‘Yes, I think so.’
He felt slightly uncomfortable in his own home, with this strange girl who was behaving as if this were her place, getting up, rearranging her chignon in front of the mirror on the chimney breast, then sitting down in Madame Maigret’s armchair, muttering:
‘May I?’
He asked her:
‘Have you known Mademoiselle Gendreau long?’
‘We were at school together.’
‘I presume you are from Anseval, is that right? Did you both go to the school in Anseval?’
He was surprised that the Balthazar Coffee heiress had attended a little village school.
‘I mean that we’re the same age, give or take a couple of months. She’ll be twenty-one next month, and I turned twenty-one a couple of weeks ago.’
‘And you both went to school in Anseval?’ he repeated.
‘She didn’t. She went to the convent in Nevers. But it was at the same time.’
He understood. And from then on he was cautious, taking care to separate the false from the true and the true from the partially true or the plausible.
‘Were you expecting something to happen at Rue Chaptal?’
‘I’ve always thought that things would turn nasty.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they hate one another.’
‘Who?’
‘Mademoiselle and her brother. I’ve worked at the house for four years. I started immediately after Madame’s death. You know, don’t you, that she died in a railway accident when she was on the way to take the waters at Vittel? It was terrible.’
She said that as if he had been present when they had recovered the hundred or so bodies from under the debris of the carriages.
‘You see, while Madame was alive, the will wasn’t important.’
‘You know the family well.’
‘I was born in Anseval. My father was born there. My grandfather was one of the count’s farmers. He used to play marbles with the old gentleman when they were boys.’
‘Which old gentleman?’
‘That’s how they still refer to him in the village. Don’t you know anything? I thought the police knew everyone’s business.’
‘Presumably you’re talking about old Monsieur Balthazar?’
‘Monsieur Hector, yes. His father was the village saddler. He was also the church bell-ringer. At the age of twelve Monsieur Hector was a pedlar. He used to go from farm to farm with his box on his back.’
‘Was it he who founded Balthazar Coffee?’
‘Yes. Which didn’t stop my grandfather being on familiar terms with him until the end. He didn’t come back to the village for a very long time. When we saw him again, he was already rich, and we heard he’d bought the chateau.’
‘Who had the chateau belonged to?’
‘To the Count d’Anseval, of course.’
‘And is there no longer a Count d’Anseval?’
‘There is still one. Mademoiselle’s friend. Won’t you pour me another glass of liqueur? Is it from your region?’
‘From my wife’s.’
‘When I think how that little shrew – I don’t mean your wife – had the cheek to pretend she was me and sleep in my bed! Did you really see her in her nightdress? She’s fatter than me. I could say a lot more about her body. Her breasts—’
‘So, old Balthazar, the owner of Balthazar Coffee, bought the Château d’Anseval. Was he married?’
‘He had been married, but his wife was already dead by then. He had a daughter, a beautiful woman, much too stuck-up. He also had a son, Monsieur Hubert, who’s always been a good-for-nothing. He was as easy-going as his sister was tough. He travelled overseas a lot.’
‘All that was before you were born?’
‘Of course, but it’s still going on!’
Maigret had automatically taken a notebook out of his pocket and was writing down names, rather as he would have drawn a family tree. He sensed that with a girl like Germaine it was important to get things straight.
‘So, first of all there was Hector Balthazar, whom you call the old gentleman. When did he die?’
‘Five years ago. Only one year before his daughter.’
And Maigret, thinking of Félicien Gendreau, who was elderly himself, said in surprise:
‘He must have been very old?’
‘He was eighty-eight. He lived alone in a huge house on Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne. He still ran the business, with the help of his daughter.’
‘Not his son?’
‘You must be kidding! His son wasn’t even allowed to set foot in the offices. He was given an allowance. He lives on the banks of the Seine, not far from Pont-Neuf. He’s some sort of artist.’
‘Just a minute … Avenue du Bois … Hector’s daughter was married to Félicien Gendreau.’
‘That’s right. But Monsieur Félicien wasn’t allowed to be involved in the business either.’
‘Why not?’
‘They tried, apparently, a long time ago … He was a gambler … Even now he spends his afternoons at the races … He’s rumoured to have done something shady, with bank drafts, or cheques. His father-in-law wouldn’t even speak to him any more.’
Later, Maigret would become acquainted with the mansion on Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne, one of the ugliest, most pretentious houses in Paris, with medieval turrets and stained-glass windows. He would also see a photograph of the old man, with his chiselled features, chalky complexion and long white side whiskers, wearing a frock coat open to reveal two slim strips of shirt-front either side of his black cravat.
If he had been better acquainted with Paris life, he would have known that the elderly Balthazar had bequeathed his mansion to the state, with his entire collection of paintings, on condition that it be turned into a museum. The newspapers had been full of it when he died. For over a year, the experts had argued, and the government had ended up refusing the legacy, having discovered that most of the paintings were forgeries.
One day Maigret would see the portrait of the daughter too, her hair drawn back at the nape, reminiscent of Empress Eugénie, her face as cold as that of the founder of the Balthazar dynasty.
As for Félicien Gendreau, he had met him, with his dyed moustache, light-coloured spats and his cane with its gold knob.
‘Apparently the old man hated everyone, including his son, then his son-in-law, and finally Monsieur Richard, whom he knew well. The only exceptions were his daughter and his granddaughter, Mademoiselle Lise. He used to say that they alone were of his stock, and he left a complicated will. Monsieur Braquement would be able to tell you about it.’
‘Who is Monsieur Braquement?’
‘His lawyer. He’s in his eighties. All the others are afraid of him, because he’s the only person who knows.’
‘Who knows what?’
‘I was never told. All will be revealed when Mademoiselle Lise turns twenty-one, and that’s why they’re all so worked up at the moment. As for me, I don’t take any sides … If I’d wanted to …’
He had a sudden hunch.
‘Monsieur Richard?’ he asked, egging her on.
‘He was always after me. I told him that he was barking up the wrong tree and that he’d do better to go after Marie. “She’s stupid enough to fall for your nonsense,” I said to his face.’
‘Did he take your advice?’
‘I have no idea. With those people, you never can tell. As far as I’m concerned − and I know the
m well! − they’re all a bit crazy.’
As she said this, her eyes bulged more than ever, and her fixed stare was disconcerting. She leaned towards Maigret as if about to grab his knees.
‘Is Louis also from Anseval?’
‘He’s the son of the former schoolmaster. Some people say that he’s actually the priest’s son.’
‘Is he on Monsieur Richard’s side?’
‘What are you saying? Quite the opposite, he spends his life running around after Mademoiselle. He stayed with the old man until his death. He’s the one who cared for him during his illness and he probably knows more than anyone else, perhaps even more than Monsieur Braquement.’
‘He never made a pass at you?’
‘Him?’
She hooted.
‘He’d have a hard job! He looks like a man, with all that black hair. But first of all he’s much older than people think. He’s at least fifty-five. And he’s not a real man, if you understand my meaning. That’s why Madame Louis and Albert—’
‘Sorry. Who is Albert?’
‘The manservant. He comes from Anseval too. He was a jockey until he was twenty-one.’
‘Excuse me. I was shown around the entire house, but I didn’t see a bedroom that—’
‘Because he sleeps above the stables, with Jérôme.’
‘Jérôme?’
‘Monsieur Félicien’s coachman. Arsène, the chauffeur, is the only one who doesn’t sleep in the house because he’s married and has a child.’
Maigret had scribbled down the names higgledy-piggledy in his notebook.
‘If someone shot Mademoiselle, and that wouldn’t surprise me, it’s bound to be Monsieur Richard, during one of their arguments.’
‘Do they often argue?’
‘Pretty much every day. Once, he grabbed her wrists so hard that she had two blue rings around them for a week. But she fights back, and she’s given him some vicious kicks to his legs and even a bit higher. But I’ll bet that the shot wasn’t aimed at Mademoiselle.’
‘Who was it aimed at, then?’
‘At the count!’
‘What count?’
‘Don’t you understand anything? The Count d’Anseval.’
‘Really! There’s still a Count d’Anseval.’
‘The grandson of the one who sold the chateau to old Balthazar. It’s Mademoiselle who found him, I’ve no idea where.’
‘Is he wealthy?’
‘Him? He hasn’t got a bean.’
‘And he’s a visitor to the house?’
‘He visits Mademoiselle.’
‘He … I mean …’
‘Are you asking me if he sleeps with her? I don’t think he wants to. Now do you understand? They’re all barmy. They fight like dogs. Monsieur Hubert’s the only one who minds his own business, but the other two − the brother and the sister − try to drag him into things.’
‘Are you talking about Hubert Balthazar, the old man’s son? How old is he?’
‘Fifty, maybe? Perhaps a bit older? He’s very elegant, very distinguished. When he comes, he always stops and has a chat with me. Oh goodness! It’s so late, there are no more trains for Conflans and I have to sleep somewhere. Do you have a bed here?’
There was something so provocative in her eyes that Maigret cleared his throat and glanced instinctively towards the kitchen door.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a spare room. We’ve only just moved in.’
‘Are you newlyweds?’
In her mouth, the word sounded almost lewd.
‘I’ll find you a room in a nearby hotel.’
‘Are you going to bed already?’
‘I have another appointment in town.’
‘It’s true that you police officers probably don’t sleep in your own beds that often. It’s funny, you don’t look one bit like a policeman. I once knew one, a local policeman, tall, very dark-haired, Léonard …’
Maigret didn’t want to hear about Léonard. She seemed to have known a lot of men, including the insurance agent.
‘I expect you’ll be needing me again? The best way would be for me to go back to their place, as if nothing were amiss. And then I could report to you every evening.’
A clatter of saucepans came from the kitchen, but that was not why Maigret declined Germaine’s offer. She literally terrified him.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’d like to come with me …’
Before putting on her hat and coat, she rearranged her hair again in front of the mirror and grabbed the bottle of kirsch:
‘May I? I’ve talked so much, thought so much! Aren’t you drinking?’
There was no point telling her how many small glasses of calvados he’d downed earlier in the day, willingly or not.
‘I’m sure I’ve got lots more to tell you. There are people who write novels who haven’t experienced a fraction of the things I have. Now if I were to start writing …’
He went into the kitchen and kissed his wife on the forehead. She gave him a cheerful look, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
‘I may not be back until fairly late.’
And she teased:
‘Take your time, Jules!’
There was a lodging house just before Boulevard Voltaire. In the street, Germaine deliberately grabbed hold of her companion’s arm.
‘It’s my Louis heels …’
Indeed! She was more used to wearing clogs!
‘I think your wife’s very nice. She’s a very good cook.’
He didn’t dare give her the money for her room. He went into the office and blushed when the night-duty clerk asked him:
‘Is it for the night or for a couple of hours?’
‘For the night. Just for the lady.’
While the clerk looked at his key board, Germaine leaned even more heavily on Maigret’s arm, with no excuse now that she wasn’t walking.
‘Number 18. Second floor on the left. Wait and I’ll fetch you some towels.’
Maigret would rather forget how he took leave of her. There was a strip of red carpet on the stairs. She was holding her two towels in one hand, and her key dangling from a copper tag in the other. The clerk had gone back to reading his newspaper.
‘Are you sure you don’t have any more questions for me?’
She stood on the first stair. Her eyes were bulging, staring more intently than ever. What was it about her that reminded him of the praying mantis which devours the male after mating?
‘No … Not today …’ he must have stuttered.
‘I was forgetting that you had an appointment.’
Her moist lips curled in a mocking smile.
‘So, see you tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow, yes.’
At least that is how it must have gone. Maigret wasn’t used to such things yet. He only recalled the smell of fresh laundry as he raced down the steps to the Métro, the click of the automatic turnstiles, a long ride in the subterranean greyness, with human shapes swaying with each jolt of the train, glazed eyes, faces gnawed by shadow under the wan electric lights.
He lost his way in the ill-lit, empty streets around Porte de La Villette. Eventually he came across a vast open depot, cluttered with stationary carriages, shafts pointing upwards, and behind it, on the other side of a courtyard, the warmth of stables.
‘Cornille? No, he’s not back yet. Do you want to wait for him?’
It wasn’t until hal
f past midnight that a completely drunk cab driver looked at him in amazement.
‘The little lady from Rue Chaptal? Hold on! She was the one who gave me a one-franc tip. And the tall, dark-haired fellow.’
‘What tall, dark-haired fellow?’
‘I mean the one who hailed me in Rue Blanche and told me to go and wait in Rue Chaptal opposite number … number … That’s funny, I can never remember numbers … even though in my job—’
‘Did you drive her to the station?’
‘To the station? Which station?’
His eyes were swimming, and the juice from the tobacco he was chewing nearly landed on Maigret’s trousers when he spat it out in a long stream.
‘First of all, it wasn’t to the station … And then … Then it must have been …’
Maigret slipped him a franc.
‘It was to the hotel opposite the Tuileries, in a little square … Hold on. It’s named after a monument … I always muddle up the names of monuments … The Hôtel du Louvre … Gee up …’
There were no more Métros, or omnibuses, or trams, and Maigret had to walk back down the interminable Rue de Flandre before he reached the bright lights of a livelier neighbourhood.
The Brasserie Clichy would be closed by now, and Justin Minard had probably gone home to his apartment in Rue d’Enghien, where he would be giving an account of himself to his wife.
5.
Maigret’s Earliest Ambition
Maigret was shaving in front of his mirror, which he had hooked over the window catch in the dining room. He was in the habit of following his wife around the apartment every morning, washing and shaving in whichever room she happened to be in, perhaps because it was their best moment together. Madame Maigret had one particularly pleasing quality: she was as fresh and cheerful on waking as she was in the middle of the afternoon. They opened the windows and breathed in the morning air. They could hear hammering from a smithy, the rumble of lorries, horses whinnying, and they even caught warm whiffs of manure when the stables of the removals company next door were being cleaned out.
‘Do you think she really is mad?’
Maigret's First Case Page 7
