Cécile is Dead (7 page)

He got up and went over to a safe fixed to
the wall, took out of it a notebook of dubious appearance and moistened his unattractive
fingers to help him turn the pages better.

‘Last year I gave Juliette the sum of
five hundred and ninety thousand francs in banknotes. A profit of five hundred and
ninety thousand francs …'

‘And she kept all that cash in her
apartment?'

‘I have every reason to think so,
since she never went out any more and she wouldn't have handed such sums over to
her niece. Oh, I can guess what you're thinking, I know that my situation appears
in a bad light, but I assure you that you're wrong, inspector. I have never
cheated anyone out of so much as a centime. Ask the gentlemen I meet in the course of
this business; they're not the kind to put up with any irregularity. Everyone will
tell you that Monsieur Charles behaves perfectly correctly. Tobacco?'

Maigret pushed away the tobacco pouch
offered to him and took his own out of his pocket.

‘No, thank you.'

‘Just as you like. I'm putting
you in the picture – coming clean, as our underworld friends might say.'

For a man who had spent half his life in the
prim and proper society of Fontenay, he had an odd smile on his face when he spoke of
the underworld.

‘Juliette had
her obsessions, as I was saying. The idea that the nature of her investments might be
discovered some day … and remember that she never saw anyone and no one was bothered
about her … but all the same, she took ridiculous, positively touching precautions.
During the six months and more since she last left her apartment, I had to go and see
her at home. How do you think I had to act on those days?'

Footsteps on the stairs. The Siveschis, on
their way home, could be heard talking vociferously in Hungarian, and as they reached
the floor above their conversation turned to argument.

‘Every morning the tenants'
newspapers are left at the lodge downstairs. The concierge sorts them into the proper
pigeon-holes along with the post. When I collected my paper, I had to trace a cross in
pencil on Juliette's, and then poor Cécile, who knew nothing about these
arrangements, came to pick it up a little later. At midnight I would go upstairs very
quietly, to find Juliette waiting for me on the other side of the door, leaning on her
walking-stick.'

And the whole of the Police Judiciaire had
laughed at Cécile when she talked about objects changing place on certain nights!

‘Didn't the niece ever wake
up?'

‘Cécile? No, her aunt made sure she
didn't. If you've searched the apartment, and I suppose you have, you must
have found tubes of bromide in a drawer. On evenings when she expected to see me,
Juliette saw to it that Cécile slept very soundly, and … oh, do forgive me; I
haven't offered you a drink yet. What would you like?'

‘Nothing, thank
you.'

‘I can see what you think, but
you're on the wrong track, inspector. You don't have to believe me when I
tell you that I'd be incapable of killing so much as a chicken, and the sight of
blood makes me feel faint …'

‘Madame Boynet was
strangled.'

The former lawyer was momentarily taken
aback, as if upset by this argument. He looked at his pale hands.

‘I wouldn't be capable of that,
either. Besides, it wouldn't have been in my interests to …'

‘Tell me, Monsieur Dandurand, how much
money, in your opinion, did Madame Boynet have in her apartment?'

‘About eight hundred thousand
francs.'

‘Do you know where she hid
it?'

‘She never told me – but knowing her
as I did, I should think she never moved far from it. It must have been within her
reach, and I'd guess that she slept with her fortune, so to speak.'

‘All the same, nothing has been found.
She must have had papers, property deeds, but they've disappeared from her desk.
What time did you come down to this apartment last night?'

‘Between one and one thirty in the
morning.'

‘According to the forensic
pathologist, Madame Boynet was killed at about two in the morning. The concierge says
that no one entered the building at that time. One more question: during your visit was
there anything to suggest that Cécile wasn't asleep?'

‘No, nothing.'

‘Think hard.
Are you sure that you didn't leave anything in the apartment that could
lead someone to suspect you of having been there
?'

Monsieur Charles thought, unflustered.
‘I don't see what …'

‘Those are all the questions I have.
Of course, I must ask you not to leave Paris, or even to move far from this
apartment.'

‘I understand.'

Maigret was already in the front hall.

‘Oh, forgive me. I almost forgot. Do
you often see friends here?' He emphasized the word
friends
.

‘None of them has ever been in this
house. I am a prudent man myself, inspector. I don't take it to the same lengths
as poor Juliette; I'm not obsessed. My friends, as you call them, write to me at a
post office box address. For good reasons, they did not know Madame Boynet's
address or even her real name, indeed to such a point that many of them thought Juliette
didn't really exist, and was only a story that I used in order to …'

There were more footsteps on the stairs, and
the breathless voice of the concierge. ‘Stop, Monsieur Gérard!' Then she
called, ‘Detective chief inspector! Sir!'

Maigret opened the door, and as the light
went out at that very moment he activated the timer switch. An agitated young man whom
he had not seen before was standing in front of him, trembling.

‘Where's my sister?' he
asked, looking at Maigret with wild eyes.

‘This is
Monsieur Gérard,' explained Madame Benoit. ‘He came bursting in like a
madman. I told him that Mademoiselle Cécile …'

‘Be good enough to go back into your
apartment, please, Monsieur Dandurand,' said Maigret.

The Siveschis' door had opened, and
another door on the floor below was opening as well.

‘Follow me, Monsieur Gérard. You can
go back downstairs now, Madame Benoit.'

The inspector had the key to the dead
woman's apartment in his pocket. Letting the young man go ahead of him, he bolted
the door after them.

‘Have you only just heard that
…'

‘Is it true? Cécile is
dead?'

‘Who told you?'

‘The concierge.'

The specialists from Criminal Records had
turned the apartment upside down; they had searched all the drawers and cupboards and
left the contents scattered willy-nilly.

‘My sister?'

‘Cécile is dead, yes.'

Gérard was in such a nervous condition that
he couldn't shed tears. He was looking round as if unable to understand what had
happened, and his expression of dismay made him a sad sight.

‘It's impossible … where is
she?'

‘Not here. Calm down … wait a
moment.'

He remembered seeing a bottle of rum in a
cupboard, found it and offered it to the young man. ‘Drink some of this. Now, how
did you find out that …?'

‘I was at the
café when …'

‘Excuse me, let me ask you some
questions. It will be quicker that way. What were you doing this afternoon?'

‘I went to three different addresses.
I'm looking for a job.'

‘What kind of job?'

Gérard grimaced. ‘Any job! My wife is
having our baby in a few days' time. The landlord has given us notice, and I
…'

‘Did you go home for
dinner?'

‘No, I was at the café …'

Only then did Maigret realize that Gérard
was drunk, or rather he had had more to drink than was good for him. ‘Were you
looking for a job at this café?'

A furious, hate-filled stare. ‘You
too, of course! Like my wife! You don't know what it's like, chasing about
in vain from morning to evening! Do you know what I did last week, three nights running?
You don't, do you? It's all the same to you! Well, I was unloading
vegetables at Les Halles, just to earn enough to buy food. I was hoping to meet someone
who'd promised me work at the café this evening.'

‘Who?'

‘I don't know his name. A tall
redhead, he deals with wireless sets.'

‘What was the café?'

‘You suspect me of murdering my aunt,
don't you?'

He was trembling from head to foot, and
looked as if he might be about to charge at the inspector.

‘The Canon de la Bastille, if you want
to know. I live in
Rue du Pas-de-la-Mule. The
redhead never turned up. I didn't want to go home without …'

‘Haven't you dined?'

‘What's that got to do with you?
There was a newspaper lying about on a table. I read the small ads first, same as usual.
You don't know what it's like, reading the small ads and telling yourself …
Well, in short …' He made a gesture, as if dismissing a nightmare. ‘I
suddenly saw my aunt's name on the third page. I didn't take it in at first.
It was only a few lines. “Landlady in Bourg-la-Reine found strangled in her
bed,” said the headline. And under it: “Madame Juliette Boynet, owner of a
property in Bourg-la-Reine, has been …”'

‘What time was this?'

‘I don't know. It's ages
since I had a watch. Maybe half past nine? Anyway, I rushed home. I told Hélène
…'

‘That's your wife?'

‘Yes. I told her my aunt was dead and
I caught the bus.'

‘Had you been drinking
meanwhile?'

‘Only a little glass to buck me up.
Anyway, I wondered why Cécile hadn't told me.'

‘I suppose you will be your
aunt's heir?'

‘With my two sisters, yes … I caught
the tram at Le Châtelet and … but Cécile, why was Cécile killed? The concierge has just
told me …'

‘Cécile was killed because she knew
who the murderer was,' said Maigret slowly.

Unable to calm down, the young man reached
out his hand to the bottle of rum.

‘No,
you've had enough,' said the inspector. ‘What you need now is a cup of
strong coffee.'

‘What are you insinuating?'

He was aggressive, looking at his questioner
as if he were an enemy.

‘I hope you don't think I
murdered my aunt and my sister?' he suddenly cried in a fury.

Maigret made the mistake of not replying. He
wasn't really thinking about that. He had been letting his mind wander, as he
sometimes did, or more precisely he had been bringing the scene around him to life: the
same apartment, but a few years earlier, the aunt with her obsessions, the teenage
Cécile, her sister Berthe still a child with her hair worn loose, Gérard wanting to
enlist so as to escape the atmosphere here …

He started as the young man grabbed him by
the lapels of his overcoat, shouting, ‘Answer me! You think … you really think I
…'

He smelled strongly of alcohol. Maigret
stepped back and caught hold of both Gérard's wrists.

‘Take it easy, young man,' he
murmured. ‘Take it easy.'

He was forgetting his own strength, and the
other man groaned as he felt the inspector's iron grip.

‘You're hurting me.'

Tears had finally sprung into his eyes.

Was there some kind of epidemic in
Bourg-la-Reine? Maigret could have resigned himself to that, but he couldn't get
the question out of his mind. No doubt the undertaker's man would have replied
that deaths occur all at once, that you can go for five days without any call for a
first-class or a second-class hearse, and then be suddenly overwhelmed by the demand for
them.

This morning the undertaker's services
were in great demand, so much so that one of the horses pulling Juliette Boynet's
hearse was not a proper undertaker's horse at all and tried ten times to break
into a trot, thus lending a jerky appearance to the cortège and setting a fast pace that
was incompatible with the dignity of a funeral.

A man called Monfils, an insurance agent
from Luçon, seemed to be in charge of the ceremony. As soon as the murder of Juliette
Boynet had been announced in the press, he set off for Paris, already in deep mourning
garb (which no doubt dated from a preceding funeral), and he was to be seen everywhere,
tall, thin and pale, his nose red from a head cold that he had caught on the train.

He was Juliette Boynet's first
cousin.

‘I know what I'm talking about,
inspector,' he told Maigret. ‘It was always settled that she would be
leaving us something, and she agreed to be our eldest son's godmother.
I'm sure there must be a will. If it
hasn't been found, it may be that other people had an interest in disposing of it.
Incidentally, I shall appear as plaintiff in any trial.'