Maigret and the Spinster (8 page)

Suddenly the column came to an unscheduled halt. They all craned their necks and stood on tiptoe to find out what was happening.

Juliette Boynet and Cécile were victims of an unfortunate mischance. As their procession, which was running early, reached a crossroads, another funeral procession, this one running late, emerged from a side road and made for the church. There was no alternative but to wait. The horses stamped their feet. Several of the men left the column to go in search of a drink, and were seen a few minutes later coming out of a little café nearby, wiping their mouths.

Organ music could be heard, and behind, cars rumbling past on the Route Nationale 20. The priest galloped through the service at top speed, and it was not long before the church doors were flung wide open.

Et ne nos inducas in tentationem
…

The master of ceremonies, in a cocked hat, ran back and forth alongside his flock like a sheepdog.

Sed libera nos a malo…

Amen.
…

Before the first lot had all come out, Juliette Boynet’s mourners began entering the church. There was room for only one of the two coffins on the bier. Cécile’s was set down at the back, on the tiled floor.

“
Libera nos, Domine,
” chanted the priest.

There was a creaking of shoes, a scraping of chairs, a cool breeze blew in through the wide open door at the back, beyond which could be seen the sunlit street. Gérard, in the front row, looked restlessly about him. Was it Maigret he was searching for? Charles Dandurand’s companions, conducting themselves very correctly, dropped hundred-franc notes into the poorbox. Berthe, conspicuous in her cherry-red hat, watched her brother anxiously, as if she feared he might do something foolish.

Pater noster
…

The magnesium flare of an agency photographer suddenly flashed, causing everyone to start.

Maigret, huddled in his heavy overcoat with the velvet collar, was leaning against a stone pillar, his lips moving as if in prayer. And, indeed, he might well have been praying for poor Cécile, who had sat waiting for him so long in the “aquarium” at the Quai des Orfèvres.

For the past three days, his colleagues had scarcely dared address a word to him. Heavy and lowering, he went to and fro in the building, chewing the stem of his pipe and brooding furiously.

“No progress?” the Chief had inquired the previous night.

His only reply had been a look so miserable and baffled that it spoke louder than words.

“It’s no good fretting, my dear fellow…You’re bound to get a lead soon.”

The Apostles in the stained-glass windows glowed in the sunlight. Maigret’s glance, for no apparent reason, kept returning to the figure of Saint Luke, whom the artist had portrayed with a square, brown beard.

Et ne nos inducas in tentationem
…

The priest was rushing through the service at such speed as to suggest that there was another funeral procession champing at the door. The horse that had not been properly trained in funeral procedures kept whinnying every few minutes, and the sound, re-echoing under the stone vaults, seemed like a joyful affirmation of life…

What could have induced Cécile to have an extra key to the apartment cut without her aunt’s knowledge a fortnight ago? Was it she who had given it to her brother? If so…

He could see her still, motionless in the waiting room with her handbag on her lap, prepared to sit there for hours, not moving a muscle.

Maigret recalled his own thoughts:

“
Either she was called away by someone she knew and trusted, or she was led to believe that she was being taken to see me.
”

Her brother?

Gérard had never taken his eyes off him during the whole of the service. Every now and then Berthe would pat his arm to reassure him. Embarrassed, the Chief Superintendent avoided the young man’s gaze.

“This way, gentlemen…Hurry along, please!”

At the cemetery, too, there was a great deal of bustle that day. They hastened past the family mausoleums and individual stone monuments, and before long had reached the new section with its slabs of clay surmounted by wooden crosses. The two coffins were hoisted onto trolleys and wheeled along the narrow pathways, followed by the mourners walking in single file.

“Might I have a word with you, Chief Superintendent? When would be convenient?”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Hôtel du Centre, on Boulevard Montparnasse…”

It was Monfils, who had caught up with Maigret as they made their way to the graveside.

“I’ll probably look in on you sometime today.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I came to your office?”

“I don’t know what my schedule will be.”

And Maigret hurried forward to catch up with Berthe, who had been temporarily separated from her brother in the crowd.

“You shouldn’t let him out of your sight. He’s terribly overwrought. Try to persuade him to go back with you to your place. I’ll come and see him there…”

She assented with a flicker of her eyelashes. She was a pretty girl, a plump little creature, seeming infinitely remote from the dramatic events of the past few days.

“Excuse me, Chief Superintendent…”

Maigret turned to face one of Monsieur Dandurand’s friends.

“Could you spare me a minute or two? There’s a quiet little bistro just across the road from the cemetery…”

Leading the procession was a deacon, attended by a small choirboy, who galloped along as fast as his short legs could carry him, in spite of his inconveniently long black skirts and heavy hobnailed boots. Bending over the open grave, the deacon turned the pages of his prayer book, then, his lips still moving, flung the first spadeful of earth on the coffins. Gérard and his cousin Monfils held out their hands simultaneously. There were too many heads in the way for Maigret to see which of them managed to get in first.

Suddenly, the gathering broke up in disorder. Nouchi bustled across to the Chief Superintendent and subjected him to a shameless stare. He would not have been surprised if she had asked him for his autograph, as she would a film star.

The bistro stood in the middle of a monument mason’s yard. When Maigret pushed open the door, he found Dandurand’s smart friends already seated at a table. They all stood up.

“Forgive me for taking up your time like this…What will you have? Waiter! The same for the Chief Superintendent.”

Charles Dandurand was there with them, smooth and gray, as gray as the tombstones.

“Take a seat, Chief Superintendent. We would gladly have gone to your office, but maybe it’s better…”

All the big bosses who were in the habit of forgathering every evening at Albert’s place were there, every bit as self-possessed as a board of directors seated around a table covered in green baize.

“Cheers! Let’s not beat about the bush. Chief Superintendent Cassieux can vouch for us. He knows we are on the level…”

The big limousine was waiting at the gates, and a group of kids were clustered around it, admiring the chromium fittings that glinted in the sunlight.

“It’s about poor Juliette, needless to say. As you know, the law, in its moral wisdom, does not recognize the legality of any transactions entered into in connection with our sort of enterprise. We have to manage as best we can among ourselves. The fact is that Juliette had a share in at least a dozen establishments, not counting those in Béziers and on Rue d’Antin, which she wholly owned. Monsieur Charles will tell you that we have met here to consider our position and future plans.”

The others nodded gravely. Monsieur Charles sat motionless, with his smooth, bloodless hands palms down on the table.

“The same again, waiter!…Do you appreciate what these enterprises represent, Chief Superintendent, in terms of hard cash? Something over three thousand big ones, in other words, more than three million francs. Now, the last thing we want is trouble. Apparently she didn’t leave a will. Quite rightly, Monsieur Charles doesn’t want any fuss. So we wondered if you could advise us as to how we should proceed…Monsieur Charles has already been approached by two fellows. First of all, there’s that death’s head, Monfils, who is here with his brood, and then there’s the young lady’s brother, the boy Gérard. They’re after the money, the pair of them. Not that we are raising any objection, but at the same time we’ve got to know who legally gets the dough. Well, that’s how matters stand at present. You must realize that one can’t close down highly profitable establishments, just because…”

Abruptly, the speaker rose to his feet, and took Maigret by the arm.

“A private word with you, if you permit…”

He led Maigret into a room at the back.

“I am what I am, and I don’t pretend to be anything else…All the same, there’s one point on which you can safely take my word and that of my colleagues, and that is that Monsieur Charles has always played straight. The old lady’s papers have disappeared, but we’re not the sort to niggle over a signature. I said three million…I could be underestimating. But, documents or no documents, no one is going to touch a penny until you give the word…”

“I’ll have to consult with my superiors,” replied Maigret.

“One moment…there is something else, but it concerns my colleagues as much as myself.”

They returned to the larger front room.

“Well, Chief Superintendent, here it is…We have decided to put twenty grand at your disposal, to help in the search for the bastard who did old Juliette in. Is that all right? Is it enough? Are we agreed?…Monsieur Charles will hand over the dough.”

The former lawyer, under the misapprehension that the time had come, drew from his pocket a wallet stuffed to bursting point.

“Not now,” said the Chief Superintendent, cutting him short. “I shall have to refer the matter…Waiter! My bill. Oh, yes! I’m sorry, but I must insist…”

And, as he paid for his drinks, the man who had appointed himself spokesman for the others grumbled:

“As you prefer…if you don’t like our club…!”

Maigret went out of the bistro with a glow in his chest from having drunk two apéritifs. He had not gone ten paces when he came to an abrupt halt.

He found himself face to face with Gérard and his sister Berthe. Gérard was looking more distraught than ever. Berthe gave the Chief Superintendent a look which plainly said:

I did all I could to get him away…See for yourself…I can’t do a thing with him…

As for Cécile’s brother, he had contrived to knock back a few drinks, and he reeked of spirits. With trembling lips and in a voice uncontrollably shrill, he shouted defiantly:

“And now, Chief Superintendent, I’d be obliged if you would kindly explain yourself…”

The gravediggers were overworked. They were needed elsewhere, and Cécile’s coffin lay uncovered, except for a few spadefuls of yellow earth.

G
o right in, my girl.”

It was certainly not in character, but Maigret, without realizing it, felt an urge to lay his hand on Berthe Pardon’s plump shoulder. This sort of quasi-paternal response is common enough in elderly men, and seldom arouses comment. But the Chief Superintendent had no doubt been clumsy, because the girl turned around and stared at him in amazement, as if to say: You, too…!

He felt a little foolish.

Her brother had preceded them into the apartment, which had been stripped only a few minutes before of its funereal draperies. They had encountered the deputy undertaker’s men with their gear in the hall on their way up.

Maigret was just about to follow the others inside when a voice with a slight foreign accent murmured in his ear:

“Could I have a word with you, Chief Superintendent?”

He recognized Nouchi, dressed for the funeral in a black suit several sizes too small and too tight for her. No doubt it had been made two or three years before her figure had reached maturity, and it accentuated her precocity.

“Later,” he said irritably. He had no patience with this impudent chit.

“It’s very urgent, really it is!”

Maigret went into the late Juliette Boynet’s apartment and said grumpily, as he shut the door:

“Urgent or not, it will have to wait.”

Having got Gérard where he wanted him, he intended to straighten things out with him once and for all. That Berthe was there as well was all to the good, he felt. The old woman’s apartment was a more suitable setting for this particular confrontation than his office at the Quai des Orfèvres. The atmosphere of the place was already having its effect on Gerard’s nerves. He was gazing with a kind of anguish at the walls, so recently stripped of their black draperies, and breathing in the smell of candles and flowers, like the stale smell of death itself.

As for Berthe Pardon, she was as much at home here as behind her counter at the Galeries Lafayette or in the little fixed-price restaurant where she usually had her meals.

Her round face, still childlike, exuded serenity and that inner contentment which some believe to be the expression of an easy conscience. She seemed the very quintessence of girlhood, untouched not by sin only but by the very notion of sin.

“Sitdown, my dears,” said Maigret, taking his pipe out of his pocket.

Gérard was far too tense to settle in one of the sitting-room armchairs. In marked contrast to his sister, he was on edge the whole time, his mind in a turmoil, his eyes never still.

“Why don’t you say straight out that you suspect me of having murdered my aunt and sister?” he asked, his lips trembling. “Just because I’m poor, and because I’ve always been dogged by ill-luck…What do you care about upsetting my wife, who is expecting a child any moment now and who, anyway, has never been strong?…You take advantage of my absence to go ferreting about in our lodgings. You made quite sure first that I would be out, didn’t you?”

“That’s right,” said Maigret, gazing at the pictures on the walls as he lit his pipe.

“Because you had no search warrant…because you knew I would never have permitted it.”

“No! Of course not!”

Berthe took off the fur piece she was wearing around her neck. It was a strip of pine marten, too long and too narrow. The Chief Superintendent was impressed by the whiteness and smoothness of her throat.