‘The examining magistrate doesn’t want to do anything without consulting you … Plus, there’s news – the son has arrived …’
‘Whose son?’
And Maigret gave a grimace, because he had just drunk a mouthful of gentian.
‘Brown’s son … He was in Amsterdam when …’
‘Brown has a son?’
‘More than one … By his real wife, who lives in Australia … One of them is in Europe, taking care of the wool …’
‘The wool?’
Right at this moment, Boutigues must have had a dim opinion of Maigret. But the latter was still in the Liberty Bar! More precisely, he was remembering the waiter who bet on the horses and to whom Sylvie had spoken through the window …
‘Yes, the Browns have one of the biggest businesses in Australia. They raise sheep and export the wool to Europe. One of the sons oversees the ranches; another, based in Sydney, takes care of the exports; the third, in Europe, travels from port to port, depending on whether the wool is destined for Liverpool, Le Havre or Hamburg. He’s the one who …’
‘And what did he have to say?’
‘That his father should be buried as soon as possible and that he would pay … He has a very busy schedule … He has to catch a plane tomorrow evening …’
‘Is he in Antibes?’
‘Actually, in Juan-les-Pins … He wanted a luxury hotel, with a suite solely for his use … It seems he needed a telephone link throughout the night to Nice, so that he could call Antwerp, Amsterdam or who knows where else.’
‘Has he visited the villa?’
‘I suggested that to him. He refused.’
‘So what has he done, then?’
‘He has seen the magistrate. That’s all. He insisted that everything should expedited. And he asked how much.’
‘How much what?’
‘How much it would cost.’
Maigret scanned Place Macé with an absent air. Boutigues went on:
‘The magistrate has been waiting for you at his office the whole afternoon. He can hardly refuse the request for a burial now that the post mortem has been completed … Brown’s son phoned three times and in the end he was told that the funeral could go ahead first thing tomorrow morning …’
‘First thing?’
‘Yes, to avoid the crowds … That’s why I was looking for you … They are going to close the coffin tonight. So if you want to see Brown before they …’
‘No.’
No, Maigret really didn’t want to see the body. He felt he knew William Brown well enough without it!
The terrace was full of people. Boutigues noticed that several tables were observing them, a fact that didn’t exactly displease him. Nevertheless he murmured:
‘Let’s keep our voices down …’
‘Where will they bury him?’
‘At Antibes cemetery … The hearse will be at the mortuary at seven o’clock in the morning … I just have to confirm it officially with Brown’s son.’
‘And the two women?’
‘We haven’t decided … It’s possible the son might prefer …?’
‘What hotel did you say he was in?’
‘The Provençal. Do you want to see him?’
‘Until tomorrow!’ said Maigret. ‘I suppose you will be at the funeral?’
He was in a strange mood, at once joyful and macabre! He got a taxi to the Provençal, where he was met by a doorman, then another employee in a braided uniform, then finally by a thin young man in black, lurking behind a desk.
‘Monsieur Brown? I will see if he is available … Would you care to tell me your name?’
Bells ringing, the porter coming and going. Maigret had to wait at least five minutes before someone came to fetch him and led him down interminable corridors until they reached a door marked 37. From behind the door came the sound of a typewriter, and an irritable voice:
‘Come in!’
Maigret found himself face to face with Brown Junior, the one in charge of the European branch of the wool firm.
Ageless. Maybe thirty, but then again, maybe forty. A tall, thin man, with chiselled features, close-cropped hair, dressed in a smart suit, a pearl tiepin in his black tie with a white stripe.
Not a hint of disorder or unpredictability. Not a hair out of place. And not the slightest reaction at the sight of his visitor.
‘Could you bear with me for a moment? Please take a seat.’
There was a typist sitting at the Louis XV table. A secretary was talking in English on the telephone.
And Brown was just finishing dictating a cable, in English, which was to do with damages because of a dockers’ strike.
The secretary called out: ‘Mister Brown,’ and handed him the phone.
‘Hello! … Hello! … Yes!’
He listened for a while, without a word of interruption, then hung up, saying as he did so:
‘No!’
He pressed an electric bell button and asked Maigret:
‘A port?’
‘No, thank you.’
But as the maître d’hôtel turned up, he ordered anyway:
‘One port!’
He did this in a totally calm way, with evident concern, as if the destiny of the world hung on even the smallest of his actions, gestures or facial expressions.
‘Take your typing to the bedroom,’ he said to the typist, indicating the adjoining room.
And to his secretary:
‘Get me the examining magistrate.’
Finally he sat down, crossing his legs with a sigh:
‘I’m tired. Are you in charge of the investigation?’
And he slid the port that the servant had brought over to Maigret.
‘Such a ridiculous tale, isn’t it?’
‘Not ridiculous at all,’ Maigret muttered in his least agreeable voice.
‘I meant to say awkward …’
‘Of course! It’s always awkward when you’re stabbed to death in the back …’
The young man stood up impatiently, opened the door to the bedroom, made as if to give some orders in English, returned to Maigret and offered him a cigarette case.
‘No, thank you. I’m a pipe man.’
The man picked up a tin of English tobacco from a pedestal table.
‘I smoke shag!’ said Maigret, taking a packet from his pocket.
Brown prowled around the room with long strides.
‘I take it you know that my father led a very … scandalous life …’
‘He had a mistress!’
‘And more besides! Much more! You need to know this, otherwise you run the risk of making … how do you say … a gaffe …’
He was interrupted by the telephone. The secretary ran over and replied this time in German while Brown shook his head at him. And since the secretary was having trouble getting off the phone, the young man went and took the receiver from his hands and hung up.
‘My father came to France a long time ago, without my mother … And he almost ruined us …’
Brown didn’t stay put. As he was talking, he had closed the door of the bedroom on his secretary. He tapped the glass of port with his finger.
‘You’re not drinking?’
‘No, thank you.’
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
‘We appointed a legal guardian … My mother was very unhappy … She worked so hard …’
‘Ah! It was your mother who looked after things?’
‘With my uncle, yes.’
‘Your mother’s brother, I’m assuming.’
‘Yes! My father had lost all … dignity … yes, dignity … so the least said the better … Do you understand?’
Maigret had never taken his eyes off him, and that seemed to upset the young man. Especially as this heavy gaze was impossible to decipher. Perhaps it was meant to convey nothing. On the other hand, perhaps it was terribly threatening.
‘One question, Monsieur Brown – Monsieur Harry Brown, as I see from yo
ur luggage labels. Where were you last Wednesday?’
Brown walked the length of the room twice before he replied:
‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything. I’m simply asking you where you were.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.’
‘I was in Marseille, because of the arrival of the Glasco! A ship carrying wool from home which is now in Amsterdam unable to unload because of the dockers’ strike.’
‘You didn’t see your father?’
‘I didn’t …’
‘Another question, the last. Who paid your father’s allowance? And how much was it?’
‘Me! Five thousand francs a month … Do you want to reveal that to the papers?’
The sound of the typewriter could still be heard: the bell at the end of each line, the shunt of the carriage return.
Maigret stood up and picked up his hat.
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it … Thank you.’
The telephone rang again, but the young man showed no sign of answering it. He merely watched, as if incredulous, as Maigret made for the door.
Then, in desperation, he grabbed an envelope from the table.
‘I have something here for the police welfare fund …’
Maigret was already in the corridor. A little later, he was descending the sumptuous staircase, crossing the lobby, preceded by a liveried flunkey.
At nine o’clock he dined alone in the dining room of the Hôtel Bacon while flicking through the telephone directory. He asked for three Cannes numbers in quick succession. Only the third one got a reply:
‘Yes, it’s next to …’
‘Excellent! Would you be so kind as to tell Madame Jaja that the funeral will take place tomorrow at seven o’clock in Antibes? … Yes, the funeral … She will understand …’
He took a short walk around the room. From the window he could see, five hundred metres away, Brown’s white villa, where two windows were lit up.
Did he have the energy?
No! He needed sleep.
‘They are on the phone, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, inspector. Do you want me to call them?’
A sweet little maid in a white bonnet, who was scurrying round the room like a mouse.
‘Sir, I have one of the ladies on the line …’
Maigret took the receiver.
‘Hello! … It’s the inspector here … Yes … I wasn’t able to come and see you … The funeral is at seven tomorrow morning … What’s that? … No! Not this evening … I have work to do … Goodnight, madame …’
It must have been the mother. No doubt she was running madly to announce the news to her daughter. Then they would both be discussing what they had to do.
The landlady of the Hôtel Bacon came into the room, smiling blandly.
‘Did you enjoy the bouillabaisse? I made it especially for you, since you …’
The bouillabaisse? Maigret searched his memory.
‘Ah yes! Excellent! Very fine!’ he forced himself to say with a polite smile.
But he couldn’t remember it. It was lost in the fog of useless things, stashed higgledy-piggledy alongside Boutigues, the bus, the garage …
Of all the culinary details, only one stood out: the leg of mutton at Jaja’s, and the salad with the fragrance of garlic …
No, wait! There was another one: the sweet smell of the port that he didn’t drink at the Provençal, which mingled with the sickly scent of Brown’s after-shave.
‘Bring me up a bottle of Vittel!’ he said as he mounted the stairs.
5. The Funeral of William Brown
The sun was already intoxicating, and although all the shutters were closed and the pavements deserted in the town’s streets, the market was starting to come to life. It was the light and carefree sort of life of people who get up early and have time to fill and spend it whining in French and Italian rather than bustling about.
The yellow façade of the town hall with its double front steps stood right in the middle of the market. The mortuary was in the basement.
It was there, at ten minutes to seven, that a hearse drew up, completely black and incongruous in the middle of the flowers and vegetables. Maigret arrived at almost the same time and saw Boutigues arriving in haste, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, having only got out of bed ten minutes earlier.
‘We’ve got time for a quick drink … There’s no one here yet …’
And he went into a small bar and ordered a rum.
‘It’s been really complicated, you know. The son forgot to tell us how much he wanted to spend on the coffin. I phoned him yesterday evening. He said he didn’t care about the price as long as it was of good quality. But there wasn’t a solid-oak coffin in the whole of Antibes. We had to bring one in from Cannes at eleven o’clock last night … Then there was the ceremony to think about … Should it be a church ceremony or not? … I phoned the Provençal and they told me Brown had already gone to bed … I did my best … As you can see …’
He pointed to a church a hundred metres away across the market square, whose door was draped in black.
Maigret didn’t want to say anything, but he had got the impression that Brown Junior was a Protestant rather than a Catholic.
The bar was on the corner of a small street and had a door on each side. Just as Maigret and Boutigues were leaving by one door, a man entered by the other, and the inspector caught his eye.
It was Joseph, the waiter from Cannes, who was in two minds whether to wave or not and in the end settled on a half-hearted gesture. Maigret assumed that Joseph had brought Jaja and Sylvie from Cannes. He was right. They were walking in front of him, heading towards the hearse. Jaja was out of breath already. And Sylvie, who seemed anxious not to arrive late, was tugging her along.
Sylvie was wearing her little blue suit that made her look like a smart young woman. As for Jaja, she was unused to walking. Maybe her feet were hurting, or her legs were swollen. She was dressed in very shiny black silk. They must have both had to get up around five in the morning to catch the first bus. An unprecedented event, no doubt, at the Liberty Bar!
Boutigues asked him:
‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t know …’ Maigret replied vaguely.
But at that moment the two women stopped and turned round, as they had reached the hearse. And when Jaja spotted Maigret, she dashed over to him.
‘We’re not late, are we? … Where is he?’
Sylvie had rings round her eyes and was still giving Maigret an unfriendly look.
‘Did Joseph come with you?’
She was about to lie.
‘Who told you that?’
Boutigues was standing some distance away. Maigret spotted a taxi which, unable to cross the square because of the crowded market, had stopped at the corner of a street.
The two women who got out were an amazing sight, for they were in full mourning regalia, with crepe veils almost brushing the ground.
It was so unexpected, in the sunshine, amid the buzz of joyous life! Maigret murmured to Jaja:
‘Allow me …’
Boutigues was troubled. He asked the head pallbearer, who wanted to go to fetch the coffin, to wait a moment.
‘We’re not too late, are we?’ the old woman asked. ‘Our taxi failed to turn up …’
And then immediately her gaze fell on Jaja and Sylvie.
‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I assume they won’t interfere …’
Another taxi pulled up, its door opening before it had come to a complete stop, and from it Harry Brown emerged, impeccably dressed in black, his blond hair well groomed, his complexion fresh. His secretary, also in black, accompanied him, carrying a wreath of natural flowers.
At the same moment, Maigret noticed that Sylvie had disappeared. He spotted her in the middle of the market,
next to a flowerseller, and when she returned she was carrying an enormous bouquet of Nice violets.
Did this inspire the two Martini women with the same idea? They were clearly having a discussion as they approached the flowerseller. The old woman counted out some coins, and the young woman chose mimosas.
Meanwhile, Brown had taken up a position a few metres from the hearse, limiting himself to a wave in the direction of Maigret and Boutigues.
‘I’d better inform him of what I have arranged for the service …’ the latter sighed.
The part of the market nearest to them slowed its pace, and people watched the unfolding spectacle. But a mere twenty metres away, it was business as normal: the din of shouts and laughter, all the flowers, fruits and vegetables under the sun, and the smell of garlic and mimosa.
There were four pallbearers carrying the coffin, which was enormous and weighed down by a profusion of bronze ornaments. Boutigues came back.
‘He doesn’t seem to care. He just shrugged his shoulders …’
The crowd parted. The horses started walking. Harry Brown advanced stiffly, hat in hand, looking at the tips of his polished shoes.
The four women hesitated. They exchanged glances. Then, as the crowd closed in behind them, they found themselves unintentionally walking side by side, just behind Brown Junior and his secretary.
The doors of the church were wide open; the interior was completely empty and delightfully cool.
Brown stood at the top of the steps until they had removed the coffin from the hearse. He was used to ceremonial occasions. It didn’t bother him one bit that he was the focus of everyone’s attention.
More than that, he quietly studied the four women, without appearing overly curious.
The orders had come too late. They realized at the last minute that they had failed to inform the organist. The priest called Boutigues forwards and whispered to him; when the latter returned from the sacristy, he was quite upset and announced to Maigret:
‘There won’t be any music … We’d have to wait at least another quarter of an hour … At least! The organist must be out fishing for mackerel …’
A few people wandered into the church, glanced around and then left. And Brown continued to stand to attention and look around him with the same light curiosity.
It was a swift service, without an organ, without a eulogy. A sprinkling of holy water from the aspergillum. And then straight afterwards the pallbearers carried the coffin out.
Liberty Bar Page 5
