‘What difference does it make?’
‘Who did you go and have dinner with occasionally?’
‘No one.’
‘Who did you go on Sunday outings with?’
‘With my wife.’
‘And she has no family in Paris. Neither do you, apart from your brother, who spends most of his time in the south and with whom you haven’t been on speaking terms for the last two years.’
‘We didn’t fall out.’
‘But you stopped seeing him.’
And once again, Maigret appeared to change the subject.
‘How many keys are there to your apartment?’
‘Two. My wife has one and I have the other.’
‘And it never happened that, when you went out, one of you left the key with the concierge or a neighbour?’
Aware that Maigret never said anything without good reason, Meurant chose to say nothing, even though he was unable to see where all this was leading.
‘The lock wasn’t forced that day, as the experts who examined it confirmed. And yet, if you didn’t kill them, someone got into your apartment twice, the first time to take your blue suit out of the bedroom wardrobe and the second to put it back so carefully that you didn’t notice anything. Do you admit that?’
‘I admit nothing. All I know is that my wife …’
‘When you met her, seven years ago, you were a loner. Am I mistaken?’
‘I worked all day, and in the evenings I’d read, and occasionally I went to the cinema.’
‘Did she throw herself at you?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t other men, other customers at the restaurant where she was a waitress, chase after her?’
He clenched his fists.
‘So what if they did?’
‘How long did you have to keep asking before she agreed to go out with you?’
‘Three weeks.’
‘What did you do, that first evening?’
‘We went to the cinema, and then she wanted to go dancing.’
‘Are you a good dancer?’
‘No.’
‘Did she make fun of you?’
Increasingly disconcerted by the turn the conversation was taking, he said nothing.
‘Did you take her back to your place afterwards?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I loved her.’
‘What about the second time?’
‘We went to the cinema again.’
‘And then?’
‘To a hotel.’
‘Why not to your place?’
‘Because I was living in a shabby room at the back of a courtyard.’
‘You already intended to marry her, and you were afraid she’d be put off?’
‘I wanted to make her my wife right away.’
‘Did you know that she had a lot of male friends?’
‘That’s no one else’s business. She was free.’
‘Did you tell her about your profession, your shop? Because you already had a shop, in Faubourg Saint-Antoine, unless I’m mistaken.’
‘Of course I told her about it.’
‘Was it not with the idea of enticing her? On marrying you she’d become the wife of a shopkeeper.’
Meurant turned red.
‘Do you realize now that you were the one who wanted to have her, and that to win her, you were not averse to cheating a little. Did you have any debts?’
‘No.’
‘Savings?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t she talk to you about her dream of having a restaurant one day?’
‘Several times.’
‘What did you reply?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Did you intend to change your profession?’
‘Not at that time.’
‘You only made up your mind later, after two years of marriage, when she brought up the subject again and told you about a unique opportunity.’
He was flustered, but Maigret went on, relentless:
‘You were jealous. Out of jealousy you made her stay at home instead of working as she wished to do. At that time, you lived in a two-room apartment on Rue de Turenne. Every evening you insisted she gave you an account of how she’d spent her day. Were you really convinced she loved you?’
‘I believed so.’
‘Without any ulterior motive?’
‘There is none.’
‘I believe your brother used to see you quite often?’
‘He lived in Paris.’
‘Did he go out with your wife?’
‘Sometimes the three of us went out together.’
‘The two of them never went out on their own?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘Your brother lived in lodgings in Rue Bréa, near Place des Ternes. Did your wife go and visit him in his room?’
Tormented, Meurant almost shouted:
‘No!’
‘Has she ever owned a pullover like the ones people wear to go skiing, a coarse, hand-knitted white wool pullover with a black-and-brown reindeer pattern? Did she ever go out in the winter wearing it with black trousers that tapered at the ankles?’
Frowning, he stared intently at Maigret.
‘What are you driving at?’
‘Answer.’
‘Yes. Very rarely. I didn’t like her going out into the street wearing trousers.’
‘Have you often seen women dressed that way in the streets of Paris?’
‘No.’
‘Read this, Meurant.’
Maigret took out a document from a file, the statement of the landlady of the lodging house in Rue Bréa. She clearly remembered having Alfred Meurant as a tenant. He had occupied a room in her establishment on a monthly basis for a long time and still came back for a few days occasionally. He entertained a lot of women. She immediately recognized the photograph she was shown, which was that of Ginette Meurant. She even recalled having seen her in an unconventional get-up …
Then came the description of the pullover and trousers.
Had Ginette Meurant recently gone back to Rue Bréa?
The landlady’s reply: less than a year ago, when Alfred Meurant was in Paris briefly.
‘It’s not true!’ protested Meurant, pushing away the statement.
‘Would you like to read the entire file? It contains at least thirty statements, all from hotel owners, including one in Saint-Cloud. Did your brother own a sky-blue convertible?’
Meurant’s face provided the reply.
‘He wasn’t the only one. At the dance hall in Rue des Gravilliers, your wife was seen with some fifteen lovers.’
Maigret, heavy and solemn, filled a fresh pipe. He derived no pleasure from steering the conversation in this direction.
‘It’s not true!’ moaned the husband again.
‘She didn’t ask to become your wife. She did nothing to encourage you. It took her three weeks to agree to go out with you, perhaps so as not to hurt you. She went with you to a hotel when you asked her to, because to her it meant nothing. You painted a picture of a rosy, comfortable existence, security, access to a bourgeois lifestyle. You more or less promised her that one day you’d fulfil her dream of a little restaurant.
‘Out of jealousy, you wouldn’t allow her to work.
‘You didn’t dance, and you barely liked the cinema.’
‘We went every week.’
‘The rest of the time, she was condemned to go there alone. In the evenings, you would read.’
‘I’ve always dreamed of becoming more educated.’
‘And she has always dreamed of something different. Are you beginning to understand?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘However, you are certain that you have never told anyone else about the Chinese vase. And, on 27 February, you were not wearing your blue suit. You and your wife were the only people to have keys to the apartment on Boulevard de Charonne.’
The telephone r
ang. Maigret picked it up.
‘Speaking, yes …’
Baron was on the other end of the line.
‘She went out at around nine, at four minutes to nine to be precise, and headed towards Boulevard Voltaire.’
‘Dressed how?’
‘A floral dress and a brown wool coat. No hat.’
‘And then?’
‘She went into a shop selling travel goods and bought a cheap suitcase. She returned home with the suitcase. It must be warm inside because she opened the window. I can see her moving around and I imagine she’s packing her bags.’
As he listened, Maigret watched Meurant, who suspected they were talking about his wife and looked worried.
‘Nothing’s happened to her?’ he even asked at one point.
Maigret shook his head.
‘Since there’s a telephone in the concierge’s lodge,’ Baron went on, ‘I called a taxi which is parked a hundred metres away, in case she phones for one.’
‘Very good. Keep me informed.’
And to Meurant:
‘Just a moment …’
Maigret went into the inspectors’ office and spoke to Janvier.
‘You’d better take a service vehicle and get over to Boulevard de Charonne as fast as possible. It looks as if Ginette Meurant’s about to do a runner. She may suspect that her husband has come here. She must be afraid of that.’
‘How is he reacting?’
‘I’d rather not be in his shoes.’
Maigret would also rather be dealing with something else.
‘You’re wanted on the phone, inspector.’
‘Put the call through here.’
It was the public prosecutor, whose conscience wasn’t entirely easy either.
‘Hasn’t anything happened?’
‘They went home. They appear to have slept in separate rooms. Meurant went out early and is in my office right now.’
‘What did you tell him? No doubt he refuses to believe you?’
‘I’m in the inspectors’ office. He’s not yet sure whether to believe me. He’s struggling. He’s beginning to realize that he’ll have to look the truth in the face.’
‘You’re not afraid that he’ll …’
‘There’s every chance that she won’t be there when he gets home. She’s packing her bags.’
‘And if he finds her?’
‘After what I’ve had to put him through, she’s not the one he’ll be angry with.’
‘He’s not the sort to commit suicide?’
‘Not before he’s uncovered the truth.’
‘Do you plan to expose it?’
Maigret said nothing but shrugged.
‘As soon as there are any developments—’
‘I’ll telephone you or I’ll drop into your office, sir.’
‘Have you read the papers?’
‘Only the headlines.’
Maigret hung up. Janvier had already left. It was better to keep Meurant there for a while, to prevent him from discovering his wife in the middle of packing her bags.
If he tracked her down later, it would be less risky. The most dangerous moment would be over. That was why Maigret, pipe in his mouth, paced up and down the long corridor, which was less suffocatingly warm, for a minute or two.
Then, glancing at his watch, he went into his office and found Meurant calmer and looking pensive.
‘There’s still a possibility you haven’t mentioned,’ objected Ginette’s husband. ‘One person at least must have known the secret of the Chinese vase.’
‘The little girl’s mother?’
‘Yes: Juliette Perrin. She often used to visit Léontine Faverges and Cécile. Even if the old woman hadn’t told her anything about her money, the child might have seen …’
‘Do you think it didn’t occur to me?’
‘Why didn’t you explore that avenue? Juliette Perrin works in a nightclub. She mixes with all sorts of people …’
He was clinging desperately to that hope, and Maigret felt bad about disappointing him. But it was necessary.
‘We investigated all her relations but got nowhere.
‘Besides, there’s one thing that neither Juliette Perrin nor her casual or regular lovers could get hold of without an accomplice.’
‘What?’
‘The blue suit. Do you know the child’s mother?’
‘No.’
‘You never ran into her at Rue Manuel?’
‘No. I knew that Cécile’s mother was a nightclub hostess, but I have never had the occasion to meet her.’
‘Don’t forget that her daughter was murdered.’
For Meurant, another door was closing. He was still seeking, groping, determined not to accept the truth.
‘My wife could have mentioned it inadvertently.’
‘To whom?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And also inadvertently handed over the key to your apartment when she left for the cinema?’
Telephone. Janvier, this time, slightly out of breath.
‘I’m calling from the concierge’s, chief. The woman has left in a taxi with the suitcase and a bulging brown bag. I wrote down the registration number just in case. It belongs to a firm in Levallois and will be easy to trace. Baron’s following her in another taxi. Shall I wait here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you still with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably after he gets here I stay put?’
‘That’s best.’
‘I’m going to park the car by one of the cemetery gates. It will be less obvious. Will you be letting him go soon?’
‘Yes.’
Meurant was still trying to guess, and the effort brought the blood rushing to his head. He was utterly exhausted, utterly in despair too, but he managed to hold firm and even almost to smile.
‘Is it my wife who’s under surveillance?’
Maigret nodded.
‘I suppose I’m going to be under surveillance too?’
Maigret made a vague gesture.
‘I don’t have a gun, believe me!’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t intend to kill anyone, or to kill myself.’
‘I know that too.’
‘In any case, not now.’
He stood up and Maigret realized that he was close to breaking point, that the man was struggling not to burst into tears, sob and bang the walls with his clenched fists.
‘Be strong, my friend.’
Meurant looked away, walked towards the door, not very steady on his feet. Maigret put his hand briefly on his shoulder.
‘Come and see me whenever you like.’
Meurant finally left, without turning to face Maigret, without saying thank you, and the door closed behind him.
Baron was waiting outside the building, ready to carry on tailing him.
6.
At midday, as he was about to go home, Maigret received the first news of Ginette Meurant.
Dupeu telephoned from a bar in Rue Delambre close to Rue de la Gaité in the Montparnasse district. Dupeu was an excellent inspector who had only one fault: he reeled off his reports in a monotonous voice, as if he would never finish, piling on so many details that Maigret ended up only half listening.
‘Get on with it!’ he was tempted to say.
If anyone did interrupt him, Dupeu became so crestfallen that they immediately regretted it.
‘I’m in a bar called the Pickwick, chief, a hundred metres from Boulevard Montparnasse, and twelve minutes ago she arrived at the Hôtel de Concarneau opposite. It’s a decent hotel that boasts hot and cold running water and a telephone in every room, a bathroom on each floor. She’s in room 32 and it doesn’t look as if she’s in a hurry to leave because she argued over the price and rented the room for the week. Unless it’s a trick.’
‘Does she know she’s been followed?’
‘I’m certain she does. In the taxi, she turned around several times. On leaving Boule
vard de Charonne, she showed the driver a visiting card which she took out of her handbag. When we reached Boulevard Saint-Michel, with me immediately behind her, she leaned over towards the driver. I could see her clearly through the rear window. He abruptly turned off to the right, into Faubourg Saint-Germain, then, for nearly ten minutes, he drove around in circles through the backstreets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
‘I assume she was hoping to shake me off. When she realized it was impossible, she gave the driver further instructions and her taxi soon pulled up outside a building in Rue Monsieur-le-Prince.’
Maigret listened patiently, without interrupting.
‘She asked the driver to wait and went inside. I followed her shortly afterwards and questioned the concierge. The person whom Ginette Meurant went to see was none other than Maître Lamblin, who lives on the first floor. She stayed there for some twenty minutes. When she came out, I had the impression she wasn’t very pleased. Then she told the driver to bring her here. I assume you want me to keep her under surveillance?’
‘Until someone comes to relieve you.’
Meanwhile, Janvier was probably still at Boulevard de Charonne, keeping an eye on the husband, backed up by Baron.
Was it solely to ask his advice that Ginette Meurant had visited the lawyer? Maigret doubted it. Before leaving his office, he gave instructions to Lucas, then headed for the bus stop.
Seven months earlier, on 27 February, the Meurants had barely any money, because they were unable to pay the draft due to be presented the next day. Furthermore, they owed the local shopkeepers money, as was their wont.
When a few days later the examining magistrate had asked Meurant to choose a lawyer, the picture-framer had objected that he couldn’t afford to pay, and Pierre Duché had been appointed to represent him.
What had Ginette Meurant been living on since his arrest? As far as the police knew, from opening her letters, she hadn’t received any postal orders. Nor did she appear to have cashed any cheques. Although she hadn’t run up many expenses and had lived a reclusive existence in her apartment, she had still had to eat, and before the trial she’d bought the skirt and black coat she wore to court.
Was it possible that she had set aside some money, unbeknown to her husband, fiddling the housekeeping expenses as many women do?
Lamblin, at the Palais de Justice, had kept close to her. The lawyer was savvy enough to predict that the case would have sensational repercussions and that if he were then to represent the young woman, it would be a feather in his cap.
Maigret in Court Page 8
