‘Not any more, I think. I was. But no. Now, I’m past that …’
‘But you want to kill her just the same?’
‘Because there’s no other solution. So I told myself if I warned you, by letter or in person … First of all, it would be more honest. Then perhaps if I did that, I’d change my mind … You understand? … No, it’s impossible to understand if you don’t know Renée. I’m sorry if this is coming out in a muddle. Renée’s my wife. My daughter’s called Isabelle. She’s seven, she’s all I have left in the world. You don’t have children, I believe?’
He looked around again, as if to check there were no toys lying about, or the many other signs of a child in the house.
‘They want to take her from me too. They’re doing all they can to manage that. They don’t try to hide it … I wish you could see how they treat me. Do you think my mind’s disturbed?’
‘No.’
‘In a way, that might be better? They could lock me up right away. Like they will if I kill my wife. Or if I kill him. Really, to do the job properly, I should kill them both. But if I was in prison, who’d look after Isabelle? You see the problem?
‘I’ve thought up a lot of complicated plans. At least ten, and every time I’ve worked them out in detail. The main thing was not to get caught. People would just think the two of them had gone away. I read in the paper that thousands of women go missing every year in Paris alone, and the police don’t bother to look for them. And it would be even better if he disappeared at the same time as her …
‘You know, I even decided one time where I’d bury their bodies. It was when I was working up at the top of Montmartre, on a site where concrete was being mixed. I’d have taken them there at night, in my van, and nobody would ever have found them.’
He was getting worked up, speaking quite volubly now, but without ceasing to watch Maigret’s reactions.
‘Has anyone ever come before to tell you he was going to kill his wife, or someone else?’
This was all so unexpected that Maigret found himself searching his memory.
‘Not like this,’ he admitted finally.
‘You think I’m making it up, inventing a story to get your attention?’
‘No.’
‘You believe I really want to kill my wife?’
‘You certainly intended to.’
‘And you think I will?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you have come to see me.’
Planchon stood up, too nervous and on edge to stay sitting. He threw his arms in the air.
‘Well, that’s what I told myself,’ he almost sobbed. ‘That’s why, every time, I went away without being seen. And that’s why I needed to talk to you. I’m not a criminal. I’m an honest man. And yet …’
Maigret got up in turn, went over to the sideboard, fetched the bottle of plum brandy, and poured a glass of it for his visitor.
‘You’re not having any?’ the other murmured shamefacedly.
Then, as he glanced at the dining room:
‘Of course! You haven’t eaten, and here I am talking away, not making sense. I’d like to be able to explain it all to you, but I don’t know where to start.’
‘Would you prefer it if I asked you some questions?’
‘That might be easier.’
‘Sit down, then.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Eight years.’
‘And you lived alone before that?’
‘Yes. I was always alone, after my mother died when I was fifteen. We lived in Rue Picpus, not far from here. She cleaned people’s houses.’
‘And your father?’
‘I never knew him.’
He had reddened.
‘You became an apprentice?’
‘That’s right. I became a house-painter. I was twenty-six when my boss, who lived in Rue Tholozé, discovered he had a bad heart, and decided to retire to the country.’
‘So you took over the business?’
‘I had some savings. I hardly used to spend anything. It still took me six years to buy him out.’
‘Where did you meet your wife?’
‘You know Rue Tholozé? It runs off Rue Lepic, just opposite the Moulin de la Galette. It’s a cul-de-sac, with steps at the end. I live just at the bottom of the steps, a small house with a courtyard. It’s handy for ladders and materials.’
He was calming down. His speech was becoming less agitated, more evenly paced.
‘Halfway up the street on the left, there’s a dance hall called the Bal des Copains where I used to go for an hour or two on Saturday nights.’
‘To dance?’
‘No, I’d sit in a corner and have a lemonade, because this was before I started to drink. I’d listen to the music and watch the couples on the dance-floor.’
‘Any sweethearts?’
He replied awkwardly:
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
He raised a hand to his lip.
‘I’m not good-looking. Women have always scared me a bit. I thought my deformity would disgust them.’
‘So anyway, you did meet one, called Renée.’
‘Yes. The place was full that evening … They put us at the same table. I didn’t dare speak to her. And she was as shy as me. You could tell she wasn’t used to it.’
‘To dance halls?’
‘Dance halls, everything, Paris … In the end she spoke first, and I found out she’d only been in the city a month. I asked her where she came from. And she was from Saint-Sauveur, near Fontenay-le-Comte in the Vendée, which just happens to be my mother’s home village. I went there a few times as a child, to see aunts and uncles. So that made things easier. We could say the names of people we both knew.’
‘What was Renée doing in Paris?’
‘Working as a housemaid for a dairywoman in Rue Lepic.’
‘And she was younger than you?’
‘I’m thirty-six now and she’s twenty-seven. Nearly ten years between us. She was just eighteen at the time.’
‘Did you get married very soon?’
‘Not until about ten months later. Then we had a child, our little girl, Isabelle. All the time my wife was expecting, I was frightened.’
‘What of?’
He pointed again at his lip.
‘I’d been told it was hereditary. But, thank God, my daughter is normal. She looks like her mother, except she has my colouring, fair hair and blue eyes.’
‘Your wife’s dark?’
‘Like a lot of folk in the Vendée, because of the Portuguese sailors who used to call in there, they say.’
‘And now you want to kill her?’
‘I can’t see any other way out. We were happy, the three of us. Perhaps Renée wasn’t a perfect housewife. I wouldn’t want to speak ill of her. She’d grown up on a farm where they didn’t bother overmuch keeping things clean and tidy. In the marshes down there, they call those farms “the cabins”, and in winter, they often get flooded.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sometimes I’d end up cleaning the house when I got in from work. In those days, she was crazy about the cinema, and she’d leave Isabelle with the concierge in the afternoons to go and see a film.’
He said this without bitterness.
‘I didn’t complain. I mustn’t forget she was the first woman to look at me as if I was a normal man. You can understand that, can’t you?’
He didn’t dare turn to look at the dining room again.
‘I’m stopping you eating. What will your wife think?’
‘Go on. For how many years were you happy?’
‘Wait a moment. I never kept track … I don’t even know just when it started. My business was paying well. I spent all the money I made doing up the house, painting, modernizing, I put in a nice kitchen. If you saw it … But
you won’t come. Or if you did, it would mean …’
He clasped his hands together again, the fingers covered with ginger hairs.
‘You probably don’t know how the decorating trade works. Some times of year we have plenty of jobs on, other times hardly any. It’s difficult to hold on to the same team of workmen. Apart from old Jules, the one we call Granddad, who was already there under my old boss, I used to hire different workmen almost every year …’
‘Until …?’
‘Until the day Roger Prou turned up. He’s good-looking, he’s strong, smart, knows his way around. At first, I was delighted to have found someone like him, because on site I could trust him absolutely.’
‘And he started to make advances to your wife?’
‘No, honestly, I don’t think so. Women, well, he had as many as he wanted, even customers sometimes. I can’t say, because at the beginning I didn’t notice anything, but I’m pretty sure it was Renée that took the first step. I can understand her a bit. It’s not just that I have this disfigured face, I’m not the kind of man a woman thinks is fun.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. Just … I’m not very sociable, don’t care much for going out. What I like to do in the evening is stay home, and on Sundays go for a walk with my wife and daughter. For months, I didn’t suspect anything. When we were on a job, Prou would sometimes return to Rue Tholozé to fetch materials. Then one day I went home myself without warning – about two years ago – and found my daughter on her own in the kitchen. I can see her now: she was sitting on the floor. I asked her:
‘ “Where’s Mama?”
‘And she pointed to the bedroom, saying:
‘ “In there!”
‘She was only five. They can’t have heard me coming. I walked in and found them half-naked. Prou was embarrassed. But my wife just looked me straight in the eye and said:
‘ “Well, now you know!” ’
‘What did you do?’
‘I walked out. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do. I found myself standing at a bar, and I got drunk for the first time in my life. I was thinking about my daughter most of all. I promised myself I’d go and fetch her out of there. I kept telling myself:
‘ “She’s yours. They’ve no right to keep her.”
‘Then, after wandering about half the night, I went home. I was feeling very sick. My wife just watched me with a beady eye, and when I vomited on the rug, she spat:
‘ “You disgust me!”
‘Well, that’s how it all began. The day before that, I’d been a happy man. And all at once …’
‘Where’s Roger Prou now?’
‘In Rue Tholozé,’ Planchon stammered, dropping his eyes.
‘He’s been there for the last two years?’
‘More or less, yes.’
‘He’s living with your wife?’
‘We’re all living there, the three of us.’
He wiped his glasses again, and his eyelids fluttered.
‘Does that seem unbelievable to you?’
‘No.’
‘Do you understand, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave her.’
‘Your wife?’
‘At first, it was for her I was staying. Now I’m not sure, I think it’s simply for my daughter, but perhaps I’m fooling myself. You see, it seemed impossible to me to live without Renée … To be all alone again. And I couldn’t throw her out. It was me that courted her, begged her to marry me. So I was responsible, wasn’t I?’
He sniffed and glanced at the bottle. Maigret poured him a second glass, which he drank in a single gulp.
‘You’ll think I’m a drunkard. And it’s true, I’ve practically become one. In the evenings, they don’t like me being around the house. If they haven’t kicked me out yet, it’s come close. You wouldn’t believe how vicious they are to me.’
‘And Prou came to live in your house from the day you surprised them?’
‘No, not at once. Next day, it was a shock to see him turn up at work as if nothing had happened. I didn’t dare ask him what he meant to do. I was afraid of losing her, like I said. I didn’t know what I ought to do. I played it gently. I’m sure they went on seeing each other and, pretty soon, they stopped pretending. It was me that would hesitate at the door, taking care to make a noise, to signal I was coming in.
‘Then, one evening, he stayed to supper. It was his birthday, and Renée had made a special effort with the meal. There was a bottle of bubbly on the table. When we got to the dessert, my wife said:
‘ “Why don’t you go for a walk? Can’t you see you’re in the way?”
‘So I went out. I ended up in a bar. I was asking myself questions, trying to find answers, telling myself stories. I wasn’t thinking about killing them at that stage, I swear! Tell me you believe me, inspector. Tell me you don’t think I’m crazy. Tell me you don’t think I’m a disgusting individual, like my wife says.’
Madame Maigret’s silhouette was coming and going behind the glass door into the dining room, and Planchon groaned again.
‘I’m stopping you eating. Your wife’s going to be so angry. Why don’t you go and eat?’
It was too late for the television news in any case.
2.
Two or three times, Maigret had been tempted to pinch himself to be sure that the person gesticulating in front of him was real, that the scene was actually taking place, and that they were both living characters.
His visitor appeared to be a very ordinary man, one of the thousands of obscure, hard-working people you meet every day in the Métro, on the bus, or walking along the pavement, making their steady, dignified way towards heaven only knows what tasks and futures. Paradoxically, his hare-lip made him seem less individual, as if that particular infirmity gave all those affected by it the same physiognomy.
For a brief moment, Maigret wondered if Planchon had chosen deliberately, as part of some diabolical scheme, to come and see him in Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, instead of being interviewed in the regular office on Quai des Orfèvres. Or rather, was it intuition that had made him several times flee from the glass-panelled waiting room, with its walls carrying photographs of police officers who had been killed in the line of duty?
At the Police Judiciaire, where he had heard thousands of confessions, where he had prompted so many people to make desperate avowals, Maigret would have viewed his visitor in a rather colder light.
Here he was at home, in his own familiar atmosphere, with the presence nearby of Madame Maigret, the smell of the dinner being prepared, the furniture and ornaments he was accustomed to, the same lamplight falling on the domestic scene as it had done for years and years. The moment he stepped inside his front door, this atmosphere enveloped him, like an old jacket you put on when you come home from work, and he was so used to his surroundings that he still, even after a month, regarded the television set facing the glass door of the dining room as a foreign body.
In this atmosphere, would he be capable of as lucid and detached a mode of questioning as in his office, during one of those interrogation sessions that could sometimes last all night, leaving him as exhausted as the person in front of him?
For the first time in his career, a man had come to find him after hesitating for weeks, after following him in the street, after writing to him, or so he claimed, and then tearing up the letters, after sitting for hours in the waiting room; a man who did not seem in any way exceptional in his looks or his clothes, yet had contrived to introduce himself into his home, humble yet obstinate, to tell him effectively:
‘I intend to kill two people, my wife and her lover. I’ve prepared everything, right down to the smallest details so as not to get caught.’
And instead of reacting with scepticism, Maigret was listening to him with intense concentration, not missing a single one of his facial expressions. He scarcely felt a twinge of regret for the variety programme he had planned to watch that night on television, sitting along
side his wife – since they were still new to it and everything on the small screen fascinated them.
What was more, he had almost, when the man pointed towards Madame Maigret coming and going in the dining room, suggested to him:
‘Why don’t you have a bite to eat with us?’
Because he was hungry, and he sensed this was going to carry on for a long time. He needed to know more, to ask questions and make sure he was not mistaken.
Two or three times, the other man had asked him with desperate anxiety:
‘You don’t think I’m mad, do you?’
Maigret had, in fact, considered that hypothesis. There are many degrees of insanity, as he knew from experience, and the old woman from the haberdasher’s shop, who brought her knitting and sat smiling in the waiting room in case he might need her, was one example.
The man had been drinking before he had arrived. He admitted that he drank every night, and if Maigret had offered him alcohol, it was because he was clearly desperate for it.
Alcoholics go off into a world of their own, one that resembles the real world but with a certain discrepancy, which is not always easy to detect. And they too are sincere.
All these ideas had gone through his head while he was listening, but he was not satisfied with any of them. He wanted to understand better, to penetrate deeper into the frightening universe of Léonard Planchon.
‘That’s how I began to feel I was a nuisance to them,’ the man was saying now, looking straight at him with his light blue eyes. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. I loved her. I think I still love her. Yes, I’m almost sure I love her, and I’ll go on loving her, even if I have to kill her.
‘Apart from my mother, she’s the only person who has ever taken any interest in me, without being troubled by my face.
‘And anyway, she’s my wife. Whatever she does, she’s still my wife, isn’t she? She gave me Isabelle. She carried her in her womb. You can’t imagine what I went through when she was pregnant. I would even go down on my knees in front of her, thanking her for … I can’t find the words. There was a whole part of my life tied up in her life, do you see? And Isabelle is a bit of both our lives …
Maigret and the Saturday Caller Page 2
