The Late Monsieur Gallet (15 page)

He was walking slowly with his head bent, trying hard to get inside the dead man's skin.

‘Do I know who Monsieur Jacob really is? He's been blackmailing me for three years, I've been paying up for three years. I've interrogated the newspaper seller on the corner of Rue Clignancourt. I've followed a young
blonde who shook me off at a building with two exits. I can't possibly suspect Henry because I know nothing about his affair. Nor do I know that he's already saved 100,000 francs and needs 500,000 to go and live down south. Which means that Monsieur Jacob remains a terrifying
lurking entity behind the figure of the old street seller.'

He made a gesture like a teacher wiping the exercise off a blackboard with a duster. He would have liked to forget all he now knew and start his investigation again from scratch.

Émile Gallet was a jolly fellow. He made his friends form a football team.

He passed the hotel without going in and rang the bell at the main entrance to the Saint-Hilaire property. Monsieur Tardivon, who was standing in his doorway and whom Maigret had not greeted, watched him go disapprovingly.

The inspector had to wait some time out in the road. At last a manservant opened the door, and Maigret asked, point-blank, ‘How long have you been living in this house?'

‘A year … but isn't it Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire you want to see?'

Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire himself gave Maigret a friendly wave from a ground-floor window. ‘Well now, that key! We had it after all! Won't you come in a moment? How are the inquiries coming along?'

‘How long has the gardener been working for you?'

‘Oh, three or four years … but do come in!'

The owner of the chateau too was struck by the change that had come over Maigret. His features were hard, there was a frown on his brow, and his eyes had a disturbing look of lassitude and malice.

‘I'll just get a bottle brought in and we …'

‘What became of your old gardener?'

‘He has a bistro a kilometre from here, on the Saint-Thibaut road. An old rogue who made his pile out of me before setting up on his own account.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Are you going?'

‘I'll be back.'

He seemed to say that without a moment's thought, and with his mind preoccupied went back to the gate and off towards the main road.

So he needed 20,000 francs in a hurry, Maigret went on thinking. He didn't try getting it out of his usual victims, that's to say the local landowners. Saint-Hilaire was the only one he
visited. Twice in the same day! Then he climbed the wall …

He interrupted himself with an oath. ‘Good lord above! And why, in that case, did he ask for a room
looking out on the yard
? If he'd got one, he couldn't have climbed the wall.'

The former gardener's bistro was near a lock on the canal joining the River Loire from the side, and was full of bargees.

‘Can you help me, please? Police. I'm inquiring into the crime at Sancerre. Do you remember seeing Émile Gallet visiting your old boss when you worked for him?'

‘You mean Monsieur Clément? That's what we called him. You bet I did!'

‘Often?'

‘Can't really say … maybe about once every six months. But that was enough to leave the boss in a bad mood for a couple of weeks.'

‘Were his first visits long ago?'

‘At least ten years ago, maybe fifteen. Can I offer you a glass of something?'

‘No thank you. Did they sometimes argue?'

‘Sometimes, no! Every time, yes! I even saw them come to blows like a couple of dockers!'

And yet, Maigret reasoned a little later, as he walked back to the hotel, it wasn't Saint-Hilaire who carried out the killing. First, he couldn't have fired those two shots at Moers, because he was playing cards at the notary's
house. And then, on the night of the crime, why would he have gone the long way round by the barred gate?

He saw Éléonore not far from the church but turned his head away so as to avoid her. He didn't want to talk to anyone, her least of all. He heard rapid footsteps behind him and saw her catch up
with him. She was wearing a grey dress, and her hair was smooth and tidy.

‘Excuse me, please, inspector.'

He turned abruptly and looked her in the eyes with such an aggressive expression that it took her breath away for a moment.

‘I only wanted to know whether …'

‘No, nothing! I've found out nothing at all!'

And he walked away without another word, hands behind his back.

Suppose the room looking out on the courtyard had been free, he wondered, would he be dead just the same?

A little boy playing with a football collided clumsily with the inspector's legs. Maigret picked him up and put him down a metre away without even looking at him.

Anyway, he continued his train of thought, he didn't have the 20,000 francs. He couldn't get them together in time for Monday. And he couldn't have climbed the wall. It would have been impossible to fire on him from that wall.
So, Maigret reasoned,
he wouldn't be dead now
!

He mopped his brow, although the temperature was much more tolerable than the week before. He had that annoying feeling of being close to the solution that he wanted, yet unable to reach it.

He had a great many facts: that business of the wall, the two gunshots fired a week later at Moers, the conduct of Monsieur Jacob, the visits to Saint-Hilaire fifteen years before, the lost key so providentially found by the gardener, the matter
of the hotel room, the knife wound
finishing off the work of the bullet with a few seconds between them, and finally the football team and the farcical marriage …

For Gallet's passion for sport, his funny stories and his amorous exploits were all that could be gleaned from the rambling tale of the inspector of indirect taxation.

A jolly companion … liked women even better than football …

‘Will you be dining on the terrace, inspector?' asked Monsieur Tardivon.

Maigret had got there without noticing it. ‘I don't mind one way or the other.'

‘And how is your case getting on?'

‘Let's say it's over.'

‘What? Then the murderer is …?'

However, the inspector passed him, shrugging his shoulders, went down the corridors full of cooking smells and went into the room where his files were still heaped on the table, the mantelpiece and the floor.

No one had touched the clothes representing the dead man. Maigret bent down, removed the knife from where it was stuck in the floor and began fingering it as he walked up and down.

The sky was covered with grey clouds, and by way of contrast the white wall opposite looked dazzling.

The inspector went from the window to the door, from the door to the window, sometimes glancing at the photograph on the mantelpiece.

‘Come here a moment!' he suddenly said as he reached the window, perhaps for the thirtieth time.

The leaves shook above the wall, where Maigret had made out the poorly concealed face of Saint-Hilaire.

The owner of the chateau, whose first movement had been to shrink back, trying to make light of it but nevertheless sounding anxious, asked, ‘You want me to jump?'

‘No, come the long way round through the gate. It's easier.'

The key was on the table, and Maigret nonchalantly tossed it over the wall as he went on walking up and down the room. He heard the key fall on the other side among the collection of jumble. Then came the noise of the barrel being moved, and more
sounds from the foliage and branches.

Saint-Hilaire's hand must have been shaking, for the key clicked against the lock for some time before Maigret heard the squealing hinges of the gate. However, when the owner of the little chateau reached the window he had his
self-confidence back, and it was in a jovial voice that he said, ‘Well, nothing escapes your eagle eye! I find this case of yours so fascinating that, when I saw you coming in, I had the idea of spying on you to get as good a view as yours, and then intrigue you at our next
meeting … Shall I come round through the hotel?'

‘No, no, come through the window!'

Saint-Hilaire did so easily, commenting as he looked round the room, ‘How strange! The atmosphere in which you reconstruct what happened … those clothes. Did you arrange this spectacle?'

Maigret filled his pipe exaggeratedly slowly, tapping each pinch of tobacco down with his forefinger a dozen times. ‘Do you have a match?'

‘No, I use a lighter. I don't like matches.'

The inspector's eyes went to three pieces of greenish wood, burned at one end, lying beside the ashes of paper in the hearth.

‘Yes, of course,' he said, not indicating what it was he approved of.

‘You wanted to ask me something?'

‘I'm not sure yet. I saw you … and as I am all at sea, I thought that an intelligent man might give me some ideas.'

He perched on the corner of the table and held out the bowl of his pipe to the lighter in his companion's hand.

‘Well, so you're left-handed!'

‘Me? Oh no, not at all. Just chance. I can't think why I'm offering you my lighter in my left hand.'

‘Would you close the window? If you would be so kind.'

Maigret, never taking his eyes off the other man, noticed a hesitation in Saint-Hilaire's movements as, obviously paying great attention to what he was doing, he used his right hand to turn the window catch.

‘Open the window.'

‘But you've just asked me to …'

And Tiburce de Saint-Hilaire smiled, as if to say, ‘Of course, whatever you say … I'm sorry if I expressed myself badly.'

Maigret himself was not smiling. If you had seen his face, you would probably have described the predominant impression as boredom. His gestures and tone of voice were gruff, he walked with a staccato step, and also in a staccato style he raised
and lowered his head, picked up an object from one place to put it down in another, for no reason at all.

‘Since the case fascinates you so much, I'll take you on as an assistant. So I won't wear kid gloves, and I shall treat you like one of my officers. Call Tardivon, will you?'

Saint-Hilaire did as he was told, opened the door and called, ‘Tardivon! Hey there, Tardivon!'

When the hotelier came up Maigret, sitting on the ledge of the window-sill, was looking at the floor. ‘A simple question, Monsieur Tardivon. Was Gallet left-handed? Try to remember.'

‘Well, I never noticed. It's true that … Does a left-handed person shake another person's left hand?'

‘Of course!'

‘Then he wasn't. I mean, I'd be sure to have noticed. My guests here usually shake hands with me.'

‘Go and ask the waitresses. They may have noticed that detail.'

While the hotelier was out of the room, Saint-Hilaire said, ‘You seem to think this matter very important?'

But without replying the inspector went out into the corridor and called to Monsieur Tardivon, ‘And while you're about it get someone on the line for me: Monsieur Padailhan, inspector of indirect taxation in Nevers. I think he has a
telephone.'

He retraced his steps without so much as a glance for his companion, and spent a moment walking round the clothes spread out on the floor.

‘And now to work! Let's see – Émile Gallet was not left-handed. In a moment we'll find out if that detail is any use to us. Or rather … take that knife. It's the one used in the crime. No – give it to me. There
you go, using your left hand again. There! Now suppose that, being attacked, I have to defend myself. And let's remember I'm not left-handed, so of course I hold the handle of the knife in my right hand. Come over here. It's you I'm lunging at. You're stronger
than me, you grab my wrist. … Go on, grab it! Good, so it's obvious that it's the hand holding the knife you want to immobilize. That'll do. Now, look at this photo of the body, it comes from Criminal Records. And what do we see? It's on the wrist of the
left hand
that Émile Gallet had ecchymosis.'

Maigret broke off. ‘What is it, Tardivon? Nevers already? No? You say the waitresses all agree that Gallet wasn't left-handed. Thanks, you can go.'

‘And now,' he went on, ‘it's just the two of us, Monsieur de Saint-Hilaire. How would
you
explain that? Gallet was not left-handed, yet he held his knife in his left hand! And
an examination of the scene shows that there was nothing in his right hand. I see only one solution to the problem. Watch this. I want to plunge that knife into my opponent's heart. What do I do? Follow my slightest gesture. I grab the sleeve over my left
hand, because that hand is not going to be any use except to keep the knife pointing the way I want. My right hand is the stronger. It's the one I use to press the left one. Look! This movement … I hold my left wrist in the fingers of my right hand. I press very hard, because
I'm feverish and it's a case of resisting the pain. I do it so well that I leave ecchymosis on myself.'