FOUR

It seemed to Maigret as if he had gone into another apartment. Just as the rest of the house was orderly, mummified in a solemnity previously established by President Gassin de Beaulieu, so in the office René Tortu shared with young Julien Baud disorder and casualness struck one’s eye immediately.

By the window, a desk of the kind common to all businesses was covered with reports, and green files were piled on the pine shelving that had been added progressively as it was needed. There were even files on the floor, on the waxed parquet.

As for Julien Baud’s desk, it was an old kitchen table covered with wrapping paper fastened with thumbtacks. Photographs of nudes cut out of magazines were attached to the walls with scotch tape. When the superintendent pushed open the door, Baud was sticking stamps on envelopes, which he weighed one by one. He raised his head and looked at him without surprise, without any emotion, appearing to be wondering what Maigret wanted.

“Are you looking for Tortu?”

“No. I know he’s at the Law Courts.”

“He’ll be back before long.”

“I’m not looking for him.”

“For whom, then?”

“No one in particular.”

Julien Baud was a well-built young man with red hair and freckled cheeks. His china-blue eyes reflected absolute calm.

“Would you care to sit down?”

“No.”

“As you like…”

He went on weighing the letters, some of which were in large manila envelopes, then he consulted a little booklet giving the postal rates for the different countries.

“Do you find that interesting?” Maigret asked.

“You know, since I first came to Paris…”

He had a trace of a delightful accent, drawing out certain syllables.

“Where do you come from?”

“From Morges…On the shore of Lake Geneva. Do you know it?”

“I’ve been through it…”

“It’s lovely, n’est-ce pas?”

The n’est-ce pas had a special lilt.

“Yes, it is lovely…What do you think of this household?”

He mistook the word “household” for “house.”

“It’s big…”

“How do you get on with Monsieur Parendon?”

“I don’t see him much. In my position I stick on stamps, I go to the post office, I run the errands, I tie up parcels…I’m not very important. From time to time the boss comes into the office and taps me on the shoulder and asks, ‘Everything all right, young man?’

“As for the servants, they all call me the little Swiss, even though I’m five foot eleven in my socks.”

“Do you get on well with Mademoiselle Vague?”

“She’s nice…”

“What do you think of her?”

“Well, you see, she’s on the other side of the fence too, the boss’s side.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say, of course. They have their work there, and we have ours. When the boss needs someone, it’s not me, it’s her…”

His face had an expression of naïveté, but the superintendent was not sure that it was not a calculated naïveté.

“I understand you want to be a playwright?”

“I try to write plays. I have already written two, but they’re bad. When one comes from the canton of Vaud, like me, one has to get used to Paris first…”

“Does Tortu help you?”

“Help me with what?”

“To get to know Paris. By taking you around, for example…”

“He has never taken me anywhere. He has other things to do.”

“What?”

“His fiancée, his friends…As soon as I got off the train at the Gare de Lyon, I understood…Here, it’s everyone for himself.”

“Do you often see Madame Parendon?”

“Quite often, especially in the mornings. When she has forgotten to telephone one of the tradesmen, she comes to see me.

“‘My dear Baud, would you be so good as to order a leg of lamb and ask them to send it around at once. If they haven’t anyone to send, run around to the butcher’s, will you?’

“So I go to the butcher’s, to the fish store, to the grocer’s…I go to her shoemaker if there’s a scratch on a shoe. It’s always ‘My dear Baud’…do this or stick on the stamps…”

“What is your opinion of her?”

“Maybe I’ll put her in one of my plays…”

“Because she is somewhat out of the ordinary?”

“There’s no one quite ordinary here. They’re all nuts.”

“Your boss too?”

“He’s intelligent, that’s for sure, because if he wasn’t he wouldn’t do the job he does, but he’s a nut case, isn’t he? With all the money he makes he could do something besides staying all the time sitting at his desk or in an armchair. He’s not very strong, I know, but still…”

“Do you know about his relationship with Mademoiselle Vague?”

“Everyone knows about that. But he could afford to pay for ten women, for a hundred, if you see what I mean…”

“And his relationship with his wife?”

“What relationship? They live in the same house and meet each other in the hallway like people passing in the street. Once I had to go into the dining room during lunch, because I was alone in the office and there had just been an urgent telegram…Well! They were all sitting there like strangers in a restaurant…”

“You don’t seem very fond of them.”

“I’m not complaining. They provide characters for me.”

“Comic ones?”

“Comic and tragic at the same time. Like life…”

“Have you heard about the letters?”

“Of course.”

“Have you any idea who could have written them?”

“It could have been anyone…It could have been me…”

“Did you do it?”

“No…It never occurred to me.”

“Does the girl get on well with you?”

“Mademoiselle Bambi?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I wonder if she would recognize me in the street. When she needs something, paper, scissors, anything, she comes in and helps herself without saying anything, then she goes away again, still not saying anything.”

“Is she a snob?”

“Maybe she isn’t. Maybe it’s just the way she is.”

“Do you believe, too, that something terrible is going to happen?”

He looked at Maigret with his big blue eyes.

“Tragedy can strike anywhere…Listen, last year, one sunny day just like this, a little old lady who was walking along was run over by a bus just outside the house…Well, a few seconds before, she didn’t know anything was going to happen…”

There were hurried steps in the hall. A young man of about thirty, brown-haired, tall, stopped short in the doorway. He was carrying a briefcase and had an air of importance about him.

“Superintendent Maigret, I suppose.”

“You suppose correctly.”

“Did you wish to see me? Have you been waiting for me long?”

“I wasn’t waiting for anyone, in fact…”

He was quite handsome, with his dark hair, his well-defined features, his aggressive way of looking at people. One could tell that he was determined to be successful.

“Won’t you sit down?” he asked, going over to the desk where he set down his briefcase.

“I’ve been sitting down a good part of the day. We were just chatting, your young colleague and I…”

The word “colleague” visibly shocked René Tortu, who shot a dirty look at the young Swiss.

“I had an important case at the Law Courts…”

“I know. Do you plead often?”

“Whenever a conciliation becomes impossible. Maître Parendon rarely appears in person before the judges. We prepare the dossiers and then it is my duty…”

“I understand.”

The young man had no doubts as to his own importance.

“What do you think of Maître Parendon?”

“As a man or as a jurist?”

“As both.”

“As a jurist, he is head and shoulders above his colleagues, and there is no one more able than he to spot the weak point in an adversary’s argument.”

“And as a man?”

“Working for him, being so to speak his sole assistant, it is not my place to judge him on that basis.”

“Do you think he is vulnerable?”

“I would not have thought of that word. Let’s say that in his place I would lead a more active life.”

“Being present at the receptions given by his wife, for example, going to the theater with her, or dining out?”

“Perhaps…There are other things in life besides books and dossiers.”

“Have you read the letters?”

“Maître Parendon has showed me the photostats.”

“Do you believe it is a joke?”

“Perhaps. I must confess I haven’t thought about it much.”

“And yet they announce that something terrible is going to happen imminently, in this house.”

Tortu said nothing. He took some papers out of his briefcase and put them in the files.

“Would you marry a girl who was a younger edition of Madame Parendon?”

Tortu looked at him in amazement.

“I’m already engaged, didn’t you know? So there’s no question…”

“It’s a way of asking you what you think of her.”

“She is active, intelligent, and she knows how to treat…”

He looked toward the door suddenly and there, standing in the doorway, was the woman they were talking about. She was wearing a leopard-skin coat over a black silk dress. She was either going out or she had just come in.

“Are you still here?” she asked in astonishment, giving the superintendent a calm, cold look.

“As you can see…”

It was difficult to know how long she had been in the hall and how much of the conversation she had heard. Maigret understood what Mademoiselle Vague had meant when she spoke of a house where one never knew if one was being spied on.

“My dear Baud, would you telephone the Comtesse de Prange immediately and tell her that I shall be at least a quarter of an hour late because I was held up at the last moment?…Mademoiselle Vague is occupied with my husband and those gentlemen…”

She left, after a last hard look at Maigret. Julien Baud picked up the telephone receiver. As for Tortu, he must have been pleased, because if Madame Parendon had heard his last words she could only be grateful to him.

“Hello…Is this the residence of the Comtesse de Prange?”

Maigret shrugged his shoulders and left. Julien Baud amused him, and he wasn’t at all sure that the boy wouldn’t make a success of a career as a dramatist. As for Tortu, he did not like him at all, for no reason in particular.

Just as he reached the cloakroom, to get his hat, Ferdinand appeared as if by chance.

“Do you stay near the door all day?”

“No, Superintendent…I only thought it would not be long before you left…Madame went out a few moments ago.”

“I know…Have you ever been in jail, Ferdinand?”

“Only military prison, in Africa.”

“Are you French?”

“I’m from Aubagne.”

“Then why did you enlist in the Foreign Legion?”

“I was young…I had done some stupid things…”

“In Aubagne?”

“In Toulon. Bad company, that sort of thing…When I thought things were about to go badly for me I enlisted in the Legion, saying I was Belgian.”

“Have you ever been in trouble since?”

“I’ve been in service with Monsieur Parendon for eight years, and he has never made any complaint.”

“Do you like this job?”

“There are worse…”

“Does Monsieur Parendon treat you well?”

“They don’t come any better than him…”

“And Madame?”

“Between you and me, she’s a bitch.”

“Does she give you a hard time?”

“She gives everyone a hard time…She is everywhere, sticks her nose into everything, complains about everything…Thank God my room is over the garage.”

“So that you can have your girl friends in?”

“If I were as foolish as to do that and she found out, she’d fire me on the spot. As far as she’s concerned, servants should be castrated…No, but being over there lets me breathe easy. It also allows me to go out when I want, even though there’s a bell in my apartment and I’m supposed to be on call, she says, twenty-four hours a day…”

“Has she ever called you at night?”

“Three or four times. Probably just to make sure that I was there.”

“What was her excuse?”

“Once, she had heard a suspicious noise and she made a tour of the rooms with me looking for a burglar…”

“Was it a cat?”

“There isn’t a cat or dog in the house—she wouldn’t stand for it. When Monsieur Gus was younger, he asked for a puppy for Christmas, but he got an electric train instead. I’ve never seen a boy throw such a fit of temper.”

“And the other times?”

“One time, it was a smell of burning. The third…Wait a minute…oh, yes…She had been listening at Monsieur’s door and she hadn’t heard his breathing. She sent me to make sure nothing had happened to him.”

“Couldn’t she have gone in herself?”

“I suppose she had her reasons. Mind you, I’m not complaining. Since she goes out in the afternoons and almost every evening, there are long periods of peace.”

“Do you get on well with Lise?”

“Not too badly. She’s a pretty girl. For a time…Well, you know what I mean…She needs to change…Almost every Saturday it’s a different man…Well, since I don’t like to share…”

“What about Madame Vauquin?”

“That toad!”

“Doesn’t she like you?”

“She measures out our food as if we were boarders, and she’s even more miserly with the wine, no doubt because her husband’s a drunk who beats her at least twice a week—naturally, she has it in for all men.”

“Madame Marchand?”

“I hardly see her except when she’s pushing her vacuum cleaner. That woman never talks, but she moves her lips whenever she’s alone. Maybe she’s praying.”

“Mademoiselle?”

“She isn’t proud or affected. It’s a pity she’s always so sad.”

“Do you think she’s having an unhappy love affair?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere in the house…”

“Have you heard about the letters?”

He seemed embarrassed.

“I may as well tell you the truth…Yes…But I haven’t read them.”

“Who told you about them?”

Even more embarrassed, he pretended to search his memory.

“I don’t know…I come, I go, I say a few words to someone, a few to someone else…”

“Was it Mademoiselle Vague?”

“No. She never talks about Monsieur’s business.”

“Monsieur Tortu?”

“That fellow thinks he’s my boss all over again.”

“Julien Baud?”

“Perhaps…Really, I don’t remember…It was maybe in the office…”

“Do you know whether there are any guns in the house?”

“Monsieur has a Browning in the drawer of his bedside table, but I haven’t seen any cartridges in the room.”

“Do you do his room?”

“That’s part of my duties. I serve at table too, of course.”

“Don’t you know of any other gun?”

“There’s Madame’s little toy, a 6.33 made at Herstal…You’d need to fire it point-blank to hurt anyone…”

“Have you felt any change in the atmosphere in the house lately?”

He seemed to think.

“Possibly. They never talk much at the table. Now I might say they never talk at all. Only a few words between Monsieur Gus and Mademoiselle, from time to time…”

“Do you believe the letters?”

“About as much as I believe in astrology. According to the horoscopes in the paper, I ought to get a fat sum of money at least once a week…”

“So you don’t think that something might happen?”

“Not because of the letters.”

“Because of what, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does Monsieur Parendon seem odd to you?”

“That depends on what you mean by odd. Everyone has his own idea about the life he leads. If he’s happy that way…Anyway, he’s not mad. I would even say, just the opposite…”

“That she is the one who is mad?”

“Not that either. Good God! That woman is as wily as a fox.”

“Thank you, Ferdinand.”

“I do my best, Superintendent. I’ve learned that it pays to be honest with the police.”

The door shut behind Maigret. He went down the broad staircase with its wrought-iron balustrade. He waved a hand to the concierge, who was braided like a hotel porter, and breathed the fresh air again with a sigh of relaxation.

He remembered a pleasant bar on the corner of the Avenue Marigny and the Rue du Cirque, and it wasn’t long before he was leaning at the counter. He wondered what he would drink, and ended up by ordering a pint of beer. The atmosphere of the Parendons still stuck to him. But would it not have been the same if he had spent as much time with any family?

With less intensity, perhaps. He would doubtless have found the same spites, the same pettinesses, the same fears, in any case the same lack of cohesion.

“Don’t philosophize, Maigret!”

Didn’t he forbid himself to think, on principle? Good! He had not seen the two children, or the cook, or the cleaning-woman. He had only seen the maid in the distance, in a black uniform with a lace cap and apron.

Because he was on the corner of Rue du Cirque he remembered Dr. Martin, Parendon’s personal physician.

“I suppose I should see him,” he said to himself.

He caught sight of the name plate on the front of the building, climbed to the third floor, was shown into a waiting room where there were already three people, and, discouraged, came out again.

“Aren’t you here to see the doctor?”

“I didn’t come for a consultation. I’ll telephone him.”

“What name?”

“Superintendent Maigret.”

“Wouldn’t you like me to tell him that you are here?”

“I would rather not make his patients wait any longer than they have to…”

There was the other Parendon, the brother, but he was a doctor too, and Maigret knew enough about the routine of Parisian doctors, through his friend Pardon.

He didn’t want to take the bus or the métro. He felt weary, heavy with fatigue, and he let himself collapse into a taxi.

“Quai des Orfèvres…”

“Yes, Monsieur Maigret…”

That did not please him. He used to be rather proud of being recognized, but for some years he had been increasingly irritated by it.

What kind of fool would he look like if nothing happened in the house on the Avenue Marigny? He had not even dared to mention the letters at the briefing. For two days he had neglected his office and had spent most of his time in an apartment where the people led a kind of life that had nothing to do with him.

There were cases in progress, fortunately not very important ones, to which he should still be giving his attention.

Was it the letters, plus the midday telephone call, that were twisting his view of people? He could not think of Madame Parendon as an ordinary woman he might meet anywhere. He saw her again in his mind’s eye, pathetic in all the blue of her boudoir and her housecoat, putting on some kind of act for his benefit.

Parendon, too, had stopped being an ordinary man. The gnome looked at him with his pale eyes made bigger by the thick lenses, and Maigret tried in vain to read his thoughts in them.

The others…Mademoiselle Vague…That big red-headed boy Julien Baud…Tortu looking suddenly at the door where Madame Parendon had appeared as if by magic.

He shrugged his shoulders and, since the car was coming to a stop in front of the main door of Police Headquarters, rummaged in his pockets for change.

Some ten inspectors filed into his office, each one with a problem to hand over to him. He opened the mail that had come in in his absence and signed a pile of documents, but all the time he was working in the sunny calm of his office the house on the Avenue Marigny remained in the back of his mind.

He felt an uneasiness that he could not throw off. And yet he had done everything he could. No crime, no misdemeanor had been committed. No one had called the police officially for a special reason. No one had lodged a complaint.

Nevertheless he had devoted hours to studying the little world that revolved around Emile Parendon.

He searched his memory in vain for a precedent. Yet he had dealt with all kinds of situations.

At a quarter past five someone brought him an express letter which had just arrived, and he recognized the block letters at once.

The stamp showed that the letter had been mailed at half past four at the post office on Rue de Miromesnil—that is to say, a quarter of an hour after he had left the Parendons’ house.

He tore off the strip on the dotted line. Because of the size of the sheet, the writing was smaller than in the previous letters, and Maigret noted, comparing them, that this one had been written more quickly, less carefully, possibly in a feverish sort of haste.

Dear Superintendent,

When I wrote my first letter to you and asked you to give me your answer by means of an advertisement, I could not have imagined that you would charge headfirst into this case about which I had hoped later to give you indispensable details.

Your haste has spoiled everything, and now you yourself must realize that you are all at sea. Today you have provoked the murderer in some way, and I am sure that he will feel obliged to strike because of you.

I may be wrong, but I believe it will be sometime in the next few hours. I cannot help you. I am sorry. I do not hold it against you.

Maigret reread the letter with a grave expression on his face and went to the door to call Janvier and Lapointe. Lucas was not there.

“Read this, boys.”

He watched them with some anxiety, as if to see if their reactions were the same as his. They had not been contaminated by the time spent in the apartment. They could only judge by the bits of evidence they had seen.

Leaning together over the sheet of paper, they showed an increasing interest and a growing alarm.

“It looks as if things are heating up,” murmured Janvier, laying the express letter on the desk.

“What are these people like?” asked Lapointe.

“Like everybody else and like no one at all…What I’m wondering is what we can do. I can’t leave a man in the apartment permanently, and anyway that wouldn’t do any good—the place is so vast that anything could happen in one part without someone in another part noticing. Have someone posted in the building? I’m going to do that tonight to ease my conscience, but, if the letters are not a joke, the blow won’t come from outside…

“Are you free, Lapointe?”

“I haven’t anything special on, Chief.”

“Right, then you’ll go. You’ll find the concierge in the lodge, a man called Lamure who used to work on the Rue des Saussaies. Spend the night in his room and go up to the first floor from time to time. Get Lamure to give you a list of all the people living in the building, including the staff, and check all points of entry.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?”

“That this way, if anything happens, we’ll at least have something to work on…”

It was true, but the superintendent hated to look at the situation in that light. If anything happened…All right! Since it wasn’t a question of theft, it could only be a death…Whose death? Killed by whom?

People had talked to him, had answered his questions, had seemed to be telling the truth. Was it for him, dammit, to decide who was lying and who was telling the truth, or even if one of the people involved was crazy?

He strode up and down his office with furious steps and talked as if to himself, while Lapointe and Janvier exchanged glances.

“It’s quite simple, Superintendent…Someone writes to you and says that someone is going to kill…The only thing is, he can’t tell you in advance who will kill whom, or when, or how…Why does he write to you? Why warn you? For no reason at all…To amuse himself…”

He seized a pipe and filled it, tapping it nervously with his index finger.

“Who does he take me for, anyway? If something happens, they’ll say it’s my fault…That woman in blue chiffon thinks it is already…It seems I’ve gone to work too quickly…What should I have done?

“Waited for an invitation? All right! And if nothing happens, I look like a fool, I’m the man who has wasted the taxpayers’ money for two days…”

Janvier remained serious, but Lapointe could not help smiling, and Maigret saw him. For a moment he stopped, still angry, then he too laughed, slapping his assistant on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, boys. This case will drive me mad. Over there everybody walks around on tiptoe and I began to walk on tiptoe too, to tread as if I were walking on eggs…”

This time Janvier had to laugh too, imagining Maigret walking on eggs.

“At least I can let off steam here…That’s it…Let’s talk seriously. Lapointe, you can go now. Get something to eat and go and take up your post on Avenue Marigny. If anything at all odd happens, don’t hesitate to telephone me at home, even if it should be the middle of the night.

“Good night. See you tomorrow. Someone will relieve you at about eight in the morning…”

He went over to the window and stood there. With his eyes following the course of the Seine, he went on for Janvier’s benefit:

“Are you on any particular case at the moment?”

“I arrested the two boys this morning, two kids of sixteen…You were right…”

“Will you take over from Lapointe tomorrow morning? It seems stupid, I know, and that’s why I’m annoyed, but I feel obliged to take these precautions, which in any case don’t serve any useful purpose.

“You’ll see, if anything happens everyone will blame me…”

While he spoke the last sentence he was staring at one of the lampposts on the Pont Saint-Michel.

“Give me the letter.”

He had remembered a word, one he had not paid any attention to before, and he wondered if his memory was at fault.

“‘…I am sure that he will feel obliged to strike because of you.’ ”

The word “strike” was indeed there. Obviously that could mean strike a hard blow. But, in the three letters, the anonymous correspondent had shown a certain meticulousness in his choice of words.

“Strike, you see? Both the man and the woman have a gun. I was in fact going to demand that they be handed over to us, the way I would take matches away from children. But I can’t take away all their kitchen knives and all the paper knives…One can strike with pokers too, and there is no lack of fireplaces there…Or of candlesticks…Or of statues…”

Suddenly changing his tone, he said:

“Try to get me Germain Parendon on the phone. He’s a neurologist on Rue d’Aguesseau, my Parendon’s brother.”

He lit his pipe while he waited. Janvier, sitting on a corner of the desk, fiddled with the telephone.

“Hello? Is this Dr. Parendon’s house?…This is the Criminal Police, Mademoiselle…Superintendent Maigret’s office…The superintendent would like to speak to the doctor for a moment…What?…In Nice?…Yes…Just a moment…”

For Maigret was signaling to him.

“Ask her where he’s staying.”

“Are you still there? Could you tell me where the doctor is staying?…At the Négresco?…Thank you…Yes, I expect so…I’ll try, anyway…”

“Is he seeing a patient?”

“No. It’s a conference on infantile neurology. It seems it’s a very heavy program and the doctor has to give a paper tomorrow…”

“Ring the Négresco. It’s only six o’clock…Today’s program ought to be over. They’re bound to have a big dinner somewhere at eight, at the Préfecture or somewhere else. If he isn’t at a cocktail party…”

They had to wait ten minutes or so, because the Négresco’s lines were always busy.

“Hello, this is Criminal Police, in Paris, Mademoiselle…Could you get me Dr. Parendon, please…Yes, Parendon…He is one of the conference delegates…

“She is going to see if he’s in his room or at the cocktail party which is going on just now in the main reception hall.

“Hello…Yes, Doctor…Excuse me, I’ll hand you over to Superintendent Maigret.”

Maigret took the receiver awkwardly, for at the last moment he didn’t know what to say.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Doctor…”

“I was just going to give my paper a last lookover…”

“That’s what I imagined you would be doing. I have spent a long time with your brother, yesterday and today…”

“How did you two get together?”

The voice was gay, pleasant, much younger than Maigret had expected.

“It’s quite complicated, and that’s why I took the liberty of calling you…”

“Is my brother in trouble?”

“Not as far as I know…”

“Is he ill?”

“What is your opinion of his health?”

“He seems much weaker and frailer than he really is. I couldn’t stand up under the amount of work he manages to get through in a few days…”

Maigret decided to come to the point.

“I’ll explain as briefly as I can what the situation is. Yesterday morning I received an anonymous letter telling me that a murder was going to be committed…”

“At Emile’s?”

The voice was full of laughter.

“No. It would take too long to tell you how we got to your brother’s house. In any case, it turned out that that letter and the next did come from his house, both written on his writing paper, with the letterhead carefully cut off.”

“I suppose my brother reassured you? It’s a joke of Gus’s, isn’t it?”

“As far as I know, your nephew is not in the habit of playing practical jokes…”

“That’s true. Bambi isn’t either…I don’t know…Maybe the young Swiss clerk?…Or a housemaid?…”

“I have just received a third message, an express letter this time. It says that the event is about to take place.”

The doctor’s tone changed.

“Do you believe it?”

“I’ve only known the household since yesterday…”

“What does Emile have to say about it? I suppose he just shrugs it off?”

“He doesn’t take it quite as lightly as that, really. On the contrary, I have the impression that he believes there’s a real threat.”

“Against whom?”

“Perhaps against himself…”

“Who on earth would want to harm him? And why? Apart from his passion for the revision of Article 64, he’s the most inoffensive, friendly soul in the world…”

“I liked him very much…You spoke of passion just now, Doctor…Would you, as a neurologist, go so far as to say mania?”

“In the medical sense, certainly not.”

His tone had become drier, for he had caught on to the superintendent’s meaning.

“In fact, you are asking me if my brother is sane…”

“I wouldn’t have gone as far as that.”

“Are you having the house guarded?”

“I have already sent one of my inspectors over.”

“Has my brother had to deal with any shady characters lately? He hasn’t set himself against business interests that are too powerful for him?”

“He didn’t talk about his business affairs, but I know that this very afternoon he had a Greek shipowner and a Dutch one in his office.”

“They come from as far away as Japan…We can only hope it is just a joke…Have you any other questions to ask me?”

Maigret had to think quickly, as the neurologist at the other end of the line was probably looking at the Promenade des Anglais and the blue waters of the Baie Des Anges.

“What is your opinion of your sister-in-law’s stability?”

“Between ourselves, and I would certainly not repeat it in the witness box, if all women were like her, I would have remained a bachelor…”

“I said her stability…”

“I understood that. Let’s say that she goes to extremes in everything…and, to be fair, I must admit that she is the first to suffer for it…”

“Is she the kind of woman to have fixed opinions?”

“Certainly, if those opinions are plausible and spring from precise facts. I can assure you that if she told you a lie, it was so perfect a lie that you haven’t noticed it…”

“Would you say she is a hysteric?”

There was a fairly long silence.

“I wouldn’t quite dare to go so far, although I’ve seen her in states which could be called hysterical. Mind you, although she is neurotic, she manages by some kind of miracle to find the strength to control herself.”

“Did you know she has a gun in her room?”

“She told me about it one evening. She even showed it to me. It’s more of a toy than anything else.”

“A deadly toy. Would you let her keep it in her drawer?”

“You know, if she took it into her head to kill, she would manage it in any case, with or without a firearm.”

“Your brother has a gun, too.”

“I know.”

“Would you say the same thing about him?”

“No. I am sure, not just as a man, but as a doctor, that my brother would never kill…The only thing that might happen would be that he might kill himself one evening in a fit of despair…”

His voice had cracked.

“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?”

“There are just the two of us…”

The sentence struck Maigret. Their father was still alive, and Germain Parendon too was married. Now he said:

“There are just the two of us…”

As if each one had only the other in the world. Was the brother’s marriage also a wretched one?

Parendon, in Nice, pulled himself together. Perhaps he had looked at his watch.

“Well! Let’s hope nothing happens. Good-by, Monsieur Maigret.”

“Good-by, Dr. Parendon.”

The superintendent had telephoned to reassure himself. But what had happened had just the opposite effect. He felt more worried than ever after his talk with the lawyer’s brother.

“The only thing that might happen…one evening in a fit of despair…”

And was it precisely that which was going to happen?

What if it were Parendon himself who had written the anonymous letters? To stop himself from acting? To put a kind of barrier between the impulse and the act?

Maigret had forgotten Janvier, who had taken up his stand near the window.

“Did you hear that?”

“I heard what you said…”

“He doesn’t like his sister-in-law. He believes that his brother would never kill anyone, but he is less sure that he wouldn’t be tempted to commit suicide some day…”

The sun had set, and it was suddenly as if something was missing. It was not yet dark. There was no need to put on the lights. The superintendent did so anyway, as if to chase the evil spirits away.

“Tomorrow you will see the house and you’ll understand better. There’s nothing to stop you from phoning and telling Ferdinand who you are and walking around the apartment and in the offices…They are prepared for it…They expect it…

“The only thing that might happen would be that Madame Parendon might appear in front of you when you least expected it—I almost believe she gets around without even displacing air…Well, she’ll look at you and you will feel vaguely guilty. That’s the impression she makes on everybody.”

Maigret called the office boy to give him the signed documents and the letters to post.

“Nothing new? No one to see me?”

“No one, Superintendent.”

Maigret was not expecting any visitors. But he was surprised that neither Gus nor his sister had appeared at any time. They, like the rest of the household, must be fully aware of what had happened since the previous day. They would certainly have heard people talking about Maigret’s questionings. Perhaps they had even seen him rounding a corner in the hall?

If Maigret, at fifteen, had heard someone say…

He would of course have hastened to question the superintendent thoroughly, ready to take over from him.

He realized that time had passed, that that was in another world.

“Shall we have a drink at the Brasserie Dauphine and go home for dinner?”

That is what they did. Maigret walked a good bit of the way before taking a taxi, and when his wife, on hearing his footsteps, opened the door, he did not look particularly oppressed.

“What is there to eat?”

“Lunch warmed up.”

“And what was there for lunch?”

“Cassoulet.”

They both smiled, but she had guessed his state of mind nevertheless.

“Don’t worry, Maigret…”

He hadn’t told her anything more about the case he was working on. Aren’t all cases the same, when you get right down to it?

“You’re not the one who’s responsible…”

After a moment, she added:

“It gets cold suddenly at this time of year…I’d better close the window…”