Why did Maigret feel a wintry chill, as he had done that morning, when they were in the middle of August? Perhaps it is always like that in these little houses. It was already dark inside, as if it were dusk. The stove was lit and a pot of soup was simmering away, giving off an aroma of leeks. It was probably the humming gas ring with its small red disc that reminded him of winter.
Duffieux, his shirt open at the neck, was sitting in a wicker chair, his head lolling back, his mouth half open. He too was asleep, with an expression of bewilderment and despair still etched on his face.
How had the old woman managed to tidy the place up and wash everything after the comings and goings of the police? The house smelled clean, of soap. Sitting down, the woman mechanically picked up her knitting, for women like her are never idle.
Maigret drew up a chair and sat in front of the stove. He knew that for some people, the stove is company. He asked quietly:
‘Are you a member of the family?’
‘The children call me aunty,’ she replied while continuing to count her stitches. ‘But I’m not a relative. I live three doors down. I was the one who came when Marthe gave birth. I used to mind the little one for her when she did her errands. She’s never been in good health.’
‘Has anyone found out why Lucile went to Doctor Bellamy’s house yesterday?’
‘She went to the doctor’s house? … They didn’t tell me … Weren’t you with them? … Hold on … They told me about the money they found in the tin, and the raffle tickets … That must be it … Go into the bedroom … My old legs are too tired … Open the wardrobe … After they left, I put everything back in its place more or less … At the back on the right, you’ll find a tin …’
The body had been removed. Like Lili Godreau, little Lucile was to be subjected to the ultimate ravages of an autopsy.
Maigret followed the old woman’s instructions. Under the clothes, which the inspectors must have examined from every angle, he found an old biscuit tin, which he took into the kitchen.
The woman watched him open the lid and count the bank notes and small change. Was it the tinkle of the coins? Duffieux half-opened his eyes and, seeing another stranger’s face in his house, decided to close them again and try to go back to sleep.
The tin contained two hundred and thirty-five francs. There were also raffle tickets in aid of the schools’ fund, in booklets of tickets with stubs. Each ticket cost one franc, or twenty five francs for the entire booklet.
Most of the tickets had been sold singly and the stubs bore the names of neighbours. On a sheet of paper torn out of a school exercise book, the girl had written in pencil:
Malterre: 1 book
Jongen: 1 book
Mathis: 1 book
Bellamy: 1 book.
The first three names were those of shopkeepers in the town centre.
Once again, the doctor had an explanation that was disarming in its simplicity. All he had needed to say to the magistrate − who, incidentally, had not asked – was:
‘Actually, my wife told me that this girl came to see her yesterday afternoon to sell her raffle tickets …’
That was not a sufficient explanation for Maigret, because he knew that Madame Bellamy had been expecting the girl. He also knew that she had been to the house before, and that on that occasion she had told Francis her name.
He replaced the money and the booklets, and took the tin back to the wardrobe.
‘Do you know the name of her school teacher, madame?’
‘Madame Jadin … She lives near the cemetery, in a new house. You’ll easily recognize it by its yellow façade … The gentlemen copied the names that you read in the tin … They must have gone to see Madame Jadin too …’
‘Did they mention Émile to you?’
‘So you’re not working with them?’
He dodged the question.
‘I’m not from the same department.’
‘They asked me where the boy was and, when I told them he must be in Paris, they wanted his address. I showed them the postcard …’
‘And the letter?’
‘They didn’t talk about it.’
‘Would you show it to me?’
‘Take it … It’s in the right-hand drawer of the dresser …’
Gérard Duffieux, in his half-sleep, must have heard their conversation like a vague and distant noise. From time to time, he fidgeted a little, but he was too weary to want to wake up fully.
The right-hand drawer was the household’s safe. It was full of old letters, bills, photographs, a fat, worn portfolio that contained official documents, Duffieux’s military record, the couple’s wedding certificate and the children’s birth certificates.
‘The letter is right on top,’ said the woman.
A musky smell rose from the drawer to which mementos of Lucile and her death certificate had been added.
‘May I read it?’
And she replied, with a glance at the sleeping man:
‘Considering what they’ve gone through, it won’t make much difference, will it?’
The letter was written on headed notepaper from Larue & Georget, the town printers. Each morning, Maigret walked past their workshop and offices on his way from the promenade to the port.
Dearest Mother …
The handwriting was firm, close and precise.
You cannot imagine how much, even at the last minute, the idea of the pain I am about to cause you makes me lose heart. Please read this letter slowly, calmly, alone in front of the fire, in your usual chair. I can picture you so clearly! I know that you will cry and that you will have to take off your glasses to wipe them.
All the same, Mother, this is something that happens to all parents. I’ve thought long and hard about it. I’ve read many books and I have come to believe that it is one of the laws of nature.
I am not a monster. I am no more selfish than anyone else. Nor am I heartless.
But you see, dear Mother, I have such a need to live. Can you understand that, you who have spent your life making sacrifices for others, for your husband, your children, for anyone who needed you?
I need to live and it’s partly your fault. It was you who gave me my early ambitions by depriving yourself to provide me with a good education. Instead of apprenticing me, like other boys of our social class, you wanted me to study and you were proud when I won all the school prizes.
Now, it is too late to turn back the clock. I am suffocating in our little town where there is no future for a boy like me.
When I started working at Larue & Georget, you thought that my livelihood was guaranteed and it pained me to see you so happy.
‘You’re all set now,’ you said.
But you see, I was already dreaming of a different life. When I was allowed to write short articles for the paper, you proudly showed them to the neighbours and when at last a Paris newspaper, whose editor didn’t know how young I was, made me the correspondent for Les Sables d’Olonne, you couldn’t contain your delight.
You imagined me married in our town. You imagined me buying a little pink house in one of the new neighbourhoods one day.
Thinking about all that is so painful that I am at a loss to find the words to tell you about my decision.
In a few hours, dearest Mother, I shall be gone. I didn’t have the courage to talk to you about it, or to tell Father. I think he will understand straight away, because before he lost his arm, he too was ambitious.
Tonight, I am taking the train to Paris. Thanks to my contacts at t
he newspaper, I have found a modest position that will give me a foot on the ladder. I haven’t breathed a word to anyone, not even to my bosses. But don’t worry. I am leaving all my affairs in order.
Lucile is the only one who knows, because I needed to confide in someone. She is a good girl and she will do well. She loves you both very much and I hope she will help you gradually to get over my absence.
I wanted at least to give you a big hug before leaving. I did so, and you must have wondered why I clasped you to me for so long.
If we had said goodbye to each other, I would no longer have had the courage to leave.
I hope that my job will soon enable me to carry on helping you out. Please don’t hold it against me if, at first, I don’t send you anything.
I have grown up a lot in recent months. You haven’t noticed. Parents always see their son as a child, even once he has become a man.
But I have become a man. And tell Father that I shall try to behave like a man. And if one day I hurt you, please know that it will not be through my fault. It will be because life has got the better of me.
I’ll write again as soon as I have some news. I’ll give you an address where you can write to me. You will receive this letter tomorrow morning and, until then, you won’t be worried, because I told you that I would be working all night. I shall post it this evening at the station, just before catching the last train. I already have my ticket.
I am going to try my luck, Mother, as so many others have done before me and do every day. I sometimes heard you say that those who leave in this way are not worth much. Believe me, I promise you they are the best.
Wish me luck despite everything. Say a prayer from time to time for your son, who is following his destiny.
Let Father sleep before telling him the news. I know that you are weaker than he is and that you have always been unwell, but over the past few months I have been suspecting that he might have heart disease and has been keeping it from us.
You still have Lucile.
Give her a kiss from me. Be happy, the three of you. I shall try to be happy too and, when we see each other again, I should like to hope that you will have reason to be proud of me.
Goodbye, dearest Mother.
Your son Émile
Maigret picked up the postcard, which had a picture of Place de la Concorde. There were only a few words on the back, the handwriting shakier.
Arrived safely. You can write to me Poste Restante, Post Office 26, Paris. Love and kisses to all three of you.
Émile
As far as Maigret could recall, Post Office 26 was the one in Faubourg Saint-Denis, near the Grands Boulevards.
‘Has he been sent a telegram?’ he asked.
‘Only at midday.’
‘And he hasn’t replied yet?’
‘Do you think he’s received the telegram already? … If he were to come, that would be some comfort …’
And she looked, sighing, at the man with the empty sleeve who had sunk back into a deep sleep, his breathing making his greying moustache quiver.
‘Are you staying with them tonight?’
‘Don’t worry. I had my nephew go and pick up my things.’
She wouldn’t go to bed, for she wouldn’t dare sleep in the room where Lucile had been strangled. She would take care of Madame Duffieux. Would the husband go to work as usual?
He preferred not to ask any questions. Slowly, he folded up the letter, which he put back in the drawer. He would have liked to take it with him, but he knew he would not be allowed to.
In the bedroom Madame Duffieux was beginning to moan like a child and the neighbour struggled to her feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Maigret. ‘I had to come—’
She motioned to him to be quiet and, as he left, tiptoed into the grieving woman’s room.
There was a piano in a corner, an embroidered runner on the oak table and, on the walls, photographs of children in rows, each one from a different year. Madame Jadin’s pupils, year by year.
‘One of your colleagues has already come here and questioned me, inspector, a tall one with a scar …’
That was Piéchaud, who knew his job.
‘There is indeed a raffle held in aid of the schools’ fund … It’s the pupils who sell the tickets … We allow them to go around the shopkeepers and people they know in general … Our Lucile had tickets like everyone else … It was Monday morning that the children were to bring back the unsold tickets and the stubs …’
‘Was each pupil assigned to a particular neighbourhood or street?’
‘They were free—’
‘Tell me about Lucile, would you?’
Madame Jadin was short and dark. In class, she must seem strict, because it was required, but there was a lot of kindness in her eyes.
‘The questions your inspector asked me made me a little indignant, I confess, and he will probably tell you that I didn’t give him a very warm reception. You seem more understanding. He insisted on knowing whether Lucile spent a lot of time with boys, whether she was highly sexually aware or not. To think that she was barely fourteen! She looked older, because she was tall and thoughtful, even a little too thoughtful for her age … I don’t deny that we do sometimes have girls who are too precocious, who meet boys in the street, especially in winter, when it is dark, and some of them − but they are the exception − go for men …’
‘Was Lucile a good girl?’
‘I used to call her “little mother” because at break, instead of playing with the older children, she preferred to look after the young ones in the nursery class … One day, I overheard a conversation between her and one of her friends, who had had a new baby brother. Lucile was saying wistfully: “Well, it seems my mother can’t have any more children …”
‘There are more girls than one would believe, inspector, especially among the most deprived, who are already fully grown women at fourteen …’
‘I presume that you hadn’t seen her recently because of the school holidays?’
‘I saw her several times, because we run summer activities to keep the children off the streets. We organize games, we take them to the beach or into the pine woods …’
‘Did you find Lucile changed?’
‘I noticed that she was worried and I asked her if anything was the matter. I don’t know if it is the same in boys’ classes, but with girls, we all have our favourites … Lucile was my pet … At break, during the school term, or in the pine woods during the holidays, she would gladly leave her friends to come and chat with me …
‘I remember asking her if it was true that her brother had gone away.’
‘So that was only a few days ago at most?’
‘It was three days ago … I heard about it from the other children … Instead of answering me honestly, as she usually did, looking straight at me, she looked away and snapped: “Yes.”
‘“I imagine your mother is very upset?” I asked.
‘“I don’t know.”
‘“Has she heard from him?”
‘“I don’t know.”
‘I didn’t press the matter because I could see she was distraught and tense.
‘That is all I can tell you, inspector …’
‘Do you teach the piano?’
‘A few private lessons.’
‘Did Lucile take lessons with you?’
Madame Jadin nodded, looking slightly embarrassed, which doubtless meant that the girl’s parents couldn’t afford such a luxury for their daug
hter.
When Maigret reached the Larue & Georget printing works in Rue Saint-Charles, the workers were leaving to go home. He crossed the cobbled yard, walked round a lorry, and pushed open a glass door above which was a sign saying ‘Office’.
A typist was putting on her hat.
‘Is Monsieur Larue here?’ he asked.
‘Monsieur Larue died two months ago.’
‘I’m sorry. In that case, may I speak to Monsieur Georget?’
The latter, who was in an adjacent room, must have heard him, for he said loudly:
‘Show the gentleman in, Mademoiselle Berthe.’
He was a short man, rather shabbily dressed, and was busy correcting the galley proofs of his newspaper. The four-page weekly L’Écho des Sables contained mainly local news and classified advertisements, particularly legal notices.
‘Do sit down, inspector. Don’t be surprised that I know who you are. I am an old friend of Chief Inspector Mansuy’s, and he told me about you. I see you walking past every morning. I was certain that you would come to see me.’
And, as Maigret anticipated, he added:
‘One of your colleagues came earlier, his name was … hold on …’
‘Boivert …’
‘That’s it! Well, I didn’t have much to say to him. Is it true that you’re conducting your own investigation?’
‘Is that what Boivert told you?’
‘Not at all! … It’s a rumour going around town … For instance, I was at the funeral this morning − Doctor Bellamy is one of my clients … Two people at least told me the same thing … They are also saying that you have your own idea, that the Poitiers police don’t agree with you and that you have a surprise in store for us—’
‘People talk too much,’ grumbled Maigret irritably.
‘Do you want me to tell you what I know about Émile Duffieux?’
Maigret nodded, but only appeared to be half listening.
‘He’s the second boy of this type who’s passed through my hands. Both of them had some rough edges that needed knocking off, if you see what I mean … He’s also the second one to slip through my fingers … I don’t hold it against them, mind you … The first one is a journalist in Rennes now, and I read his articles every morning in L’Ouest-Éclair. As for Émile … we’ll see sooner or later what will become of him, won’t we?’
Maigret's Holiday Page 12
