Maigret and the Spinster (17 page)

“It wasn’t quite like that…” said the young man slowly.

“In that case, you tell me!”

“I don’t know exactly what time it was…I heard someone calling my name over and over again…Waking up was a struggle, and I couldn’t make out what was going on. I felt dazed, as if I’d had too much to drink. Cécile was sitting on the edge of the bed…”

“‘
Gérard
!’ she shouted, ‘
Gérard
!
What’s wrong with you
?
You’ve got to listen to me
!’ ”

“She was very composed, more so than usual…I thought she must be ill, she was so pale and she had such dark rings under her eyes…She spoke softly, but distinctly: ‘
Gérard…Aunt Juliette is dead…I’ve just killed her.
’ ”

“And then she sat quite still for ages, just staring at the floor.”

“I got out of bed, intending to go and see for myself.”

“‘
Don’t move…You mustn’t on any account
!’ ”

“She didn’t want your fingerprints to be found there,” murmured Maigret.

He was thinking of Cécile, impassive, waiting for him for hours on end in the “aquarium.”

“That’s what she told me…She described it all to me. Aunt Juliette was sitting on the edge of the bed. She must have heard something, because she felt under her pillow for the revolver she always kept there at night. She was scared stiff of burglars.”

“‘
Oh, it’s you
!’ she said, on seeing Cécile. ‘
Why aren’t you asleep
?
I suppose you’ve been spying on me
…’ ”

“‘
Listen, Aunt…Earlier tonight, I asked you for a little money for Gérard, or rather for his wife, who is expecting a baby.
’ ”

“‘
Go back to bed
!’ ”

“‘
You’re a rich woman…I know that now…You’ve got to listen to me…Gérard will kill himself if
…’ ”

“‘
Is that good-for-nothing brother of yours here
?’ ”

“My aunt, still holding the revolver, tried to stand up. Cécile was so scared, she went up to her and seized her by the arm…”

“‘
You’ve got to give me some money
!’ ”

“Aunt Juliette fell back on the bed. She struggled to reach the revolver, which had slipped out of her hand. And it was then that my sister seized her by the throat.”

“In cold blood!” Maigret’s voice rang out with unwonted resonance.

Yes, he had been wrong. There had been no commotion. Cécile had not lost her head. If ever there was a sheep in human form, it had been Cécile. For years and years she had been submissive without even realizing it, meekness came to her so naturally. It had not taken much, just the sight of that pile of bills, to make her realize the extent to which her aunt had duped and exploited her.

“Go on, my boy.”

“For a long time, we sat in silence.…At one point Cécile left me, to make sure that Aunt Juliette was really dead.”

“When at last she did speak, it was to say: ‘The police will have to be told…’ ”

In Maigret’s office, too, there was a long silence. The gray dusk was pierced only by the green-shaded desk light, which revealed the features of the two men in sharp relief. The only sound was the sputter of a pipe.

Maigret could picture the brother and sister together in the apartment, in that great house abutting on the Route Nationale, overwhelmed and utterly stunned by what had happened. And in the apartment below, Monsieur Charles, panic-stricken, able to hear everything, even the faintest whisper.

“
If I were to go up now
…”

And Cécile, looking thoughtfully at her brother. The police were never going to believe that he had taken no part in the murder. Both were sick at heart, and as exhausted as if they had been running for hours.

Should she try and get him out of the house? But that would mean asking the concierge to release the catch, and she would be bound to look out through the spyhole to see who it was leaving the house at this late hour. The brother and sister started as all the clocks in the apartment chimed the hour.

“
Listen, Gérard…I’ll go and see Chief Superintendent Maigret first thing in the morning…I’ll tell him everything.
…
And, while the concierge is out in the yard collecting the garbage cans, you can safely slip out of here and go home.
”

A strange vigil, indeed! They were utterly cut off from the rest of the world. Their plight conjured up a picture of refugees squatting on the ground, surrounded by bundles, in station waiting rooms or on board ship.

“Which one of you,” inquired Maigret, relighting his pipe, “thought of the idea of opening the desk and examining the papers?”

“It was Cécile…But that was much later. She had just made coffee for the two of us. I was still pretty dazed…We were sitting in the kitchen, and she suddenly whispered:

‘
Supposing that man should come back
…’ ”

“And she went on: ‘
Well, I did tell the Chief Superintendent that someone had been coming up to the apartment at night…But he wouldn’t believe me
…
And now
…”

Maigret stared at the unadorned rectangle of the window and bit on the stem of his pipe.

“‘
Heaven knows what he may do while we’re out.
…’ ”

Whereupon Cécile had calmly suggested removing the papers from the desk. It had never crossed her mind to take the money and run, or even to give some of it to her brother in his dire need.

“Did you look through the papers yourself?” asked the Chief Superintendent.

“Yes.”

At this point, Maigret got up and went across to the door of the little side office, which he had already pushed open a few minutes before.

“I think you had better join us in here, Monsieur Dandurand…What we are about to discuss chiefly concerns you.”

For it was none other than Monsieur Charles installed in the adjoining office under the watchful eye of an inspector. He cut rather a sorry figure, stripped of his collar and tie and even his shoelaces. He had not shaved for two days. His hands hung down in front of him, joined at the wrists by handcuffs.

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you a chair. I’m sorry, you must be very tired.”

Gérard sprang to his feet, suspecting a trap.

“What on earth…?”

“Calm down, Pardon…Carry on with what you were saying…I want Monsieur Dandurand to hear your story…You had reached the point where you and your sister were together in the sitting room, looking through the papers in your aunt’s desk. Mostly, I imagine, they related to money matters, bills, receipts, accounts, and that sort of thing.”

“There were some letters as well.”

As he said this, Gérard stole a glance at the former lawyer, as if fearful, in spite of the handcuffs, that he might assault him.

“Love letters, were they not?”

At this, the former lawyer intervened:

“One moment! May I ask if this is by way of being a confrontation?”

“You might call it that, Monsieur Dandurand.”

“In that case, I should be obliged if you would permit me to call my lawyer…Indeed, I insist. It is my right under the law…”

“What is your lawyer’s name?”

“Maître Planchard.”

“Torrence! Torrence!” shouted Maigret. “Call Maître Planchard, will you? One moment, though.…At this hour I should think he must be in court.”

“He’s in Court Eleven,” interposed Monsieur Charles.

“Go across to Court Eleven, and bring him here. If his case is still in progress, tell him to ask for an adjournment…at my request.”

For the next half hour or so, complete silence reigned in Maigret’s office, during which time the slightest movement was as audible as the plop of a pebble in a pond.

“Take a seat, Maître Planchard.…I had better tell you frankly at the outset that it is my present intention to apply to the Examining Magistrate for a warrant for the arrest of your client on a charge of premeditated murder. Pay attention, Pardon…Just now you referred to certain love letters. If I am not mistaken, these letters date back some fifteen years.”

“I don’t know…None of them was dated.”

The lawyer smiled triumphantly and seemed on the point of adopting a tone of forensic belligerency. But Maigret forestalled him by addressing himself to Spencer Oats:

“You recall our visit to the ugly little town hall in Bourg-la-Reine?”

Then, turning to Gérard:

“What was in those letters? No, wait…We’d better get one important point clear first…Am I right in thinking that your sister took the letters so seriously that she made up her mind to hand them over to me when she came here, to police headquarters, to give herself up? She put them in her bag, did she not, along with all the other papers from the desk?”

“Yes.”

“In that case,” interposed the lawyer, turning to Maigret, “I’d be obliged if you would produce these documents.”

“Let us take our time, Maître.”

At this, Maigret noted, an ambiguous smile played about Monsieur Charles’s lips.

“You’re not out of the wood yet, Dandurand!…Oh! I’m well aware that those all-too-compromising letters fell into your hands, and that you destroyed them…
But don’t forget that, while I was engaged on the telephone in your apartment, you seized the opportunity to go upstairs and into Madame Boynet’s bedroom
…Now then, Gérard, let’s have the rest of your story. First of all, tell us how the writer of the letters addressed the recipient.”

“They all began: ‘My darling…’ ”

It seemed, all of a sudden, as if Maigret was enjoying himself.

“Sorry to interrupt you again, but I feel I owe an explanation to my American colleague…I shouldn’t like him to get any wrong ideas about how love affairs are conducted in France, and I would therefore wish to point out that, when those letters were written, Madame Boynet was fifteen years younger. Even though she was no longer in the first flush of youth, she was, nevertheless, a very different person from the dreadful old fright hobbling on a cane that she was to become in her later years…How many letters were there, Gérard?”

“About thirty…Most of them were just notes…‘
Tomorrow, at three…usual place…love and kisses…Yours
…’ ”

“Any signature?”

“They were all signed ‘C’.”

Monsieur Charles, who had not been invited to sit down, never took his eyes off the young man. His face was ashen, but he was still very much in command of himself.

“A mere initial doesn’t prove anything,” objected Maître Planchard. “If these letters are produced in evidence, I shall enlist the services of a handwriting expert.”

“They will not be produced in evidence…
At least, not those letters.
…Go on, Gérard. Some of the letters were longer, were they not?”

“There were four or five that were…”

“Tell us about them.”

“In one of them, I remember he wrote: ‘
Be brave
!
Remember, your deliverance is at hand, and in a few weeks’ time, we shall have peace at last.
’ ”

Maître Planchard sniggered:

“Are you suggesting that she was pregnant?”

“No, sir! I am suggesting that here was a woman with two men in her power, her husband and her lover. This letter was written by her lover.”

“Was her husband ill, is that what you are saying?”

“That’s what we shall have to find out. Go on, my boy.”

And Gérard, uncomfortably aware that he was the focus of all eyes, stammered:

“In another letter he wrote: ‘
You see, he doesn’t suspect a thing…Be patient
!
I think it would be wiser for us not to meet for the time being…On the present dose, there will be a delay of at least a fortnight. It would be too risky to attempt to hasten the outcome
.’ ”

“I don’t understand!” exclaimed the lawyer, with a little cough.

“That’s just too bad, Maître…”

“And besides, I’m still waiting for you to produce the documents under discussion. Permit me to say that I consider it most unwise of you to proceed on the basis…”

Whereupon Maigret, very bland and suave, broke in:

“If you insist, I am prepared to order the exhumation of the late Joseph Boynet and institute tests on what remains of him after fifteen years…You are no doubt aware, Maître, that most poisons, especially poisons such as arsenic, which can be administered in very small quantities, leave traces which remain in the body for a very long time after…”

He was interrupted by Torrence, with the list he had asked for of everyone who had visited police headquarters on the morning of Cécile’s murder.

Y
ou must be tired of standing, Dandurand…Torrence! Bring in another chair. Monsieur Charles is looking a bit shaky.”

“You are mistaken, Chief Superintendent…I’m still waiting for you to produce so much as a shred of evidence…”

“Give me a chance! In view of the fact that your legal adviser, Maître Planchard, never met old Juliette, I feel it only right that I should give him a brief description of the lady…Don’t you agree, Maître Planchard?”

The lawyer assented with a slight nod, and lit a cigarette.

“Juliette Cazenove, as she then was, growing up in the township of Fontenay-le-Comte, became Dandurand’s mistress at a very early age.…It created quite a scandal locally. Monsieur Dandurand, at that time, did not yet have any convictions for the corruption of minors…He was very much younger in those days, and not unattractive, I assume. All the same, when the opportunity of making a good match presented itself in the person of Joseph Boynet, Juliette, the child of impoverished parents, didn’t hesitate. She even went so far as to sacrifice her sister by appropriating her dowry to add to her own…”

“What sort of life did she envisage for herself in Paris as the wife of a prosperous building contractor? Who can tell?”

“She went to live in Bourg-la-Reine.…A jealous husband…a dull existence…certainly not luxurious…”

“Years passed…Back in Fontenay her former lover, Monsieur Dandurand, grew older but did not outgrow his taste for young girls, which later developed into a passion for very young girls…”

“But we won’t go into that, if you don’t mind. A two-year prison sentence…Nothing much, really…”