Maigret and the Headless Corpse

by Georges Simenon

  From the inspectors’ office, a slight commotion could be heard at exactly four o’clock, heralding the arrival of the fraudster, who had been brought there from the Santé prison.

  Maigret waited another ten minutes, pacing up and down, smoking his pipe, mopping his face from time to time, and glancing across at the little restaurant on the far side of the Seine, then finally he snapped his fingers and said to Janvier:

  ‘Go ahead!’

  Janvier picked up the telephone and dialled the restaurant number. Over there, Lognon must have been waiting next to the cabin, ready to tell the café proprietor:

  ‘It’ll be for me. I’m expecting a call.’

  Everything was going according to plan. Maigret, treading heavily, and a little anxiously, went back into his own office where, before sitting down, he drew himself a glass of water from the tap over the enamel basin.

  Ten minutes later, a familiar scene was unfolding in the corridor. Lognon and another inspector from the 18th, a Corsican by the name of Alfonsi, were slowly climbing the stairs, with a man between them who appeared ill at ease, and was concealing his face with his hat.

  The Baron and his colleague Jean Rougin, waiting outside Chief Inspector Bodard’s door, needed no more than a glance to take in the scene. They rushed across, as the photographer was already levelling his camera.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  They knew Lognon. They knew the names of the Paris police almost as well as the staff of their own newspapers. If two inspectors who did not belong to the Police Judiciaire but were stationed in Montmartre were bringing in to Quai des Orfèvres some individual who was hiding his face before he had even seen any journalists, that could only mean one thing.

  ‘Is he for Maigret?’

  Lognon did not reply, but headed straight for Maigret’s office and knocked discreetly at the door. It opened. The three figures vanished inside. The door closed.

  The Baron and Jean Rougin looked at each other with the expressions of men who had just discovered a state secret, knowing that they were both thinking the same thing, but felt no need to comment.

  ‘Get a good snap?’ Rougin asked the photographer.

  ‘Except that the hat was hiding his face.’

  ‘All the same. Send it off fast to the paper, and get back here. We don’t know when they’re likely to come back out.’

  Alfonsi emerged almost at once.

  ‘Who was that?’ they asked.

  The inspector looked awkward.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Orders.’

  ‘Where’s he from, where did you pick him up?’

  ‘Ask Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘A witness?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘A new suspect?’

  ‘I promise you, I don’t know.’

  ‘Thanks a lot for your help!’

  ‘I suppose if it was the killer, you’d have handcuffed him?’

  Alfonsi walked away with a regretful expression, like a man who would like to say more, the corridor returned to its calm, and for half an hour there were no further comings or goings.

  The crook, Max Bernat, came out of the Fraud Squad office, but he had already been relegated by the journalists to secondary importance. They nevertheless put questions to Bodard, as a matter of duty.

  ‘Has he given any names?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘He’s denying that certain politicians are involved?’

  ‘He didn’t deny anything, and didn’t admit anything. He’s giving nothing away for now.’

  ‘When will you be questioning him again?’

  ‘When certain facts have been checked.’

  Maigret emerged from his office, still without jacket or tie, and headed for the commissioner’s office, looking preoccupied.

  This was another sign: despite the holiday season, and despite the heat, the Police Judiciaire was about to experience one of its critical evenings, and the two reporters were thinking about certain interrogations that had lasted all night, in some cases over twenty-four hours, without anyone being able to discover what was going on behind the closed doors.

  The photographer was back.

  ‘You didn’t tell them anything at the paper, did you?’

  ‘Just told them to develop the film and to keep the prints ready.’

  Maigret spent half an hour in the chief’s office and returned to his own room, brushing the reporters aside with a weary gesture.

  ‘Can you at least tell us if this is to do with—?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say for the moment.’

  At six o’clock, the waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine brought over a tray laden with beers. They had seen Lucas leave his office and go into Maigret’s, but he had not re-emerged. They had seen Janvier hurry out, hat on head, and get into one of the police cars down below.

  A more unusual development was that Lognon appeared once more and, as Maigret had done, headed for the chief’s office. True, he stayed there only ten minutes, after which, instead of leaving, he entered the inspectors’ office.

  ‘Did you notice anything?’ the Baron asked his colleague.

  ‘The hat he had on when he got here?’

  It was hard for them to think of ‘Inspector Hard-done-by’, as everyone in the police and press corps called him, wearing an almost jaunty straw hat.

  ‘Better than that.’

  ‘He didn’t smile though, did he?’

  ‘No. But he’s wearing a red tie.’

  Lognon invariably wore dark-coloured neckties, fixed on to a celluloid clip.

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  The Baron knew everything, and communicated other people’s secrets with a thin smile.

  ‘His wife’s away on holiday.’

  ‘I thought she was an invalid.’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘Cured, then?’

  For years, poor Lognon had been obliged, when not on duty, to do the shopping and cooking, and to clean his apartment on Place Constantin-Pecqueur, as well as taking care of his wife, who had declared herself to be a permanent invalid.

  ‘She’s met a new tenant in their building. And this woman told her about the spa at Pougues-les-Eaux, and persuaded her to try taking the waters. Strange as it may seem, she’s gone off there, not with her husband, who can’t leave Paris right now, but with this neighbour. They’re the same age, and the neighbour’s a widow …’

  The shuttling to and fro between offices was becoming more and more frequent. Almost all the men belonging to Maigret’s squad had dispersed in different directions. Janvier had returned. Lucas was bustling about, sweat dripping from his brow. Lapointe appeared from time to time, as did Torrence, the newcomer Mauvoisin, and several other officers, whom the reporters tried to buttonhole, but it was impossible to get a word out of any of them.

  Young Maguy, a reporter on a morning daily paper, soon arrived: she was looking as fresh as if the temperature had not been 36 degrees in the shade all day.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same as you.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Waiting.’

  ‘How did you know anything was happening?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and applied some lipstick.

  ‘How many of them are in there?’ she asked, pointing at Maigret’s door.

  ‘Five or six. Hard to count them. They keep coming and going. They seem to be taking turns.’

  ‘Putting the screws on him, are they?’

  ‘Well, the man in there must be getting pretty hot under the collar.’

  ‘Did they have beer sent up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That was significant. When Maigret sent for a trayful of beers, it indicated that he thought they would be there for some time.

  ‘Lognon still with them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does he look pleased?’

  ‘Hard
to tell with him. He’s wearing a red tie.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His wife’s gone off to some spa.’

  They understood each other. They belonged to the same confraternity.

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one they’re putting through it.’

  ‘Yes, but not his face. He was hiding behind his hat.’

  ‘Young?’

  ‘Not young, not old. Over thirty at a guess.’

  ‘Dressed how?’

  ‘Like anyone else. What colour was his suit, Rougin?’

  ‘Grey.’

  ‘I’d have said beige.’

  ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘Ordinary, man in the street.’

  Steps were heard on the stairs and Maguy murmured as the others looked round:

  ‘Must be my photographer.’

  By half past seven, there were five of them from the press in the corridor, and they saw the waiter from the Brasserie Dauphine come up with more beer and some sandwiches.

  This time it must be really serious. One after another, the reporters went to a small office at the end of the corridor to telephone to their paper.

  ‘Shall we go and eat?’

  ‘What if he comes out while we’re away?’

  ‘What if they’re going to be here all night?’

  ‘Shall we send out for some sandwiches too?’

  ‘Good idea!’

  ‘And beer?’

  The sun was vanishing behind the rooftops, but it was still light, and if the air wasn’t exactly sizzling now, the heat remained just as sultry.

  At half past eight, Maigret opened his door, looking exhausted, a lock of hair plastered across his brow. He glanced into the corridor, made as if to walk over to the reporters, but changed his mind and the door closed once more behind him.

  ‘Looks like things are hotting up.’

  ‘I told you we’d be here all night. Were you here when they questioned Mestorino?’

  ‘I was still in short pants.’

  ‘It lasted twenty-seven hours!’

  ‘In August?’

  ‘I don’t know what month it was, but …’

  Maguy’s flowered cotton dress was clinging to her figure, dark patches had appeared under her arms and through the fabric the outline of her bra and panties was visible.

  ‘Shall we have a game of belote?’

  The lights went on above their heads. Darkness was falling.

  The night shift clerk took up his place at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Can we get some air in here?’

  He went to open first one of the office doors, then the window, then another door, and after a few minutes, by trying hard, it was possible to feel something resembling a faint draught.

  ‘That’s all I can do for you, gentlemen.’

  At last, at eleven o’clock, sounds started to come from behind Maigret’s door. Lucas was the first to come out, shepherding the unknown man, who was still holding his hat in front of his face. Lognon brought up the rear. All three walked towards the stairs which connected the Police Judiciaire to the Palais de Justice and then to the underground cells known as the Mousetrap.

  The photographers jostled each other. Flash bulbs went off in the corridor. Less than a minute later, the glass door closed, and everyone rushed towards Maigret’s office, which looked like the scene of a battlefield. Beer glasses littered the desks, cigarette ends and torn papers were strewn everywhere, and the air smelled of tobacco, now stale. Maigret himself, still jacketless, was leaning into the closet, and washing his hands at the little enamel basin.

  ‘Can you give us some pointers, chief inspector?’

  He looked at them with the wide-eyed expression he always wore in these circumstances, appearing not to recognize anyone.

  ‘Pointers?’ he repeated.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who just left here.’

  ‘Someone with whom I have had a rather long conversation.’

  ‘A witness?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Have you taken him into custody?’

  Maigret seemed to wake up a bit, and apologized in an amiable way:

  ‘Gentlemen, I’m sorry not to be able to give you any answers, but frankly, I can’t make any statement at this stage.’

  ‘Will you be making one shortly?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you going to see the examining magistrate?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Is it to do with the killer?’

  ‘Once more, you will have to forgive me, but I can’t give you any information.’

  ‘Are you going home now?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past eleven.’

  ‘In that case, the Brasserie Dauphine is still open, so I’m going for a bite to eat.’

  They watched as Maigret, Janvier and Lapointe all left. Two or three journalists followed them as far as the bar and stood at the counter drinking, while the three police officers, looking tired and concerned, sat down at a table in the back room and gave their orders to the waiter.

  A few minutes later, Lognon joined them, but not Lucas. The four men were talking in low voices and it was impossible to hear what they were saying or to guess anything from their lip movements.

  ‘Better call it a day. Want me to take you home, Maguy?’

  ‘No, take me to the paper.’

  Once the door had closed behind them, and only then, Maigret stretched. A merry, youthful smile appeared on his lips.

  ‘That’s it, then!’ he sighed.

  Janvier said:

  ‘I think they’ve swallowed it.’

  ‘Well, I should damn well hope so!’

  ‘What will they write?’

  ‘No idea, but they’ll manage to make it sound sensational. Especially that young Rougin.’

  He was a new recruit to journalism, young and aggressive.

  ‘What if they realize they’ve been tricked?’

  ‘It’s essential they don’t!’

  It was an almost entirely different Lognon who was eating with them, a Lognon who since four that afternoon had drunk four glasses of beer, and was not refusing the shot of spirits the café owner came to offer them.

  ‘So how’s your wife getting on, Lognon?’

  ‘She’s written to say the treatment’s going well. She’s just worrying about me.’

  It didn’t make them laugh or even smile. Some subjects are sacrosanct. It did not prevent him being relaxed, almost optimistic.

  ‘You played your role very well. Thank you for that. I hope that apart from Alfonsi, nobody in your station knows anything about this.’

  ‘No, nobody.’

  It was half past midnight when they separated. There were still customers sitting out on café terraces, and more people than usual on the streets, breathing in the comparative coolness of the night air, since there had been none during the day.

  ‘You’re taking the bus?’

  Maigret shook his head. He preferred to make his way home on foot, alone, and as he trod the pavements, his excitement dropped away and a more serious, almost anguished expression took over his face.

  If, as happened a few times, he passed a woman hurrying down the street alone, she would invariably be keeping close to the walls, and would shrink back, ready to run or shout for help at the slightest move on his part.

  Over the past six months, five women who, like these, had been on their way home or to see a friend, five women on foot in the streets of Paris, had been the victims of the same murderer.

  Strangely enough, all five crimes had been committed in just one of Paris’ twenty arrondissements, the 18th, Montmartre, and not only the same arrondissement but the same part of it, a very specific area which could be described as being between four Métro stations: Lamarck, Abbesses, Place Blanche and Place Clichy.

  The names of the victi
ms, the neighbourhood where the attacks had taken place and the time of each crime had become familiar to newspaper readers, and Maigret was literally haunted by them. He knew the list by heart and could have recited it, like a La Fontaine fable learned at school.

  2 February. Avenue Rachel, near Place Clichy, and hardly any distance from Boulevard de Clichy with its bright lights: Arlette Dutour, 28, a streetwalker, living in furnished rooms in Rue d’Amsterdam.

  Two stab wounds in the back, one of which had killed her almost instantly. Her clothing had been systematically slashed, and there were a few superficial cuts to her body.

  No sign of rape. Neither her jewellery, which was of little value, nor her handbag containing a certain amount of money had been taken.

  3 March. Rue Lepic, a little beyond the Moulin de la Galette. 8.15 at night. Joséphine Simmer, born in Mulhouse, a midwife, aged 43. She lived in Rue Lamarck and was on her way back from the top of the Butte Montmartre, where she had been delivering a baby.

  A single stab wound in the back, which had penetrated the heart. Clothing slashed, superficial cuts to the body. Her midwife’s bag was lying beside her on the pavement.

  17 April. (Because of the coincidences of the dates 2 February and 3 March, the police had been expecting another attack on 4 April, but nothing had happened.) Rue Étex, alongside the Montmartre cemetery, almost opposite the Bretonneau hospital. Three minutes past nine at night, Monique Juteaux, a dressmaker, aged 24, unmarried, living with her mother, Boulevard des Batignolles. She was coming back from visiting a friend who lived in Avenue de Saint-Ouen. It was raining, and she had been carrying an umbrella.

  Three stab wounds. Clothing slashed, nothing stolen.

  15 June. Between 9.20 and 9.30. Rue Durantin this time, still in the same district. Marie Bernard, a widow aged 52, who worked as a post office clerk and lived with her daughter and son-in-law in a flat on Boulevard Rochechouart.

  Two stab wounds. Clothing slashed. The second thrust had severed the carotid artery. Nothing stolen.

  21 July. The most recent crime so far. Georgette Lecoeur, aged 31, married with two children, living in Rue Lepic, not far from where the second attack had taken place. Her husband worked nights in a garage. One of the children was ill. She was going down Rue Tholozé in search of a chemist’s shop open at that time of night, and she had died at about 9.45, opposite a music hall. A single stab wound. Clothing slashed.