Maigret's Holiday (16 page)

He replaced the money and the booklets, and
took the tin back to the wardrobe.

‘Do you know the name of her school
teacher, madame?'

‘Madame Jadin … She lives near
the cemetery, in a new house. You'll easily recognize it by its yellow façade
… The gentlemen copied the names that you read in the tin … They must have
gone to see Madame Jadin too …'

‘Did they mention Émile to
you?'

‘So you're not working with
them?'

He dodged the question.

‘I'm not from
the same department.'

‘They asked me where the boy was and,
when I told them he must be in Paris, they wanted his address. I showed them the
postcard …'

‘And the letter?'

‘They didn't talk about
it.'

‘Would you show it to me?'

‘Take it … It's in the
right-hand drawer of the dresser …'

Gérard Duffieux, in his half-sleep,
must have heard their conversation like a vague and distant noise. From time to time, he
fidgeted a little, but he was too weary to want to wake up fully.

The right-hand drawer was the
household's safe. It was full of old letters, bills, photographs, a fat, worn
portfolio that contained official documents, Duffieux's military record, the
couple's wedding certificate and the children's birth certificates.

‘The letter is right on top,'
said the woman.

A musky smell rose from the drawer to which
mementos of Lucile and her death certificate had been added.

‘May I read it?'

And she replied, with a glance at the
sleeping man:

‘Considering what they've gone
through, it won't make much difference, will it?'

The letter was written on headed notepaper
from Larue & Georget, the town printers. Each morning, Maigret walked past their
workshop and offices on his way from the promenade to the port.

Maigret picked up the
postcard, which had a picture of Place de la Concorde. There were only a few words on
the back, the handwriting shakier.

As far as Maigret could recall, Post Office
26 was the one in Faubourg Saint-Denis, near the Grands Boulevards.

‘Has he been sent a telegram?'
he asked.

‘Only at midday.'

‘And he hasn't replied
yet?'

‘Do you think he's received the
telegram already? … If he were to come, that would be some comfort
…'

And she looked, sighing, at the man with the
empty sleeve who had sunk back into a deep sleep, his breathing making his greying
moustache quiver.

‘Are you staying with them
tonight?'

‘Don't worry. I had my nephew go
and pick up my things.'

She wouldn't go to bed, for she
wouldn't dare sleep in the room where Lucile had been strangled. She would take
care of Madame Duffieux. Would the husband go to work as usual?

He preferred not to ask any questions.
Slowly, he folded up the letter, which he put back in the drawer. He would have liked to
take it with him, but he knew he would not be allowed to.

In the bedroom Madame Duffieux was beginning
to moan like a child and the neighbour struggled to her feet.

‘I'm
sorry,' mumbled Maigret. ‘I had to come—'

She motioned to him to be quiet and, as he
left, tiptoed into the grieving woman's room.

There was a piano in a corner, an
embroidered runner on the oak table and, on the walls, photographs of children in rows,
each one from a different year. Madame Jadin's pupils, year by year.

‘One of your colleagues has already
come here and questioned me, inspector, a tall one with a scar …'

That was Piéchaud, who knew his
job.

‘There is indeed a raffle held in aid
of the schools' fund … It's the pupils who sell the tickets … We
allow them to go around the shopkeepers and people they know in general … Our
Lucile had tickets like everyone else … It was Monday morning that the children
were to bring back the unsold tickets and the stubs …'

‘Was each pupil assigned to a
particular neighbourhood or street?'

‘They were free—'

‘Tell me about Lucile, would
you?'

Madame Jadin was short and dark. In class,
she must seem strict, because it was required, but there was a lot of kindness in her
eyes.

‘The questions your inspector asked me
made me a little indignant, I confess, and he will probably tell you that I didn't
give him a very warm reception. You seem more understanding. He insisted on knowing
whether Lucile spent a lot of time with boys, whether she was highly sexually aware or
not. To think that she was barely
fourteen! She looked older, because
she was tall and thoughtful, even a little too thoughtful for her age … I
don't deny that we do sometimes have girls who are too precocious, who meet boys
in the street, especially in winter, when it is dark, and some of them − but they
are the exception − go for men …'

‘Was Lucile a good girl?'

‘I used to call her “little
mother” because at break, instead of playing with the older children, she
preferred to look after the young ones in the nursery class … One day, I overheard
a conversation between her and one of her friends, who had had a new baby brother.
Lucile was saying wistfully: “Well, it seems my mother can't have any more
children …”

‘There are more girls than one would
believe, inspector, especially among the most deprived, who are already fully grown
women at fourteen …'

‘I presume that you hadn't seen
her recently because of the school holidays?'

‘I saw her several times, because we
run summer activities to keep the children off the streets. We organize games, we take
them to the beach or into the pine woods …'

‘Did you find Lucile
changed?'

‘I noticed that she was worried and I
asked her if anything was the matter. I don't know if it is the same in
boys' classes, but with girls, we all have our favourites … Lucile was my
pet … At break, during the school term, or in the pine woods during the holidays,
she would gladly leave her friends to come and chat with me …

‘I remember asking
her if it was true that her brother had gone away.'

‘So that was only a few days ago at
most?'

‘It was three days ago … I heard
about it from the other children … Instead of answering me honestly, as she
usually did, looking straight at me, she looked away and snapped: “Yes.”

‘“I imagine your mother is very
upset?” I asked.

‘“I don't know.”

‘“Has she heard from
him?”

‘“I don't know.”

‘I didn't press the matter
because I could see she was distraught and tense.

‘That is all I can tell you, inspector
…'

‘Do you teach the piano?'

‘A few private lessons.'

‘Did Lucile take lessons with
you?'

Madame Jadin nodded, looking slightly
embarrassed, which doubtless meant that the girl's parents couldn't afford
such a luxury for their daughter.

When Maigret reached the Larue & Georget
printing works in Rue Saint-Charles, the workers were leaving to go home. He crossed the
cobbled yard, walked round a lorry, and pushed open a glass door above which was a sign
saying ‘Office'.

A typist was putting on her hat.

‘Is Monsieur Larue here?' he
asked.

‘Monsieur Larue died two months
ago.'

‘I'm sorry. In that case, may I
speak to Monsieur Georget?'

The latter, who was in an
adjacent room, must have heard him, for he said loudly:

‘Show the gentleman in, Mademoiselle
Berthe.'

He was a short man, rather shabbily dressed,
and was busy correcting the galley proofs of his newspaper. The four-page weekly
L'Écho des Sables
contained mainly local news and classified
advertisements, particularly legal notices.

‘Do sit down, inspector. Don't
be surprised that I know who you are. I am an old friend of Chief Inspector
Mansuy's, and he told me about you. I see you walking past every morning. I was
certain that you would come to see me.'

And, as Maigret anticipated, he added:

‘One of your colleagues came earlier,
his name was … hold on …'

‘Boivert …'

‘That's it! Well, I didn't
have much to say to him. Is it true that you're conducting your own
investigation?'

‘Is that what Boivert told
you?'

‘Not at all! … It's a
rumour going around town … For instance, I was at the funeral this morning −
Doctor Bellamy is one of my clients … Two people at least told me the same thing
… They are also saying that you have your own idea, that the Poitiers police
don't agree with you and that you have a surprise in store for
us—'