Maigret's Patience

by Georges Simenon

The lift took him up to the fourth floor. First, he rang at the door on the right, and Madame Barillard opened to him, her eyes red, still dressed in the flowery dress she was wearing that morning.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye, Mina. Forgive me for calling you that, but I can’t help thinking of that little girl in the hell of Douai who placed her hand in the hand of a man with a bloody face walking straight ahead who didn’t know where he was going. You didn’t know where he was taking you either.’

  ‘Is it true, inspector, that my husband is …’

  She couldn’t bring herself to say it: a murderer.

  He nodded.

  ‘You are still young, Mina. Don’t despair!’

  Madame Barillard managed to murmur through her swollen lips:

  ‘How come I didn’t notice anything?’

  Suddenly she threw herself against Maigret’s chest, and he let her cry her eyes out. One day, no doubt, she would find a new support, another hand to hang on to.

  ‘I promise to come back and see you. Take care of yourself. Life goes on.’

  Across the landing, Aline was sitting on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ announced Maigret. ‘Do you want to get dressed or would you rather go as you are?’

  She looked at him as if she had been doing a lot of thinking and had come to a decision.

  ‘Will I see him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will I be able to talk to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As much as I like?’

  ‘As much as you like.’

  ‘Am I allowed to have a shower?’

  ‘Provided you leave the bathroom door open.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. What did it matter if she was seen or not? For almost an hour she attended to her ablutions, perhaps more meticulously than she had ever done in her life before.

  She took the trouble to wash her hair and dry it with an electric hairdryer and dithered for a long while before choosing a black satin suit with a severe cut.

  The whole time she remained steely-eyed and wore a determined expression.

  ‘Janin! Go downstairs and see if there is a car available.’

  ‘On my way, chief.’

  For a moment, Maigret and the young woman found themselves alone in the living room. She slipped on her gloves. The sun flooded in through the two windows, which were open on to the street.

  ‘Admit that you had a soft spot for Manuel,’ she murmured.

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  And instantly she added, without looking at him:

  ‘For me too, no?’

  And he repeated:

  ‘In a way.’

  After this, he opened the door, closed it again behind them and put the key in his pocket. They took the lift down. There was an inspector waiting in a black car. Janin stood on the pavement, not knowing what to do.

  ‘Go home and sleep for ten hours solid.’

  ‘Assuming my wife and kids let me sleep that long! Thanks anyway, chief.’

  Vacher was driving the car, and Maigret had a few quiet words in his ear. He then sat down next to Aline in the back seat. When they had gone about a hundred metres, the young woman, who had been staring out of the window, turned towards him.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Instead of taking the most direct route back to Quai des Orfèvres, they were heading down Avenue de la Grande-Armée, around Place de l’Étoile and on to the Champs-Élysées.

  She was absorbing the whole spectacle, knowing that there was every chance that she would never see it again, or rather that if she did, she would be a very old woman.

  ‘Did you do it on purpose?’

  Maigret sighed but didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later, she followed him into his office; he was evidently pleased to be back on home turf.

  Mechanically, he tidied up his pipes, walked over to the window and then finally opened the door to the inspectors’ room.

  ‘Janvier!’

  ‘Yes, chief?’

  ‘Could you go down to the cells and bring Barillard up here? Take a seat, Aline.’

  He was now behaving as if nothing had happened. He gave the impression that he wasn’t involved any more, that the whole case had been a mere interlude in his life.

  ‘Hello! Could you put me through to Examining Magistrate Ancelin, please? Hello! … Hello! … Yes sir, Maigret here. Back at the office, yes. I’ve just returned with a young woman of your acquaintance. No, but it won’t be long now. I wonder if you would like to be here for the confrontation. Yes. Straight away. See you very soon.’

  He thought about taking his jacket off but decided against it, because of the magistrate.

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That we’re about to witness a fight between two wild animals.’

  The woman’s eyes flashed.

  ‘If you were armed I wouldn’t much fancy his chances.’

  The jolly little magistrate arrived first and looked curiously at the young woman in black, who had just sat down.

  ‘Take my chair, sir.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to …’

  ‘Please, I insist. My role is almost over. We only need to check some things, interview a few witnesses, write our reports and send them to you. A week of paperwork.’

  They heard footsteps in the corridor, and Janvier knocked on the door and pushed Fernand, in handcuffs, into the office.

  ‘As for these two, they’re all yours now.’

  ‘Shall I take the ’cuffs off, chief?’

  ‘I don’t think that would be wise. As for you, stay here. I’ll make sure we’ve got some muscle next door.’

  Aline had become alert and seemed to sniff the scent of the man who had been her long-time lover.

  Not her lover, her mate. Just as she had been his.

  They were two animals looking at each other, in this quiet office, as if they were sizing each other up in a bear pit or in the jungle.

  Their lips trembled, their nostrils contracted. Fernand hissed:

  ‘What have you …’

  Sat opposite him, her back arched, her muscles taut, she thrust forward a hate-filled face and spat in his face.

  Without wiping himself, he took a step forwards too, hands outstretched, threateningly, while the little magistrate fidgeted uncomfortably in Maigret’s chair.

  ‘You bitch, you …’

  ‘Bastard! … Thug! … Murderer!’

  She managed to scratch his face, but, in spite of the handcuffs, he grabbed her arm in mid-air and twisted it, leaning over her with his eyes full of all the hatred in the world.

  Maigret, standing in the doorway to the inspectors’ office, made a sign, and two men dashed in to separate the pair, who were now rolling about on the floor.

  For a few moments there was a confused scuffle, and finally Barillard was hauled to his feet, his face bloodied, while Aline was also handcuffed and pushed towards a chair.

  ‘I think it will be fine to question them separately, sir. The hard thing won’t be getting them to speak, it will be getting them to shut up.’

  Louis Ancelin got up, led Maigret to the window and, still shaken by what he had just seen, murmured in his ear:

  ‘I’ve never witnessed such an outpouring of hate, such raw animality!’

  Over his shoulder, Maigret called to Janvier:

  ‘You can lock them up!’

  And he added ironically:

  ‘Separately, of course.’

  He didn’t watch them leave but gazed out over the peacefully flowing Seine. He was looking for a familiar figure on the riverbank, an angler. He had called him ‘his’ angler for years, even though it was unlikely to be the same person. But the only thing that mattered was that there was always someone fishing next to Pont Saint-Michel.

  A tug pulling four barges sailed upstream and lowered its funnel to pass under the stone arch of the bridge.r />
  ‘Tell me, Maigret, which one of them, in your opinion …’

  Maigret took the time to light his pipe before he spoke, still gazing out of the window:

  ‘You’re the magistrate, aren’t you? I can only hand them over to you just as they are.’

  ‘It wasn’t a pretty sight.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Neither was Douai.’

  1.

  He was struggling, forced to defend himself because someone had unexpectedly grabbed hold of his shoulder. He even tried to throw a punch and had the humiliating feeling that his arm wasn’t responding but just lay limp at his side as though paralysed.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he shouted, vaguely aware that it wasn’t the right question exactly.

  Had he even really made a sound?

  ‘Jules! The telephone …’

  He had definitely heard something, a noise that sounded threatening in his sleep, but it hadn’t occurred to him for a moment that it was the telephone ringing and that he was in bed, in the middle of an unpleasant dream that he had already forgotten, and that his wife was shaking him awake.

  He automatically reached out a hand for the receiver, opening his eyes and sitting up as he did so. Madame Maigret was sitting in the warm bed too, and the lamp on her side was giving out a soft, cosy light.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Who is that?’ he almost blurted out, as if he were still dreaming.

  ‘Maigret? It’s Pardon here.’

  Maigret managed to make out the time on the alarm-clock on his wife’s bedside table. It was 1.30 a.m. They had left the Pardons just after eleven, after their monthly dinner which on this occasion had consisted of a delicious stuffed shoulder of mutton.

  ‘Yes. Go ahead.’

  ‘Sorry to wake you, you must have been fast asleep. Something’s just happened here, something pretty serious, I think, that comes under your jurisdiction.’

  The Maigrets and Pardons had been friends for over ten years, taking it in turns to invite one another for dinner once a month, and yet it had never crossed either man’s mind to call the other by his Christian name.

  ‘I’m listening, Pardon. Go on.’

  The voice on the other end of the line was anxious, embarrassed.

  ‘I think it would be better if you came and saw me. You’d understand the situation better.’

  ‘There hasn’t been an accident, I hope?’

  A hesitation.

  ‘No. Not exactly, but I’m worried.’

  ‘Is your wife all right?’

  ‘Yes. She’s just making us some coffee.’

  Madame Maigret was looking inquiringly at her husband, trying to figure out what was going on from his replies.

  ‘I’ll come right away …’

  He hung up. He was fully awake now, with a look of concern on his face. This was the first time Doctor Pardon had called him like that, and Maigret knew him well enough to understand it must be serious.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know. Pardon needs me.’

  ‘Why didn’t he come and see you?’

  ‘I need to go there for some reason.’

  ‘He was very cheerful earlier. So was his wife. We talked about his daughter and son-in-law, the cruise they’re planning to take next summer around the Balearics …’

  Was Maigret listening? He felt uneasy as he got dressed, wondering in spite of himself what might have caused the doctor’s telephone call.

  ‘I’ll go and make some coffee.’

  ‘No need. Madame Pardon is making us some.’

  ‘Shall I call a taxi?’

  ‘You won’t find one in this weather, or, if you do, it will take half an hour to get here.’

  It was 14 January – Friday 14 January – and it had been minus 12 in Paris all day. Snow had been falling heavily for the past few days, freezing so hard that it was impossible to clear, and despite the salt spread on the pavements, there were still patches of black ice that sent pedestrians sprawling.

  ‘Put on your big scarf.’

  A thick woollen scarf she had knitted for him which he almost never needed to wear.

  ‘Don’t forget your gumboots. I don’t suppose you’ll let me come with you, will you?’

  ‘Why?’

  She didn’t like seeing him set off on his own tonight. On their way back from the Pardons, despite their both taking care, watching where they put their feet, Maigret had still fallen heavily on the corner of Rue du Chemin-Vert and remained sitting on the ground for a while, feeling dazed and ashamed of himself.

  ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

  ‘No. I just got a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  He had refused to let her help him up or take his arm when he finally got to his feet.

  ‘No need for us both to fall over.’

  She followed him to the door, kissed him and murmured:

  ‘Be careful …’

  She left the door half-open until he got to the ground floor. Maigret avoided Rue du Chemin-Vert, where he had fallen over earlier, taking the slightly longer route along Boulevard Richard-Lenoir to Boulevard Voltaire, where the Pardons lived.

  He walked slowly, hearing no one else’s footsteps. There were no taxis or cars in sight. Paris seemed deserted, and he could only remember seeing it like this, so frozen and snowbound, once or perhaps twice before in his life.

  On Boulevard Voltaire, though, a truck was parked at the République end, its engine idling, and a few black figures were bustling about: workmen scattering spadesful of salt over the road.

  Lights could be seen in two of the Pardons’ windows, the only windows illuminated in the entire block. Maigret made out a figure behind the curtains and when he reached the door, it opened before he could ring the bell.

  ‘Sorry again, Maigret.’

  Doctor Pardon was wearing the same navy-blue jacket as at dinner.

  ‘I’ve got myself into such a tricky situation, I don’t know what to do.’

  Going up in the lift, Maigret saw his features were drawn.

  ‘Haven’t you been to bed?’

  In an embarrassed voice, the doctor explained:

  ‘I didn’t feel tired when you left so I decided to catch up on some of the paperwork I’m behind on.’

  In other words, despite having to work, he hadn’t wanted to put off their traditional dinner.

  The Maigrets had stayed later than usual, as it happened. They had talked mainly about holidays, with Pardon observing that his patients were more and more exhausted when they came back from them these days, especially when they had been on package tours.

  They passed through the waiting room, in which only a small light was on, and, instead of going on to the living room, turned into Pardon’s surgery.

  Madame Pardon appeared immediately with a tray and two cups, a coffee pot and some sugar.

  ‘Please forgive my appearance, I haven’t even taken the time to get dressed. I’m not staying, though. My husband’s the one who needs to talk to you.’

  She was wearing a pale-blue dressing gown over her nightdress, her feet in slippers.

  ‘He didn’t want to bother you. I insisted and, if that was wrong of me, I’m sorry.’

  She poured out the coffee and headed for the door.

  ‘I shan’t go to sleep before you’re finished, so don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything. You’re not hungry, are you, Maigret?’

  ‘I had too good a dinner to be hungry.’

  ‘You aren’t, either?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  An open door gave on to the little room in which the doctor examined his patients. In the middle there was a high folding table covered with a bloodstained sheet, and Maigret noticed some large bloodstains on the green linoleum.

  ‘Sit down. Have your coffee first.’

  He pointed to a stack of papers and index cards on his desk.

  ‘You see. People don’t realize that on top of consultations and visits
we have all sorts of bureaucracy to take care of. Urgent calls are always coming in, so we put it off until we end up completely swamped. I was planning to spend two or three hours on this task.’

  Pardon began his house calls at eight in the morning, then his surgery opened at ten. Picpus was not a rich part of town. It was a lower-middle-class neighbourhood, and you’d often see as many as fifteen people at a time in his waiting room. Maigret could count on the fingers of one hand the monthly dinners that hadn’t been interrupted by a telephone call summoning Pardon away for an hour or more.

  ‘I was engrossed in this paperwork. My wife was asleep. I didn’t hear a thing until suddenly the doorbell rang, startling me. When I opened the door, I found a couple on the landing who seemed odd somehow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mainly because I didn’t know either of them, the man or the woman. Generally if I’m disturbed in the middle of the night, it’ll be one of my regular patients, one of those who don’t have a telephone.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I also had the sense they didn’t live locally. The woman was wearing a sealskin coat and matching hat. My wife happened to be looking through a fashion magazine a couple of days ago and she suddenly said:

  ‘ “Next time you get me a coat, choose sealskin, not mink. Mink has become so common these days, but sealskin …”

  ‘I didn’t listen to the rest, but that came back to me as I was holding the door open, looking at them in surprise.

  ‘The man’s get-up was also not the sort of thing you usually see on Boulevard Voltaire.

  ‘He did the talking, asking with a slight accent:

  ‘ “Doctor Pardon?”

  ‘ “That’s me, yes.”

  ‘ “This lady has just been hurt, and I’d like you to examine her.”

  ‘ “How did you get my address?”

  ‘ “An old woman walking down Boulevard Voltaire gave it to us. I suppose she’s a patient of yours.”

  ‘They had come into my surgery. The woman was very pale, as if she was about to faint, and she was staring at me with big, expressionless eyes, both hands clasped to her chest.

  ‘ “I think you should hurry, doctor,” said the man, taking off his gloves.

  ‘ “What sort of injury is it?”

  ‘Turning to the woman, who was very blonde and must have been just under thirty, he said: