‘I’m afraid those scoundrels really are cleverer than you!’ she said by way of a parting shot. ‘We’ll see. Right now, I’ll wager anything you like that they are all downstairs waiting for you.’
It was true. As he stepped into the corridor, a door opened noiselessly. A maid – not the same one who had brought him here – said deferentially:
‘Monsieur and Madame Malik are waiting for you in the morning room. If you would be so good as to follow me …’
The house was cool, the walls painted with faded colours and everywhere were carved doors, overmantels, paintings and engravings. Soft carpets muffled footsteps and the Venetian blinds let in just enough light.
One last door. He took two steps forwards and found himself facing Monsieur and Madame Malik in full mourning, waiting for him.
What was it that gave him the impression not of reality, but of a carefully composed family portrait? He did not yet know Charles Malik, in whom he found none of his brother’s features, even though there was a family resemblance. He was a little younger, more corpulent. His ruddy face was pinker, and his eyes were not grey like Ernest’s, but an almost innocent blue.
Nor did he have his brother’s assurance, and there were dark circles under his eyes, a certain flabbiness about his lips, an anxious look in his eyes.
He stood very upright in front of the marble fireplace, and his wife was seated close to him in a Louis XVI armchair, her hands in her lap, as for a photograph.
The entire scene exuded sorrow, overwhelming grief even. Charles Malik spoke in a faltering voice.
‘Do come in, inspector, and please forgive us for having asked you to drop in to see us for a moment.’
As for Madame Malik, she looked very much like her sister, but was more refined, with something of her mother’s vivacity. That vivacity, at present, was as if shrouded – understandably, given her recent bereavement. In her right hand she held a little handkerchief screwed into a ball, which she scrunched constantly during their conversation.
‘Do please sit down. I know that we will be meeting each other later on at my brother’s house. Myself in any case, for I doubt my wife feels up to attending this luncheon. I don’t know under what circumstances you came here and I should like—’
He looked at his wife, who merely gazed at him with simplicity but determination.
‘This is a very difficult time for us, inspector, and my mother-in-law’s obstinacy bodes even worse to come. You’ve met her. I don’t know what you make of her.’
Maigret, in any case, took good care not to tell him, because he sensed that Charles Malik was beginning to flounder and was summoning his wife to his aid once more.
‘Remember, Mother is eighty-two years old,’ she said. ‘It’s all too easy to forget because she has so much energy … Sadly, her mind isn’t always as alert as her body. She’s completely devastated by the death of my daughter, who was her favourite.’
‘I appreciate that, madame.’
‘You can see, now, the atmosphere we have been living in since the tragedy. Mother has got it into her head that there is some mystery behind it.’
‘The inspector has certainly gathered that,’ continued Charles Malik. ‘Don’t get upset, darling … My wife is very highly strung, inspector. We all are at the moment. Our affection for my mother-in-law alone is stopping us from taking the steps that would seem necessary. That is why we are asking you …’
Maigret pricked up his ears.
‘… we are asking you … to carefully weigh up the pros and cons before—’
Goodness! Could it have been this bumbling, tubby man who had fired at Maigret the previous evening? There was nothing implausible about this notion that had just occurred to him.
Ernest Malik was a cold-blooded animal and most likely, if he had fired, he would have aimed more accurately. Whereas Charles, on the other hand …
‘I understand your situation,’ continued the master of the house, leaning on the mantelpiece in a more family-portrait pose than ever. ‘It is delicate, very delicate. In short—’
‘In short,’ broke in Maigret, in his most ingratiating tone, ‘I wonder what on earth I’m doing here.’
He covertly watched Charles Malik and caught his little tremor of delight.
That was exactly what they had wanted him to say. What was he doing there, in fact? No one had invited him, other than an old woman of eighty-two who wasn’t completely compos mentis.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ Charles Malik corrected him, very much the gentleman, ‘given that you are a friend of Ernest’s, I think it would be better—’
‘Tell me.’
‘Yes … I think it would be fitting, or rather desirable, that you do not overly encourage my mother-in-law in these ideas which … that—’
‘You are convinced, Monsieur Malik, that your daughter’s death was absolutely natural?’
‘I think it was an accident.’
He was blushing, but had replied firmly.
‘And what about you, madame?’
The handkerchief was just a tiny ball in her hand.
‘I think the same as my husband.’
‘In that case, clearly …’
He was giving them hope. He could sense them swelling with the hope that they were going to be forever rid of his burdensome presence.
‘… I am obliged to accept your brother’s invitation. Then, if nothing happens, if no new developments require my presence …’
He rose, almost as ill-at-ease as they were. He was eager to be outside, to take a deep breath of fresh air.
‘So I’ll see you in a little while,’ Charles Malik was saying. ‘I apologize for not showing you out, but I still have things to do.’
‘Don’t mention it. My humble respects, madame.’
He was still in the grounds, walking down towards the Seine, when he was struck by a noise. It was that of the handle of a rural telephone turning, with the short ring signalling that the call had been heard.
‘He has telephoned his brother to report back to him,’ thought Maigret.
And he believed he could guess what was being said:
‘Phew! He’s leaving. He promised. As long as nothing happens at lunch.’
A tug-boat was pulling its eight barges towards the Haute Seine, and it was a tug-boat with a green triangle, an Amorelle and Campois tug-boat; the barges were also Amorelle and Campois.
It was only half past eleven. He couldn’t face going to L’Ange, where there was nothing for him to do. He walked along the riverbank mulling over his confused thoughts. He paused like a sightseer in front of Ernest Malik’s luxury pontoon. He had his back to the Maliks’ residence.
‘Well! Maigret?’
It was Ernest Malik, dressed this time in a grey salt-and-pepper suit and wearing white kid shoes and a panama hat.
‘My brother has just telephoned me.’
‘I know.’
‘Apparently you have already had enough of my mother-in-law’s nonsense.’
There was something suppressed in his voice, something emphatic in his eyes.
‘If I understand correctly, you want to get back to your wife and your lettuce patch?’
Then, without knowing why (perhaps that is what is known as inspiration), Maigret, making himself heavier, thicker, more inert than ever, replied:
‘No.’
Malik reacted. Despite all his sang-froid, he could not help himself. For a moment, he looked like someone trying to swallow his saliva, and his Adam’s apple visibly ro
se and fell two or three times.
‘Ah! …’
A brief glance about them, but he wasn’t planning to push Maigret into the Seine.
‘We still have a good while ahead of us before the guests arrive. We usually lunch late. Come into my study for a moment.’
Not a word was spoken as they crossed the grounds. Maigret glimpsed Madame Malik arranging flowers in the vases in the drawing room.
They skirted the house, and Malik walked ahead of his guest into a fairly vast study, with deep leather armchairs and walls decorated with model ships.
‘You may smoke.’
He carefully shut the door and half-lowered the Venetian blinds, because the sun was streaming into the room. At last he sat down at his desk and started fiddling with a crystal paper knife.
Maigret had perched on the arm of an armchair and was slowly filling his pipe, giving the impression that his mind was a blank. When the silence had gone on for some time, he asked quietly:
‘Where is your son?’
‘Which one?’
Then, correcting himself:
‘This is not about my son.’
‘It’s about me, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well! Yes, it is about you.’
Beside this wiry, elegant man with refined, well-groomed features, Maigret cut an oafish figure.
‘How much are you offering me?’
‘What makes you think that I was planning to offer you anything?’
‘I imagine you are.’
‘Why not, after all? The police force isn’t very generous. I don’t know what kind of a pension they pay you.’
And Maigret, still gentle and humble:
‘Three thousand, two hundred.’
He added, with disarming candour:
‘Of course, we have some savings.’
This time, Ernest Malik was truly disconcerted. This seemed all too easy. He had the feeling his former schoolmate was laughing at him. And yet …
‘Listen—’
‘I’m all ears—’
‘I know what you’re going to think.’
‘I think so little!’
‘You’re going to think that your presence here bothers me, that I have something to hide. And supposing that were the case?’
‘Yes, supposing that were the case? It’s none of my business, is it?’
‘Are you being sarcastic?’
‘Never.’
‘You’d be wasting your time with me, you see. You probably think you’re very clever. You have had a successful and distinguished career chasing thieves and murderers. Well, Jules my friend, there are no thieves or murderers here. Do you understand? Through the greatest of coincidences, you have landed in a world you don’t know and where you are likely to do a lot of damage. That’s why I’m telling you—’
‘How much?’
‘A hundred thousand.’
Maigret didn’t bat an eyelid, then Malik said, nodding hesitantly:
‘A hundred and fifty. I’ll go up to two hundred thousand.’
He was on his feet now, jittery, tense, still fiddling with the paper knife, which suddenly snapped between his fingers. A bead of blood formed on his index finger and Maigret commented:
‘You’ve hurt yourself.’
‘Be quiet. Or rather answer my question. I’ll write out a cheque for two hundred thousand francs. Not a cheque? No matter … The car will take us to Paris later and I’ll pick up the cash from my bank. Then I’ll drive you back to Meung.’
Maigret sighed.
‘What’s your answer?’
‘Where is your son?’
This time, Malik could not contain his anger.
‘It’s none of your business. It’s no one’s business, do you hear? I’m not in your office at Quai des Orfèvres and neither are you. I am asking you to leave because your presence here is ill-timed, to say the least. People are talking. They’re wondering—’
‘What exactly are they wondering?’
‘One last time, I’m asking you politely to leave. And if you do, I’m prepared to offer you a very generous reward. Is it yes or is it no?’
‘It’s no, of course.’
‘Very well. In that case, I’m going to have to change my tune.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I’m no angel and I never was. Otherwise I wouldn’t be where I am today. Now, through your pig-headedness, through your stupidity, yes, stupidity, you’re likely to unleash a calamity that you don’t even suspect. And you’re happy, aren’t you? You think you’re still in the Police Judiciaire grilling some little cutthroat or some young delinquent who’s strangled an old woman.
‘I haven’t strangled anyone, you should know that. I haven’t robbed anyone either.’
‘In that case—’
‘Silence! You want to stay, so you’ll stay. You’ll carry on poking your big nose in everywhere. Well, on your head be it.
‘You see, Maigret, I’m a lot stronger than you are and I’ve proved it.
‘If I’d been made of the same stuff as you, I’d have become a good little income-tax collector like my father.
‘Meddle in what doesn’t concern you if you must!
‘On your head be it.’
He had regained his outer calm and his lips were again curled in a sneer.
Maigret, who had risen, was looking around for his hat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Outside.’
‘Aren’t you having lunch with us?’
‘I’d rather lunch elsewhere.’
‘As you wish. And there again, you’re being petty. Petty and narrow-minded.’
‘Is that all?’
‘For now, yes.’
And, hat in hand, Maigret strode calmly over to the door. He opened it and went out, without looking back. Outside, a shape darted off, and he just had the time to recognize Jean-Claude, the eldest son, who must have been eavesdropping beneath the open window and had overheard the entire conversation.
He walked around the house and, in the main drive, passed two men whom he hadn’t yet met.
One was short and stocky with a thick neck and big, coarse hands: Monsieur Campois probably, for he matched the description Jeanne had given him the previous evening. The other, who must have been his grandson, was a strapping boy with an open face.
They stared at him in bewilderment, as he made his way calmly towards the gate, then they both turned around to look at him, stopping even to watch him.
‘That’s one thing out of the way!’ said Maigret to himself as he walked off along the towpath.
A boat was crossing the river, steered by an old man in a yellowish linen suit, with a splendid red tie. It was Monsieur Groux, on his way to the gathering. They would all be there, except him, for whose benefit this lunch had been arranged in the first place.
What about Georges-Henry? Maigret began to move faster. He wasn’t hungry, but he was terribly thirsty. In any case, he swore to himself again that, whatever happened, he would drink no more little tipples of Kummel with old Jeanne.
When he walked into L’Ange, he did not see the owner in her usual place by the grandfather clock. He poked his head around the half-open kitchen door and Raymonde called out:
‘I thought you weren’t having lunch here?’
Then, raising her plump arms to the heavens:
‘I haven’t cooked anything. Madame is unwell and doesn’t want to come downstairs.’
There wasn’t even any beer in the house.
4. The Top Kennel
It would have been hard to say how it happened: the fact was that Maigret and Raymonde were now friends. Only an hour ago, she was sorely tempted to ban him from entering her kitchen.
‘I have nothing to eat, I tell you.’
What’s more, she didn’t like men. She found them violent and they smelled unpleasant. Most of the men who came to L’Ange, even the married ones, tried to grope her and it disgusted her.
She had wanted to become a nun. She was tall and languid despite her apparent energy.
‘What are you after?’ she asked impatiently, seeing Maigret standing in front of the open larder.
‘A little leftover something-or-other. Anything. It’s so hot that I haven’t got the energy to go and eat up at the lock.’
‘Well, there aren’t any leftovers here! First of all, in theory, the place is closed. As a matter of fact, it’s up for sale. Has been for three years. And each time the sale is about to go through, the old lady wavers, finds reasons to object and ends up saying no. She doesn’t need to make her living from it, does she!’
‘What about you, what are you going to eat?’
‘Bread and cheese.’
‘Do you not think there’ll be enough for the two of us?’
He looked kind, with his slightly flushed face and his round eyes. He had made himself at home in the kitchen and ignored Raymonde when she said:
‘Get out of here, it hasn’t been cleaned yet. I’ll lay you a place in the dining room.’
He had dug his heels in.
‘I’ll go and see if there isn’t a tin of sardines left, but it’ll be lucky if there is. There are no shops around here. The butcher, the charcuterie and even the grocer from Corbeil come and deliver to the big houses, the Maliks, the Campois. Before, they used to stop here and we were able to stock up. But the old lady barely eats a thing nowadays and she thinks that others should do likewise. Wait, let me go and see if there are any eggs in the hen house.’
There were three. Maigret insisted on making the omelette, and she laughed as she watched him whisk the egg yolks and whites separately.
Maigret Gets Angry Page 5
