has the son been informed?’
‘Émile?’
She darted a look at one of the portraits on the wall, that of a young man of seventeen or eighteen, with delicate features, sharp eyes, dressed with a certain elegance.
‘You don’t know that Émile’s left? That’s what’s so dreadful for this poor woman, your honour … Her son who went off last week … Her daughter who—’
‘Is he in the army?’
Wasn’t that the tragedy of this sort of people?
‘No, no, my good sir … He isn’t old enough for the army yet … Hold on … He must be nineteen and a half now … He earned a good living here … His employers thought very highly of him … Then, would you believe, he gets it into his head to go and live in Paris! … Without warning, just like that! … Without telling anyone! … He didn’t even leave a note … He simply said he had to work all night … Marthe believed him … She believes everything people tell her …
‘In the morning, seeing that he hadn’t come home, curiosity made her look in her son’s wardrobe, and she saw that all his things had gone …
‘Then, when the postman came by, he brought a letter in which Émile asked her forgiveness, telling her that he was going to Paris, that it was his life, his future, and I don’t know what else … She read it to me … It must be in the drawer of the dresser …’
She made to go and fetch it; Maigret put up his hand to stop her.
‘You don’t know what day that was?’
‘Just a moment … I can tell you …’
She went into the bedroom and spoke in a low voice to Duffieux, who stared at her uncomprehending, and then glanced over at Maigret. He wondered why he was being asked this question, cast his mind back and replied:
‘It must have been Tuesday … Tuesday night.’
‘Do you know if they have heard from him since?’
‘The day before yesterday Marthe showed me a picture postcard she received from Paris.’
Chief Inspector Mansuy did not attempt to understand. He still watched Maigret uncomfortably, as if he suspected him of having some sort of fiendish power. He half expected to learn, during the course of the day, that the son too was dead.
As they came out of the house, a tall, young man in a gabardine raincoat was elbowing his way through the curious onlookers.
‘A journalist,’ announced Mansuy.
Maigret preferred to make a quick getaway. The contemptible game was beginning, the journalists, the photographers, the prosecutor, then the gentlemen from Poitiers and their interrogations, the forensics experts cluttering up the little room
s with their equipment and photographing the girl’s body from all angles.
‘Were you expecting it?’ Mansuy finally dared ask in the car on the way back to the police station.
And Maigret, who seemed far away:
‘I was expecting something …’
‘Will you come up to my office for a moment?’
The police station was beginning to return to normal, filled with people who needed a certificate, a signature, some document or other, full of poor wretches waiting on benches until it suited these gentlemen to see them. Every officer was asking for Mansuy, but he went straight up to the first floor.
‘Poitiers telephoned,’ an inspector informed him. ‘They’re sending you Piéchaud and Boivert. They left over an hour ago by car and will be here at around ten. Forensics are with them. They asked us to put a cordon around the town and to arrest all the suspects.’
Mansuy replied:
‘That’s already been done.’
As he said this, he darted Maigret a sheepish look as if to say:
‘What else can I do? It’s pointless, but that’s standard procedure and I have to follow it.’
‘Has Doctor Jamar not telephoned?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Get him on the phone … At this hour he’s probably at the hospital.’
He was the coroner, who was also a consultant at the municipal hospital.
‘Doctor Jamar? Mansuy here … Yes … Yes … I understand … The prosecutor will be here at around eleven … I think it’s best you don’t trouble yourself to come again until I call you, because these gentlemen are very likely to be late … I’ll telephone you and it will only take you a minute to drive over … Of course … Between eleven p.m. and two a.m.? … Thank you … No, I’m not in charge of the investigation … I’m waiting for Poitiers … What? …’
A glance at Maigret. Hesitation.
‘I don’t think he’s handling it … In any case, not officially.’
‘Very good.’ Maigret gave an approving nod.
He had understood. He could have repeated verbatim the coroner’s words even though he hadn’t heard them. A superficial examination was not sufficient to establish the time of death other than very approximately.
Between eleven p.m. and two a.m.
‘Are you leaving?’
‘I’m going to the funeral.’
‘I’ll try to drop by for a moment, either at the Bellamys’ house or at the church, but I wonder if I’ll have the time. Give Bellamy my apologies …’
Another anxious glance in Maigret’s direction, especially as he uttered the word ‘apologies’, but Maigret remained impassive.
‘See you later …’
‘If the gentlemen from Poitiers mention you …’
‘Tell them I’m here on holiday.’
It was still too early to go to the Bellamys’, but he was keen to head towards the quayside first. Not to drink. True, he went into one of his usual cafés and downed a glass, but it was La Popine he wanted to see. Her shop was full of people. Her sleeves rolled up, Francis’s mistress plunged her plump rosy arms into the baskets of fish and shellfish and weighed them, ringing up the totals on her cash register.
‘And for you, darling?’
She spoke to all her customers in a familiar tone, her eyes so bright, her complexion so fresh, that on this grey morning she made everything around her look enticing.
‘You’re telling me, girl! … The animal who did a thing like that … If ever I get my hands on him, I’ll … scratch his eyes out. What’s more, I think …’
She spotted Maigret, finished weighing, wiped her hands on her apron and called the maid:
‘Take over for a minute, Mélanie … Come through here, Monsieur Maigret …’
And once in the little dining room redolent of cooking aromas:
‘Do you think he’s the one who killed her? … Who would have thought it last night, while the three of us were sitting there chatting? … If only you’d told me it was Marthe’s daughter … We went to school together … Though not for long …’
‘Do you know Madame Bellamy’s maid?’
‘Jeanne? I do believe I know her, even though she doesn’t want to know me any more. I used to see her hanging around barefoot in the streets. Her mother works in the sardine cannery. They put her there too, at the age of thirteen, then she started working as a lady’s maid. Since she’s been working at the doctor’s, she thinks she’s too good to talk to anyone. Ask Francis—’
‘You don’t know where I could have a word with her?’
‘It won’t be easy anywhere other than in the house. She hasn’t had anything to do with her mother since she remarried. She doesn’t go dancing. She’s besotted with her employer. She pampers and cossets her, she’d sleep on her floor if she was allowed. She barely deigns to answer when Francis speaks to her … So tell me! … Are you going to arrest the doctor?’
‘I think that’s out of the question … Thank you very much.’
‘You’ll be back, won’t you? … This isn’t the best time to talk … If you want to drop by for a drink this evening … I’m dying to know what’s going to happen …’
But she was soft-hearted and would probably have inflicted the punishment she had threatened in the shop if she were to come face to face with the murderer.
The holidaymakers on the beach were oblivious of what had happened, and it was the usual scene with mothers and children in bathing costumes, sunshades and red and blue beach balls, and swimmers plunging into the water on the fringes of the waves.
By contrast, on the promenade, people dressed in black could be seen heading towards Doctor Bellamy’s house. They were the local people of Les Sables d’Olonne. They greeted each other on the pavement with handshakes, formed little huddles, checked their watches, and went through the doorway draped with black curtains with silver tears.
Maigret recognized Monsieur Lourceau, a man called Perrette, other regulars from the café who had already presented their condolences and were chatting quietly.
He too went inside. They had not needed to convert one of the reception rooms into a chapel of rest, since the entrance hall was spacious enough. You could no longer see the staircase, or the doors, the hall was in darkness with candles burning around a sumptuous coffin surrounded by an abundance of white flowers.
Philippe Bellamy, alone in leading the mourning, stood motionless, and one by one the visitors filed past and bowed their heads before him, having dipped a boxwood sprig in the holy water.
He was even more imposing thus, with only the white of his shirt front, collar and cuffs showing. His features seemed more delicate, more chiselled. He acknowledged each person’s condolences with the same inclination of his head and neck, then he straightened up and looked each new arrival in the eye.
Maigret filed past like the others and also bowed, to find the same gaze directed at him. He did not discern any discomfort in it. Nothing indicated that for Bellamy he was anything other than one entity among so many other entities.
The sub-prefect arrived in his car and parked a few houses further along; the mayor and his deputy were also there, and all the town’s bigwigs; no doubt they were discussing the girl’s death.
The hearse arrived. Then it was the procession, which took a while to form, the slow march to the church with its doors draped in black.
The men took their seats to the right and, here again, Doctor Bellamy was alone in the front pew. In the second, among his friends, Maigret recognized the man of a certain age who, the previous evening, had been accompanying Madame Godreau.
She sat on the left,
veiled and in full mourning. She constantly dabbed her face with a fine handkerchief whose perfume wafted over Maigret above that of the incense.
An organist had come all the way from La Roche-sur-Yon. There was also a baritone, and a children’s choir. The church had gradually filled and the offering procession went on for around fifteen minutes.
The catafalque blocked Maigret’s view of Madame Bellamy, the doctor’s mother, who sat beside Madame Godreau and whose walking stick could occasionally be heard scraping the flagstones.
Odette Bellamy wasn’t there. Francis filed past at the same time as the cook. Jeanne, the maid, had probably stayed back at the house with her mistress.
By the time they emerged from the church, the sun had come out, giving the street such a familiar look that it took a few moments to tune back into the mood of the town.
Then it was the long walk to the cemetery where Maigret, from a distance, glimpsed his colleague Mansuy, sweating, his cheeks still unshaven. He had managed, not without difficulty, to put in a brief appearance.
A few close friends accompanied Bellamy back to the gates. He got into Doctor Bourgeois’ car, which would probably drive him back to his house.
Was there a family gathering? Were Madame Godreau and her companion invited into the white house on Le Remblai?
Maigret couldn’t find Mansuy and had to make his way back to the centre of town on foot. When he glanced at his watch, it was ten past midday. He realized he had forgotten something, that he had forgotten a sacred ritual. And he had no idea that this omission was causing quite a drama.
At the hospital, Madame Maigret had been given permission to get out of bed for the first time. She wasn’t walking yet, but for an hour, no longer – the doctor had been insistent – she had been put in a wheelchair. For the first time, too, she had been able to wander through the corridors, glimpse other wards, the faces of the people who, before that, she had only heard talking, or moaning.
She and Sister Marie des Anges had plotted a little conspiracy, in whispers so as not to upset Mademoiselle Rinquet, who was more tight-lipped than ever. They were planning to surprise Maigret, who always telephoned on the dot of eleven. There was a telephone at the end of the corridor, in the visitors’ room with vast bay windows which was known as the solarium.
Maigret's Holiday Page 9
