Death Threats

3

Maigret looked at his watch. It was exactly two o'clock, and consequently four more hours to pass in an immobility rather similar to that of a railway journey. Only one could not count on the procession of the landscape, which remained obstinately the same one, nor on the pleasures of conversation.

Émile Grosbois, one felt, in spite of his apparent calm, was filled with fear and, as time passed, he folded up even more on himself, as if exposing less of himself would make it harder for his fate to catch up with him.

Françoise was sewing. You felt she was a woman able to pass her entire life fussing over trifles, finding a kind of pleasure in her own misfortune. Every five minutes, she raised her head and sighed, looked at each one around her, like a beaten dog, sighed again, and took up her sewing once more. Occasionally she'd utter a few words, for herself only, as those who live long hours in loneliness. "It's not possible that the world is so evil!" About what did she speak? Who? Of the assassin or Émile Grosbois? And a little later, "Nobody would dare to enter with the police here."

Babette, on her part, was furious to be torn away from her kitchen. She'd been told to sit down, but, during one hour at least, as a protest, she'd remained standing, perfectly straight, like a statue of a bad mood.

As for Éliane, she'd been wiser. Taking the cushions of the unoccupied armchairs, she'd arranged them in a corner of the terrace and had stretched out, eyes closed, in a patch of sun.

Her brother was less philosophical, and it was he who worried the Chief Inspector. Indeed, the hour of his drug had passed, and the young man started to fidget, to have nervous twitches which, presently, could well finish in a crisis.

There remained Oscar, who tried to animate the conversation. "You'll allow me to deliver my opinion? I am not a specialist in these questions, like Chief Inspector Maigret. However, common sense is enough to show that we are all taking a joke for reality."

A frozen glance from his brother. A sharper one from Maigret.

"For, all things considered, what is it all about? About an almost childish letter based on… romanticism! Do assassins usually inform their victims of their plans? Since we've been asked, let us remain together, in this place, until six o'clock, but… let's not take the thing as a tragedy, otherwise we will soon be forced to make fun of ourselves."

"Was it you who was threatened?" asked his brother curtly.

Oscar retorted while laughing, "Well, it's me almost as much as you! From a distance it is hardly possible distinguish us one from the other. And since the assassin, if there exists one, will shoot from a distance…"

Maigret intervened gently, "Why do you say shoot?"

And the other, surprised, "But… I don't know. Generally, a crime is done with a revolver, or a rifle." Badly at ease, he stammered, "For I suppose that no one will come onto this terrace, a knife in his hand, to stab my brother."

A grimace from Émile, who uncrossed his legs and recrossed them on the other side. A sigh from Françoise.

2:30… 3:00… Éliane had fallen asleep, very white in her dress which sculpted her body, and which a breeze sometimes made quiver, uncovering a little the bronzed flesh of her thighs.

A train… Later, on the Seine, a tug and its barges.

Suddenly, at 3:30, an unexpected action by Émile, proving that he really was afraid. With a jerky movement indicating that he'd resisted temptation for a long time, he suddenly rose and poured himself a full glass of cognac. His brother was amazed, his sister too. He looked at them sternly. He articulated, "Still two and a half hours!" A little later beads of sweat shone on his face and his lower lip quivered.

"You really think I couldn't do the dishes?"

Oscar silenced her with a gesture, and Maigret smiled at the memory of the morning scene which had finally revealed to him the vice of the second Grosbois.

On the Seine, for all those who canoed, sailed, or bathed joyously, for the fishermen attentive to the quiverings of their floats and for the lovers of napping in the reeds, the hours raced by terribly quickly. But on the terrace of the Grosbois villa, the minutes lengthened implacably, ran one after another as one hears sometimes, in the night, after an interminable time, the drip of a badly turned-off faucet.

God knows that Maigret, who in his career had seen just about everything, was difficult to astonish! However, in fact, it was not astonishment, but rather nausea, revulsion. It seemed to him that these people here, to whom chance had brought him, wasted, almost with pleasure, the beautiful things, the beautiful life, the infinite possibilities. Couldn't Oscar, for example, have found other pleasures than only those of the indifferent scorn Babette subjected him to? Couldn't Henri have been a young man like another and enjoyed without concern the most beautiful part of his life? Only Éliane…

"They're crazy!" he concluded. "It is so rare to meet someone who can live!"

There was, waiting here, someone in the family circle who had decided to kill! Would this someone, in spite of everything, be able to carry out his threat? Suddenly another thought struck the Chief Inspector, a terrifying thought! If the crime did not take place, Émile, the following day, would go forth again to his city councilman or other high-ranking person. He would claim that his life continued to be threatened and he would obtain… Yes! If the crime did not take place, there was a terrible chance that Maigret would be attached for an unspecified time to the steps of the man and his confounded family! Provided… Maigret did not ask for the death of Émile, but he wished that something would happen which would put an end to the anguish of the man!

"A question," he said in a loud voice. "Does a train pass here around six o'clock?"

"No. There's an express at 4:47 and a local at 7:05."

An idea like another! A rather stupid idea, all things considered. To shoot at Émile Grosbois, it would be necessary that he was in his garden during the passage of the train.

"I had thought of that too," Françoise sighed. "I was even going to propose that we go back in. You don't find it getting cool?"

"Not at all."

It was hot. Maigret looked with a certain discomfort at Éliane's neck, the skin glistening with a light dew among the small golden hairs. What wasted time! And that because of a man, or rather of two unattractive men!

At 4:00, or a little afterwards, Émile took another drink of brandy and, as he was not accustomed to it, his eyes soon betrayed the beginning of intoxication.

"Should I prepare tea?" proposed Babette, who was obviously bored.

"Not yet. We had a late lunch."

"And dinner? You really believe that dinner will be ready, with all this nonsense?

"Silence!" came the subdued voice of Émile.

"Fine! I'll keep silent! Presently, you won't have to grumble if…"

"Silence!"

"No need to shout so. One never saw…"

"Silence!" he howled while standing up. "You forget that perhaps I will die. I know that that would please you all. Yes! I know it and you hardly hide it. But…"

He lost his track suddenly, probably the influence of the alcohol.

"… the Chief Inspector is here, you understand? So that the assassin will not escape punishment! Maybe you are bored. It is a lost afternoon. But you will acknowledge that that is better than a corpse. Silence!"

Oscar looked at Maigret and raised his eyes skyward. "Completely insane!" he seemed to say.

Françoise trembled with each shout, as if she herself had been threatened. Éliane raised her head, batted her eyelids, lowered her dress a little on her thighs almost stripped by the breeze, and, indifferent, found again a comfortable position, and tried to sleep.

"I will not only tolerate, in our house…"

Émile, not finding a suitable phrase to be used as an element of his anger, was going to have to calm himself when, to the shock of everyone except Maigret, who had been expecting it for a few minutes, Henri rose, pale, his lips trembling. It was already some time since his nostrils had become pinched, his fingers agitatedly gripping.

"You're insane!" he screamed. "You hear? You, my crazy uncle, nothing will prevent me from saying to you that you're insane and a brute! As for me, I'll not remain a minute more in this house! I've had enough of it! Enough! Enough!"

His mother did not look up, remained without reaction as though in a stupor. Émile looked at his nephew as if wondering whether he had any sense left at all.

"Henri!" he shouted.

"Merde!"

"Henri! I want… I order…"

Much too late! The young man had already left the terrace, crossing the garden with jerky steps, undoubtedly continuing his tirade to himself. One could almost believe that Émile was going to run after him and that the scene would finish in a grotesque one. Instead, he blustered, "Chief Inspector, you are witness. I ask you to arrest that young man, to prevent him from leaving."

Maigret did not move.

"I summoned you…"

"Excuse me," murmured Maigret calmly. "We are here in the Seine-et-Oise, you know. The Chief pointed out to you that my role, outside the jurisdiction of the P. J., is limited to that of protection. Even in Paris, I would not have any reason to arrest your nephew merely because he said merde to you.".

"Very well! Very well! Very well!"

He fumed. He automatically took a drink and, forgetting that it was cognac, swallowed a great mouthful which made him choke.

"Babette! Babette!"

"I am here, Monsieur."

"Prepare the tea. Everything you need is on the terrace isn't it? I don't want anyone else to leave."

He had to wipe his brow, to take a breath. Then he looked at his watch and wiped his brow again, for it was nearly 5:00.

"Calm yourself," advised his brother.

An unpleasant glance, his lips half opened for a new burst of anger, but closed again without his spouting out a word.

"If you'd only let people sleep!" sighed Éliane without opening her eyes.

On the table from which lunch had not been cleared, Babette lit an alcohol stove to boil the water for tea. Maigret smoked without respite, swearing to himself never to accept a similar mission and to be wary from now on of rag merchants and unmarried twins.

"If something happens to me, Chief Inspector, I must to say to you…

Maigret wanted, like the young man, to say simply "Merde!" That he didn't do so was painful.

"… that you will have to answer to public opinion about…"

"… about your death, I know! But I will point out to you that you made all your provisions without consulting me at all."

"They are not adequate?"

"I didn't say that."

"What would you have done?"

"The question is no longer meaningful, since there remain only fifty minutes."

The closer the hour approached the more Émile became nervous, contracted, wary, aggressive. "When I think that someone in my family…"

"Why necessarily someone of your family?"

"Because they hate me! Because they've always hated me!"

It was like those persons who put on a grand show during the whole of their lives but who, with the approach of death, lose all shame, begging to confess themselves to the first passer-by.

"A simple detail! I've thought well about the question! The letter was made up using words and letters cut out of newspapers which we regularly receive in this house."

"I suppose that no other people receive them?" Maigret had really had enough. His contempt was such that he would have been able, like Henri, to leave without awaiting the end of this nauseating meeting.

"Sugar, Françoise!"

"It's in the house."

"Go get it. Or rather don't! Chief Inspector, go with her. No!"

He could no longer decide on which precautions to take. He didn't want to see a single person entering the villa. He didn't want to go there himself. He didn't want anything to occur without the possible assistance of Maigret.

"We will take the tea without sugar."

"But…" protested his brother.

"Silence! Is it me, yes or no, who is expecting to be killed?"

Cowardice burst out of him, while around him there was only spinelessness. Françoise served the tea, sniffling constantly, a true maniac of the tearful life.

The only one who remained calm was Oscar, who benefited from a pause to exclaim, "I am sure that nothing will happen. It's nothing but a bad joke." And to his brother who looked at him savagely, "You would have done better to listen to me, to leave for the mountains where I've found a good spot. A few weeks of rest. Moreover, it is not too late."

5:20. The swimming continued in the Seine. Éliane, her eyes always closed, inflated her chest with each breath, dreaming perhaps of the joys that this day had refused to her.

"Again?"

"Leave me alone."

Émile, as he had done the day before, chose a capsule from his pillbox, where not more than three remained, and swallowed it with a mouthful of tea.

"You'll make yourself sick by believing yourself sick," thundered his brother. "Whereas a little rest…"

Why the devil did he want to drive his brother away from Paris? Why did he so obstinately want to make him believe that he needed a cure in a convalescent home, a cure which could easily have its epilogue in a lunatic asylum? Was it because of Babette? Did he simply need more elbow room? Had the maid decided to marry him and he feared only the veto of Émile?

In place of sugar, Maigret poured some cognac into his tea, for he almost wanted to get drunk not to think any more of all this dirtiness.

5:30…

Maigret was astonished by sudden calm of Émile Grosbois and he observed that he was very pale in his armchair, a hand on his chest, his pupils dilated.

"Does your brother have a heart disorder?" he whispered to Oscar.

"He believes so. That's what he's always worried about."

At that moment they heard a groan, that of Émile who slumped imperceptibly in his armchair.

Maigret leapt up. "An emetic! Quickly!" he shouted.

"There is nothing in the house."

"Anything! Wait… A hen or pigeon feather…"

For Émile was no longer moving. He was bloodless, without a quiver, no sign of life.

"A spoon! Quickly, damn it!"

And Maigret went at it, using a spoon to loosen the rag merchant's teeth, inserting the feather that Babette had brought him into his throat.

"Damnation!" he cursed.

It was his turn to speak, his alone to command, "Just spit it up! Spit it up if you don't want to die!"

He abused the victim in vain, extremely anxious none the less, and he hardly noted the stupor which marked the features of Oscar.

"Hold him up! Chest forward… Yes, like that… But don't let go, idiot!"

Those are minutes during which one does not have time to reflect, nor to think. One acts automatically, according to his reflexes. Those of Maigret were good, happily for Émile Grosbois, who ended up losing his attitude of a statue of salt, became animated, coughed, and finally vomited up all that he could.

"A doctor! You, Éliane! Run to get a doctor."

6:00! The bells sounded ironically in the very small church close by.

"Keep tickling the back of his throat, so he'll throw up everything he has in him."

It was almost revenge to see Grosbois, folded in two, held up by two solid hands, coughing, the long strings of dribble under his chin.