Maigret's Holiday (22 page)

But he wasn't able to swallow the
drink he was holding. His throat was too tight. He remained motionless, frozen, and
Maigret, for his part, stayed silent.

Cars drove past on the quayside. At any
moment now, one of them would pull up in front of the house and they would hear the
voice of the examining magistrate in the hall.

‘If I hadn't been on holiday in
Les Sables d'Olonne …' sighed Maigret at length.

The doctor nodded. They were both thinking
of little Lucile.

‘Admit that earlier, immediately after
my telephone call—'

‘No!'

The doctor was slowly regaining his
composure.

‘It was before. When I telephoned, I
had already made up my mind …'

‘You had thought of killing your wife
and then yourself?'

‘Romantic, isn't it? However,
even the most intelligent of men has felt that temptation at least once in his
lifetime.'

He put two fingers in the pocket of his
waistcoat and pulled out a folded slip of paper which he held out to Maigret.

‘It was for myself,' he sighed.
‘You'd better destroy it right away, because accidents can easily happen.
It's cyanide. Romantic as ever, you see! Admit that you were convinced that I
wouldn't let myself be arrested alive.'

‘Maybe.'

‘And that still a few minutes ago, you
wouldn't take your eyes off me …'

‘That is true.'

‘I had thought of it too, you see. You
cannot imagine how thoroughly one thinks of everything in a situation like
mine.'

He rose, picked up the decanter as if to
pour another drink, but put it back down on the tray again.

‘What's the point?' he
said.

And, shrugging:

‘That imbecile Alain will be here
shortly. He won't believe either of us. He'll think we're taking him
for a ride.'

He walked with halting
steps.

‘I'll live, you'll see!
I'll do whatever it takes to live. It's absurd, but despite everything, I
will keep hoping. As long as I am alive, she won't dare—'

He bit his lip and asked, in a different
tone:

‘Do you think I'll be
manhandled, beaten, I don't know what?'

He spoke as a man of the world who had a
horror of coming into contact with low life.

‘Is it really filthy in the prisons?
Will I have to share my cell with other convicts?'

Maigret stifled a smile. Bellamy caressed
the leather bindings, the curios, with his eyes.

‘I wonder what's keeping
him.' Bellamy was growing impatient. ‘It takes half an hour to drive over
from La Roche-sur-Yon, without going fast …'

He walked over to the window. Even though it
was lunchtime, there were pale shapes under the beach umbrellas and bathers in the waves
that shimmered like fish scales.

‘It's taking a long time,'
he murmured.

Then:

‘It will be horribly long!'

He turned towards the door, hesitant. He
finally burst out:

‘Say something! … You can see
that … that—'

Just then there was a ring at the door which
at last brought the long-awaited relief.

‘I'm sorry … Please
forgive me … That reminds me that you haven't had lunch …'

‘I'm not
hungry.'

Bellamy opened the door in a natural
manner.

‘Come upstairs, Alain.'

The magistrate could be heard grumbling as
he climbed the stairs and made his way along the corridor.

‘What's all this about? I was
supposed to be having lunch with a friend. Someone you know, by the way. Castaing, from
La Rochelle.'

A curt greeting for Maigret.

‘What is happening that is so
exceptional?'

‘I killed young Duffieux and his
sister.'

‘What?'

‘Ask the inspector.'

The magistrate shot Maigret a furious
look.

‘Just a moment! I don't
like—'

‘Listen, Alain. Calm down for a
moment. I am tired. Monsieur Maigret will give you the details later. You'll find
young Duffieux's body—'

A hesitation. Was there not yet time? With
the arrival of Alain de Folletier, day-to-day life had just intruded into the
library.

All he needed to do was deny it. There had
been no witnesses to his conversation with Maigret. Could he not prevent his
mother-in-law from talking, as he had prevented the others?

A few more words and it would be too
late.

He uttered those words in such a detached
voice that he sounded as if he were explaining some finer points of architecture.

‘Before Les Sables d'Olonne had
running water, we had
a cistern on the roof. It was filled using a
hand pump, to supply water to the bathrooms. The cistern is still there. That's
where the body is.

‘As for the knife, I fear it will
never be recovered. I threw it in a sewer. Come over here. Look to the left, in the
direction of the pines. You see where the surface of the water is ruffled? That's
where the main pipe runs before it empties out beyond the headland … Would you
like a drink, Alain?'

‘Listen …'

‘For goodness' sake! I
don't know how these things usually happen. I confess I'm horrified at the
idea of being handcuffed. You will take me in your car. Once we're at La Roche,
you can question me if you must. However, I'd prefer we did this another day. You
will drive me to prison yourself …'

Once again, he addressed Maigret.

‘Can one take any personal
belongings?'

He was joking and at the same time he had to
rest his hand on the table.

‘Hurry, Alain.'

And Maigret came to his rescue:

‘It would be best to do as he
asks.'

They still had to go along the corridor,
past a white door, Maigret bringing up the rear.

Bellamy walked with rapid steps and, instead
of pausing, he speeded up as he passed his wife's door. He did not even look at
it. He walked straight ahead, down the stairs and stopped, surprised himself, in front
of the coat stand on which there were several of his hats.

He was wearing navy blue.
He selected a pearl-grey hat and was unable to decide whether to take some gloves.

Francis had rushed up to open the door.

It was the most ordinary of departures, as
if he were setting out for a stroll. A huge oblong of sunlight fell on the hall floor,
making the pale marble gleam. The house had an indefinable smell of cleanliness and
comfort.

In the doorway, Philippe Bellamy paused,
hesitant. The magistrate's taxi was parked by the kerb. People were walking past.
Snatches of conversation could be heard.

‘Are you coming with us, Monsieur
Maigret?'

Maigret shook his head.

Then the doctor delved into his pocket.
Wordlessly, without looking at Maigret, he held something out to him and rapidly covered
the few metres to the car.

You could tell that the magistrate, finally
rid of Maigret, was preparing, as he settled into the seat, to rail against this whole
business.

The engine was running. The car glided over
the asphalt. A face appeared fleetingly, just as it was about to turn off, two feverish
eyes stared at the person who had remained behind.

Francis, seeing Maigret standing on the
doorstep, did not dare shut the door again. And in fact Maigret did go back into the
house, looking at the little key that Bellamy had slipped into his hand, the key to the
room with closed curtains where the air quivered with the regular breathing of a
slumbering woman.

‘Let me stop you there, madame
…'

After minutes of patient effort, Maigret
finally managed to interrupt his visitor's flow.

‘You are now telling me that your
daughter is slowly poisoning you …'

‘It's true …'

‘But a moment ago, you said, no less
categorically, that it was your son-in-law who deliberately lay in wait in the corridor
for the chambermaid to pass so that he could slip poison into either your coffee or one
of your many varieties of herbal tea …'

‘Quite true …'

‘Even so …' – he
consulted, or pretended to consult, the notes he had taken of this interview, which had
been going on for more than an hour – ‘when you began, you told me that your
daughter and her husband hate each other …'

‘That is also true,
inspector.'

‘But they are agreed that they want to
do away with you?'

‘No, not at all! Don't you see,
they are both trying to poison me
separately
?'

‘What about your niece,
Rita?'

‘Also separately …'

It was February. The weather was mild and
sunny with the occasional cloud plump with showers which brought sudden rains down out
of the sky. But three times since his visitor had been in his office, Maigret had poked
his stove, the last remaining stove in the Police Judiciaire building, which he had had
to fight so hard to keep when central heating had been installed throughout Quai des
Orfèvres.

The woman was probably roasting in her mink
coat, under the silk of her black dress, under the accumulation of jewels which
decorated her all over – ears, throat, wrists and bosom – making her look
like a gypsy. And it was also of a gypsy that she made you think, not of a grand lady,
with her violent make-up which had formed into a crust and was now beginning to run.

‘So that makes three people in all who
are intending to poison you.'

‘Not intending … They've
already started …'

‘And you claim that they're all
acting independently of each other …'

‘I'm not claiming anything, I am
sure of it.'

She spoke with the same Romanian accent as a
famous Boulevard actress and with the same sudden passionate outbursts which set her
quivering.

‘I am not mad … Read this
… I assume you've heard of Professor Touchard? … He's the one
they always call as an expert witness in all the important trials …'

She had thought of everything. She had even
consulted the most famous psychiatrist in Paris and requested him to supply a document
certifying that she was in her right mind!

There was nothing he could do but listen to
her patiently and, to keep her happy, jot down a few notes from time to time on his pad.
She had arranged her visit through a government minister who had personally phoned the
commissioner of the Police Judiciaire. Her husband, who had died a few weeks earlier,
had been a councillor of state. She lived in Rue de Presbourg in one of those enormous
stone-built mansions which front Place de l'Étoile.

‘As for my son-in-law, this is how he
carries on … I've looked carefully into it … I've been watching
him for months …'

‘So he began when your husband was
still alive?'

She handed him a plan, which she had drawn
with great care, of the first floor of the house.

‘My bedroom is marked A … B is
the bedroom of my daughter and her husband … But for some time Gaston has not been
sleeping in that room …'

The phone – at last! – which
offered Maigret a moment's respite.

‘Hello? … Who is on the line?
…'

Normally the officer on the police
switchboard did not put through any but the most urgent calls.

‘I'm sorry, sir …
It's a man. He won't give his name but is very insistent. Says he must
absolutely talk to you … He swears it's a matter of life and death
…'

‘And he wants to speak to me
personally?'

‘Yes … Shall I put him
through?'

Maigret heard a voice saying anxiously:

‘Hello? … Is that you?
…'

‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret,
yes …'

‘I'm sorry about this … My
name wouldn't mean anything to you … You don't know me, but you used
to know my wife, Nine … Hello? … I've got to tell you it all very
quickly because any time now something might happen that …'

Maigret's first reaction was to think:
‘Oh God, not another lunatic! It must be the day for them …'

He had observed that lunatics came in waves,
as if they were affected by the phases of the moon. He made a mental note that later he
would consult a calendar.

‘My first thought was to come and see
you … I walked past Quai des Orfèvres but didn't dare go in because he
was right behind me … I think he would have had no hesitation in shooting me
…'

‘Who are you talking about?'

‘Hang on. I'm quite close. Just
across from your office. A minute ago I could see your window. Quai des
Grands-Augustins. There's a small bar, you'll know it, it's called Aux
Caves du Beaujolais. I'm calling from the phone booth there … Hello? …
Can you hear me? …'