The Late Monsieur Gallet (14 page)

‘When did that last letter arrive?'

‘I reckon three months back. You've got to move about a bit in case the customers don't see the papers any more. That all I can do for you, then? You've got to admit I'm the right sort, and I didn't try to do
you down …'

Maigret put twenty francs in the bowl, made a vague gesture of farewell and walked off with a thoughtful expression. As he passed the entrance to the Métro, he made a face of distaste at the thought of Éléonore Boursang going off with an envelope
containing several 1,000-franc notes after throwing five francs to old Jacob, taking ten different Métro and bus lines, entirely at her ease, and to cap it all going through a building with two exits before heading back to her own apartment.

What could that have to do with Émile Gallet taking off his jacket and persisting in climbing a wall three metres high?

Monsieur Jacob, on whom Maigret had pinned his last hopes, was vanishing into thin air.

There was no Monsieur Jacob!

Was he to believe that, instead, there was a couple, Henry Gallet and Éléonore Boursang, who had found out Henry's father's secret and were making him pay for it?

Éléonore and Henry, who hadn't killed anyone!

Saint-Hilaire hadn't killed anyone either, in spite of his contradictions in the matter of the open gate and
the key that he himself had thrown on to the nettle lane, making sure that his
gardener found it after the inspector had told him that he was going to get his hands on it at all costs!

None of that made any difference to the fact that two bullets had been fired at Moers, and that Émile Gallet, whose sister-in-law implied that he was bringing shame on the whole family, had been murdered.

At Saint-Fargeau, they were consoling each other by heaping scorn on him, emphasizing the mediocrity of his character and his life, and by the thought that his death, after all, was worth 300,000 francs.

That morning, Henry had gone to deposit securities with the Sovrinos bank and put the 100,000 francs of savings to good account – the savings which must become 500,000 to allow him to go and live in the country with Éléonore.

While she, finally, as calm as when she was exchanging the newspaper seller's envelope for five francs, was in Sancerre, spying on Maigret, or was coming to see him with an unfurrowed brow and innocent eyes to tell him the story of her
life.

And Saint-Hilaire was playing cards with the notary!

The only one absent was Émile Gallet. He was firmly in a coffin, half his face torn away by the bullet, maltreated by the forensic surgeon who had seven guests coming to dinner, a stab wound through his heart, and his grey eyes were open because
no one had thought of closing their lids.

‘Last avenue on the left, near the old mayor's pink marble monument,' said the verger doing duty as cemetery attendant.

And the undertaker in Corbeil was scratching his head as he looked at an order specifying ‘a simple stone, sober lines, good taste, not too expensive but distinguished'.

Maigret had seen a good deal in his time. Yet he tried to consider the possibility that the tall woman with strawberry blonde hair was not necessarily Éléonore Boursang and that, if she was indeed Monsieur Jacob's customer, there was
nothing to prove that Henry was her accomplice.

The simplest thing, he thought, would be to show the old man her photograph. That was why he had himself driven to Rue de Turenne, where he was almost sure to find a photograph of the young woman in her apartment.

‘Madame Boursang isn't here, but Monsieur Henry is upstairs,' the concierge told him.

Evening was drawing in. Maigret bumped into the walls of the narrow staircase on the way up and opened the door indicated by the concierge without knocking.

Henry Gallet was leaning over a table, doing up a rather large parcel. He gave a start then managed to regain his self-control when he recognized the inspector. However, he could not say anything. His teeth were so firmly clenched that it must
have hurt. The change in him after a week was alarming. His cheeks were hollow, his cheekbones jutted. Above all, his complexion was an appalling leaden hue.

‘I hear that you had a terrible attack of liver trouble last night,' said Maigret, with more ferocity than he had intended. ‘Move over, please.'

The parcel was the shape of a typewriter. The inspector tore off the wrapping paper, took a sheet of white paper out of his pocket, typed a few random words on it, took it out of the machine and slipped it into his pocket. Briefly,
the noise of the typewriter had broken the silence in the apartment, where dustsheets covered the furniture and there was newspaper stuck to the windows for the holiday season.

Henry, leaning his elbows on a chest of drawers, was looking at the floor, his nerves so tense that it was painful to look at him.

Maigret, heavy, implacable, went on with what he was doing, opened drawers, searched their contents. Finally he found a photograph of Éléonore. Then, ready to leave, his hat pushed back on the nape of his neck, he stopped for a moment in front of
the young man and looked him up and down, from head to foot.

‘Is there anything you'd like to tell me?'

Henry swallowed and finally managed to say, ‘No.'

Maigret was careful not to arrive at Rue Clignancourt, where Monsieur Jacob was still sitting in front of his newspapers, until an hour later. Did he want one more piece of evidence? Before he was even level with the old man, he saw Henry
Gallet's long, discoloured face behind the windowpane of a bistro.

Next moment Monsieur Jacob told him, ‘Yes, that's her all right. Got her!'

Maigret went off without a word but cast an aggressive glance at the bistro. He could have gone in and set off another attack of Henry's liver trouble simply by putting a hand on his shoulder.

And never mind that
they
didn't kill him, he thought.

Half an hour later, he was walking through the Préfecture without greeting anyone, and in his office he found a letter from the inspector of indirect taxes in Nevers.

If you would care to go to the trouble of paying a discreet visit to my home at 17, Rue Creuse, in Nevers, I will give you some information concerning Émile Gallet that will interest you to a very high degree.

Maigret was in the Rue Creuse. In front of him, in a red and black drawing room, was the inspector of indirect taxes for Nevers, who had introduced himself with a conspiratorial air.

‘I sent the maid away! As you will understand, that's for the best. And so far as anyone who may have seen you arrive is concerned, you are my cousin from Beaucaire.'

Was he winking at Maigret to emphasize his every word? Not really; instead of closing one eye at a time he was closing and opening them both, very fast, which ultimately made him look as if he had a nervous tic.

‘Are you a former colonial yourself? No? I would have thought … well, that's a pity, because it would have been easier for you to understand.'

And he continued to bat his eyelids the whole time and adopted an ever more confidential tone; the expression on his face was simultaneously sly and frightened.

‘I myself spent ten years in Indochina, at the time when Saigon didn't yet have wide boulevards like Paris. It was there that I met Gallet … and what set me thinking along
those
lines was the way he was stabbed with a knife, as you will see. I'll bet you've found out nothing yet! And you won't find anything out, because it's a story that only a colonial can understand. A colonial who has seen the
thing itself
.'

Maigret had already placed the tax inspector: he knew that with a man of this kind he must possess his soul in patience, be careful not to interrupt, nod now and then – which after all was the only way to gain time.

‘He was a great fellow, our friend Gallet. He was some kind of clerk to a notary who's made his way since then, he's a senator. And he was mad on sport – even took it into his head to form a football team. He'd recruited
us all, we couldn't resist him – only there was no other team for us to play against. Well, in short, he liked women even better than football, and there were plenty of chances to meet women out there. Ah, yes, he was a jolly companion. And the tricks he played on the fair
sex … excuse me, please.'

On silent feet, he made for the door and abruptly flung it open to make sure there was no one on the other side.

‘Right, well … Once he went too far, and I'm not proud of having played the part of his accomplice, without great enthusiasm, I might add. There was a planter who'd just imported two or three hundred Malay workers, and
there were some women and children with them – among others a girl, a little creature who might have been carved from amber. I don't remember her name now. But I do remember I was just finishing reading a book by Stevenson about the natives of the Pacific and I mentioned it to Gallet.
It's about a white man who organizes a sham marriage, so that he can enjoy the charms of a wild native girl. And
my friend Émile got rather carried away by the idea! In those days the Malays couldn't read, in particular the poorer sort
who were transported round the place like brute beasts. So Gallet goes to put his request to the girl's father. He decks out his future in-laws in ridiculous garments, he gets together a wedding procession to lead the happy couple to this run-down little house that we'd repaired.
Another friend played the part of mayor to marry them. He's dead now, although there'll be others still alive who remember the joke. He was a great joker, Gallet was, and he made sure the whole farce was as comic as possible. The speeches would have had you rolling in the aisles,
and the marriage certificate, which we solemnly handed over to the girl, was complete gobbledegook from start to finish. What larks – at the expense of the head of the family, the witnesses and everyone else!'

The inspector of indirect taxes fell silent for a moment, to assume an expression of greater gravity.

‘Well, then,' he concluded. ‘Gallet lived with the girl as man and wife for three or four months. Then he went back to France, of course leaving the wife who wasn't his wife behind. We were still young, or we
wouldn't have made such a joke of it, because the Malays don't forgive easily … you don't know them, inspector. The girl waited a long time for her husband to come back. I don't know what happened to her after that but years later I met her again –
she'd aged a lot – in a poor quarter of Saigon. And when I read Gallet's name in the local Nevers newspaper … I hadn't seen him for twenty-five years, remember. I hadn't even heard anyone speak of him. But it was that knife wound, you see. Can you guess now?
It was vengeance, sure enough. A Malay will go all round the world to get revenge. And they're used
to knives. Suppose a brother of the girl, or even a son, more civilized now … suppose he began by using a revolver, because
it's a practical weapon. But then instinct got the upper hand.'

Maigret was waiting, with a gloomy expression, listening with only half an ear to this torrent of words. It would be useless to interrupt. In a criminal case there are usually a hundred witnesses of the tax inspector's calibre, and if this
time only one turned up it must be because the Parisian newspapers had devoted only a few lines to the case.

‘Are you with me, inspector? You'd never have guessed, would you? I thought it better to ask you to come here, because if the murderer knew I was talking to you …'

‘You were saying that Gallet used to play football?'

‘He was mad about it! And what a joker! The best company you could find. Why, he was capable of telling funny stories all evening without giving you time to get your breath back.'

‘Why did he leave Indochina?'

‘He said he had ideas of his own, and they didn't include living on less than 100,000 a year – that was before the war. A hundred thousand francs! You see what I mean? Folk might laugh at him, but he was perfectly serious. He used to
laugh and say, “We'll see, we'll see!” He didn't get his 100,000 a year, did he? Now as for me, it was the fevers sent me away from Asia. They still give me shaking fits. You'll take something to eat and drink, won't you, inspector? I'll serve
you myself, because I sent the maid out of town for the whole afternoon.'

Maigret did not feel up to accepting the tax inspector's hospitality, or to having to put up with any more of his knowing winks as he launched once again into his story
of the vengeful Malay. He
could hardly manage to thank the man with a smile – a pallid, civil smile.

Two hours later, he got off the train at Tracy-Sancerre station, where he already knew his way around. As he walked down the road leading to the Hôtel de la Loire, he was in the middle of a soliloquy:

‘So suppose this is Saturday 25 June. And suppose I am Émile Gallet. The heat is stifling, my liver is giving me trouble. And in my pocket I have a letter from Monsieur Jacob threatening to tell the police everything if I don't give
him 20,000 francs in cash on Monday. My legitimists would never come up with 20,000 francs at a time. The average amount I manage to get out of them is between 200 and 600 francs – very rarely 1,000! I get to the Hôtel de la Loire and I ask for a room
looking out on the
courtyard
 … why the courtyard? Because I'm afraid of being murdered? By whom?'