The Madman of Bergerac

by Georges Simenon

  A good soul, obviously. She was quite at her ease now, and she couldn’t understand why Françoise should have made such a fuss. Why shouldn’t she come and see Maigret? A very nicely spoken man, he was. He came straight to the point, in a language she could understand. And he didn’t hurt her feelings.

  She was an artiste. She’d traveled. She’d had affairs. She’d had two children . . . But wasn’t that all in the natural order of things?

  “Was it chest trouble?”

  “No. In her head. She was always complaining of headaches . . . And then one day she caught meningitis and had to be rushed off to the hospital.”

  A pause. So far it had just gushed out of its own accord, but Joséphine Beausoleil had now come to the critical point. She seemed to know she was on dangerous ground, for she looked inquiringly at Françoise, wondering what she ought to say next.

  “The inspector has no right to question you, maman. Don’t answer another word.”

  That was easy to say. But she, Joséphine Beausoleil, knew very well that it was a risky business rubbing the police up the wrong way. She didn’t want to offend anybody.

  Leduc had quite recovered his self-respect and was now throwing looks at Maigret that said:

  “We’re making headway.”

  “Listen, madame! . . . You’re quite at liberty to speak or not—just as you think fit. You’ve every right to refuse. But it doesn’t alter the fact that you can be made to speak sooner or later . . . somewhere or other . . . in the assize court, for instance . . .”

  “But I haven’t done anything.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why, in my opinion, the wisest course would be to be perfectly frank . . . As for you, Mademoiselle Françoise . . .”

  But Françoise wasn’t listening. She had picked up the telephone receiver and was speaking breathlessly. Her voice was anxious, feverish, and she kept on glancing furtively at Leduc as though she expected him to snatch the instrument out of her hand.

  “Hallo! . . . He’s going round the wards? . . . Never mind. Tell him he must come at once. There’s not a minute to lose. To the Hôtel d’ Angleterre . . . Say it’s from Mademoiselle Françoise . . . Yes. He’ll understand . . .”

  She listened a moment longer, then put the receiver down and turned a look of defiance on Maigret.

  “He’s coming . . . Don’t say anything, maman.”

  She was trembling. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead and wetted her chestnut hair at the temples.

  “You see, inspector . . .” began Madame Beausoleil. “What can I do?”

  Without answering her, Maigret turned to the daughter.

  “Mademoiselle Françoise, please take note of the fact that I made no attempt to stop you telephoning. And I shan’t ask your mother any more questions. But let me give you a word of advice. Since you’ve asked Dr. Rivaud to come, ask the prosecutor too. You’ll find him at his house.”

  She tried to guess his thoughts. She hesitated. But in the end she snatched up the receiver again.

  “Hallo! . . . 167, please.”

  “Here! Leduc!”

  And Maigret whispered a few words into his ear.

  Leduc seemed surprised and embarrassed.

  “Do you think . . . ?” he began. But he broke off, and half a minute later they could hear him cranking the Ford.

  “Hallo! . . . It’s Françoise speaking . . . Yes . . . I’m speaking from the Hôtel d’ Angleterre—the inspector’s room. My mother’s here . . . Yes, the inspector wants you to come . . . No . . . No! . . . No, I assure you . . .”

  This torrent of “nos” burst out of her in a flood of anguish.

  “NO! . . . I tell you . . .”

  She stood by the bedside table, tense, panting.

  Maigret smiled at her as he lit his pipe, while Madame Beausoleil repowdered her face.

  10

  THE NOTE

  The silence seemed to have lasted an age when all at once Françoise frowned. She was looking out of the window with acute anxiety on her face. Then suddenly she turned her head away.

  It was Madame Rivaud crossing the place du Marché, coming toward the hotel. Was it an optical illusion? Or was it that the gravity of the moment made everything seem dramatic? Even at that distance she seemed like a person in a play. She walked as though she was being driven on by some invisible force that had completely taken hold of her.

  As she came closer it could be seen that her face was pale and her hair disheveled. Her overcoat was unbuttoned.

  “Here’s Germaine,” said Madame Beausoleil at last. “Someone must have told her I was here.”

  Madame Maigret went instinctively to open the door. When Madame Rivaud entered, it was written all over her that she was living through a tragic moment.

  She made, nevertheless, a great effort to control herself. She even managed to smile. But there was a wild, lost look in her eyes, and from time to time her features twitched involuntarily.

  “Excuse me, inspector . . . But I heard my mother and sister were here . . .”

  “Who told you?”

  “Who . . . ?” she repeated, trembling.

  What a contrast they presented—those two sisters. Germaine was obviously the one who had to make the sacrifices, who had to take a backseat. She had never quite outgrown her plebeian origin, and so was entitled to less consideration than Françoise. Even her mother looked critically at her.

  “What! Do you mean you don’t know?”

  “It was someone I met.”

  “You haven’t seen your husband?”

  “No . . . Really . . . I swear I haven’t.”

  Maigret, puzzled, looked in turn at the three women, then out onto the place du Marché, where there was no sign of either Rivaud or Leduc. What did that mean? Leduc had been dispatched to keep an eye on the doctor in case the latter made off instead of coming to the hotel. He looked at Madame Rivaud’s dusty shoes—she must have been running on the road. Then he studied her sister’s drawn features. He had forgotten his wife’s presence, but suddenly she bent over him, saying:

  “Give me that pipe. You’ve had quite enough.”

  He was about to protest, but as he opened his mouth he noticed a little piece of paper that she had dropped on the bed. On it was scribbled:

  Madame Rivaud has just passed a note to Françoise, who is holding it in her left hand.

  The sunshine outside. All the noises of the town blending into a chant that Maigret knew by heart. Madame Beausoleil waited, sitting bolt upright in her chair, like a woman who at any rate knows how to hold herself properly. Madame Rivaud, on the other hand, had quite lost countenance. She had no more dignity than a guilty schoolgirl.

  “Mademoiselle Françoise . . .” began Maigret.

  She shook from head to foot. For a second she looked straight into Maigret’s eyes. A hard, intelligent look. For all her nervousness she was not one to lose her head.

  “Mademoiselle Françoise, would you mind coming over here?”

  Good old Madame Maigret! Did she guess what was coming! Anyhow she made a movement toward the door. But she was not quick enough. Françoise made a dash for it, rushed out, along the passage, and down the stairs.

  “What’s the matter with her?” asked Joséphine Beausoleil, quite concerned.

  Maigret did not move. He couldn’t. Nor could he very well send his wife off in pursuit. He merely turned to Madame Rivaud and asked:

  “When did your husband give you that note?”

  “What note?”

  Maigret took pity on her. Besides, what was the good of insisting? He turned to his wife.

  “Go and look out of one of the rear windows of the hotel.”

  The prosecutor chose the moment to make his entry. He came in stiffly. And, to cover his uneasiness no doubt, his expression was severe and even threatening.

  “I received a telephone message asking me to . . .”

  “Sit down, Monsieur Duhourceau.”

  “But . . . the person who telep
honed . . .”

  “Françoise has just escaped. Perhaps she’ll be caught. But, on the other hand, perhaps not . . . Do sit down, please. You know Madame Beausoleil, I think . . .”

  “I? . . . Nothing of the sort!”

  He tried to fathom Maigret’s look. For the latter seemed to be talking for the sake of talking, while really thinking of other things; or rather he seemed with his mind’s eye to be watching some scene that was hidden from the rest of them. He looked out of the window, listened, then stared at Madame Rivaud.

  Suddenly there were noises. Perhaps a shot had been fired but anyhow there was a general hustle and scurry. Running steps on the stairs. Doors slamming. People calling.

  “What’s up? . . . Who is it? . . .”

  More shouts. Noise of something being broken. Steps rushing in pursuit on the floor above. A window was smashed, the shards falling onto the pavement below.

  Madame Maigret burst into the room, locking the door behind her.

  “I think Leduc’s got them,” she panted.

  “Leduc?” asked the prosecutor suspiciously.

  “The doctor’s car was in the lane behind. He was sitting in it, waiting for somebody. Françoise ran up to it and was just getting in when Leduc drove up in the Ford. I almost shouted to him to be quick, for he simply sat there and looked at them. But he had his own idea. He quietly pulled out a revolver and punctured one of the tires . . .

  “The other two didn’t know what to do. The doctor looked wildly round him, first this way, then that . . . But when he saw Leduc coming toward him, still holding his revolver, he jumped out, caught Françoise by the arm, and dashed into the hotel, dragging her after him . . .

  “Leduc’s on their heels . . . They’re upstairs.”

  “I should be grateful for some explanation,” snapped the prosecutor, though he was pale as death.

  “It’s quite simple,” answered Maigret. “By means of a little advertisement I got Madame Beausoleil to come and see me. But she wasn’t the only one to see it in the paper, and Dr. Rivaud, who didn’t wish the interview to take place, sent Françoise to the station to intercept her . . .

  “However, I had foreseen that maneuver and posted Leduc at the station too. Instead of bringing one woman he brought both of them here.

  “You’ll see how it all links up . . . Françoise, seeing things were going from bad to worse, rang up Rivaud and told him to come at once.

  “I sent Leduc to keep track of Rivaud, but he must have arrived at the hospital too late. Rivaud had gone. He drove home, wrote a note for Françoise and told Madame Rivaud to slip it to her. Then he drove round to the lane at the back . . . Do you see? . . . That’s where Françoise was to join him . . .

  “A minute more and they might have made it. But in the meantime Leduc turns up in his Ford, guesses there’s something fishy going on, and shoots out a tire, and . . .”

  The shindy on the floor above was louder than ever. Then suddenly it ceased. Dead silence. A silence so impressive that in the room below no one moved an eyelid.

  Leduc’s voice now. Giving orders. But it was impossible to make out what he said . . . Then more noise: a dull bang, then another, then another—finally, the noise of a door being broken down.

  Silence again, and this time it was positively painful. What did it mean? Why was no one moving, upstairs?

  At last there were steps on the floor above. A man’s steps, slow and ponderous.

  Madame Rivaud stood riveted where she was, wide-eyed, breathless. The prosecutor yanked at his mustache. Joséphine Beausoleil was on the verge of tears.

  “They must be dead,” said Maigret gravely, looking at the ceiling.

  “What? . . . What do you mean? . . .”

  Madame Rivaud was jolted out of her stillness. She darted forward toward the bed, her panic-stricken eyes staring into Maigret’s.

  “It’s not true . . . It can’t be . . . Say it isn’t true . . .”

  The steps came down the stairs. The door opened. It was Leduc who entered. His tie was askew, and a lock of hair had fallen over his forehead.

  “Dead?”

  “Both of them.”

  He raised an arm to bar the door as Madame Rivaud ran toward it.

  “Not yet.”

  “It isn’t true. I know it isn’t . . . Let me see them,” she panted.

  Madame Beausoleil was trying desperately to take it in. Monsieur Duhourceau fixed his eyes on the carpet. Perhaps at bottom he was the most astonished and upset of any of them.

  “How? . . . Both of them? . . .” he at last managed to stammer, looking up at Leduc.

  “We dashed upstairs after them, but they had time to slip into one of the rooms and lock the door behind them. It was too solid for me . . . I sent for the landlord, who is a big, strong chap . . . I was able to see them through the keyhole.”

  Madame Rivaud listened avidly. She seemed almost out of her mind. So much so that Leduc shot an inquiring look at Maigret to know if he ought to go on.

  Why not? Just as well get it over. It would all come out before long. Maigret nodded.

  “They were in each other’s arms. She was holding on to him frantically. I could hear her say:

  “‘I won’t . . . No. It’s impossible . . . I’d rather . . .’

  “And it was she who dragged the revolver out of his pocket.

  “‘Both of us . . .’ she said. ‘Shoot . . . Shoot as you kiss me! . . .’

  “I couldn’t see anymore, as we started to hack the door down.”

  He wiped his forehead. You could see even through his trouser legs that his knees were shaking.

  “It took us half a minute to get it down, and of course we were too late. Rivaud was already dead when I bent over him. The girl’s eyes seemed to be looking at me, but I thought it was the same with her . . . I thought it was all over. And then suddenly, when I least expected it . . .”

  “What was it?” asked the prosecutor, with something like a sob in his voice.

  “She smiled . . . She smiled at me . . . I had the door put across the doorway and gave orders nobody was to go in. They’re telephoning to the hospital and the police.”

  For all her efforts, Madame Beausoleil was unable to take it in. She stared vacantly at Leduc. Then, turning to Maigret, she asked in a dreamy voice:

  “What’s he saying?”

  The door opened and the landlord came in. His face was redder than ever, and as he spoke he breathed a gust of alcohol into the air. He had been downstairs and, to pull himself together, had swilled down a stiff drink at the bar. The shoulder of his white coat was dirty and a seam had burst.

  “A doctor’s arrived. Shall I show him up?”

  “I’ll go,” said Leduc reluctantly.

  “Monsieur le procureur?” went on the landlord. “I didn’t know you were here. I suppose you’ve heard? . . . It’s a sight I shall never forget. Enough to make your heart bleed. Such a fine-looking couple . . . To see them lying there holding each other . . .”

  “That’ll do,” said Maigret. “Leave us.”

  “Ought I to shut the hotel? The crowd’s gathering thick and fast. When I rang up the police, the inspector wasn’t there, but they’re sending some men round . . .”

  As soon as he had gone, Maigret looked round for Germaine Rivaud. He found her stretched full-length on Madame Maigret’s bed, with her head buried in the pillow. There were no tears, no sobs. Nothing but long, painful groans, as might have come from a wounded animal.

  Madame Beausoleil, who had at last grasped the situation, dried her eyes and in a firm decisive voice asked:

  “May I go and see them?”

  “Presently. The doctor’s there now.”

  Madame Maigret hovered round Germaine. But what help or consolation could she offer? The prosecutor mumbled:

  “I told you . . .”

  Through the window came the half-subdued murmur of an expectant crowd. Two policemen had arrived and were elbowing their way through, while the on
lookers complained resentfully of their roughness.

  Maigret filled himself a pipe. At the same time he looked thoughtfully out of the window at the little grocer’s shop over the way, all of whose customers he now knew by sight.

  “You left the child at Bordeaux, Madame Beausoleil?”

  She looked inquiringly at the prosecutor, but she got no help from him.

  “Yes ... I ...”

  “About three years old, I suppose?”

  “Two.”

  “A boy?”

  “A little girl ... But ...”

  “Her mother was Françoise, wasn’t she?”

  But Monsieur Duhourceau intervened. Rising from his chair, he began:

  “Really, inspector ... I must ask you ...”

  “You’re quite right. Perhaps you’d like to call on me another time. Or rather, the first day I’m allowed out, I’ll pay you a visit myself.”

  The prosecutor was obviously relieved.

  “By that time,” went on Maigret, “it will all be cleared up . . . It is now, for that matter, or practically so. And no doubt your place is upstairs, seeing to the official side of things.”

  Monsieur Duhourceau made off precipitately, without thinking of saying good-bye. He fled, in fact, like a schoolboy who has suddenly been let off a punishment.

  With his departure the atmosphere of the room became at once more intimate. Germaine was still groaning, while Madame Maigret vainly tried to soothe her by putting cold compresses on her forehead. But Germaine pushed them away, letting the water trickle down onto the pillow.

  Madame Beausoleil sat down again with a sigh.

  “Whoever would have thought . . . ?”

  A good woman at heart. In her way a thoroughly moral one. That is, if mortality is living according to your lights. Was it her fault if her lights were not so steady as some people’s?

  Big round tears began to well up from her lined middle-aged eyes and run down her cheeks, washing away the makeup.

  “She was your favorite, wasn’t she?”

  Germaine’s presence didn’t worry her at all, though it’s only fair to add that the latter wasn’t listening.

  “Of course. She had the looks. And such style too. Far more intelligent than her sister. Oh, it wasn’t Germaine’s fault. You can’t blame her, as she was ill such a lot, and couldn’t help being backward . . . When the doctor married her, Françoise was too young—barely thirteen. But, believe me or not, I had an idea even then that there’d be trouble later . . . And you see what’s happened . . .”