Maigret and the Old People

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Do you sleep in the apartment?’

  When Maigret addressed her, she wasn’t looking at him and seemed not to have heard. He repeated his question, more loudly. This time she lowered her head and stretched her good ear towards him.

  ‘Yes. I have a little room behind the kitchen.’

  ‘Are there any other servants?’

  ‘Not here, no.’

  ‘You do the housework and the cooking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventy-three.’

  ‘And the Count of Saint-Hilaire?’

  ‘Seventy-seven.’

  ‘At what time did you leave him last night?’

  ‘At about ten o’clock.’

  ‘Was he in this office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he waiting for anybody?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Did he sometimes have people over for dinner?’

  ‘His nephew.’

  ‘Where does his nephew live?’

  ‘On Rue Jacob. He’s an antiques dealer.’

  ‘Is he called Saint-Hilaire as well?’

  ‘No. He’s the son of the count’s sister. His name is Mazeron.’

  ‘Have you got that, Janvier?

  ‘This morning, when you found the body … Because it was this morning when you found him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. At eight o’clock.’

  ‘You didn’t think of telephoning Monsieur Mazeron?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She didn’t reply. She had the staring eye of certain birds and, also like certain birds, she sometimes perched on one leg.

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Monsieur Mazeron?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with me.’

  Maigret now knew that she was going to be far from easy.

  ‘What has nothing to do with you?’

  ‘The family’s business.’

  ‘The nephew didn’t get on with his uncle?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Did they get on well?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What were you doing yesterday, at ten o’clock in the evening?’

  ‘I went to bed.’

  ‘At what time did you get up?’

  ‘At six o’clock, as usual.’

  ‘And you didn’t set foot in this room?’

  ‘I had no business there.’

  ‘The door was closed?’

  ‘If it had been open, I would have noticed straight away that something had happened.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the lamps were still lit.’

  ‘As they are now?’

  ‘No. The ceiling lamp wasn’t lit. Only the lamp on the desk and the standard lamp in that corner.’

  ‘What did you do, at six o’clock?’

  ‘I washed myself, first of all.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I cleaned my kitchen and went to buy croissants.’

  ‘And the apartment stayed empty during that time?’

  ‘Like every morning.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I made some coffee, I had something to eat, and finally I took the tray to the bedroom.’

  ‘Was the bed unmade?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was the place untidy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Last night, when you left him, was the count wearing that black dressing gown?’

  ‘As he did every evening when he didn’t go out.’

  ‘Did he go out often?’

  ‘He liked the cinema.’

  ‘Did he have friends for dinner?’

  ‘Hardly ever. From time to time he went to have lunch in town.’

  ‘Do you know the names of the people he met?’

  ‘It’s none of my business.’

  The doorbell rang. It was the district chief inspector, accompanied by his secretary. He looked at the desk in surprise, then at the old woman, and at last at Maigret, whose hand he shook.

  ‘How come you got here before us? Was she the one who called you?’

  ‘Not at all. She went to Quai d’Orsay. Do you know the victim?’

  ‘He’s the former ambassador, isn’t he? I know him by name and by sight. He used to take a walk in the neighbourhood every morning. Who did it?’

  ‘We don’t know anything yet. I’m waiting for the prosecutor’s office.’

  ‘The registrar doctor will be here very shortly.’

  No one touched the furniture or the ornaments. There was a curious atmosphere of unease, and it was a relief when the doctor arrived; he gave a little whistle when he bent over the body.

  ‘I don’t suppose I can turn him over before the photographers arrive?’

  ‘Don’t touch him … Do you have an approximate idea of the time of death?’

  ‘A while ago … At first sight, I would say about ten hours … It’s strange …’

  ‘What’s strange?’

  ‘He seems to have been hit by at least four bullets … One here … Another one there …’

  Kneeling, he examined the body more closely.

  ‘I don’t know what the pathologist will think. For my part, I wouldn’t be surprised if the first bullet killed him outright, and they went on shooting anyway. Bear in mind that this is only a hypothesis …’

  In less than five minutes the apartment filled up. First the prosecutor’s office, represented by the deputy, Pasquier, and an examining magistrate, whom Maigret did not know well, and whose name was Urbain de Chézaud.

  Dr Paul’s successor, Dr Tudelle, came with them. Immediately after came the invasion of Criminal Records, with their cumbersome equipment.

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘The housekeeper.’

  Maigret pointed at the old woman, who, with no apparent emotion, continued to keep a close eye on what everyone was up to.

  ‘Have you questioned her?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve just exchanged a few words with her.’

  ‘Does she know anything?’

  ‘If she does, it won’t be easy to make her speak.’

  He told him the story of the foreign minister.

  ‘Has anything been stolen?’

  ‘Not at first sight. I’m waiting for Criminal Records to finish their work and tell me.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘A nephew.’

  ‘Has he been told?’

  ‘Not yet. I plan to go and inform him myself while my men are working. He lives not far from here, on Rue Jacob.’

  Maigret could have called the antiques dealer to ask him to come, but he preferred to meet him in his own setting.

  ‘If you don’t need me, I’ll go there right now. Janvier, you stay here …’

  It was a great relief to see daylight again, the patches of sunlight beneath the trees on Boulevard Saint-Germain. The air was mild, the women dressed in light colours, and a council water-cart was slowly moistening the middle of the carriageway.

  He found the shop on Rue Jacob without any difficulty, its windows containing only old weapons, particularly swords. He pushed open the door, making a bell ring, and stood there for two or three minutes before a man emerged from the darkness.

  Because his uncle was seventy-seven, Maigret wouldn’t have expected the nephew to be a young man. He was nonetheless surprised that the man standing in front of him looked quite old.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He had a long, pale face with bristling eyebrows; his head was almost bald and his floating clothes made him look thinner than he was.

  ‘Are you Monsieur Mazeron?’

  ‘Alain Mazeron, that’s right.’

  The shop was crammed with other weapons: muskets, blunderbusses and, right at the back, two suits of armour.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Police Judiciaire.’

  The man frowned. Mazeron was trying to understand
.

  ‘You are the nephew of the Count of Saint-Hilaire, isn’t that right?’

  ‘He’s my uncle, yes. Why?’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  He replied without hesitation:

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  ‘Do you have a family?’

  ‘I’m married with children.’

  ‘When you saw your uncle the day before yesterday, did he seem to be in his normal state?’

  ‘Yes. He was even quite cheerful. Why are you asking me that question?’

  ‘Because he’s dead.’

  Maigret saw the same suspicion in the man’s eyes as he had in the old housekeeper.

  ‘Has there been an accident?’

  ‘In a sense …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That he was killed last night, in his office, by several bullets fired from a revolver or an automatic pistol.’

  The antique dealer’s face filled with disbelief.

  ‘Do you know if he had any enemies?’

  ‘No … Certainly not …’

  If Mazeron had just said no, Maigret wouldn’t have paid attention. The ‘certainly not’ sounded a little like a corrective and made him prick up his ears.

  ‘You have no idea who might have an interest in your uncle’s death?’

  ‘No … No one …’

  ‘Was he very wealthy?’

  ‘He had a little money … He lived mostly off his pension …’

  ‘Did he sometimes come here?’

  ‘Sometimes …’

  ‘To have lunch or dinner with the family?’

  Mazeron seemed distracted and replied through pursed lips as if thinking about something else.

  ‘No … More in the morning, when he took his walk …’

  ‘He came in to chat with you …?’

  ‘That’s right. He came in, sat down for a moment …’

  ‘Did you go and see him at his flat?’

  ‘From time to time …’

  ‘With your family?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘You have children, you told me?’

  ‘Two! Two daughters …’

  ‘And you live in this building?’

  ‘On the first floor … One of my daughters, the elder one, is in England … The second, Marcelle, lives with her mother …’

  ‘You don’t live with your wife?’

  ‘Not for some years …’

  ‘Are you divorced?’

  ‘No … It’s complicated … Do you think we should go to my uncle’s?’

  He went and fetched his hat from the semi-darkness of the back of the shop, hung a sign on the door saying he would be back soon, locked it and followed Maigret along the pavement.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked.

  He sounded concerned and worried.

  ‘I know hardly anything.’

  ‘Has anything been stolen?’

  ‘I don’t think so. There was no sign of disorder in the flat.’

  ‘What does Jaquette say?’

  ‘You mean the housekeeper?’

  ‘Yes. That’s her name … I don’t know if that’s her real name, but we’ve always called her Jaquette …’

  ‘Do you like her?’

  ‘Why do you ask me that?’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to like you.’

  ‘She doesn’t like anyone but my uncle. If it had been up to her, no one would ever have stepped inside the flat.’

  ‘Do you think she would have been capable of killing him?’

  Mazeron looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘Her, kill him?’

  It clearly struck him as the most ridiculous idea. And yet after a moment he caught himself considering it.

  ‘No! It’s not possible …’

  ‘You hesitated.’

  ‘Because of her jealousy …’

  ‘You mean that she loved him?’

  ‘She hasn’t always been an old woman …’

  ‘You think there might have been something between them?’

  ‘It’s quite likely. I wouldn’t dare to swear to it. With a man like my uncle it’s hard to know … Have you seen any photographs of Jaquette when she was young?’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything yet.’

  ‘You will … It’s all very complicated. Particularly that it’s all happening right now …’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Alain Mazeron looked at Maigret with a kind of weariness and sighed:

  ‘Essentially, I see that you don’t know anything.’

  ‘What should I know?’

  ‘I wonder … It’s an annoying business … Have you found the letters?’

  ‘I’m just starting my investigation.’

  ‘It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?’

  Maigret nodded.

  ‘The day of the funeral …’

  ‘Whose funeral?’

  ‘The Prince of V—. You’ll understand when you’ve read the letters …’

  Just as they reached Rue Saint-Dominique, the Criminal Records car set off, and Moers waved at Maigret.

  2.

  ‘What are you thinking about, chief?’

  Janvier was surprised by the effect of the question, which he had asked only to break quite a long silence. It seemed as if the words didn’t immediately reach Maigret’s brain, as if they were only sounds that he needed to rearrange in order to untangle their meaning.

  The inspector looked at his companion with big vague eyes and an embarrassed expression, as if he had just accidentally revealed one of his secrets.

  ‘About those people …’ he murmured.

  Obviously he wasn’t talking about the ones lunching around them in this restaurant on Rue de Bourgogne, but other ones, the ones they had never heard of the day before, while today their task was to discover their secret lives.

  Every time he bought a suit, an overcoat, a pair of shoes, Maigret wore them first in the evening, when walking with his wife in the streets of the neighbourhood or to go to the cinema.

  ‘I need to get used to them …’ he would say to Madame Maigret, who mocked him affectionately.

  It was the same when he immersed himself into a new investigation. The others didn’t notice, because of his massive bulk and the calm expression on his face, which they took for confidence. In fact, he passed through a more or less lengthy period of hesitation, unease, even timidity.

  He had to get used to an unfamiliar context, a house, a way of life, people who had their habits, their ways of thinking and expressing themselves.

  With some categories of people it was relatively simple, for example with the more or less regular clients or those who resembled them.

  With the others, he had to learn everything all over again, particularly given his suspicion of rules and ready-made ideas.

  In this case he had an additional handicap. This morning he had established contact with a milieu which was not only relatively closed but on which his childhood memories cast a particular light.

  He realized that in all the time he had spent at Rue Saint-Dominique he had not shown his usual ease; he had been awkward; his questions were reticent and clumsy. Had Janvier noticed?

  If he had, it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to Janvier that it had something to do with Maigret’s distant past, the years spent in the shadow of a chateau where his father was the estate manager, and where for a long time the Count and Countess of Saint-Fiacre had seemed to him like creatures of a unique species.

  The two men had chosen this restaurant on Rue de Bourgogne for their lunch because they were able to sit outside, and they had quickly noticed that the establishment was frequented by civil servants from the surrounding ministries, particularly the Office of the President, it seemed, with some officers in civilian clothes who belonged to the War Ministry.

  They were not just any old clerks. They all had at least the rank of chief clerk, and Maigret was surprised to see that they were s
o young. He was also surprised by their confidence. Judging by their way of speaking and behaving, they seemed to be sure of themselves. Since some of them had recognized him and were talking about him under their breath, he was irritated by their knowing looks and ironic manner.

  Did the people on Quai des Orfèvres, who were also civil servants, give the same impression of having answers to every question?

  That was what he was thinking about at the moment when Janvier had drawn him from his daydream. About that morning in Rue Saint-Dominique. About the dead man, Count Armand de Saint-Hilaire, a long-time ambassador, who had just been murdered at the age of seventy-seven. About the strange Jaquette Larrieu and her little staring eyes that penetrated to his core as she listened to him, her head tilted, attentively watching the movement of his lips. About Alain Mazeron, last of all, pale and soft, lonely in his shop on Rue Jacob, among the swords and the armour, whom Maigret found himself unable to categorize.

  What were the terms used by the English doctor in the article in the Lancet? He couldn’t remember. By and large, they meant that an exceptional schoolteacher, a novelist or a policeman are better placed than a doctor or a psychiatrist to penetrate the depths of the human mind.

  Why did the policeman come last, after the schoolteacher and above all the novelist?

  He was slightly perplexed by that. As if to prove the author of the article wrong, he was keen to find his bearings in this new case.

  They had started with asparagus and were now being served skate in black butter. The sky over the street was still as blue as before, and the passing women wore light-coloured dresses.

  Before deciding to go and have lunch, Maigret and Janvier had spent an hour and a half in the flat of the dead man, which was already becoming more familiar to them.

  The body had been taken to the Forensic Institute, where Dr Tudelle was doing the post-mortem. The people from the prosecutor’s office and Criminal Records had gone. With a sigh of relief Maigret had opened curtains and shutters to let the sunlight into the rooms, giving the furniture and the ornaments their normal everyday appearance.

  The inspector was not troubled by the fact that old Jaquette and the nephew followed in his wake, keeping a close eye on his movements and facial expressions, and from time to time he turned towards them to ask them a question.

  They had probably been surprised to see him moving around for so long without looking at anything in particular, as if viewing a property that he planned to rent.