Maigret Gets Angry (11 page)

‘Like your cousin?' he said
slowly.

‘Who told you that my cousin
…?'

‘Listen, Georges-Henry.'

‘No.'

‘You have to listen to me. I know about the
predicament you are in.'

‘It's not true.'

‘Do you want me to spell it out?'

‘I forbid you. Do you
understand?'

‘Shh! … You can't go back to
your father's house and you don't want to.'

‘I'll never go back there.'

‘What's more, you are in a frame of
mind to do something stupid.'

‘That's my business.'

‘No. It's other people's
business too.'

‘Nobody cares about me.'

‘The fact remains that you need someone to
keep an eye on you for a few days.'

The young man sniggered ruefully.

‘And that's what I have decided to
do,' Maigret finished, calmly lighting his pipe. ‘With or without your agreement
… It's up to you which.'

‘Where do you want to take me?'

It was already obvious that he was plotting his
escape.

‘I don't know yet. I admit that
it's a tricky question, but, in any case, you can't stay in this dump.'

‘It's no worse than a
cellar.'

‘Come, come!' This was a slight
improvement since he was able to be ironic about his circumstances.

‘First of all, we're going to have a
nice lunch together. You're hungry. Of course you are.'

‘It doesn't matter, I still
won't eat.'

Heavens, he could be childish!

‘Well I'm going to eat. I'm
famished,' stated Maigret. ‘And you will behave yourself. The friend you've
already met and who followed you here is more agile than I am and he'll keep an eye on
you. All right, Georges-Henry? You could do with a bath, but I don't see any chance of
having one here. Wash your face.'

He obeyed sulkily. Maigret opened the door.

‘Come in, Mimile. I suppose the
taxi's still downstairs? The three of us are going for lunch somewhere, in a nice, quiet
restaurant. Or rather the two of us, because you've already eaten.'

‘I can eat again, don't
worry.'

It sounded as though Georges-Henry had his feet
back on the ground again since once they were downstairs he protested:

‘What about the bikes?'

‘We'll come back for them or send
someone to pick them up.'

And, to the driver:

‘Brasserie Dauphine.'

It was nearly three o'clock in the
afternoon when they sat down to eat in the cool shade of the brasserie and an impressive
selection of hors d'oeuvre dishes was placed in front of them.

‘Hello! … Is that you, Madame
Maigret? What? Where am I?'

That question reminded him of his days in the
Police Judiciaire when he would go for four or five days without returning home, sometimes
without being able to let his wife know where he was, and would finally telephone from the most
unexpected places.

‘In Paris, quite simply. And I need you.
I'll give you half an hour to get dressed. I know … It's impossible … It
doesn't matter … In half an hour, take Joseph's car … or rather Joseph
will come and pick you up. What? Supposing it's not free? … Don't worry,
I've already telephoned him. He'll drive you to Les Aubrais and the train will get
in to Gare d'Orsay at six o'clock. Ten minutes later, a taxi will drop you off at
Place des Vosges.'

This was the Maigrets' former Paris home,
which they had kept. Without waiting for his wife to arrive, Maigret took Georges-Henry and
Mimile to the apartment. The windows were protected with grey paper, there were dust covers and
newspapers still on all the furniture, and flea powder on the rugs.

‘I need a hand, boys.'

It could not be said that Georges-Henry had
become more human during the meal. But although he hadn't
uttered a word and had continued to look daggers at Maigret, at
least he had eaten heartily.

‘I still consider myself a prisoner,'
he stated, once inside the apartment, ‘and I warn you that I'll escape the minute I
can. You have no right to keep me here.'

‘That's right! Meanwhile, I need a
hand over here, please!'

And Georges-Henry set to work with the others,
folding the newspapers, removing the dust covers, and lastly pushing the electric vacuum cleaner
around. They had finished and Maigret was pouring some Armagnac into three little glasses from
the elegant set they hadn't taken to the country for fear of breaking it, when Madame
Maigret arrived.

‘Are you running a bath for me?' she
asked in surprise at hearing the water pouring into the bathtub.

‘No, darling. It's for this young
man, a charming boy who's going to be staying here with you. His name is Georges-Henry. He
has promised to run away at the first opportunity, but I'm relying on Mimile – let
me introduce him, by the way – and on you to stop him from leaving. Do you think
you've digested your lunch, Georges-Henry? Then go and have a bath.'

‘Are you leaving? … Will you be back
for dinner? … You don't know, as usual! And there's nothing to eat
here.'

‘You've got all the time in the world
to go shopping while Mimile keeps an eye on the boy.'

He whispered a few things to her and she looked
at the bathroom door with a sudden tenderness.

‘All right! I'll try. How old is he?
Seventeen?'

Half an hour later, Maigret found himself in the family
atmosphere of the Police Judiciaire, asking for Torrence.

‘He's back, chief. He should be in
his office, unless he's gone down for a beer. I left a message for you on your old
desk.'

It was about a telephone call that had come in at
around three o'clock:

Please tell Detective Chief Inspector Maigret that last Monday Bernadette Amorelle had her
lawyer come to draw up her will. He is Maître Ballu, who probably lives in Paris.

The switchboard operator couldn't say
exactly where the telephone call had originated. She had simply heard an operator saying:

‘Hello! Corbeil! I'm putting you
through to Paris.'

It probably came from Orsenne or nearby.

‘It was a woman's voice. I may be
wrong, but I had the impression that it was someone who was not in the habit of making telephone
calls.'

‘Ask Corbeil where the telephone call
originated.'

He went into the office of Torrence, who was busy
writing a report.

‘I made inquiries as you requested, chief.
I contacted a dozen or so clubs, but I only found traces of Ernest Malik at two of them, the
Haussmann and the Sporting. Malik still goes to them occasionally, but much less regularly than
in the past. Apparently he's a poker ace. He never goes near the baccarat table. Poker and
écarté. He rarely loses! At the Sporting, I was lucky enough to come across
an old gambling inspector I used to know thirty
years ago.

‘When he was still a student, Malik was one
of the best poker players in the Latin Quarter. The old inspector, who was a waiter at La Source
at that time, claims that he earned his living at cards.

‘He set himself a figure which he never
exceeded. As soon as he'd won that amount, he had the self-control to withdraw from the
game, which made him unpopular with his partners.'

‘Have you ever come across a lawyer called
Ballu?'

‘That name rings a bell. Hold
on!'

Torrence flicked through a directory.

‘Batin … Babert … Bailly
… Ballu … 75, Quai Voltaire. It's just across the road!'

Strangely, this lawyer business troubled Maigret.
He didn't like it when a new lead suddenly emerged and disrupted his investigation, and he
was tempted to ignore this one.

The switchboard operator informed him that the
call had come from the post office in Seine-Port, five kilometres from Orsenne. The
postmistress, questioned over the telephone, answered that the caller had been a woman aged
around twenty-five to thirty, and that was all she could say.

‘I didn't get a chance to look at
her, because it was the time when they come to collect the mail bags. What? She looked like a
worker … Yes! A maid perhaps.'

Wasn't it just like Malik to get one of his
servants to call?

Maigret gave his name on arrival at Maître
Ballu's practice. His office was closed, but he agreed to see Maigret.
He was extremely elderly, almost as old as Bernadette Amorelle
herself. His lips were nicotine-stained, and he spoke in a reedy, cracked voice, then held a
tortoiseshell ear trumpet towards his visitor.

‘Amorelle! Yes, I can hear you. She is
indeed an old friend! We go back … Wait … It was before the 1900 World's Fair
that her husband came to see me about a land matter. A strange man! I remember asking him
whether he was a relative of the Geneva Amorelles, an old Protestant family who
…'

He declared that he had indeed been to Orsenne
the Monday of the previous week. And yes, Bernadette Amorelle has asked him to draw up a new
will. He could not say anything about the contents of the will itself, of course. It was there,
in his antiquated safe.

Whether there had been other, previous wills?
Perhaps ten, perhaps more? Yes, his old friend was in the habit of making wills, an innocent
habit, wouldn't you agree?

Was Monita Malik named in this new document? The
lawyer was sorry, but he couldn't say anything on that subject. Professional
confidentiality!

‘She's as fit as a fiddle! I'm
certain that this is not her last will and that I will once again have the pleasure of going to
visit her.'

So Monita had died twenty-four hours after the
lawyer's visit to Orsenne. Were the two events connected?

Why on earth had someone taken the trouble to
throw this new information in Maigret's face, as it were?

He walked along the Seine. He was on his way home
to have dinner with his wife, Georges-Henry and Mimile.
From the Pont de la Cité, he saw a tug-boat chugging up the
Seine with its five or six barges. An Amorelle and Campois tug-boat. Just then, a spanking new
big yellow taxi, the latest model, drove past, and these two minor details probably influenced
his decision.

He didn't stop to think. He raised his arm.
The taxi drew up by the kerb.

‘Have you got enough petrol for a long
drive?'

Maybe if the car's fuel tank hadn't
been full …

‘Route de Fontainebleau. After Corbeil,
I'll direct you.'

He hadn't had dinner, but he had eaten a
late lunch. He asked the driver to stop at a tobacconist's so he could buy a packet of
shag and some matches.

It was a mild evening and the taxi had its roof
down. He had sat next to the driver, perhaps with the intention of starting a conversation. But
he barely opened his mouth.

‘Turn left here.'

‘Are you going to Orsenne?'

‘Do you know it?'

‘Years ago I sometimes drove guests to
L'Ange.'

‘We're going further. Continue along
the towpath. It's not this house, or the next one. Keep going.'

They had to take a narrow track on the right to
reach the Campois house, which could not be seen from the outside for it was completely enclosed
by walls and, instead of an iron gate, there was a solid double door, painted light green.

‘Wait for me!'

‘I've got plenty of time! I'd
just had dinner when you flagged me down.'

Maigret pulled the bell cord and from the garden
came
a pleasant peal like that of a presbytery.
There was an ancient boundary stone either side of the entrance and a little door set in one of
the big wooden panels.

‘Doesn't look as if anyone's
going to answer,' commented the driver.

It was not late – just after eight
o'clock in the evening. Maigret rang again and this time footsteps could be heard
crunching the gravel; an elderly cook in a blue apron turned a heavy key in the lock, opened the
little door a crack and eyed Maigret warily.

‘What do you want?'

He glimpsed a densely planted secluded garden,
full of simple flowers and unexpected nooks and crannies overgrown by weeds.

‘I'd like to speak to Monsieur
Campois.'

‘He's left.'

She was already about to close the door, but he
had stepped forwards to stop her.

‘Can you tell me where I might find
him?'

Did she know who he was from having seen him
prowling around Orsenne?

‘You won't be able to find him.
Monsieur Campois has gone abroad.'

‘For long?'

‘For at least six weeks.'

‘Forgive me for insisting, but it is about
a very important matter. May I at least write to him?'

‘You can write to him if you like, but I
doubt he'll receive your letters before his return. Monsieur is on a cruise to Norway
aboard the
Stella-Polaris.
'

Just then, Maigret heard, in the garden behind the house, the
sound of an engine spluttering to life.

‘Are you sure he has already
left?'

‘I'm telling you—'

‘What about his grandson?'

‘He has taken Monsieur Jean with
him.'

Maigret had a struggle to push the door open
because the cook was trying to close it forcefully.

‘What's wrong with you? Where are
your manners?'

‘What's wrong with me is that
Monsieur Campois hasn't left yet.'

‘That's his business. He
doesn't want to see anyone.'

‘But he will see me.'

‘Will you get out of here, you rude
man!'

Rid of the cook, who was meticulously locking the
door behind him, Maigret crossed the garden and came upon a modest pink house with climbing
roses invading the green-shuttered windows.

As he looked up, his gaze lighted on an open
window and at this window stood a man who was watching him with a sort of terror.

It was Monsieur Campois, the late
Amorelle's partner.

There were trunks in the wide hall, where the
atmosphere was pleasantly cool and smelled of ripening fruit. The elderly cook joined him:

‘Well, if Monsieur said it's all
right for you to come in …' she grumbled.

And she reluctantly showed him into a sitting
room that resembled a parlour, with, in one corner, by a window
with half-closed shutters, one of those old black desks that
evoked trading companies of the past, with their green filing cabinets, the clerks perched on
tall chairs, a ring of leather under their buttocks and a peaked cap pulled down over their
eyes.

‘Just wait here! Too bad if he misses his
ship.'

The walls were covered in faded wallpaper and,
against this wallpaper, photographs stood out in their black or gilt frames. There was the
inevitable wedding photo, a Campois already plump, his hair in a crew cut, and, leaning against
his shoulder, the face of a woman with full lips and a gentle, sheeplike gaze.

Immediately to the right, a young man aged around
twenty, his face more elongated than that of his parents, his eyes softer, he too looking shy
and timid. And, beneath that frame, a black crepe bow.

Maigret was walking over to a piano covered in
photographs when the door opened. Campois stood in the doorway and Maigret thought he looked
smaller and older than when he had first set eyes on him.