The Late Monsieur Gallet (9 page)

He still said nothing, but he had not managed to upset her. She spoke with composure, with a certain dignity that almost reminded him of Madame Gallet. A younger Madame Gallet, and no doubt a little prettier than Henry's mother had been,
but just as representative of the same social class.

‘You must understand my situation. After that … that dreadful tragedy, I wanted to leave Sancerre, but Henry wrote a letter advising me to stay here. I've seen you two or three times, and the local people told me that you
were in charge of the attempts to track down the murderer. So I decided to come and ask if you had found anything out.
I'm in a delicate situation, given that officially I don't have any connection with Henry or his
family …'

It didn't sound like a speech she had prepared in advance. The words came easily to her lips, and she spoke with composure. Several times her eyes had gone to the knife placed on the bizarre shape traced by the clothes lying on the floor,
but she had not flinched at the sight of it.

‘So your lover has told you to pick my brains?' said Maigret suddenly, his voice intentionally harsh.

‘He didn't tell me to do anything! He's devastated by what happened. And one of the worst things about it is that I couldn't be at the funeral with him.'

‘Have you known him for long?'

She did not seem to notice that the conversation had turned into an interrogation. Her voice remained level.

‘Three years. I'm thirty, while Henry is only twenty-five. And I'm a widow.'

‘Are you a native of Paris?'

‘No, I'm from Lille. My father is chief accountant in a textile factory, and when I was twenty I married a textiles engineer who was killed in an accident by a machine a month after our wedding. I ought to have been paid a pension at
once by the firm that employed him, but they claimed that the accident was because of my husband's own carelessness. So as I had to earn my own living, and I didn't want to take a job in a place where everyone knew me, I went to Paris and started work as a cashier in a shop in
Rue Réaumur. I brought an action against the textiles factory. The case went on and on through the courts, and it was settled in my favour only two years ago. Once I knew that I would not be in want I was able to leave my job.'

‘So you were working as a cashier when you met Henry Gallet?'

‘Yes, he's a direct marketing agent, and he often came to see my employers on behalf of the Sovrinos Bank.'

‘Didn't the two of you ever think of marrying?'

‘We did discuss it at first, but if I had married again before my case was decided in court I wouldn't have been in such a good position over the pension.'

‘So you became Henry Gallet's mistress?'

‘Yes, I'm not afraid of the word. He and I are united just as much as if we'd gone through a wedding ceremony at the town hall. We've been seeing each other daily for the last three years, and he eats all his meals at my
place …'

‘But he doesn't actually live with you in Rue de Turenne?'

‘That's because of his family. They have very strict principles, like my own parents. Henry decided he'd rather avoid friction with his by leaving them in ignorance of our relationship. But all the same it's always been
agreed that when there are no more obstacles and we have enough to go and live in the south of France we'll get married.'

She showed no embarrassment even when faced with the most indiscreet questions. Now and then, when the inspector's eyes went to her legs, she simply pulled her skirt down.

‘I have to go into all the details. So Henry was eating his meals with you … did he contribute to the expenses?'

‘Oh, that's very simple! I kept accounts, as you do in any well-organized household, and at the end of the month he gave me half of what had been spent on our food and drink.'

‘You mentioned going to live in the south of the country. Was Henry managing to put some money aside?'

‘Yes, just like me! You must have noticed that his constitution isn't very strong. The doctors say he needs good fresh air. But you can't live out of doors when you have to earn a living and you don't have a manual job. I
love the country too. So we live modestly. As I told you, Henry is a direct marketing agent for Sovrinos – a small bank concentrating mainly on speculation. So he was at the source of it here, and we used everything we could save one way or another to invest on the stock exchange.'

‘You have separate accounts?'

‘Of course! We never know what the future has in store for us, do we?'

‘And what capital have you built up in this way?'

‘It's hard to say exactly, because the money is in securities, and they change value from one day to the next. Around 40,000 to 50,000 francs.'

‘And Gallet?'

‘Oh, more than that! He didn't always like to let me embark on risky speculations like the mines of Plata last August. At the moment he must have about 100,000 francs.'

‘Have you decided the figure at which you'll stop?'

‘Five hundred thousand … we expect to work in Paris for three more years.'

Maigret was now looking at her with feelings verging on admiration. But a particular kind of admiration, with more than a touch of revulsion in it. She was thirty! Henry was twenty-five! They were in love, or at least they had decided to spend
their lives together. Yet their relationship was like that of two partners in a business enterprise! She spoke of it simply, even with a certain pride.

‘Have you been in Sancerre for long?'

‘I arrived on 20 June to stay for a month.'

‘Why didn't you go to stay at the Hôtel de la Loire, or the Commercial?'

‘Too expensive for me! I'm paying only twenty-two francs a day at the Pension Germain, at the far end of the village.'

‘So Henry came on the 25th? What time?'

‘He has only Saturday and Sunday off, and it had been agreed that he'd spend the Sunday at Saint-Fargeau. He came here on Saturday morning, and left by the last train that evening.'

‘And that was when?'

‘Eleven thirty-two p.m. I went to the station with him.'

‘Did you know that his father was here?'

‘Henry told me he'd met him. He was furious, because he was sure his father had come here just to spy on us, and Henry didn't want his family getting involved in what's no one's business but our own.'

‘Did the Gallets know about that 100,000 francs?'

‘Of course! Henry has come of age – he had a right to live his own life, didn't he?'

‘In what terms did your lover usually speak of his father?'

‘He thought poorly of him for his lack of ambition. He said it wasn't right, at his age, for him still to be selling junk jewellery. But he was always very respectful to his parents, especially his mother.'

‘So he didn't know that in reality Émile Gallet was nothing but a crook?'

‘A crook? Him …?'

‘And that for the last eighteen years he hadn't been selling “junk jewellery” at all?'

‘That can't be true!'

Was she playing a part as she looked at the lugubrious dummy corpse on the floor with a kind of wonderment?

‘I'm stunned, inspector! Him! With his odd ways, his ridiculous clothes? He looked just like a poor pensioner!'

‘What did you two do on Saturday afternoon?'

‘We went for a walk in the hills, Henry and I. It was when he left me to go back to the Commercial that he met his father. Then we met again at eight and we went for another walk, on the other side of the water this time, until it was time
for Henry to catch the train.'

‘And you didn't come close to this hotel?'

‘It was better to avoid a meeting.'

‘Then you came back from the station by yourself. You crossed the bridge …'

‘And I turned left at once to get back to the Pension Germain. I don't like walking on my own at night.'

‘Do you know Tiburce de Saint-Hilaire?'

‘Who's he? I've never heard the name … Inspector, I hope you don't suspect Henry of anything.' Her expression was animated, but she was as composed as ever. ‘I'm here because I know him.
He's almost always been ill, and that's made him gloomy and distrustful. We can sometimes spend hours together without talking. It's pure coincidence that he met his father here. Although I realize it might seem an odd coincidence. He's too proud to defend
himself … I don't know what he told you. Did he answer your questions at all? What I can swear is that he never left me from eight in the evening to the time when he caught his train. He was nervous. He was afraid his mother would hear about our relationship, because
he's always been very fond of her, and he foresaw that she'd
try to turn him against me … I'm not a young girl any more! There are five years between us. And, after all, I've been his mistress. I can't wait
to hear that the murderer is behind bars, especially for Henry's sake. He's clever enough to know that his meeting with his father could give rise to terrible suspicions.'

Maigret went on looking at her with the same surprise. He was wondering why this behaviour, which after all did her some credit, did not move him. Even as she uttered those last phrases with a certain vehemence, Éléonore Boursang was still in
control of herself. He moved the papers to show a large photo from Criminal Records of the corpse as it had been found, and the young woman's eyes moved over the disturbing image without lingering on it.

‘Have you found out anything yet?' she asked.

‘Do you know a Monsieur Jacob?'

She raised her eyes to him as if inviting him to see the sincerity in them. ‘No, I don't know the name. Who is he? The murderer?'

‘Perhaps,' he said, as he went towards the door.

Éléonore Boursang left in much the same way as she had come into the room. ‘May I come to see you now and then, inspector, to ask if you have any news?'

‘Whenever you like.'

The sergeant was waiting patiently in the corridor. When the visitor had disappeared, he cast an inquiring glance at the inspector.

‘What did you find out at the station?' Maigret asked.

‘The young man took the Paris train at eleven thirty-two with a third-class return ticket.'

‘And the crime was committed between eleven and half
past twelve,' murmured the inspector thoughtfully. ‘If you hurried you could get from here to Tracy-Sancerre in ten minutes. The
murderer could have done the deed between eleven and eleven twenty. If it takes ten minutes to reach the station, then you wouldn't need any longer to get back … so Gallet could have been killed between eleven forty-five and half past twelve
by someone coming back from
the station …
Except there's that business of the barred gate! And what the devil was Émile Gallet doing on the wall?'

The sergeant was sitting in the same place as before, nodding his approval and waiting to hear what followed. But nothing followed.

‘Come on, let's go and have an aperitif!' said Maigret.

‘Still nothing?'

‘… 
bution!
'

‘What word did you say just now?'

‘
Preparations.
At least, I suppose so. The
ions
bit is missing. Or it could be
preparation
, singular. Or
preparatory
.'

Maigret sighed, shrugged his shoulders and left the cool room, where a tall, thin, red-haired young man with a tired face and the phlegmatic manner typical of northerners had been bending over a table since that morning, devoting himself to work
that would have discouraged even a monk. His name was Joseph Moers, and his accent showed that he was of Flemish origin. He worked in the labs of Criminal Records and had come to Sancerre at Maigret's request, to set up shop in the dead man's hotel room, where he had arranged his
instruments, including a strange kind of spirit stove.

He had hardly looked up since seven in the morning, except when the inspector entered the room abruptly or stood at the window looking out on the nettle lane.

‘Anything?'

‘I … you …'

‘Huh?'

‘I've just found an
I
and a
you
, except that the
u
is missing too.'

He had spread out some very thin sheets of glass on
the table, and as he went along with his work was coating them with liquid glue heated on the spirit stove. From time to time he went over to the
fireplace, delicately picked up one of the pieces of burned paper and put it on one of the sheets of glass. The ash was fragile and brittle, ready to crumble to bits. Sometimes it took five minutes to soften it by surrounding it with water vapour, and then it was stuck on the glass.

Opposite him, Joseph Moers had a small case which was a veritable portable laboratory. The larger pieces of charred paper measured seven to eight centimetres. The smaller pieces were mere dust.