Maigret Gets Angry (5 page)

All was silent. But there had been someone, not
far from
him, probably on the Amorelles'
wall, someone who had shot with a rifle and who had not been firing in the air, at some
woodpigeon sitting on a branch, but towards the ground, towards Maigret as he walked past.

He scowled, a mix of ill temper and satisfaction.
He clenched his fists, furious, and yet he felt relieved. He preferred this.

‘Scoundrel!' he grumbled softly.

There was no point in looking for his attacker,
in rushing after him as Malik had done earlier. He wouldn't find anything in the dark and
he might trip and fall stupidly into a hole.

He kept going, his hands still in his pockets,
his pipe between his teeth. His pace did not falter for an instant, his burly frame and
deliberately slow tread displaying his contempt.

He reached L'Ange a few minutes later
without being used as a target again.

It was 9.30 and Maigret was not up yet. For some
time now the noises from outside had been filtering in through the wide-open window – the
clucking of the hens scratching around in the muck in a courtyard, a dog's chain rattling,
the insistent hooting of the tug-boats and the more muffled throbbing of the barge engines.

Maigret had a hangover, and even what he would
have called a stinking hangover. Now he knew the secret of old Jeanne, the owner of
L'Ange. The previous evening when he'd got back, she'd still been in the
dining room, sitting by the clock with the copper pendulum. Malik had been right to warn him
that she would be waiting up for him. But it was probably not so much that she wanted to talk,
but to drink.

‘She can knock it back, all right!'
he said to himself, still half-asleep. He didn't dare wake up too abruptly for fear of the
thumping headache he knew lay in wait for him.

He should have realized immediately. He had known
other women like Jeanne who, after the change of life, have lost all interest in their
appearance and drag themselves around, miserable, moaning and groaning, their face shiny and
their hair greasy, complaining of every ailment under the sun.

‘I'd love a little drink,'
he'd said, sitting down beside her,
or rather
straddling a chair. ‘What about you, Madame Jeanne? … What can I pour
you?'

‘Nothing, monsieur. I'd better not
drink. Everything's bad for me.'

‘A tiny liqueur?'

‘All right, just to keep you company
… A Kummel, then. Would you like to pour one for yourself? … The bottles are on the
shelf. My legs are very swollen this evening.'

So Kummel was her tipple, that was all. And he
too had drunk the caraway-flavoured liqueur out of politeness. He still felt nauseous. He swore
he would never touch another drop of Kummel as long as he lived.

How many little glasses had she surreptitiously
drained? She talked, in her complaining voice at first, and then becoming more animated. From
time to time, looking elsewhere, she would grab the bottle and pour herself a glass. Until
Maigret caught on and found himself refilling his glass every ten minutes.

Strange evening. The maid had long since gone to
bed. The cat was curled up in Madame Jeanne's lap, the pendulum swung to and fro behind
the glass door of the grandfather clock, and the woman talked, first of all about Marius, her
deceased husband, and then about herself, a girl from a good family who had followed Marius and
missed out on marrying an officer who had since become a general.

‘He came here with his wife and children,
three years ago now, a few days before Marius died. He didn't recognize me.'

About Bernadette Amorelle:

‘They say she's mad, but it isn't true.
It's just that she's got a peculiar nature. Her husband was a great brute. It was he
who founded the big Seine quarries.'

Madame Jeanne was no fool.

‘I know why you've come here, now
… Everyone knows … I think you're wasting your time.'

She was talking about the Maliks, Ernest and
Charles.

‘You haven't seen Charles yet?
You'll meet him … and his wife, the youngest of the Amorelle girls, Mademoiselle
Aimée as she used to be called. You'll meet them. We are a tiny village, aren't
we? Not even a hamlet. And yet strange things happen here. Yes, Mademoiselle Monita was found at
the weir.'

No, she, Madame Jeanne, didn't know
anything. Can one ever know what goes on inside a young girl's head?

She drank, Maigret drank, listened to her chatter
and refilled the glasses, feeling as if he had been bewitched, and saying from time to time:

‘I'm keeping you up.'

‘Oh you don't need to worry about me.
I don't sleep very much, with all my aches and pains! But if you're tired
…'

He stayed a while longer. And, when they each
went up separate staircases, he had heard a clatter as Madame Jeanne fell down the stairs.

She couldn't be up yet. He resolved to get
out of bed and to go into the bathroom, first to drink, to drink great gulps of cold water, then
to wash off his sweat smelling of alcohol, of Kummel. No! Never again would he touch a glass of
Kummel.

Well
well! Someone had just arrived at the inn. He could hear the maid's voice saying:

‘He's still asleep, I tell you
…'

He leaned out of the window and saw a maid in a
black dress and white apron talking to Raymonde.

‘Is it for me?' he asked.

And looking up, the maid said:

‘You can see perfectly well that he's
not asleep!'

She was holding a letter, an envelope with a
black border, and she stated:

‘I'm to wait for a reply.'

Raymonde brought up the letter. He had put his
trousers on, and his braces dangled against his thighs. It was already hot. A fine haze rose
from the river.

Will you come and see me as soon as possible? It is best for you to follow my maid, who
will show you the way to my apartment, otherwise you will not be allowed up. I know you are
meeting them all at lunch time.

Bernadette Amorelle

He followed the maid, who was in her forties and
very ugly, with the same beady eyes as her mistress. She did not utter a word and her body
language seemed to be saying: ‘No point trying to get me to talk. I have my instructions
and I won't let myself be pushed around.'

They followed the wall, went through the gate and
walked up the drive leading to the vast Amorelle residence. Birds were singing in all the trees.
The gardener was pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure.

The
house was less modern than that of Ernest Malik, less sumptuous, as if already dimmed by the
mists of time.

‘This way …'

They did not enter through the big main door at
the top of the steps, but through a little door in the east wing. They climbed a staircase whose
walls were hung with nineteenth-century prints and had not yet reached the landing when a door
opened and Madame Amorelle appeared, as erect, as imperious as on the previous day.

‘You took your time,' she
declared.

‘The gentleman wasn't ready … I
had to wait while he got dressed.'

‘This way, inspector. I would have thought
that a man like you would be an early riser.'

It was her bedroom, a vast room, with three
windows. The four-poster bed was already made. There were objects lying around on the furniture,
giving the impression that the elderly lady lived her entire life in this room, which was her
exclusive preserve, whose door she was reluctant to open.

‘Sit down. Please … I hate talking to
someone who remains standing. You may smoke your pipe, if you need to. My husband smoked his
pipe all day long. The smell is not as bad as cigar smoke … So, you had dinner at my
son-in-law's?'

Maigret might have found it amusing to hear
himself being treated like a little boy, but that morning, his sense of humour had deserted
him.

‘I did indeed have dinner with Ernest
Malik,' he said gruffly.

‘What did he tell you?'

‘That you were a mad old woman and that his
son Georges-Henry was nearly as mad as you.'

‘Did you believe him?'

‘Then, when I was on my way back to
L'Ange, someone, who probably deems my career has been long enough, took a pot-shot at me.
I suppose that the young man was here?'

‘Which young man? … You mean
Georges-Henry? I didn't see him all evening.'

‘And yet his father claimed that he was
sheltering here—'

‘If you take everything he says as
gospel—'

‘You haven't heard from
him?'

‘Not at all, and I'd be very happy
to. In short, what did you find out?'

Just then he looked at her and wondered, without
knowing why, whether she really wanted him to have found out something.

‘You seem to be getting on famously with my
son-in-law Ernest,' she went on.

‘We were in the same class at school in
Moulins, and he insists on calling me by my first name, as if we were still twelve years
old.'

He was in a foul mood. His head hurt. His pipe
tasted stale and he had been obliged to leave and follow the maid without drinking his coffee,
because there was none ready at L'Ange.

He was beginning to tire of this family where
people all spied on one another and nobody seemed to be speaking the truth.

‘I fear for Georges-Henry,' she was
murmuring now. ‘He
was so fond of his cousin.
I wouldn't be surprised if there had been something between them.'

‘He's sixteen.'

She looked him up and down.

‘And do you think that makes any
difference? … I was never so much in love as I was at sixteen and, were I to have done
something stupid, it is at that age that I would have done it. You'd do well to find
Georges-Henry.'

And he, frosty, almost sarcastic:

‘Where do you suggest I look?'

‘That's your job, not mine. I wonder
why his father claimed he had seen him coming here. Malik knows very well that's not
true.'

Her voice betrayed a genuine concern. She paced
up and down the room, but each time Maigret made to get to his feet, she repeated:

‘Sit down.'

She spoke as if to herself.

‘They've arranged a big luncheon
today. Charles Malik and his wife will be there. They have also invited old Campois and that old
stick-in-the-mud Groux. I received an invitation too, first thing this morning. I wonder if
Georges-Henry will be back.'

‘You have nothing else to tell me,
madame?'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Nothing. When you came to Meung yesterday,
you hinted that you refused to believe that your granddaughter had died a natural
death.'

She stared hard at him, without revealing
anything of her thoughts.

‘And now that you're here,' she retorted with a
note of anger, ‘are you going to tell me that you find what's going on
natural?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Well! Go ahead. Go to this
luncheon.'

‘Will you be there?'

‘I don't know. Keep your eyes and
ears open. And, if you are as good as they say you are …'

She was displeased with him, that was clear. Was
he not being flexible enough, respectful enough of her idiosyncrasies? Was she disappointed that
he hadn't uncovered anything yet?

She was on edge and anxious, despite her
self-control. She headed for the door, thus dismissing him.

‘I'm afraid those scoundrels really
are cleverer than you!' she said by way of a parting shot. ‘We'll see. Right
now, I'll wager anything you like that they are all downstairs waiting for you.'

It was true. As he stepped into the corridor, a
door opened noiselessly. A maid – not the same one who had brought him here – said
deferentially:

‘Monsieur and Madame Malik are waiting for
you in the morning room. If you would be so good as to follow me …'

The house was cool, the walls painted with faded
colours and everywhere were carved doors, overmantels, paintings and engravings. Soft carpets
muffled footsteps and the Venetian blinds let in just enough light.

One last door. He took two steps forwards and
found
himself facing Monsieur and Madame Malik in
full mourning, waiting for him.

What was it that gave him the impression not of
reality, but of a carefully composed family portrait? He did not yet know Charles Malik, in whom
he found none of his brother's features, even though there was a family resemblance. He
was a little younger, more corpulent. His ruddy face was pinker, and his eyes were not grey like
Ernest's, but an almost innocent blue.

Nor did he have his brother's assurance,
and there were dark circles under his eyes, a certain flabbiness about his lips, an anxious look
in his eyes.

He stood very upright in front of the marble
fireplace, and his wife was seated close to him in a Louis XVI armchair, her hands in her lap,
as for a photograph.

The entire scene exuded sorrow, overwhelming
grief even. Charles Malik spoke in a faltering voice.

‘Do come in, inspector, and please forgive
us for having asked you to drop in to see us for a moment.'

As for Madame Malik, she looked very much like
her sister, but was more refined, with something of her mother's vivacity. That vivacity,
at present, was as if shrouded – understandably, given her recent bereavement. In her
right hand she held a little handkerchief screwed into a ball, which she scrunched constantly
during their conversation.

‘Do please sit down. I know that we will be
meeting each other later on at my brother's house. Myself in any case, for I doubt my wife
feels up to attending this luncheon.
I don't
know under what circumstances you came here and I should like—'