Original subtitles

Thanks.

What's going on, Janvier?

Well? What's going on?

Nothing. That's just it.

Two weeks of nothing going on.

I hate when it's stop-start like this.

Yes?

- The Quai d'Orsay called. - The Foreign Ministry?

You're sharp this morning.

- The Minister in person? - His chief of staff.

Asking me to send someone, and I quote,

"with requisite clearance."

Clearance for what?

I asked, he yelled.

- What's it about? - No idea, but it's urgent.

Very urgent even.

Ask for...

Mr. Cromière.

- The chief of staff? - No, their point person.

Cormière?

Cromière!

Right away.

MAIGRET AND THE DEAD LOVER

Inspector Maigret.

And Detective Janvier.

Take a seat.

Be warned, it's a sensitive matter.

The victim is prominent.

- "The victim"? - Armand Berthier-Lagès.

I'm sure the name rings a bell.

A peerless ambassador.

- Dead? - Ms. Larrieu...

Miss.

Miss Larrieu is...

How can I put it?

Servant? Housekeeper? Chambermaid?

Anyway, Miss Larrieu served him for 40 years...

46!

46.

She followed him on every posting.

Since he retired, she has lived with him.

Which makes...

12 years?

For 12 years on Rue de Bellechasse.

This morning, taking him his breakfast, she found his room empty.

Mr. Berthier-Lagès was in his study.

Or his corpse was. Multiple bullet wounds.

You didn't call the police?

Miss Larrieu's life in diplomatic...

I asked Miss Larrieu.

I had to tell the Ministry first.

My conscience dictated it.

This morning, at what time?

7:30.

You didn't call a doctor either?

Sir was already cold.

- What's the street number? - 31.

- Is anyone home? - No one.

One moment.

I may inform you Mr. Berthier-Lagès was long retired

and in possession of no state secrets.

There are no grounds to think the motive is political.

Thanks for the clarification.

- Don't go in. - I must...

- Mr. Cormière... - Cromière!

Mr. Cromière, please step back.

- Step back, please. - The Ministry...

The Ministry is no reason to contaminate a crime scene. Back!

You brought him the cognac?

No. His bar's there.

It was habitual?

Yes.

He's stiff.

No kidding.

So we have five impacts.

And no cases.

Call the FSS?

The FSS?

The Forensic Science Service.

Miss Larrieu,

we'll take your fingerprints and run a few other tests.

Mr. Cromière, this involves a swarm of people.

- I get it. - I'll see you out.

- I'll report this to the Ministry. - Be my guest.

Prints on the desk, done?

All done, sir.

What is this for?

When a firearm is discharged, gunpowder is dispersed.

I'm a suspect?

No one is a suspect and everyone is, miss.

You are our only witness so far.

Thank you, ladies.

Finished?

I'd like to see his bedroom and yours.

The bed was like this?

Yes.

Boss?

What's this?

As you can see.

Now your room?

You slept here last night?

Like every night.

You didn't hear anything?

I remove my device in bed.

Your device?

Five gunshots, that makes a lot of noise.

Beg pardon?

Five gunshots, that's a lot of noise.

Who are the neighbors?

Downstairs, a firm of lawyers.

Nobody at night.

And upstairs, a consultancy.

Likewise.

You have a home of your own?

No.

The apartment will be sealed.

Sorry, you must find somewhere else

for the duration of the investigation.

You do understand?

I'm deaf, not an idiot.

Four slugs in the floor.

The first shot, to the head, killed him outright.

Then they plugged the body, picked up the cases and left.

Odd, really.

You were his only employee?

In Paris, yes.

There's another residence?

The house in Saint-Jouars.

In Sologne.

You accompanied him there?

Sometimes. For the summer vacation.

When did you retire last night?

After his dinner, at 8 pm.

After the cognac?

No, before.

Was he expecting visitors?

He didn't mention it.

Would you know if he let one in?

As I told you, when I'm in my room, I hear nothing.

He had evening guests on occasion?

His nephew, mostly.

Where does he live?

67, Rue Jacob.

He's an antiques dealer.

A glass of water?

No need.

He's a Berthier-Lagès?

- Beg pardon. - Is his nephew's name Berthier-Lagès?

No, Mazeron.

Why a different name?

- He's the sister's son. - She lives where?

She died 10 years ago.

He has no children?

- No. - Mazeron was his nearest relative?

As far as I'm aware.

You chose not to inform him?

You didn't tell him?

No.

You don't like him?

That's immaterial.

- They didn't get on? - I didn't say that.

They got on well?

I keep out of that.

When did your service end last night?

He has dinner at 7 pm.

- Answer the question. - I already did.

At 8 pm.

What did you do?

Cleared the table, washed the dishes and went to bed.

And got up at...

6 am, as usual.

You didn't go in his study?

I had no reason to.

Sure you don't need water?

I said no.

How did you start your day?

- I washed. - After that?

- I went to buy croissants. - And then?

I made some coffee, I ate...

Then I went to sir's room with the tray.

And?

Sir wasn't there.

The bed was still made up.

What did you feel?

- Surprise. - Concern?

I don't know. Perhaps.

- No sign of disorder? - No.

And so?

I turned toward the study.

Miss Larrieu?

- I wouldn't wish it on anyone. - What?

What happened to your employer?

What you experienced?

What did you experience?

I was in disarray.

You said he was cold. You touched him?

Yes.

He was ice-cold.

And his head!

Lapointe is on her.

Update me on what she does hour by hour.

Is she hiding something or...

that's her normal?

No idea, but I'd absolutely love a good beer.

- Should I order one? - No thanks, Lucas.

Let's go out for one.

Hello.

Mr. Mazeron?

That's me.

Looking for a particular style?

Inspector Maigret, Paris police. And Detective Janvier.

What is this about?

You're the nephew of Mr. Berthier-Lagès?

Yes.

When did you last see him?

- The night before last, for dinner. - At his house?

An Italian restaurant that I know well.

- Halfway for both. - You live nearby?

Upstairs, why?

Do you have family?

Two daughters.

They live here?

One at college in England, the other with her mother.

Who doesn't live with you?

- We're separated. - Since when?

Several years.

How did your uncle seem at dinner?

Same as ever.

Quite cheery.

- Is he in trouble? - He's dead.

- Hello. - Come back later.

- Around what time? - I can't say, sorry.

- What happened? - He was shot.

- Shot? - Multiple times.

- With a firearm? - As the word implies.

- He had enemies? - Enemies?

Definitely not.

- Where did this happen? - In his home.

Did he own any guns?

He had an automatic.

"Had"? Not anymore?

A souvenir of the Liberation.

He fought heroically, it would seem, despite his tender years.

Was he wealthy?

He lived mostly off his pension. Was it a robbery?

You visited frequently?

Once or twice a month perhaps.

Jacotte surely told you.

- Jacotte? - Sorry. His servant.

Jacqueline Larrieu.

He called her Jacotte. Everyone does.

She hardly seems fond of you.

Or of anyone except him.

If she could, she'd bar visitors completely.

Do you think she could have...

Killed him?

No.

You hesitated.

- It's all so strange. - All what?

All this. Happening now.

It's Wednesday.

- Isn't it? - Yes, and?

The day of the funeral.

"Princess Isabelle de Vuynes, née du Buisson, his wife,

"Duke Philippe de Vuynes, his son, six grandchildren and his whole family

"announce in sadness and hopefulness the death

"of Prince Hubert Honoré Gaëtan de Vuynes..."

Isabelle de Vuynes?

The letters. It's all there.

Smells good.

Stewed veal of loin with carrots.

- White in the fridge. Muscadet. - Bliss.

Yes.

This will go down well.

Easy does it.

Nothing but old folks.

Even the victim's nephew, who's hardly a relic,

looks prematurely aged.

What does he do?

Deals in antiques. He could be one himself.

Looks like a sacristan.

As in?

No idea, but he looks like one.

Let's hope the letters talk.

Letters?

Galore. Over nearly 50 years.

Signed Isi.

"Your dear Isi."

Isi, also known as the Princess de Vuynes,

who buried her husband yesterday.

- A second death? - Yes.

- Due to? - A fall from a horse.

Aged 80. A fancy way to go.

These letters, are they love letters?

Not really.

Anecdotes of daily life, since she wrote every day.

There are thousands of them. Thousands!

But the tone is of a woman in love.

You'll read them all?

Might have to.

And...

Yes?

There's a will?

Hello.

Inspector Maigret, Paris police, to see Mr. Aubonnet.

I would imagine you came to talk about my poor friend.

You would be right.

You've never had gout?

You don't know how lucky you are.

And I'm due to open the will in two days' time.

Tell me,

do you have any leads?

It's precisely the will that...

Inspector, there's the small matter of professional ethics.

I'm not asking you to infringe confidentiality.

No?

What are you asking of me?

Can you tell me without betraying anything

if Princess de Vuynes features in any way in the will?

Nothing in the will

is out of the ordinary.

This whole affair is out of the ordinary.

They are two exceptional people.

I always had the greatest admiration for Armand.

He was not only a client but also a friend?

From our schooldays at Louis Le Grand.

He was already the love of the woman who, 3 years later, became a princess.

But it never stopped him roving.

A ladies' man?

His love for Isi was genuine.

It hurt them to be unable to marry due to her father's veto.

But he had certain needs,

a terrible word but uniquely appropriate.

I never beat about the bush, although he often did.

He and the princess never...

Slept together? I guarantee it.

These old families with their medieval traditions.

The wife's virginity.

Going by her letters, she tolerated his philandering.

As well as those of her husband.

He was also my client.

The prince was?

As I sit before you,

I'll open both wills.

They didn't fear bumping into each other here?

Should they have done so?

They had lots in common.

Similar tastes, including in women.

Listen, one mad story...

For months they had the same girlfriend unbeknownst to each other.

An actress with La Comédie Française.

Don't ask me her name.

The sixties. She's deceased.

Unbeknownst to each other?

They confided in you?

It's who I am.

I'll see him in a moment.

I must conclude our chat.

Sorry, I can't show you out.

And his lady-in-waiting, Miss Larrieu?

She has family?

Not that I know of.

Is she in the will?

She was not forgotten.

That's all I can tell you and it's too much.

Thank you, Mr. Aubonnet.

I hope you find the rascal who did it.

"The rascal who did it."

You saw my report on Miss Larrieu?

Jacotte, yes.

- Negative. - So, not the shooter?

I wouldn't say that.

Residue remains 4 hours on skin.

On garments, longer but...

None on hers.

She washed and changed?

His stomach contained salmon, steamed potatoes...

- A pear. - Steamed?

- Really? - Boiled, who cares!

I like them steamed.

Traces of alcohol.

Maybe one glass of wine and the cognac.

Don't ask which brand.

Organs healthy apart from the perforations.

Slug no.1 pierced the jawbone and zygomatic

shattered the orbital floor and traversed the brain

from south-east to north-west.

We found skull debris on the wall.

Your sandwiches!

- Where? - Just here.

That's the vegetarian one. Enjoy!

Thanks.

Can we stay focused, please?

The other four shots went through the upper left lung,

liver,

shattered the left collar bone, and perforated the spleen.

In which order, I cannot say.

Here.

Yes, Mr. Prosecutor?

The media are doing their job. Likewise here.

Sadly, I have nothing for them or you.

I'm with my team now exploring different hypotheses.

As soon as I have something...

That's right.

Goodbye, Mr. Prosecutor.

- 5 projectiles doesn't add up. - Unless the gun jammed.

Or the killer was interrupted.

Or he saw it was pointless plugging the body.

It was an automatic?

Ballistics confirm that it was.

- And the cases? - No sign of them.

I know. Question is, why pick them up?

We're talking hypotheses.

What if the damaged organs,

lung, liver and spleen,

meant something...

symbolically?

- And the neighborhood canvass? - Nothing.

Nobody heard anything. The building's empty at night.

Berthier-Lagès kept himself to himself.

In the neighborhood,

only the newspaper vendor on Boulevard Saint-Germain knows him.

The old guy regularly took La Revue des Deux Mondes.

He was badly shocked.

Meanwhile, Jacotte?

Since yesterday, she only left her hotel to buy food.

She doesn't seem to eat much.

She made one call from her room today. Guess who to.

The Vuynes house.

Bravo, boss.

The answer, "Madame's unavailable."

- Who's surveilling her? - Baron took over.

Bring her in.

I'll take a beer and a sandwich. Right now.

Ham?

You know what a cylinder is?

Bullets in it.

And it spins.

When you shoot, the cartridge cases

stay in it.

That's a revolver.

With an automatic, we'll explain...

Lucas!

Yes.

Lend me your service pistol.

The magazine is in the grip.

When you shoot with a gun like this,

the cases are ejected laterally, quite far sometimes.

Get a feel of it.

He had one like this?

Not quite, no.

- But automatic? - I think so.

Kept where?

In his bedroom desk.

- It wasn't in a safe? - No.

So accessible to all-comers?

Thanks, Lucas.

When he hired you, how old were you?

28.

You knew he was in love?

I posted his letters.

You never saw the addressee?

She never came in the apartment.

Miss Larrieu, if you could cease deflecting my questions,

it would save us all time.

I ask a simple question, please answer simply.

The question is, did you ever see her?

Yes, I did.

Thank you.

Where?

Outside.

Only ever outside?

I also took letters to her.

We're getting there.

You took those letters secretly?

No, I asked to see her and they showed me in.

She spoke to you?

She might ask questions.

When was this?

Even recently.

Could you be more precise?

About two weeks ago.

What kind of questions?

If he was well.

If he was exercising.

He exercised?

He kept fit.

During his career, you followed him all over.

Yes, all over.

You were never separated?

Only once.

Five months in Cuba.

Why?

A woman insisted.

- A woman? - A dalliance.

She didn't like me.

He rented me an apartment near the legation.

I considered returning to France but the affair ended first.

You took lovers?

And was he yours?

- You won't answer? - My life, my business.

No, miss. Not anymore.

- I can choose silence. - The letters cite you as a mistress.

- You didn't read them? - Never.

The princess freely discusses your employer's adventures.

Even expressing preferences.

It should be forbidden to snoop in a dead man's private mail.

What if the letters lead us to the murderer?

You don't care who killed your boss?

It won't bring him back.

I'll show you out.

See you soon.

- I'll call when I'm back from Geneva. - Fine.

Making headway?

Last time, I didn't ask where you were the night of the murder.

Having dinner at my regular haunt.

Le Petit Saint-Benoît.

From what time?

9 pm.

Home at 10:30.

Did you go out again?

Once I'm in bed, I'm in bed.

I read my bedside book Pascal's Pensées, then lights out.

Was it a robbery?

- I have a right to know. - Apparently not.

Guillaume Courtois.

Venus attempting to prevent Mars from killing Adonis, her lover.

- This painting isn't for sale. - Why not?

- It's my mother. - I see.

Your uncle's sister.

My father painted it in the 60s.

She refused a good match for the aspiring artist.

He ended up restoring paintings.

As a father, what was he like?

- It's of interest to the investigation? - Personal interest.

Strict.

Irascible.

And your mother?

Gentle.

Self-effacing and sad.

Your curiosity is satisfied?

I have here letters from the princess.

If you could clear up a few points...

"Hubert has understood, and I'll be forever grateful,

"that I am yours for eternity."

- You met the prince? - On occasion.

Describe him for me.

A handsome man. And good rider.

Dead after falling off his horse.

It happens.

Even to good riders.

Why did the princess marry him, not your uncle?

She chose obedience to her father over her feelings.

It appears the marriage initially went consummated.

The prince seems to accept it.

With a little brother to perpetuate the family name.

Archaic perhaps but time has no hold on great families.

A little, though.

During the Ardennes offensive in 1944,

the brother is killed, without an heir.

One year later, the princess has a son, Philippe.

She writes to your uncle,

"Thank God, it's a boy!"

It's awkward, your handling the letters here.

Copies. The originals are sealed. And her words?

They speak for themselves.

If the child had been a girl,

the princess would sacrifice herself until there was a male heir. Correct?

Admirable perspicacity.

Did the prince seek consolation outside his frustrating marriage?

Possibly.

The prince and your uncle met?

I'm unsure you can interrogate me in my shop without a warrant.

Warrants are in America. There's no such thing here.

Perhaps you'd prefer an official interrogation at HQ?

If a client comes in...

I've nearly finished.

The prince died 3 days before your uncle, who must have known.

What's your question?

What did that entail for him?

It was a given that, were the prince to die,

my uncle and the princess would marry.

Civil and religious ceremonies.

Fate decided otherwise.

Fate?

Or someone.

- Hello, can I help you? - Mrs. Mazeron?

Charlotte, for you.

Inspector, hello.

Do you mind if we do this upstairs?

Very well.

Ludmilla, tidy the changing room.

It's a complete mess.

I left Normandy and my family at a young age

for a job in a department store, where I met Alain.

As a customer?

I forget what he bought. It was the...

We sold leather goods, purses and accessories.

He came back frequently.

I finally agreed to a dinner date.

He talked to me about Pascal, Plato...

All the men I'd known were...

Anyway.

I was wowed, we married, and Isabelle was born.

And then?

- You lived on Rue Jacob? - Yes.

His uncle was on a posting in Washington.

On leave once, he invited us over.

Rue de Bellechasse. We hit it off immediately.

Was your husband jealous?

He's a suspect?

He's just a jerk who can't crack a smile.

He's a worrier.

His health, his business, his hair.

What people think of him.

I can't leave Ludmilla alone.

She's a sweet kid I took as an intern

but totally clueless on her own if a customer comes in.

- As pale as ever? - Your husband?

Yes, he's pale.

He hurt me.

Hurt you?

That thing the Americans call mental cruelty.

It's grounds for divorce over there.

I won't sue for a divorce he'll contest. Can't afford it.

Anyway, he's off my back now.

He humiliated you?

He couldn't bear what he called mischief.

And I got up to mischief.

The girls too.

His mother was horrible to me.

That jars with his description of her.

A horrible woman.

A monster.

I'm letting it all out.

It doesn't make him a murderer.

How did it end?

Like that.

I'd had it.

One day, you take off, that's all.

It's today.

He saw my suitcase on the bed.

He didn't try to stop you.

He was convinced I'd be back.

That I couldn't get by without him, with two girls.

I was desperate to prove him wrong.

Did you cheat?

- He said I did? - No.

Living with him, I was far too scared.

Not physically, you understand.

You're with someone?

Yes.

One year now.

A doctor.

Who's also separated.

How did you meet?

On...

a dating site.

Your husband pays nothing?

Not for years now.

Supposedly because the girls are grown-ups.

I gave up asking.

I suppose you knew of his uncle's affair.

Wasn't everyone?

He'd gush about his supernatural princess when...

When what?

He was a real horndog.

One day I went to see him for something...

I could hardly keep his paws off me.

Your husband found out?

God, no. I can't imagine his reaction.

We weren't very intimate, you see?

It was always cold and mechanical.

I really must go.

Poor Ludmilla! She must be going frantic.

What I told you won't appear anywhere, will it?

I'm happy we talked.

It's done me good.

I had a visit from Mr. Mazeron.

What did he want?

He complained about you carrying his uncle's letters around.

They're copies. I told him as much.

He demands, as an executor of the will,

that the texts should be sealed.

I tried to explain

how an active investigation is conducted.

His wife describes him as a kind of sadist.

Any conclusions to be drawn?

I'm tempted to sit on the fence.

Was it really necessary to see the lady?

A man called Cromière from the Ministry calls every two hours.

I don't know what you did or said

but he claims you are going nowhere and an incompetent.

Mr. Prosecutor, I go at my pace.

Without wishing to put pressure on you, shouldn't you question...

- I will. - Why not now?

May I?

Inspector Maigret.

Please take a seat.

First of all, tell me honestly,

did he suffer?

He died outright.

My first urge was to rush over

but I suppose the body's at the morgue.

He was in his study?

- Yes. - Working.

Correcting the proofs of his book.

I knew his schedule.

Practically hour by hour.

Without him telling me.

You went to his house?

Just once.

Jacotte let me in one day when I knew he wouldn't be home.

I wanted to visualize his environment

so I could situate him in my thoughts.

How did you hear he was dead?

Philippe, my son,

came with wife and children for my husband's funeral.

His wife saw the newspapers I subscribe to,

which my staff place on a table in the hall.

Unopened.

Did she know?

About Armand and I?

Wasn't everyone?

We never hid.

And your son?

Likewise.

- He never wanted to meet him? - What for?

Maggie, the tea's cold.

- I'll make a fresh pot. - Please do.

Sorry, I neglected to offer you some tea.

No, thanks.

You see...

for fifty years,

I was used to living with him in my thoughts.

I knew what he was doing each hour of the day.

I visited the cities to which he was posted as ambassador.

At what time did he die?

11 o'clock-midnight.

He wasn't ready for bed yet.

What on earth happened?

Nobody broke in.

Most likely, either Mr. Berthier-Lagès let the murderer in,

or that he, or she, was already present.

"She"?

You suspect Jacotte?

Everybody and nobody.

No, not her.

She was utterly devoted to us.

20 years ago, when he broke his arm,

she became his scribe.

- You only communicated by letter? - Yes.

- Why not by phone? - I owed it to my husband.

- What was your relationship with him? - My husband?

Infinite respect.

But not love?

Not as I love Armand.

I have heard he was unfaithful.

Hubert? That's hardly the word.

We had no secrets.

So you weren't jealous?

And Jacotte? Would you say she is?

Jealous of whom? Me?

For example.

No.

Or as a dog is jealous of its master.

No, she wouldn't be shocked to hear me say that.

Younger, she was a fine animal.

- She was his mistress. - Was.

Still no jealousy?

My only fear was of him meeting a woman capable of replacing me in his thoughts.

I could not have imagined...

You have nothing on the murderer?

Only that he shot him in the head

and kept firing at the body.

Surely, it requires awful hatred to do that?

He was composed enough to clear the cases and everything,

and wipe away his prints.

It hardly suggests blind fury.

Hatred is not fury.

True.

Thank you, Maggie.

You really don't want any?

I won't insist.

Jacotte didn't try to call after she found...

Perhaps she tried,

but the phone rang constantly after my husband died.

In exasperation, my son disconnected it.

Or to see you?

The day of the funeral, no. Impossible.

Do you know the terms of Mr. Berthier-Lages's will?

In substance.

Armand wanted me to have his furniture and personal effects

so that I might feel,

if he died first, I had been his wife somehow.

You accept?

Those are his wishes. And mine.

I'm obliged,

due to my family name,

to continue living here rather than Rue de Bellechasse,

as I dreamed of doing.

But I shall replicate Armand's apartment here.

I am his widow.

Did Jacotte know that, after your husband died,

you'd move to Rue de Bellechasse?

She was thrilled.

- And your son? - What about my son?

He inherits the name.

And still would do if Armand were alive.

- He's still in Paris? - With his family at Hotel Scribe.

He never stays with you?

You see, Inspector,

I cannot bear children.

It's an error to believe all women are made to be mothers.

I had Philippe very young

because it was my duty.

I raised him but that's all.

He has six.

The oldest's 24, the youngest 9.

Screaming and galloping around the house, no.

- Mama, the children want to say goodbye. - Philippe...

We were talking about you.

Inspector Maigret...

We crossed paths earlier.

Has Aurélie picked up all her crayons?

Absolutely, mama. I made sure of it personally.

The Inspector has some questions for you.

- Where do you wish to see him? - I don't know. Anywhere.

The library perhaps. It's quieter.

Have you finished with me, Inspector?

- Keep me informed. - Of our progress?

Of when Armand's body is returned to his family.

His nephew.

This way.

- Non-smoker? - Pipe only.

I smoke cigars but not here.

Mother wouldn't allow it.

Curious coincidence, isn't it?

The two deaths?

You think they may be linked?

Don't you?

You knew the victim.

Mother pointed him out to me when I was young, and later...

- I occasionally ran into him. - You resented him?

For depriving my father of love that was his by right?

For example.

I never saw it that way.

Mother feels a mystical kind of love for him.

Almost naive even, I'd say.

It always made my father smile.

At least, before his fall.

- Meaning? - He didn't die right away.

He fractured his pelvis, and after the unsuccessful operation,

in his last few days, he rambled deliriously

about me not being his son but Berthier-Lagès's.

- Was it truly delirious? - That is the question.

Mother swore it was never physical.

I never suspected it was.

When did you get here?

Sunday afternoon.

I already came last week to see my father.

I'd no idea he'd deteriorate so fast, so I left.

You brought your family?

My wife and children arrived Monday.

I suppose you had a conversation with your mother.

You're asking if she told me about her upcoming wedding?

No need. It was inevitable.

Except it never happened.

No.

Which is very strange.

You have no suspicions?

That's the wrong word.

You have someone in mind,

whose life would change with your father's death.

Let's say...

I know of Jacotte's existence.

Not being impolite but...

I must say goodbye to my family so they get home before nightfall.

You're in Paris until when?

Tomorrow night.

Hotel Scribe?

Yes.

You have an alibi for the murder?

10pm-midnight.

- I dined here with my mother. - Alone?

Father Gauge joined us.

- Who's Father Gauge? - Her spiritual adviser.

My mother's a god-fearing woman.

A point of convergence with Jacotte. They share him.

He's a traditionalist, unable to abide Vatican II.

Wears a cassock.

He's old, potentially incontinent.

I fear the worst from him.

- No idea of the appeal for my mother. - When did he arrive?

Just before 10. I left 15 mins later.

Straight back to the hotel?

Yes.

I mean, I went to see...

my children and...

my wife at the hotel to kiss them. They'd arrived the day before.

Then I went out for a walk on the Champs-Elysées.

Until midnight?

After all...

This might appear curious in the circumstances,

but back home...

In Genestout, I'm too well-known to take liberties,

so when I come to Paris...

I need to...

How can I put it?

Relax.

So, on the Champs-Elysées?

A brunette. Not very tall.

A large mole under her left breast.

Yes, left breast.

And her dress...

She had a pink dress.

French?

Yes. I find foreign women intimidating.

A name or anything?

- I didn't ask. - Where'd it happen?

A studio on Rue de Berri.

Belongings in the closet and bathroom,

so most likely her place.

I hope, Inspector,

you understand.

I'd hate my wife to find out.

For her...

Outside of a particular world...

I bought chicken.

It'll keep.

Your case?

Let's not talk about it.

- Good evening. - What tempts you?

I'm not hungry.

I'll start with the snails.

Followed by tête de veau.

Ma'am, I recommend the scallops. Market fresh.

All right.

And an appetizer?

Leeks in vinaigrette.

Saint-Joseph sound okay?

A Saint-Joseph by Guigal.

Perfect. Thank you.

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous!

- Talking to yourself? - There's no need to get up.

What's ridiculous?

I had a...

dream.

A dumb dream.

A big room.

Like a ballroom.

Mazeron was there.

A priest.

Old folks.

Very elegant.

Wrinkles, parchment skin.

And me, like the village idiot.

The priest wore a cassock.

He was whispering to Jacotte,

poking fun at me.

I tried to act casual,

looking for my tobacco in my slacks and I...

You what?

I was naked.

Waist down. I had my pajama top on.

The mysterious murder of ex-diplomat Armand Berthier-Lagès

five days ago, is moving fast.

Investigators...

Sorry.

A funeral that was anything but private.

A crush formed outside St. Rosalie's to see the tearful princess,

and personalities from business, politics and fashion.

Further twists are expected in the coming days.

In today's other headlines...

Can I turn it off now?

I checked out Rue de Berri at 10 pm.

There were 3-4 girls.

I identified the one who best fitted the description.

A small brunette.

She said she was out of town that evening, seeing her baby.

Cut to it.

Another one came out, with a foreign tourist.

She confirmed the mole.

According to her, he was quick,

and tipped well.

She also noticed

a monogram on his shirt.

Blue with a white collar.

She doesn't see that often. The letters were PDV.

She remembered the time?

Yes, he left around 23:30.

Under 30 minutes, the whole shebang.

Yes, quick's the word.

Another one.

What, quick?

No, telling the truth.

Mazeron?

He did dine alone. We saw his check.

He had eggs mayonnaise, blue ling fillet,

and a glass of white. No dessert.

Home by 10:30. His uncle's is a stone's throw away.

So, no alibi but...

- But? - It doesn't stack up.

- Why? - Because he has no alibi.

And he's a cold fish.

Who maybe flipped out.

Why'd he flip out?

Feeling cheated?

Now? The prince dies, he has an epiphany?

- The motive's revenge. - Pardon me?

I just said...

We know he was a skirt-chaser...

- I'm thinking... - Anything else?

Invoices from Arnys.

He so didn't expect to die,

he ordered two new suits two weeks earlier.

That's all we have? Invoices from Arnys.

Boss, we have Jacotte's duds.

That she took to the laundry.

- What duds? - Her maid's uniform.

White pinafore, black dress, white gloves.

To be dry-cleaned.

- You're on it? - For sure.

I'll be right there.

The Ministry's on my back.

- Cormière? - Cromière.

He accuses you of leaking information to the media.

I never leak.

I know that.

Well?

Everything's in the file.

The key is the prince's death.

You think so?

Mazeron stood to gain most from his uncle's death.

You checked if he needs money?

Pays zero alimony. He and his wife are only separated.

Why not divorced?

Because in those circles...

Yes, my circles.

Indeed.

I played tennis with the late prince ten years ago.

Members of the same club.

Even so, my sister divorced twice.

Don't generalize.

I beg your pardon.

A great pediatrician but her private life?

Pure chaos.

Where were we?

Yes, Mazeron.

Even if he needs money,

I don't see financial gain as the motive here.

And his wife?

She openly admitted that Berthier-Lagès molested her.

Hardly seems a sufficient motive.

You don't know women.

I'll ask my wife.

So you knew Prince Hubert?

And his wife, the princess?

Isi? Not personally.

- She doesn't play tennis. - Or seem very distressed.

By his death or her great love's.

They say nothing affects her.

I'll put him on.

Inspector, for you.

Moers here.

- Moers. - Put the loudspeaker on.

You really need a cell phone.

You're panting.

I have the results on the housekeeper's clothes.

Jacotte? And?

- They came up positive. - Sure?

Gunshot residue on her gloves, apron and dress.

It's her, no doubt about it. She shot him.

Thanks, Moers.

Quite a result!

Don't look so happy.

You have your culprit and I can breathe easy.

Can I use the phone?

Of course.

Maigret.

Who's on Jacotte? Lapointe?

He needs to arrest her now.

Yes, custody.

No, no cuffs.

And make sure she knows her rights.

Mr. Cromière!

You are in custody under article 63-5 of the penal code,

suspected of an offense resulting in a prison term.

- Any idea what that offense is? - No.

I think you do. You have the right to legal counsel.

- You have a lawyer? - No.

- A public defender can be appointed. - I don't need one.

If the investigating magistrate indicts you, you will need one.

We'll see.

We found gunshot residue

on clothes you took to the laundry.

How do you explain that?

I don't have to.

The residue proves you recently discharged the weapon.

"The weapon"?

Or another. What did you do with it?

I have nothing to say.

You intend to repeat that throughout custody?

It can last 48 hours. It's long.

It's very tiring.

Don't worry about me.

You hated your boss?

You couldn't bear for the princess to marry him and move in,

where you'd shared decades of blissful intimacy with him?

As you wish.

I have plenty of time.

We'll bring you water.

A sandwich from the café downstairs? The best.

- I'm not hungry. - Allergies? Intolerances?

No, I'm not hungry.

Can you call down for sandwiches?

Ham and gherkin. And I'll get a...

No, coffee for me.

And mineral water.

- Flat or fizzy? - Flat.

An answer at last.

We know you did it.

I notice you don't deny it.

All I want is the why.

What?

Sorry to interrupt, I...

Can I have a word?

You know you're wrecking my interrogation?

Sorry, but I think it's important.

Julien de Vuynes?

Description?

25-30, dressed to kill.

Prince Philippe's eldest. What does he want?

To talk to you urgently. He's upstairs with Baron.

Julien de Vuynes. Know him?

- Why? - I asked if you know him.

He's madam's grandson.

He's here. Do you know why?

- Should I? - Jacotte, stop it.

Miss Larrieu, stop answering questions with questions.

I asked why Julien wants to see me.

- Answer. - I have no idea.

- The sandwiches? - Coming up.

Can I...

Am I allowed a priest?

Why?

To talk to Father Gauge.

The princess's spiritual adviser?

Mine too.

- Now? - Yes, it won't take long.

Where can we reach him?

At St. Clotilde's.

Urgent. Call Father Gauge.

Most likely at St. Clotilde's.

Tell him to drop everything and come here.

Jacotte wants to see him. It's important. Very important even.

What if he's administering last rites?

I have no time for humor.

As soon as he arrives, leave them alone together.

- Is that legit, boss? - Don't care!

Please, sit down.

Thanks, Baron.

You're not on the way to Normandy with the family?

No, I have classes on Rue d'Ulm.

When you saw my grandmother I nearly came by but...

with my father there...

What could you not say with him there?

- On Tuesday, I went to see my uncle. - Your uncle?

That's what I called Mr. Berthier-Lagès.

I had more affinity for him than my family.

- You saw a lot of him? - I didn't mention it.

I didn't hide it either.

Since I was little, I knew about him and my grandmother.

You read his letters?

Not his.

When did you meet him in the flesh?

Two years ago, at a reception.

He seemed moved when I introduced myself.

Later, he agreed to meet me at Rue de Bellechasse.

He was friendly, funny, lots of stories to tell.

- He invited you often? - At least once a month.

One year ago, I...

I had a romantic crisis.

I couldn't talk to my parents and definitely not grandpa.

He really listened.

He helped me a lot.

You disliked Prince Hubert, your grandfather?

He was a stranger to me.

I mean, I always got on with my grandmother,

but what I was going through, she couldn't understand.

And your mother?

Not being mean, but appearances matter more to her than anything else.

Anyway...

What upset you on Tuesday?

When you saw Berthier-Lagès?

For the first time,

he came across as old.

Not only that but...

Worried.

I'd even say terrified.

Terrified?

I'd always seen him upbeat, optimistic, funny...

Suddenly...

Did you say anything?

Something like...

In a year, grandma will be your wife.

No answer.

Clumsily, I kept going

until he said, in a voice I'd never heard before,

"They'll block us."

"They'll block us." You're sure?

Or they'll block me.

His face, his expression...

He looked ten years older. He was gray.

I put it down to my grandfather dying.

They were practically the same age.

But ever since, it's been ticking over in my mind.

Did you tell anyone?

- Your grandmother? - No one.

But thinking about it, he really seemed petrified,

feeling threatened.

Yes, the priest's here.

What's he like?

Old.

And he stinks.

Of tobacco.

- You did as I said? - Yes.

You think the man you called your uncle feared being killed?

He envisioned a bad outcome.

- He talked about his friends? - He'd lost them all.

His enemies?

Over 50 years, he must have made a few.

If so, he hid it well.

Fine, thank you.

Switch the mic on on the sly?

What on earth did he tell her?

What on earth did she tell him?

Reading his lips, I get, Ego te absolvo.

So?

They're praying.

In Latin!

The prosecutor.

Mr. Prosecutor?

No, still no cell phone.

Yes, it has drawbacks. And some advantages.

I don't drive either.

They've been together about twenty minutes.

You'll be the first to know.

Of course, Mr. Prosecutor.

My apologies for keeping you waiting.

I suppose it's no-smoking here?

Please, take a seat.

Go ahead.

We don't all live in the same era.

Miss Larrieu does not know

or does not want to know that, on some points,

the church is hugely changed.

What I mean is that...

her faith

which is profound and naive,

rooted in a bygone time,

dictated her behavior,

which I felt dutybound to make her abandon.

Her concern,

both touching and sadly anachronistic,

was that Mr. Berthier-Lagès might not be given

a Christian burial.

It was suicide.

She planned to talk after his funeral.

I managed to reassure her

about what was dearest to her heart.

The Church will not withhold from Mr. Berthier-Lagès

its blessing.

I was ready for bed when I heard the gunshot.

You're not as deaf as you'd have us believe.

I rushed to the study

and saw sir on the floor.

Face bleeding.

And the pistol?

It lay next to him.

What did you do?

I fetched a mirror from my room.

- To check he'd stopped breathing. - And then?

- I thought about calling the princess. - But didn't.

Telling her it was suicide, I couldn't do it.

I pictured what was coming.

A secular funeral.

And so?

I prayed.

Then I grabbed the pistol and fired.

While asking forgiveness from sir.

And heaven.

After four shots, it stopped.

It stopped working.

- I saw shiny things on the rug. - The casings.

I picked them up.

I couldn't sleep.

At dawn, I washed.

I changed.

I went to the Concorde bridge.

I waited until no one was coming.

And I tossed it all in the Seine.

Go get some water, please.

Why'd he kill himself?

Three months ago, his doctor ordered him off alcohol.

He liked a drink.

He quit, then he started again.

He started having nightmares.

He complained of stomach pains.

What's his doctor's name?

Doctor Ourgaud.

Your phone, please.

Take mine.

Don't fight.

Number?

01 99

00

37 43.

Doctor, this is Inspector Maigret. It's about one of your patients.

Exactly.

It was suicide, it would seem.

You're not surprised?

Can you hear me better now?

The coroner says he was fine, organs in good condition.

You told him so as well?

He didn't believe you?

He saw other doctors, who also...

I understand. Thank you.

No, I said, thank you, doctor. Goodbye!

Hard of hearing, Dr. Ourgaud.

Berthier-Lagès had convinced himself he had cancer.

He was always so proud of his good health.

It all began with his prostate.

It humiliated him, getting up at night.

And all his friends died, one after the other.

One was kept alive at all costs for 3 years.

In horrendous pain.

He'd told his doctor,

"If you don't kill me, you're a murderer."

I couldn't stand nicotine patches anymore.

You should switch one of these days.

I'll consider it.

Consider it before you're old.

You can smoke if you open the window.

I'll wait.

Go on, tell me all.

You'll receive my report later.

I had Jacotte driven home, or to the notary's.

They're opening the will today.

There's no bigger disappointment, I hear,

than achieving everything you wished for.

You think Berthier-Lagès,

on the verge of fulfilling his dream, succumbed to disappointment?

It cast him into terror of a kind, am I right?

Thinking you have an incurable disease

is a symptom of melancholic depression.

If you say so. I'm no doctor.

Taking the princess to the altar terminally ill was an atrocious prospect.

Why talk of disappointment?

I was dreaming eyes wide open,

picturing events if he hadn't killed himself

and had married the princess in the end.

Unless...

What?

Something bugging you?

Could be me who's disappointed.

Already home?

Yes.

Gosh, smells good!

Might that be saddle of rabbit with prunes.

I hope it appeals.

Madness!

I followed the recipe.

But...

What are we drinking with it?

Where do we start?

I'm dying of hunger.

A few months later

Look who it is.

Hello. How can I help you?

Mazeron's out?

He's at an auction. I'm replacing him.

You work for him?

You're looking to buy?

No, I was wondering how he was,

if the will was favorable or not.

Anyway, I felt like stopping by.

Very pretty.

An early 17th century harpsichord lid.

Try not to touch.

The case is closed.

The statements of Fr. Gauge and Dr. Ourgaud were decisive.

It all hinged on them, basically.

He's your doctor too, I believe. Since when?

Is it important?

A great story you dished up. Everybody bought it.

Even me.

But I keep in mind the words of Berthier-Lagès

that Julien, the prince's grandson, conveyed to me.

"They'll block me."

"They."

That's not a disease.

It's a person or persons unknown.

As you yourself said,

case closed.

You didn't go to see the princess,

or she didn't want to see you?

What's your relationship with Mazeron?

His wife said he's cruel but with you...

I figure he keeps in line.

You must remind him of his mother.

Here we go.

Yes, a downpour.

Let's hope Mazeron stays safe.

I hardly adore him but it will be trickier for you.

Yes?

It went well?

Fine.

An upset stomach again?

Maybe it was the potato salad?

No, nobody.

It's the rain.

No one came in.

Almost no one.

No one of any interest.