Maigret Gets Angry (12 page)

He was already a very old man, despite his sturdy
farmer's build.

‘I know who you are,' he said
straight off. ‘I couldn't refuse to see you, but I have nothing to say to you.
I'm leaving in a moment for a long trip.'

‘Where are you sailing from, Monsieur
Campois?'

‘From Le Havre, which is where the cruise
leaves from.'

‘You're probably catching the 10.22
train from Paris? You'll make it.'

‘Please excuse me, but I haven't
finished packing. Nor
have I had dinner yet. I
repeat that I have absolutely nothing to say to you.'

What was he afraid of? Because it was clear that
he was afraid of something, that was clear. He was dressed in black, with a black detachable
tie, and the paleness of his complexion contrasted sharply with the darkness of the room. He had
left the door open, as if to signal that this conversation would have to be brief, and he did
not invite his visitor to sit down.

‘Have you been on many cruises of this
kind?'

‘It's …'

Was he about to lie? He certainly wanted to. He
gave the impression that he needed someone beside him to feed him his lines. His old honesty
prevailed. He didn't know how to lie. He admitted:

‘It's the first time.'

‘And you are seventy-five years
old?'

‘Seventy-seven!'

Go for it! It was best to stake his all. The poor
man wasn't capable of defending himself for long and his frightened gaze showed that he
was beaten from the start, and was perhaps already resigned to the fact.

‘I am certain, Monsieur Campois, that up
until three days ago, you had no idea you would be going on this voyage. I would even wager that
you're a little afraid! The Norwegian fjords, at your age!'

He stammered, as if giving a rehearsed
answer:

‘I've always wanted to visit
Norway.'

‘But you weren't planning on going
there this month! Someone planned it for you, didn't they?'

‘I don't know what you mean. My grandson and
I—'

‘Your grandson must have been as surprised
as you. For the moment it matters little who arranged this cruise for you. By the way, do you
know where the tickets were purchased?'

Campois had no idea, as his alarmed expression
showed. He had been given a part to play. He was playing it to the best of his ability, but
there were events that had not been foreseen, including Maigret's sudden intrusion, and
the poor man didn't know which way to turn.

‘Listen, inspector, I repeat that I have
nothing to say to you. I am in my own home. I'm leaving shortly for a cruise. Acknowledge
that I have the right to ask you to leave me alone.'

‘I came to talk to you about your
son.'

As he had foreseen, old Campois became perturbed,
turned ashen and shot an anguished look at the portrait.

‘I have nothing to say to you,' he
repeated, clinging to those words that no longer meant anything.

Maigret listened out, having heard a faint noise
in the corridor. Campois must have heard it too, and he made for the door:

‘Leave us, Eugénie. The luggage can be
put in the car. I'm coming straight away.'

This time, he closed the door and went and sat
mechanically in his place, at the desk which must have followed him throughout his long career.
Maigret sat down opposite him without being invited to do so.

‘I've thought long and hard about
your son's death, Monsieur Campois.'

‘Why have you come to talk to me about that?'

‘You know very well. Last week, a young
girl whom you know died in the same circumstances. Earlier, I left a young man who very nearly
came to the same end. And it's your fault, isn't it?'

He protested emphatically:

‘My fault?'

‘Yes, Monsieur Campois! And you know it.
You may not want to admit it, but deep down—'

‘You have no right to come to my house and
say such dreadful things to me. I've been an honest man all my life.'

But Maigret did not allow him the time to wallow
in protestations.

‘Where did Ernest Malik meet your
son?'

The old man drew his hand across his
forehead.

‘I don't know.'

‘Were you already living in
Orsenne?'

‘No! In those days I lived in Paris, on the
Île Saint-Louis. We had a big apartment above our offices, which weren't as big as
they are nowadays.'

‘Did your son work in those
offices?'

‘Yes. He had just obtained his law
degree.'

‘Did the Amorelles already have their house
in Orsenne?'

‘They arrived here first, yes. Bernadette
was a very busy woman. She loved to entertain. She was always surrounded by young people. On
Sundays, she would invite lots of friends to the country. My son used to come too.'

‘Was he in love with the eldest Amorelle
daughter?'

‘They were engaged.'

‘And did Mademoiselle Laurence love
him?'

‘I don't know. I imagine so. Why are you asking me
that? After all these years …'

He would have liked to release himself from this
sort of spell that Maigret had cast over him. Twilight was gathering in the room where the
portraits stared down at them with their dead eyes. Mechanically, the old man had picked up a
meerschaum pipe with a long cherrywood stem, which he didn't think of filling with
tobacco.

‘How old was Mademoiselle Laurence at the
time?'

‘I can't remember. I'll have to
count. Wait …'

He muttered dates half-heartedly, as if saying a
rosary. His brow furrowed. Perhaps he still hoped that someone would come and save him?

‘She must have been seventeen.'

‘So her younger sister, Mademoiselle
Aimée, was barely fifteen?'

‘That must be right, yes. I've
forgotten.'

‘And your son met Ernest Malik, who, unless
I'm mistaken, was at the time private secretary to a municipal councillor. It was through
that councillor that he himself met the Amorelles. He was a brilliant young man.'

‘Maybe …'

‘He became friends with your son and, under
his influence, your son changed?'

‘He was a very good boy, a very gentle
boy,' protested the father.

‘Who started gambling and got into
debt—'

‘I didn't know.'

‘Bigger and bigger debts, more and more
blatant. Things got so bad that he ended up having to live by his wits.'

‘It would have been better if he'd told me
everything.'

‘Are you sure you would have
understood?'

The old man hung his head and admitted:

‘At that time, I might—'

‘You might not have understood, you might
have thrown him out. If he had told you, for example, that he'd taken the money from your
partner's coffers, or that he'd falsified the accounts, or—'

‘Be quiet!'

‘He preferred to die. Perhaps because he
was advised to kill himself? Perhaps …'

Campois wiped both hands over his anguished
face.

‘But why come and speak to me of all this
today? What are you hoping for? What are you trying to achieve?'

‘Admit, Monsieur Campois, that at that
time, you thought what I am thinking today.'

‘I don't know what you are thinking
… I don't want to know!'

‘Even if at the time of your son's
death you weren't suspicious straight away, you must have started to wonder when Malik
married Mademoiselle Amorelle a few months later. You follow me, don't you?'

‘I couldn't do anything.'

‘And you attended the wedding!'

‘I had to. I was Amorelle's friend,
his partner. He worshipped Ernest Malik, who in his eyes could do no wrong.'

‘So you kept quiet.'

‘I had a daughter who was still unmarried
and I needed to find her a husband.'

Maigret rose, burly, threatening, and gave the crushed old man a
look full of intense anger.

‘And, for years and years, you have
…'

His voice, which had risen, softened again as he
watched the face of the elderly man, whose eyes filled with tears.

‘But for goodness' sake,'
Maigret went on with a sort of dread, ‘you knew all along that it was Malik who killed
your son.

‘Yet you said nothing!

‘Yet you carried on shaking hands with
him!

‘Yet you bought this house close to
his!

‘And still today, you're willing to
do as he tells you!'

‘What choice did I have?'

‘Because he drove you to the brink of
poverty. Because, through God-knows-what cunning schemes, he managed to divest you of most of
your shares. Because now you are merely a name in the Amorelle and Campois concern.
Because—'

And his fist came down on the desk.

‘But dammit! Don't you realize you
are a coward, that it's because of you that Monita is dead like your son and that a boy,
Georges-Henry, nearly followed suit?'

‘I have my daughter and my grandson. I am
old!'

‘You weren't old when your son died.
But you were already so obsessed with money that you weren't even capable of standing up
to a Malik.'

It was almost dark now in the long room where it
hadn't occurred to either of the two men to switch on the light.

Visibly terrified, the old man asked in a dull
voice:

‘What are you going to do?'

‘What about you?'

Campois' shoulders slumped.

‘Are you still planning to go on this
cruise that doesn't appeal to you at all? You can't see, can you, that you're
being sent away in haste, the way the weak are sent away in a crisis? When was this cruise
decided on?'

‘Malik came to see me yesterday morning. I
didn't want to, but in the end I gave in.'

‘What excuse did he give?'

‘That you were poking around in our
business affairs and trying to cause trouble for us. That it would be better if I weren't
around.'

‘Did you believe him?'

The old man did not reply, and continued after a
while in a weary voice:

‘He's already been here three times
today. He caused havoc to speed up my departure. Half an hour before you arrived, he telephoned
me again to remind me that it was time to leave.'

‘Are you still intent on going?'

‘I think it's best, given what is
probably going to happen. But I could stay in Le Havre. It depends on my grandson. He used to
spend a lot of time with Monita. I think he cherished hopes about her. He was very upset by her
death.'

The old man suddenly sprang up and rushed towards
the old-fashioned telephone on the wall. It had given a strident ring, calling him to order.

‘Hello! Yes … The luggage is in the
car. I'm leaving in five minutes … Yes … Yes … No … No … It
wasn't for me … Probably …'

He
hung up and darted a slightly sheepish look at Maigret.

‘It's him. I'd better
leave.'

‘What did he ask you?'

‘If anyone had been to see me. He saw a
taxi go past. I told him—'

‘I heard.'

‘Can I leave?'

What was the point of stopping him? He had worked
hard in the past. He had succeeded by the sweat of his brow. He had achieved an enviable
position.

And, for fear of losing his money, for fear of
the poverty he had known as a child, he had been scared out of his wits. And now he had reached
the end of his life, he was still scared.

‘Eugénie! Is the luggage in the
car?'

‘But you haven't had
dinner!'

‘I'll have something to eat on the
way. Where is Jean?'

‘By the car.'

‘Goodbye, inspector. Don't say that
you've seen me. If you carry on down the little path and turn left, you'll see a
stone cross, and you'll come out on to the main road three kilometres from here.
There's a tunnel under the railway track.'

Maigret slowly crossed the garden that lay bathed
in tranquillity, the cook following him stealthily. The taxi-driver was sitting on the grass
bordering the path playing with the wild flowers. Before getting back into the car, he put one
behind his ear, the way mischievous boys wedge a cigarette.

‘Do we turn round?'

‘Straight on,' grunted Maigret, lighting his pipe.
‘Then left when you see a cross.'

It was not long before they heard in the darkness
the engine of another car going in the opposite direction, that of old Campois heading for
safety.

To stoke his ill humour, he asked the taxi to
stop at a poorly lit café in Corbeil and ordered two glasses of
marc
, one for the
driver and the other for himself.

The bitter taste of the brandy made his throat
constrict, and he said to himself that
marc
had been a feature of this investigation.
Why? Pure chance. It was probably the drink he least liked. Besides, there had also been old
Jeanne's disgusting Kummel, and that memory, that tête-à-tête with the
bloated old alcoholic, still made him feel nauseous.

Yet she had once been beautiful. He now knew that
she had loved Malik, who had used her the way he used everyone and everything. And now it was a
curious mixture of love and hatred, of bitterness and animal devotion that she nursed for this
man, who only needed to appear and snap his fingers for her to do his bidding.

There are people like that in the world. There
are others, like these two customers in the little bar, the only two customers at this late
hour, a fat man, who was a pork butcher, and a shrewd, thin character who likes pontificating,
proud of being a clerical worker, maybe at the town hall, both of them playing draughts at ten
o'clock at night beside a huge stove pipe against which the pork butcher leaned from time
to time.

The pork butcher was self-confident because he
had
money and it didn't matter if he lost
the round. The skinny man thought that life was unfair because an educated man with a degree
should have a more comfortable existence than a butcherer of pigs.

‘Another
marc
… sorry, two
marcs
!'

Campois and his grandson were on their way to
Gare Saint-Lazare. He too must be all churned up. He was probably mulling Maigret's harsh
words in his mind and reliving old memories.

He was heading for Le Havre. He had nearly set
sail for the Norwegian fjords, against his wishes, dispatched there like a parcel, because Malik
… And he was already a very old man. It is tough telling elderly people like him home
truths, as Maigret had just done.

They were back in the car. Maigret sat in his
corner, glum and scowling.

Bernadette Amorelle was even older. And what he
didn't know, what he couldn't know, because he wasn't God Almighty, was that
she had seen old Campois drive past in his car laden with trunks.

She too had understood. Perhaps she was cleverer
than Maigret? There are women, old women especially, who have a real gift of second sight.

If Maigret had been there, beside the railway
track, as he had been on the two previous nights, he would have seen her three windows open,
with the lights on, and in that rosy glow, the old lady calling her maid.

‘He made old Campois leave,
Mathilde.'

He wouldn't have heard, but he would have
seen the two women have a long conversation, each as peevish as
the other, then he would have seen Mathilde vanish, Madame
Amorelle pacing up and down her room, and finally her daughter Aimée, Charles Malik's
wife, come in looking guilty.

The drama was unfolding. It had been brewing for
over twenty years. For the past few days, since Monita's death, it had been threatening to
explode any minute.

‘Stop here!'

Bang in the middle of the Pont
d'Austerlitz. He didn't feel like going straight back home. The Seine was black.
There were little lights on the sleeping barges, shadows roaming the banks.

His hands in his pockets, Maigret smoked as he
walked slowly through the empty streets where the lamps made strings of lights.

At Place de la Bastille, at the corner of Rue de
la Roquette, the lights were brighter, lurid, with that pallid glare typical of poor
neighbourhoods – like those fairground stalls where you can win packets of sugar or
bottles of sparkling wine – lights to lure the people out of their dark, narrow,
suffocating streets.

He too walked towards those lights, towards the
too vast and too empty café where an accordion was playing and where a few men and a few
women were drinking and waiting for who-knows-what.

He knew them. He had spent so many years dealing
with people's everyday doings that he knew them all – even people like Malik, who
think they are more powerful or cleverer than the rest.

With that type, there's a difficult moment to get through,
when, despite yourself, you allow yourself to be impressed by their beautiful house, their car,
their servants and their airs.

You have to see them like the others, to see them
naked …

Now, it was Ernest Malik who was frightened, as
frightened as a small-time pimp from Rue de la Roquette who has been carted off in the meat
wagon at two o'clock in the morning.

Maigret did not see the two women in
Bernadette's bedroom acting out a heart-breaking scene. He did not see Aimée drop to
her knees on the rug and drag herself kneeling over to her mother's feet.

This no longer mattered. Every family has a
skeleton in the cupboard.

Two beautiful houses, down there by the river, on
an attractive bend where the Seine widened, two beautiful houses surrounded by greenery against
the gentle hills, the sort of houses that make people sigh longingly as they gaze at them from
trains.

Those living in them must be so happy!

And long lives, like that of Campois, who had
worked hard, and who was now worn out and being shunted aside.

And that of Bernadette Amorelle, who had
dispensed so much frantic energy.

He walked furiously. Place des Vosges was
deserted. There was a light at his windows. He rang the bell and growled his name as he passed
the concierge's lodge. His wife, who recognized his step, came and opened the door.

‘Shh! He's asleep. He's only just dropped
off.'

So what? Wasn't he going to wake him up,
grab him by the shoulders and shake him?

‘Come on, young man, this is no time to
make a fuss.'

Let's put an end once and for all to this
skeleton in the cupboard, to this vile business, which, from start to finish, was all a filthy
matter of money.

For that is all there was behind those beautiful
houses with their immaculate gardens: money!

‘You look grumpy. Have you had
dinner?'

‘Yes … No.'

Actually, he hadn't had dinner and he ate
while Mimile stood at the window, smoking cigarettes. When Maigret started walking towards the
guest room, where Georges-Henry was sleeping, Madame Maigret protested:

‘You shouldn't wake him.'

He shrugged. A few hours more or less … Let
him sleep! Not to mention that he was tired too.

He could not guess that Bernadette Amorelle had
stolen out of her house alone, in the middle of the night, and that her younger daughter,
Aimée, her eyes crazed, tried in vain to telephone, while Charles, behind her, kept
repeating:

‘What on earth's wrong with you? What
did your mother say to you?'

Maigret did not wake up until eight o'clock
the next morning.

‘He's still asleep,' his wife
announced.

Maigret shaved, dressed and had breakfast on a
corner of the table, then filled his first pipe. When he went into the young man's room,
Georges-Henry began to stir.

‘Get up,' he said in that calm, slightly weary voice
that he used when he was determined to put an end to something.

It took him a few moments to realize why the boy
wouldn't get out of bed. He was naked under the sheets and didn't dare show
himself.

‘Stay in bed if you like. You can get
dressed later. How did you find out what your father had done? It was Monita who told you,
wasn't it?'

Georges-Henry stared at him in genuine
horror.

‘You can talk, now that I
know—'

‘What do you know? Who told you?'

‘Old Campois knew too.'

‘Are you sure? He couldn't have. If
he'd known—'

‘That your father killed his son? Only he
didn't kill him with a knife or a bullet. And those murders—'

‘What else have you been told? What have
you done?'

‘Well, there are so many vile doings in
this business that one more or one less …'

He felt sick. That often happened to him when he
reached the end of an investigation, perhaps because of the strain, perhaps because, when a man
is stripped naked, what you find tends to be ugly and depressing.

A pleasant smell of coffee filled the apartment.
You could hear the birds and the fountains of Place des Vosges. People were going off to work in
the cool, gentle morning sunlight.

In front of him, a pale kid who had pulled the
blankets up to his chin and was gazing steadfastly at him.

What could Maigret do for him, for the others?
Nothing!
You don't arrest a Malik. The law
didn't deal with those crimes. There would only be one solution …

It is funny that he thought of it just before the
telephone call. He was standing there, puffing on his pipe, ill-at-ease with this boy who did
not know what to do, and for a second he had a vision of Ernest Malik with someone handing him a
pistol, calmly giving him the order:

‘Shoot!'

But he wouldn't shoot! He would never agree
to kill himself! He would need help.

The telephone rang insistently. Madame Maigret
answered then knocked at the door.

‘It's for you, Maigret.'

He went into the dining room and grabbed the
receiver.

‘Hello …'

‘Is that you, chief? Lucas here. When I
arrived in my office I found an urgent message for you from Orsenne, yes … Last night,
Madame Amorelle …'

Probably no one would have believed him if he had
claimed that, from that moment, he knew. And yet it was true.

She had followed more or less the same reasoning
as him, of course! She had reached the same conclusions, almost at the same time. Except that
unlike him, she had seen things through to the bitter end.

And, since she knew that a Malik wouldn't
shoot, she had calmly pulled the trigger.

‘… Madame Amorelle killed Ernest
Malik with a pistol shot. At his home, yes … in his study. He was in his pyjamas and
dressing gown. The gendarmerie telephoned here
at
dawn asking us to inform you, because she's asking to see you.'

‘I'll go,' he said.

He went back into the bedroom where the young man
had put on his trousers, his bare chest painfully thin.

‘Your father is dead,' said Maigret,
averting his gaze.

A silence. He turned round. Georges-Henry was not
crying, but stood stock still, looking at him.

‘Did he kill himself?'

So they weren't two but three of them to
have thought of the same solution. Who knows whether the kid hadn't been tempted, at one
point, to pick up the gun?

There was still a trace of incredulity in his
voice as he asked again:

‘Did he kill himself?'

‘No. It was your grandmother.'

‘Who told her?'

He was biting his lips.

‘Who told her what?'

‘What you know … Campois?'

‘No, son. That's not what you were
thinking of.'

And the boy turned red, proving Maigret
right.

‘There's something else, isn't
there? It's not because in the past your father drove the Campois boy to commit suicide
that Bernadette Amorelle killed him.'

He paced up and down. He could have pressed the
matter. He would have defeated an opponent who was not an equal match for him.

‘Stay here,' he said at last.

He went to fetch his hat from the dining
room.

‘Keep an eye on him,' he shouted to his wife and
Mimile, who was now having his breakfast.

It was a glorious day, the air so delicious in
its morning freshness that you felt like biting into it, like a fruit.

‘Taxi … Route de Fontainebleau.
I'll direct you.'

There were three or four cars on the towpath,
those of the public prosecutor, no doubt. A few curious onlookers in front of the gate, where an
indifferent gendarme stood guard. He greeted Maigret, who walked down the drive and was soon
mounting the steps.

The detective chief inspector from the Melun
Flying Squad was already there, his hat on his head, a cigar in his mouth.

‘Pleased to see you again, Maigret …
I didn't know you were back in the job. A curious business, eh! She's waiting for
you. She refuses to talk before she's seen you. It was she who telephoned the gendarmerie
at around one o'clock this morning to announce that she had just killed her
son-in-law.

‘You'll see. She's as calm as
if she had just made jam or cleaned out her cupboards.

‘Actually she spent the night tidying up
her things and, when I got here, her suitcase was packed.'