But he had turned out to be a first-class colleague, an inventor brimming with ideas, who had already constructed several ingenious pieces of equipment, and they had also discovered that he was a remarkable handwriting expert.
Before Prou’s appearance in his office, Maigret had already sent an inspector to the social security offices to obtain specimens of payslips carrying Planchon’s signature.
It was a grey day. Fog had started to descend on the streets, as it had the previous Saturday.
The inspector came back to his desk in slow motion, and it was Prou who, despite his cool pose, spoke first.
‘I suppose, since you’ve called me in, you want to ask me some questions?’
Maigret returned his gaze quite amiably, with hardly any irony in his expression.
‘Certainly,’ he said with a casual air. ‘I always have questions to ask, but I’m not quite sure which ones.’
‘Look here, if you’re setting out to make a fool of me …’
‘I have no intention of making a fool of you, Monsieur Prou. Your former employer, Monsieur Planchon, has disappeared, and I would like to know what has become of him.’
‘Renée told you …’
‘She told me that he left the house on Monday night with two suitcases. And you saw him go too, didn’t you?’
‘Now then, don’t make me say things I haven’t. I heard him go. I was behind the door.’
‘So you didn’t actually see him go?’
‘As good as … I could hear what they were saying. I heard him go upstairs to get his things, then his feet in the corridor, and the door banged. More footsteps, out in the yard.’
‘From that moment on, he’s gone missing.’
‘How do you know that? Just because a man walks out, doesn’t mean he’s missing.’
‘The thing is, Planchon was supposed to telephone me on Tuesday.’
Maigret had not prepared the questions in advance and this apparently anodyne sentence was uttered on the spur of the moment. Of course he did not take his eyes off the other man. Did Prou’s reaction disappoint him? He certainly seemed to register a slight shock. Clearly, he had not been expecting this revelation. His bristling brows knotted in a frown. For a few seconds, he seemed to digest the information, thinking over what the words might mean.
‘How do you know he was supposed to phone you?’
‘Because he promised me.’
‘So you knew him?’
Maigret, avoiding any answer, carried on stuffing his pipe with tiny gestures which would have annoyed anyone. But Roger Prou still showed no sign of nervousness.
‘Let’s talk a bit about you, rather. You’re aged twenty-eight?’
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘You were born in Rue de la Roquette. What did your father do?’
‘Cabinet-maker. He had, and still has, his workshop in a cul-de-sac there. And since you want to know everything, he specializes in restoring antique furniture.’
‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘Just sisters …’
‘So you were the only boy in the family. And your father didn’t try to take you into his trade? … I don’t think there are many cabinet-makers left now. I believe you can make good money.’
‘I did work with him till I was sixteen.’
He was deliberately reciting this in a sing-song way, as if at school.
‘And then?’
‘I got fed up.’
‘You preferred to become a house-painter?’
‘Not right away. I wanted to be a racing cyclist. Not on the road, not the Tour de France. But on the track. I raced as a junior in the velodrome for two years.’
‘Could you make a living that way?’
‘Ah no, of course not. And it was because I realized I was too heavy and I’d never make it to the top that I gave up cycling. You want to know what I did next?’
Maigret nodded, puffing at his pipe while his other hand toyed with a pencil.
‘I went early for my call-up to military service, to get it over with.’
‘You had a good idea of what you wanted to do afterwards?’
‘Yes. No reason not to tell you. I wanted to make enough money to be an independent man.’
‘So what did you do when you got back to Paris?’
‘First I worked in a garage, but that was too boring. The boss was always on my back, and I was working more like ten or twelve hours a day than eight. I tried being an apprentice locksmith for a few months. Then a pal got me a job in a decorating business.’
‘Planchon’s?’
‘No, not at first. With Desjardins and Brosse on Boulevard Rochechouart.’
They were getting nearer to Montmartre and Rue Tholozé now.
‘Were you putting money aside?’
Prou recognized the signal.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘A lot?’
‘As much as I could spare.’
‘When did you start working for Planchon?’
‘A bit more than two years ago. I’d had a row with one of my bosses. Anyway the business was too big. I preferred to work in a smaller outfit.’
‘You were still living with your parents?’
‘No, I’d been on my own in furnished rooms for a while.’
‘Where?’
‘Bottom of Rue Lepic, the Beauséjour lodging house.’
‘And I suppose you met Planchon one day in a café, and he said he was looking for a good workman?’
Once more, Prou frowned at him from under his beetling brows, and Maigret was not too surprised to find that this man’s reactions were similar to Renée’s.
‘What are you trying to make me say?’
‘Nothing, I’m just asking … Planchon used to go to all the bars in the neighbourhood, so it’s natural to think …’
‘You’re way off the mark.’
‘It could of course have been Madame Planchon that you met one day, when she was out shopping, or …’
‘You haul me over here from work to come out with this kind of claptrap?’
It almost looked as if he was going to stand up and make for the door.
‘One, I never met Renée before I went to work in Rue Tholozé! And two, it was not her that got me a job with her husband. Clear?’
Maigret replied with a slight smile:
‘Clear. So you answered an advertisement? Or you were just passing the gate and saw a notice saying a workman was wanted?’
‘No, there wasn’t any notice. I just took my chances and went in, and it turned out he did need someone.’
‘How long was it before you became Madame Planchon’s lover?’
‘What is this? Do you have the right to go prying into people’s private lives?’
‘Planchon’s disappeared.’
‘So you say.’
‘You’re under no obligation to reply.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘I shall just draw my own conclusions.’
Prou gave in, disdainfully.
‘Well, about a week.’
‘So it was a sudden passion?’
‘We just clicked right away, her and me.’
‘You knew that it had already clicked, as you put it, with most of your workmates?’
At this, Prou’s blood rose to his face, and for a few seconds he clenched his jaw.
‘Did you know?’ Maigret persisted.
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘You love her?’
‘That’s my private affair.’
‘And how long was it before Planchon caught you out?’
‘He didn’t catch us out.’
Now Maigret pretended to be surprised.
‘I thought he had found you in flagrante and that was why …’
‘Why what?’
‘Wait a minute, let me get this straight. You were one of Planchon’s employees, and when you got the chance, you slept with his wife. Were you still living in Rue Lepic then?’
/>
‘Yes.’
‘But one fine day, you went to live in Rue Tholozé, and more or less threw Planchon out of his own bed, to take his place.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Who?’
‘Planchon. You said just now he was meant to phone you, so he must have been in touch with you. Did he come to see you? Was he making a complaint about us?’
At moments like this, Maigret’s expression would become vague and his whole person seemed to embody an exasperating passivity. Without appearing to have heard the question, he looked absent-mindedly towards the window and, still puffing on his pipe, murmured, as if speaking to himself:
‘I’m trying to visualize the scene. Planchon comes home one evening, and finds a camp bed set up for him in the dining room. Well, I imagine he’s astonished. Until then, he’s had no idea what’s been going on behind his back, and suddenly, from one moment to the next, he finds he’s lost the right to sleep in his own bed any more …’
‘You think that’s funny?’
Although he was still apparently calm, Prou’s eyes were shining hard and, from time to time, his jaw clicked.
‘You love her that much?’
‘She’s my woman.’
‘Legally, she’s still Planchon’s wife. Why didn’t your mistress get a divorce?’
‘Because it takes two to get a divorce, and he constantly refused.’
‘So he loved her too.’
‘What do I know? That’s nothing to do with me. Go and ask him yourself. If you’ve seen him, you know as well as I do that he’s no kind of a man. Just a … washout … A wreck … A …’
His voice was becoming thick with emotion.
‘He’s Isabelle’s father …’
‘And you think Isabelle wouldn’t prefer to have me in the house than a man who gets drunk every night, and even goes and cries over her bed?’
‘He didn’t drink before you came to work for him.’
‘Did he tell you that? And you believed him? In that case, everything we’ve been saying is pointless and we’re wasting our time. Give me back my paper, ask me any other questions, and let’s get it over with. I don’t care if you make me out to be the bad guy.’
‘There’s something I don’t understand.’
‘Just one thing?’ he said with sarcasm in his voice.
And as if he hadn’t heard, Maigret went on, still speaking slowly and monotonously.
‘Just a little over a fortnight ago, Planchon sold you his share in the business. So you and your mistress are now the proprietors. I presume Planchon didn’t intend to stay on and work under you?’
‘Well, to prove it, he’s gone.’
‘Still, he stayed for two weeks or more.’
‘That surprises you, doesn’t it, because you think people ought to do this or that, whatever’s the logical thing? I tell you, that man didn’t do anything logically. Otherwise he wouldn’t have slept on a camp bed for two years, with his wife in bed with me next door. Can you understand that?’
‘So, after signing the deed of sale, he was resigned to leaving.’
‘That’s what we’d agreed.’
‘In a way, you had the right to send him packing.’
‘I don’t know about that, I’m not a lawyer. But we were patient enough to wait a couple of weeks.’
As he listened, Maigret saw once more the little man with the hare-lip pouring out his confession in the front room in Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, while the table was laid for dinner behind the glass door. Planchon had certainly had a few drinks in order to pluck up the courage to come, as he said, and when he seemed to falter, Maigret had topped him up with plum brandy. All the same, he had given a strong impression of speaking the truth.
And yet … Even on that Saturday night, had Maigret not felt a certain unease? Had he not had doubts every now and then, and looked more sternly at the man in front of him?
His long monologue had shown every sign of passion.
But Renée, yesterday morning, although calmer in manner, had been equally passionate.
And even Prou, who was trying to maintain his composure, was now and then gritting his teeth.
‘So why do you think he made up his mind suddenly, on Monday night?’
The other man shrugged his shoulders with indifference.
‘Did he have the three million old francs on him?’ Maigret insisted.
‘I didn’t ask him.’
‘When you gave him the money, two weeks before that, what did he do with it?’
‘He went upstairs. I presume he hid it away somewhere.’
‘He didn’t take it to the bank?’
‘Not the same day anyway, because we arranged things in the evening, after supper.’
‘In the office?’
‘No, in the living room. We waited till the little girl was in bed.’
‘And you had already discussed it together? It had all been agreed by you, including the price? And I suppose you had the cash ready in the office?’
‘No, in the bedroom.’
‘You were afraid he might take it?’
‘No, because the bedroom was our private place.’
‘You’re twenty-nine years old. You can’t have had the chance to save much money until after your military service. So how did you manage to get together such a large sum of money in such a short time?’
‘I only had some of it myself, one third, to be precise.’
‘Where did you get the rest?’
He did not seem in the least embarrassed. On the contrary. It was as if this was the question he had been expecting the inspector to put to him all along, and he barely concealed his satisfaction, as he said:
‘My father lent me another million old francs. He’s had plenty of time to put savings by. And the last million came from my sister’s husband. He’s called Mourier, François Mourier, and he’s got a butcher’s shop on Boulevard de Charonne.’
‘When did you arrange these loans?’
‘On Christmas Eve. We were hoping to finish with Planchon next day.’
‘Finish with him?’
‘Give him his money and see him leave the house. You know quite well what I meant.’
‘And I presume you signed receipts.’
‘Even when it’s in the family, I like things to be done properly.’
Maigret pushed a notepad across the table to him.
‘Could you write down the exact addresses of your father and your brother-in-law.’
‘I see you trust me completely!’
Nevertheless, he wrote down the two addresses. His writing was laborious but regular, almost like a schoolboy’s, and as Maigret took the pad back, the telephone rang.
‘Pirouet here. I’ve finished. Do you want to come up, or shall I come down?’
‘I’ll come up.’
And to Prou:
‘Excuse me for a moment, please.’
He went into the next office, leaving the door open, and told Lapointe:
‘Go in there and keep an eye on him for me.’
A few minutes later, he was up in the attics, where he shook hands with Moers, brushed past the model used for reconstructions, and went into the laboratory.
Monsieur Pirouet, his face gleaming with perspiration, was standing in front of two photographic enlargements, still damp, pegged up on a line.
‘Well?’
‘I need to ask you something, chief. Was the man who signed these papers a drinker?’
‘Why?’
‘Because that might explain the difference in the handwriting. See, here we have the signature on the social security form: the writing isn’t very confident. I’d say it belongs to a man who is unstable, but still in command of himself. You know him?’
‘Yes, I’ve had him in front of me for almost a whole evening.’
‘Do you want me to give you my impression of him?’
And as Maigret nodded:
‘He’s someone who’s had only an el
ementary education, but has always taken pains with things. He is timid, almost to extremes, but has outbursts of pride. He tries to stay calm and controlled, but really he has a passionate nature.’
‘Not bad!’
‘Something’s wrong with his health. He’s sick, or believes himself to be.’
‘And what about the signature on the deed of sale?’
‘That’s why I asked you if he drank. The writing’s rather different. It could be the same hand but, if so, the person signing was drunk, or else in the grip of a strong emotion. Take a look for yourself, compare the two … Here the strokes are regular, if a little wobbly, as might be the case with a man who drinks but was not in a state of drunkenness when he signed this. On the deed of sale, by contrast, all the letters are shaky.’
‘But you think it could be the same man?’
‘In the circumstances I just described, yes. Or, alternatively it could be forged. Often when people forge handwriting, you see the same signs of emotion.’
‘Thank you. And does the writing here have anything in common with this?’
And Maigret showed him the two addresses Roger Prou had written down a few minutes earlier. Monsieur Pirouet needed no more than a quick glance.
‘Absolutely not, I could explain …’
‘Not now. Many thanks, Monsieur Pirouet.’
Maigret picked up the original papers and went back downstairs. He found Prou still sitting on his chair and Lapointe standing by the window.
‘You can leave us.’
‘So?’ asked Renée’s lover.
‘So nothing. Here you are, here’s the deed of sale. I presume it was typed by Madame Planchon.’
‘She told you, didn’t she? There’s no mystery about it.’
‘Was her husband drunk when he signed it?’
‘He knew what he was doing. We didn’t take advantage of him. That’s not to say he mightn’t have had a few drinks, like always by that time of night.’
‘Can I reach your father by phone? You have his number?’
Still looking disdainful, Prou gave him the number as Maigret dialled it.
‘His name’s Gustave Prou. You’ll have to speak up, he’s hard of hearing these days.’
‘Monsieur Gustave Prou? … My apologies for disturbing you. I have your son here, and he tells me that in December you loaned him the sum of one million old francs … Yes … I’m with him … What? … You’d like to speak to him?’
Maigret and the Saturday Caller Page 9
