The Hatter's Ghosts, page 13
That was all. For the rest, it was a chance he had to take, and he was confident. What worried him most was Kachoudas’ illness. Twice, he caught Madame Kachoudas at the window opposite, looking in the direction of the hat shop.
Had the little tailor told her anything? Had he simply asked her:
‘What’s Monsieur Labbé doing?’
Might he be delirious? And if he felt seriously ill, wouldn’t he send for a priest?
He felt like going to see him. It was almost impossible. Doing that would be out of character with their official relationship.
All the same, the thought lingered in a corner of his mind.
‘I’ll probably be back in half an hour, Valentin. I don’t think my wife will call down.’
‘All right, monsieur.’
He put on his coat and hat and almost destroyed the cello string. He also thought of the string in the cupboard that set off the signal on the first floor. What was the point? If they started searching the house, they would get to the truth anyway.
The sun was already almost warm. The town this morning had a very cheerful look about it. He hadn’t drunk anything. He had made sure he didn’t drink. He had barely felt like it.
He cut across Place d’Armes to Rue Réaumur and the building where Pigeac had his office. It wasn’t a real office block but a very large, handsome private house that had only recently been turned into offices. On the ground floor was the social security office, staffed mainly by young women.
He climbed to the first floor. A door was open. Three men were busy there, surrounded by thick smoke. The stove wasn’t working properly and was driving all the smoke out into the room – they had had to open the windows which looked out on the courtyard. Pigeac sat waiting on the edge of his desk, in his hat and coat.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘The hatter!’
‘Good morning, Monsieur Pigeac.’
A second door led to a bathroom, where they had left the bathtub, merely installing shelves that were full of files.
Monsieur Labbé coughed because of the smoke. Pigeac was also coughing, and his two inspectors were battling with the stove.
‘Please forgive me for seeing you like this. I’ve been asking for the chimney to be swept for two weeks now and nothing’s been done. Shall we go out on the landing?’
It wasn’t impressive – quite the contrary.
‘To what do we owe this pleasant surprise, Monsieur Labbé?’
‘I fear, inspector, it may not be so pleasant. But to be honest, I’m not sure. I may be worrying unduly.’
He was sure enough of himself to fine-tune his words.
‘I’m sure I’m not the first person to bother you unnecessarily since the recent events. Like everyone, I have a maid, a country girl, from Charron, to be precise. I believe you’re aware of my wife’s state of health – she hasn’t wanted to see anyone for years, and never leaves her room. Until recently, because of that, the maid slept outside, in a room I’d rented on Place du Marché.’
Pigeac was listening to him, watching him closely, even quite insistently, but that was the way he looked at everyone: he thought it made him seem more important. The prattling of the young secretaries could be heard downstairs in the social security office.
None of this seemed serious.
‘When these murders started terrifying the population, this Louise asked me for permission to sleep in the house, so as not to have to go out after nightfall. Despite my wife’s revulsion, I was forced to agree, or else she would have left us.’
‘Has she been sleeping in the house for long?’
‘About three weeks. If my memory serves me well, it started just after the death of Madame Cujas.’
‘Does she sleep on the same floor as you?’
‘Yes, on the first floor, in a little room that looks out on the courtyard. Last night, at about nine o’clock – I couldn’t be very specific, because I was busy tending to my wife – I heard her go downstairs. I thought perhaps she had left something in the kitchen, or that she was going to make herself a hot drink.’
‘Did she often do that?’
‘No. In fact, that’s why I started to get worried. I went down myself and didn’t see her. I noticed the door was unbolted, and that’s how I knew she’d gone out, because I’d bolted the door before going up.’
‘And she hasn’t come back?’
‘No. Not last night, and not this morning. I waited for her until quite late. Today, I found her room just as it was yesterday. The bed hadn’t been slept in.’
‘Has she taken her things?’
‘I don’t think so. I saw two suitcases and some dresses in the wardrobe.’
‘Was she a sensible girl?’
‘She’s never given me reason for complaint.’
‘Was this the first time she’d been out in the evening?’
‘Since she’d been living with us, yes.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
Pigeac went back into the office, which was still grey with smoke, and said a few words to his inspectors. Then he let Monsieur Labbé go ahead of him on the stairs. He was polite, but cold. In the street, he put the hatter on his right, perhaps without thinking.
‘Do you know her family?’
‘All I know is that her parents are small farmers in Charron. She went to see them every Sunday, leaving in the morning and coming back in the evening.’
‘At what time?’
‘On the bus that gets to Place d’Armes at nine o’clock. I’d invariably hear her come in at about five past nine.’
They passed the Café des Colonnes, where Gabriel, who was rubbing the windowpanes with chalk, waved to them.
They had fallen into step with each other. It was a strange sensation, for Monsieur Labbé, to be crossing the town like this in the company of the inspector. He needed to be natural and not talk too much.
It was Pigeac who said:
‘Maybe she’ll be back by the time we get there.’
‘It’s quite possible. If it wasn’t for what’s been happening these past few weeks, I wouldn’t have bothered you.’
‘You did the right thing.’
That was it. Above all, he mustn’t worry. There were ninety chances out of a hundred that things would continue just as simply. Yet, when Monsieur Labbé saw Kachoudas’ house from a distance, a troubling thought crossed his mind.
The little tailor wasn’t there to see him, but his wife could quite possibly spot the two men. Was she up? She couldn’t have rested long. That wasn’t those people’s style. Esther too might recognize Pigeac, whose photograph had appeared several times in the newspaper and who must have occasionally gone to Prisunic.
It would only take someone to say to Kachoudas:
‘The inspector has just gone into the hatter’s …’
It was important not to forget the twenty-thousand-franc reward. Despite his fever, the little tailor might get worried and perhaps even try to pre-empt things.
‘Please come in, inspector.’
The heat immediately enveloped them. Monsieur Labbé was used to it, just as he was used to the dim lighting throughout the house, and the smells. Was the smell unusual enough for Pigeac to start sniffing hard?
‘Valentin, my assistant. He got here at nine, as usual. He doesn’t know anything.’
Monsieur Pigeac advanced, his hands in his pockets, his cigarette stuck to his lower lip.
‘I assume you want to see her room?’
Pigeac didn’t say either yes or no but followed the hatter up the spiral staircase.
‘This is my wife’s room. She hasn’t left it in fifteen years.’
Monsieur Labbé was speaking in a low voice, and Pigeac did the same. It was curious: he seemed a little disgusted, as the hatter would have been, for example, smelling the odours of the Kachoudas household.
‘This way.’
They walked along the corridor, and Monsieur Labbé opened the maid’s door.
‘Here we are. I could have put her on the second floor, where there are some big rooms available, but you can only get up there from outside, and it wouldn’t have been practical.’
Pigeac looked around self-importantly. He took a hand from his pocket and opened the wardrobe. He hadn’t taken his hat off. He negligently touched a candy pink dress, a fairly worn black velvet skirt and two white blouses on hangers. There was a pair of varnished shoes on the floor, and at the foot of the bed, on the rug, some old slippers, bent out of shape and ready to be thrown away.
‘So she didn’t take her things.’
‘As you can see.’
As long as he opened the drawer in the night table and found the photograph in the box with the shells!
He did.
‘Have you ever seen this young man around here?’
Monsieur Labbé pretended to examine the picture with interest.
‘To be honest, I don’t remember. No.’
‘Did you know she had a boyfriend?’
‘No. I didn’t really have much to do with her. She was quite withdrawn, even grumpy.’
‘I’ll take this photograph with me.’
He slipped it into his wallet, then tried the key on the two suitcases. It didn’t open either of them. Could it have been the key to a wardrobe in Charron?
‘I’m grateful to you, Monsieur Labbé.’
He went downstairs. In the shop, he paused.
‘I think perhaps I should take a glance at the kitchen. Girls like that stick their things all over the place.’
At this time of day, the dining room was darker than the rest of the house, and the inspector appeared really disgusted.
‘Is this it?’ he asked, entering the cubby hole that served as a kitchen.
He didn’t find anything.
‘Can I offer you a drink? I have an excellent white wine in the cellar.’
‘No, thank you.’
He didn’t make any comment. That was his style. Monsieur Labbé didn’t make any either. He was perfectly calm, perfectly natural.
‘I assume I don’t have to inform her family, that you’ll take care of that?’
‘That reminds me – what’s her surname?’
‘Chapus. Louise Chapus.’
He scribbled the name in his notebook, closed the book with an elastic band and buttoned up his overcoat before leaving. Only poor Valentin was upset. When the glass door closed, he watched Pigeac walk away and asked:
‘Does he think she’s been strangled?’
‘He doesn’t know any more than we do.’
A strange day. Everything was clear, light and sparkling, and yet a kind of slight veil lingered over people and things.
‘Has madame called down?’
‘No, monsieur.’
He went upstairs. Not even bothering to look at the bed, under which the body still lay, he walked over to the window. At that very moment, the doctor’s grey car drew up at the kerb. Madame Kachoudas, who had heard it, rushed to the stairs.
Esther was shaking her little brother, who was crying, and pointing insistently at the back of the apartment, presumably repeating that he shouldn’t make any noise because of their father.
The doctor was there for a long time. Water was put on to boil in the kitchen, probably to prepare an injection. As the doctor, having returned from the bedroom, spoke to her, Madame Kachoudas sniffed and wiped her eyes several times with her handkerchief.
On the writing desk, the hatter caught sight of the pages he had written the previous evening. He grabbed them and tore them up, then went over to the fireplace and burned them.
Valentin, who lived with his mother, quite far from town, was in the habit of bringing his lunch in an iron can; he would heat his coffee in a little percolator on the gas stove in the shop and eat alone in the backroom, most often reading a sports magazine.
Monsieur Labbé wondered whether he should make himself something to eat, finally made up his mind and put on his coat and hat.
‘I’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour.’
He headed for Place du Marché, where there were several small restaurants. He chose one where you had to go down a step and where the service was provided by a tall brunette in a white apron who knew all her customers. These included two or three employees from the town hall and the post office, a notary’s clerk and an old maid who worked in a travel agency.
He chose his table carefully, not for one day, but as if he were planning to become a regular customer. The menu was written on a slate, and there was a varnished wooden rack for the regulars’ napkins.
Actually, it was the first time in fifteen years that he had eaten in a restaurant. The owner looked at him in some surprise and came over to his table.
‘What brings you here, monsieur?’
He might have forgotten his name, but he knew he owned the hat shop in Rue du Minage.
‘I find myself without a maid today.’
‘Henriette!’ the man called, turning to the waitress.
He added:
‘We have veal cutlets with sorrel and, for a little extra, Burgundy snails.’
‘I’ll have some snails.’
It was a pleasant sensation. He felt as if he were dangling. There was something light and floating in him. The people, the voices, the objects: none of it seemed quite real to him.
‘A bottle of Beaujolais?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Beaujolais, Henriette.’
It was good. It was very good, even. Louise’s cooking was tasteless. He almost had another dozen snails, and it wasn’t until he got to the cheese course that he remembered that Mathilde was supposed to eat too.
‘Tell me, Henriette …’
Everyone called the waitress by her first name.
‘I’d like to take something away for my wife’s lunch. Would you have some kind of container?’
‘I’ll go and see.’
She spoke to the owner, who disappeared and came back with two small, enamelled cooking pots which slotted together and were equipped with handles.
‘Will this do?’
Sunlight played on his table. There were no tablecloths, or rather there were sheets of embossed paper that were changed with each new customer, after which they were thrown into a basket in the corner.
‘Would she like some snails too?’
Why not? He would eat them. He walked back home from the restaurant carrying the two pots by the handle. It was amusing.
‘Has madame called down?’
‘No, monsieur.’
He went upstairs and threw away the cutlet, the bread and the sautéed potatoes, but ate the snails without thinking for a moment that Louise was still there. He thought it best, in fact, not to think about her, because of the task awaiting him that night.
In Kachoudas’ shop, the tailor’s wife was explaining the situation to a customer, her gestures apologetic. The customer looked aggrieved. He had probably been promised his suit for today, and the suit wasn’t ready – it might have been the one that could be seen, without sleeves or lining, on the tailor’s table.
Monsieur Labbé felt a little drowsy but didn’t sleep. As he worked on his hats, he thought a lot about Kachoudas. He missed his neighbour. Why did he have a sense that some kind of injustice was being done to the man – moreover, an injustice he himself, Monsieur Labbé, was committing? He would have liked to go and see him.
It seemed to him that he could have reassured him, comforted him. He even had an idea at the back of his mind, an idea that was increasingly taking shape.
Basically, Kachoudas was entitled to the twenty-thousand-franc reward. He was seriously ill. He must be worried. What would his family do if he died? His wife would be forced to clean houses. And what about the four-year-old boy? And the girls, who would be back from school at four?
Monsieur Labbé had money. He could easily withdraw twenty thousand francs from his bank or use the notes that were in the old wallet.
Actually handing the money over would be more difficult. But was it impossible? If he went over there, the two of them would probably be left on their own. He could simply slip the notes into the little tailor’s hand.
That would be an excellent thing. It was too late to go to the bank. He would do it tomorrow morning. He had time to think before then.
An old van was drawing up outside the hat shop. The driver, who was dressed like a village blacksmith, remained behind the wheel, while another man got out. He looked young, with droopy ginger moustaches and sharp eyes. He opened the door. Valentin advanced towards him.
‘I want to see the manager.’
And, when Monsieur Labbé had come forwards:
‘I’m Louise’s father.’
He couldn’t have been more than forty. He had been drinking, either at home or on the way here: his breath smelled of wine.
‘So she left, just like that?’
The police had already been to Charron. The man had got one of his neighbours to give him a lift into town.
‘Have you kept her things?’
‘They’re still in her room.’
‘Good. Good. I’ve come to fetch them.’
He hadn’t taken his cap off. He even spat on the floor, a jet of yellow saliva: he was chewing tobacco. He seemed to have come with hostile intentions, but the peace and quiet of the house had an effect on him.
‘So this is where she spent her week, is it? And she left just like that, without saying a word?’
‘Without saying a word,’ Monsieur Labbé echoed, leading his visitor to the stairs.
‘Is it true she had a boyfriend?’
As a threatening note had crept into his voice, Monsieur Labbé merely replied:
‘She never told me about him. I haven’t seen him.’
‘Is it your lady who’s crippled?’
‘My wife, yes. I must ask you not to speak too loudly, she’s asleep behind this door.’
Nothing happened. The man piled Louise’s things in the suitcases, and it was the hatter who handed over to him the box with shells that was in the drawer. The farmer was deliberately walking heavily. Perhaps, on leaving Charron, he had announced that he would show those town people a thing or two.
