‘In other words, over the past months, you were no longer systematically investigating Ginette Meurant’s comings and goings.’
‘That is correct. Even so, the inspectors from the Hotel Agency and the Vice Squad, as well as my own inspectors, all had her photograph in their pocket, and that of her brother-in-law. From time to time they would show it. That was how, on 26 September, a witness recognized the young woman in the photograph as being one of his regular customers.’
Meurant became agitated again, and the judge gave him a reprimanding look. Someone in the courtroom protested, probably Ginette Meurant.
‘That witness is Nicolas Cajou, manager of a lodging house in Rue Victor-Massé, a stone’s throw from Place Pigalle. He usually stays in the office of his establishment, keeping an eye on the comings and goings through the glass door.’
‘Was he not questioned last March or in April, like the other landlords?’
‘He was in hospital at the time having an operation, and his sister-in-law was minding the place. After that he spent three months convalescing in the Morvan, where he was born, and it was only at the end of September that an officer from the Hotel Agency showed him the photograph on the off chance.’
‘The photograph of Ginette Meurant?’
‘Yes. He identified her at once, saying that up until he had gone into hospital, she used to come accompanied by a man he did not know. One of the chambermaids, Geneviève Lavancher, also recognized the woman in the photograph.’
The journalists exchanged glances, then looked at the judge in surprise.
‘I presume that the companion you are referring to is not Alfred Meurant?’
‘No, your honour. Yesterday, in my office, where I’d summoned Nicolas Cajou and the chambermaid, I showed them several hundred mugshots to confirm that Ginette Meurant’s companion was not someone on our files. The man is described as short and stocky with very dark hair. He is elegantly dressed and wears a ring with a yellow stone. He appears to be around thirty years of age and chain-smokes American cigarettes. After each of his visits to Rue Victor-Massé the chambermaid found an ashtray full of cigarette butts, only a few of which were stained with lipstick.
‘I didn’t have the time, before the trial, to undertake a thorough investigation. Nicolas Cajou was admitted to hospital on 26 February. On the 25th he was still in his office and he states that the couple visited on that day.’
There was a flurry in the courtroom, which Maigret was still unable to see, and the judge raised his voice, a rare occurrence, to say:
‘Silence, or I’ll clear the court.’
A woman’s voice tried to make itself heard:
‘Your honour, I—’
‘Silence!’
Meurant, his jaws clenched, glared daggers at Maigret.
3.
No one moved while the judge leaned over to confer in hushed tones with his assessors. At one point the red-robed assistant public prosecutor left his seat to join the discussion and shortly afterwards the young counsel for the defence made to do likewise. He visibly hesitated, anxious, not yet assured enough, and was almost on his feet when Judge Bernerie brought down his gavel and all the lawyers went back to their seats as in a tableau.
Xavier Bernerie intoned grudgingly:
‘The court thanks the witness for his statement and requests that he does not leave the building.’
Still like a celebrant, he groped around for his judge’s cap, picked it up and, rising, concluded his response:
‘The hearing is suspended for a quarter of an hour.’
Within seconds, the room sounded like a school playground, erupting in a barely muffled uproar. Half of the spectators left their seats, some stood gesticulating in the aisles, while others pushed and shoved their way to the main door, which the guards had just opened. Meanwhile police officers smuggled the defendant out through an exit concealed in the wood panelling. Pierre Duché tried to fight his way after them, while the jury on the other side of the room also disappeared behind the scenes.
Gowned lawyers, most of them young, including a woman lawyer who looked like a magazine cover girl, formed a black and white gaggle by the witnesses’ entrance. They were discussing articles 310, 311, 312 and the rest of the Code of Criminal Procedure and some spoke excitedly about irregularities in the proceedings that would inevitably result in the case being referred to the Appeal Court.
An elderly lawyer with nicotine-stained teeth, a shiny gown and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lower lip calmly invoked legal precedents, citing two cases, one in Limoges in 1885, the other in Poitiers in 1923, where not only had the preliminary investigation had to go back to square one after the public hearing but it had also taken a different direction as the result of an unanticipated testimony.
Maigret, standing stock still, caught fleeting images and heard snatches of all this, and only had time to identify two of his men in the courtroom through gaps in the crowd before he was besieged by the press.
There was the same buzz as at the theatre, after the first act of a full dress-rehearsal.
‘What do you have to say about the bombshell you just dropped, inspector?’
‘What bombshell?’
He filled his pipe methodically and felt in need of a drink.
‘Do you think Meurant is innocent?’
‘I don’t think anything.’
‘Do you suspect his wife?’
‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have nothing to add to what I said in the witness box.’
The mob left him in peace all of a sudden because a young reporter had raced over to Ginette Meurant as she battled her way out and the others were afraid of missing a sensational statement.
Everyone watched the moving group. Maigret took advantage of the diversion to slip out of the witnesses’ exit. In the corridor he found some men smoking cigarettes, and others who were unfamiliar with the place looking for the urinals.
He knew that the magistrates were deliberating in the judge’s chambers and he saw a clerk show in the young Duché, who had been summoned.
It was nearly midday. Bernerie clearly wished to finish with the incident that had arisen during the morning hearing so as to resume the regular course of proceedings in the afternoon, hoping for a verdict that same day.
Maigret reached the gallery and finally lit his pipe. He signalled to Lapointe, whom he’d spotted leaning against a pillar.
He wasn’t the only one wanting to take advantage of the adjournment to have a beer. There were people outside, their collars upturned, dashing across the road in the rain to dive into the nearby cafés.
In the refreshment room of the Palais de Justice, an impatient throng in a hurry disturbed the lawyers and their clients who had been quietly discussing their cases.
‘Beer?’ he asked Lapointe.
‘If we can, chief.’
They edged forward between the backs and elbows. Maigret signalled to a waiter he had known for twenty years, and a few moments later two frothy beers were passed to him over people’s heads.
‘Find out where she has lunch and who with, who she talks to, whether she makes any phone calls, and if so, to whom.’
The tide had already turned, and people were hurrying back to their seats. When Maigret reached the courtroom, it was already too late to get to the rows of benches and he had to stay by the side door among the lawyers.
The jury members were back in position, as was the defendant, flanked by his guards, with his lawyer sitting below him. The judge and his entourage entered and took their seats with dignity, conscious, probably, like Maigret, of the changed mood in the courtroom.
Earlier, it had been a matter of a man accused of having slit the throat of his sixty-year-old aunt and of attempting to strangle and then suffocating a four-year-old girl. Was it not natural that there should be an atmosphere of gloom and oppressive gravity?
Now, after the interval, everything was different. Gaston Meurant had been relegated to the background and th
e double murder itself had become less important. Maigret’s testimony had introduced a new element and raised a new problem – questionable, scandalous – and the spectators had eyes only for the young woman. Those sitting in the back rows desperately craned their necks to see her.
That created a buzz of anticipation, and the judge furiously swept the room with his eyes, as if seeking out those causing the disturbance. This lasted for quite some time, and gradually the noise abated, until it died down completely and silence reigned once more.
‘I am warning the public that I will not tolerate any disruption and if there is a single incident I will have the court vacated.’
He cleared his throat and murmured a few words into the ears of his assessors.
‘In accordance with the discretionary powers given to me and with the agreement of the assistant public prosecutor and the defence counsel, I have decided to call three new witnesses. Two are in the room and the third, Geneviève Lavancher, who has received a telephone summons, will be at this afternoon’s hearing. Usher, please call Madame Ginette Meurant.’
The elderly usher went forward across the empty space to meet the young woman sitting in the front row. She stood up, faltered, and then allowed herself to be led to the witness box.
Maigret had interviewed her several times at Quai des Orfèvres. Then he’d had in front of him a vulgarly flirtatious little woman who was sometimes aggressive.
In honour of the court hearing, she had bought herself a black suit, with a calf-length skirt and coat, the only splash of colour being a straw-yellow blouse.
For the occasion too, Maigret was convinced, to create an air of sophistication, she sported a pillbox hat with a veil, which gave her face an air of mystery.
Her attitude was a mixture of girlish innocence and primness as she bowed her head and gazed up at the judge with frightened, docile eyes.
‘Is your name Ginette Meurant, maiden name Chenault?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘Speak louder and turn to the gentlemen of the jury. You are twenty-seven years old and you were born in Saint-Sauveur, in the Nièvre? Is that correct?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘Are you the wife of the defendant?’
She replied in the same respectful tone.
‘Pursuant to Article 322, your evidence cannot be accepted by the court, but, with the agreement of the prosecution and the defence, the court is allowed to hear you for information purposes.’
She raised her hand as the previous witnesses had done, but he stopped her.
‘No! You are not allowed to take the oath.’
Maigret glimpsed Gaston Meurant’s pale face between two others. Chin in his hands, he stared straight ahead of him. From time to time, he clenched his jaws so hard his face bulged.
His wife avoided turning towards him, as if it were forbidden, keeping her eyes riveted on the judge.
‘Did you know the victim, Léontine Faverges?’
She appeared hesitant, then mumbled:
‘Not very well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That she and I didn’t see one another.’
‘But you had met her?’
‘Once, before we got married. My fiancé insisted on introducing me to her, saying she was his only family.’
‘So you went to Rue Manuel?’
‘Yes. In the afternoon, at around five o’clock. She gave us hot chocolate and biscuits. I immediately had the feeling she didn’t like me and that she’d advise Gaston not to marry me.’
‘For what reason?’
She shrugged, cast around for her words, and finally blurted out:
‘We weren’t the same kind of people.’
A stern look from the judge stemmed the rising laughter.
‘Did she not attend your wedding?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘What about Alfred Meurant, your brother-in-law?’
‘He came too. At that time, he lived in Paris and hadn’t yet fallen out with my husband.’
‘What was his profession?’
‘Sales representative.’
‘Did he have regular employment?’
‘How would I know? He gave us a coffee service as a wedding present.’
‘And did you ever see Léontine Faverges again?’
‘Four or five times.’
‘Did she come to your home?’
‘No. We went to her place. I didn’t want to, because I hate imposing on people who don’t like me, but Gaston said I had no choice.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it because of her money, by any chance?’
‘Maybe.’
‘When did you stop visiting Rue Manuel?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘Two years? Three? Four years?’
‘Let’s say three years.’
‘So you knew about the Chinese vase that was in the sitting room?’
‘I have seen it and I even said to Gaston that artificial flowers were only good for funeral wreaths.’
‘Did you know what was in the vase?’
‘I only knew about the flowers.’
‘Your husband never said anything to you?’
‘About what? The vase?’
‘Gold coins.’
For the first time, she turned towards the dock.
‘No.’
‘And he didn’t tell you either that his aunt kept her money in her apartment instead of depositing it in the bank?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You’re not certain?’
‘Yes I am … Yes …’
‘At the time when you still visited Rue Manuel, albeit not very often, was little Cécile Perrin already living there?’
‘I’ve never seen her. No. She’d have been too young.’
‘Did you ever hear your husband speak of her?’
‘He must have mentioned her. Wait! Now I’m certain. I was even amazed that a child had been entrusted to a woman like her.’
‘Did you know that the defendant used to go and ask his aunt for money quite regularly?’
‘He didn’t always tell me.’
‘But you knew in a general way?’
‘I knew that he wasn’t a very good businessman, that he got conned by everyone, like when we opened a restaurant in Rue du Chemin-Vert, which could have done very well.’
‘What was your job in the restaurant?’
‘I served the customers.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘He worked in the kitchen, helped by an elderly woman.’
‘Did he know how to cook?’
‘He used a book.’
‘Were you alone in the restaurant with the customers?’
‘At first, we had a young waitress.’
‘When things began to go downhill, did not Léontine Faverges help keep the creditors at bay?’
‘I suppose so. I think we still owe money.’
‘Did your husband seem anxious during the last few days of February?’
‘He was always anxious.’
‘Did he talk to you about a bank draft due on the 28th?’
‘I didn’t pay attention. There were drafts every month.’
‘And he didn’t tell you that he was going to see his aunt to ask her to help him out once again?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Wouldn’t that have struck you?’
‘No. I was used to it.’
‘After the restaurant was closed down, you didn’t offer to work?’
‘I kept offering, but Gaston didn’t want me to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Maybe because he was jealous.’
‘Did he make jealous scenes?’
‘Not scenes.’
‘Face the gentlemen of the jury.’
‘I was forgetting. I’m sorry.’
‘On what basis do you claim he was jealous?’
‘First of al
l, he didn’t want me to work. Then, at Rue du Chemin-Vert, he would keep popping out of the kitchen to spy on me.’
‘Did he ever follow you?’
Pierre Duché fidgeted on his bench, unable to see what the judge was leading up to.
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘In the evenings, did he ask you how you’d spent your day?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That I’d been to the cinema.’
‘Are you sure that you talked to no one about Rue Manuel and Léontine Faverges?’
‘Only to my husband.’
‘Not to a woman friend?’
‘I don’t have any women friends.’
‘Who did you and your husband socialize with?’
‘No one.’
If she was troubled by these questions, she didn’t lose her composure.
‘Do you remember the suit your husband was wearing at lunchtime on 27 February?’
‘His grey suit. It was his weekday one. He only wore the other one on Saturday nights, if we went out, and on Sundays.’
‘And to go and see his aunt?’
‘Sometimes I think he put on his blue suit.’
‘Did he on that day?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t at home.’
‘You don’t know whether he came back to the apartment at some point during the afternoon?’
‘How would I know? I was at the cinema.’
‘Thank you.’
She stood there, confused, unable to believe that it was over, that she wasn’t going to be asked the questions that everyone was expecting.
‘You may go back to your seat.’
And the judge continued:
‘Bring forward Nicolas Cajou.’
There was a sense of disappointment. The public felt cheated that they had been deprived of a scene to which they were entitled. Ginette Meurant sat down again as if with regret, and a lawyer close to Maigret whispered to his colleagues:
Maigret in Court Page 4
