Maigret's Madwoman

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But if I gave evidence, it would harm him, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘So you see why I can’t be too certain. I wouldn’t want to harm an innocent man.’

  ‘If he is innocent, we’ll find out.’

  ‘It doesn’t always happen! There are miscarriages of justice. Oh all right, it was when I was going out …’

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. But last week. I was on my way to pick up my daughter from school.’

  The girl, aged about twelve, was sitting doing her homework in the next room.

  ‘So it must have been a little after four, then.’

  ‘Or it could have been at midday. That’s what I’m trying to remember. More likely four o’clock, because I had my shopping bag, and that’s when I buy food for the evening. My husband doesn’t come home for lunch, so we don’t eat much at midday, me and my daughter.

  ‘I was on the stairs, not looking where I was going, and someone bumped into me. He was rushing up the stairs four at a time and nearly knocked me over. That’s why I remember it.

  ‘He turned back and asked me if he had hurt me. I said no, it was all right.’

  ‘You don’t know which floor he was going to?’

  ‘No, I was in a hurry because my daughter doesn’t like me to keep her waiting outside the school and, with the traffic, I don’t dare let her come back on her own.’

  Maigret sighed. A slight hope, at last!

  A few moments later, he was pushing open the door of the bedroom where the open coffin lay, and was able to gaze at the fine features of the old woman whom everyone had supposed to be mad.

  The curtains were three-quarters drawn and the bedroom was in semi-darkness, except for a quivering ray of sunlight. The two church candles flickering either side of the bed helped to give the room an unaccustomed appearance.

  Angèle Louette was there, neither moving nor speaking, in an armchair, and for a moment Maigret thought she was asleep. Only on looking at her for the second time did he notice that her dark eyes were fixed on him.

  He stood respectfully for a moment in front of the dead woman, then went into the sitting room where he was relieved to be in the light of day. As he expected, she followed him.

  She was more stony-faced than ever.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Paying my last respects to your aunt.’

  ‘Oh, admit it, that’s the least of your concerns. Same thing for the tenants here. Just two of them, out of all the people in the building, have been in. Have you seen that waste of space, Marcel?’

  ‘He’s gone to Toulon in his car.’

  He could see that this came as a shock to her.

  ‘Good riddance! It was hard enough to get him out of the door. Did you know I had to give him five hundred francs before he’d leave my place?’

  ‘You could report him to the police for extorting money.’

  ‘Well, maybe I will. Anyway, if he tries to come back—’

  ‘Did you know that he was in this building last week?’

  She gave a violent start and frowned.

  ‘Do you know which day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or what time?’

  ‘About four o’clock.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you asked him about this visit?’

  ‘When I saw him this morning, I wasn’t aware of it. How would he know your aunt’s address?’

  ‘One day, oh about a month ago, we were crossing the Pont-Neuf together, and I pointed out her windows and said:

  ‘“I’ve got an old aunt who lives up there.”’

  ‘I think you must have added that one of these days she’d leave you a tidy sum of money.’

  ‘I can see he’s been spinning you his lies. I only said that she’d been married twice, so what with her pensions, she was very comfortably off. Where is he now?’

  ‘At this moment, as I said, unless he’s changed his mind, he’s on the way to Toulon.’

  ‘He was always going on to me about Toulon and his friends there.’

  ‘Do you know anything about his family, his background?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He never told you anything about his past?’

  ‘No. All I know is he’s still got his mother. She lives in a small town somewhere in central France.’

  ‘Are you certain you haven’t set foot in here in the last week, or let’s say the last fortnight?’

  ‘Are you going to start this again?’

  ‘Think before you reply.’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  ‘Do you know what was in the drawer in her bedside table?’

  ‘No, I’ve never opened it.’

  ‘Even this morning, when you were rearranging the furniture for the coffin to be brought in?’

  ‘Even this morning.’

  ‘Did you know that your aunt owned a gun?’

  ‘Certainly not. She’d be the last person to pick up a firearm.’

  ‘She wasn’t afraid, living on her own?’

  ‘My aunt wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you about her second husband’s inventions?’

  ‘One day, she showed me some clever little device for peeling potatoes. She even promised me one, but I never got it. That was when Antoine was still alive. She gave me a tour of his workshop as well, if you can call it that, more like a cupboard with hardly room to turn round.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your time.’

  ‘Are you coming to the funeral?’

  ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘The coffin will leave here at a quarter to ten. We have to be at the church by ten.’

  ‘Till tomorrow then.’

  There were moments when her quasi-masculine toughness was not unattractive and could be seen as sincerity. She wasn’t beautiful, had never been pretty. And as she got older, she was starting to put on weight.

  Why shouldn’t she, like any unmarried man of her age, have the right to carry on affairs?

  She didn’t conceal it. She received her lovers at her apartment overnight or for a week. The concierge saw them coming and going. The other tenants in her building must know about them too.

  On the other hand, she was distrustful, and kept looking at him as if she was always suspecting a trap.

  On the way back to headquarters, Maigret stopped off at the Brasserie Dauphine to drink a glass of white wine from the Loire valley. He didn’t want a beer. The wine, which had a touch of sparkle about it, misted the glass and suited the spring atmosphere better.

  It was an in-between time of day. Apart from a deliveryman in a blue apron, there was no one in the café.

  He decided to order the same again.

  Doctor Pardon wouldn’t get to know about it. Anyway, Pardon had merely advised him to drink in moderation.

  At Quai des Orfèvres, he found Lapointe, who had once more been round the apartment building, showing tenants the photo of Marcel.

  ‘Any success?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll need you to drive me to the funeral.’

  He went home on foot, with thoughts that were on the whole uncomfortable rumbling round inside his head:

  ‘The only thing we’re sure of is that a revolver has disappeared.’

  And were they even sure of that? They had found some grease from a gun at the bottom of a drawer. But perhaps there was some other explanation for that.

  Moers’ experts had assured him that it had been there no more than a month.

  He was starting to feel suspicious of everything himself, and he would have liked to start the investigation again from scratch, if only he had a clue to put him on the right track.

  ‘Oh, you’re back already!’

  She hadn’t opened the door, and for once he had used his key.

  ‘I think I’ll go out this e
vening.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘A place you’d best not come to, a hippy hangout on Place Maubert.’

  He took the time to read his newspaper and had a cold shower before dinner. Once again, they were eating in front of an open window.

  ‘Tomorrow I have to go to the funeral.’

  ‘Will there be a lot of people?’

  ‘Apart from the niece, I might be the only person there. Only two of the tenants in the building she lived in came to pay their respects in front of her coffin.’

  ‘What about the press?’

  ‘The case doesn’t seem to have aroused much interest. Now all they’re printing are a few lines on page three.’

  He switched on the television. He would have to wait until after ten if he was to find Billy Louette at the Bongo Club.

  On the corner of Boulevard Voltaire, he hailed a taxi, gave the address, and the driver looked at him with curiosity, wondering why a respectable gentleman from this district was going to a rather disreputable place.

  The Bongo Club had taken few pains over the decoration. The walls were painted white, with occasional meaningless stripes of colour.

  That was the only sign of originality. There was a classic zinc counter behind which the club’s owner, in shirtsleeves and blue apron, was handling orders himself. A door gave on to a smoke-filled kitchen from which came a smell of stale cooking fat.

  A dozen or so couples were eating at tables, mostly spaghetti, which seemed to be the speciality of the house.

  Some of the young men wore jeans and flowered shirts. The others were people who had come along to watch.

  Or rather to listen, since three musicians were making as much noise as an entire orchestra. Billy was the guitarist, and the other two were playing drums and bass.

  All three of them had long hair and were wearing black velvet trousers and pink shirts.

  ‘Are you here to eat?’

  The owner practically had to shout to make himself heard.

  Maigret shook his head and ordered a glass of white wine. Billy had seen him come in, without showing any sign of surprise.

  Maigret knew nothing about rock music, but what was reaching his ears didn’t sound any worse than the kind of thing he sometimes heard on the radio or television. The three young men were throwing themselves into it and working up into a sort of final frenzy.

  People applauded loudly. The band took a break. Billy came over to Maigret, who was standing at the counter.

  ‘I suppose it was me you wanted to see?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Have you been in touch with your mother?’

  ‘Not today, no.’

  ‘In that case, you won’t know that the funeral is tomorrow. You’ll need to be at Quai de la Mégisserie at a quarter to ten. The service is at Notre-Dame-des-Blancs-Manteaux. Then she will be buried in Montparnasse Cemetery.’

  ‘I thought my great-uncle Antoine was buried out at Ivry.’

  ‘Quite right, but his widow expressed the wish to be buried in the vault belonging to her first husband.’

  ‘We’re going to be playing again in a few minutes. Did you like our stuff?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I don’t know anything about that kind of music. There was one question I wanted to ask you. Did you know that your great-aunt owned a revolver?’

  ‘Yes.’

  At last, someone was replying straightforwardly, without any sign of being worried.

  ‘She told you about it?’

  ‘A long time ago, could be a year or two. I was broke again. I went to ask her for some money and I saw that she had a few hundred-franc notes in her sideboard. Well, to some people, a few hundred francs is nothing at all. But I know others, and that includes me at times, who’d think it a fortune. So I said quite naturally to her:

  ‘“Aren’t you afraid?”

  ‘“Who of? You?”

  ‘“No, but you live alone. People know that. A burglar might …”’

  At this point he made a sign to his fellow musicians that he wouldn’t be long.

  ‘And she said she was armed against burglars, and went to open the drawer in her bedside table.

  ‘“And don’t think I wouldn’t use it if I had to,” she said.’

  So now they had more to go on than a mere patch of oil. Someone had actually seen the gun.

  ‘Was it a revolver or an automatic?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘A revolver has a barrel, an automatic is flat and snub-nosed.’

  ‘Well, if I’m remembering it right, it was a revolver.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I didn’t look closely. About as long as my hand.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone about it?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything to your mother?’

  ‘Our relationship isn’t close enough for me to confide in her about anything.’

  The young man went off to join his companions, and the music started again. You could sense that Billy was really carried away by the rhythm he was creating, backed up by the drummer.

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ the owner said, leaning across the bar. ‘Well, the three of them are OK, and they don’t take drugs. Which is more than I can say of all my customers.’

  Maigret paid for his drink and went back outside. He had difficulty finding a taxi, and asked to be driven straight home.

  Next morning, he went up to the next floor to see Libart, the examining magistrate.

  ‘I’d like you to authorize a search warrant. In the name of Angèle Louette, unmarried, who works as a masseuse, and lives in Rue Saint-André-des-Arts.’

  The clerk was writing this down.

  ‘Does this mean you’re getting close to a result?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ll admit that I’m still pretty much in the dark.’

  ‘She’s the old lady’s niece, isn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And her legatee as well. Seems a bit odd, in that case.’

  Maigret was expecting this objection, which had occurred to everyone. Angèle Louette was certain to inherit from her aunt one day, and probably quite soon, given the old lady’s age. So why would she risk spending the rest of her life in prison to get her hands on what would in any case have come to her?

  ‘Well, follow your hunch! Good luck.’

  At a quarter to ten, Maigret was at Quai de la Mégisserie, with Lapointe, who was driving the little black police car. There were no funeral drapes round the front door, and no crowd had gathered, not a single curious onlooker.

  The hearse pulled up in front of the building, and two burly men went up to fetch the coffin. There were no flowers or wreaths. Curtains twitched at some of the windows, and the concierge came to the door and crossed herself.

  The old bird-seller left the dark interior of the shop for a few minutes to join his son at the entrance.

  And that was all.

  Angèle Louette was alone as she climbed into the black limousine provided by the undertaker. The church was empty apart from two women waiting outside a confessional. It was as if everyone was in a hurry to get it over with, the priest as well as the undertaker’s men.

  Maigret had remained at the back of the church where Lapointe joined him after finding a parking spot.

  ‘It doesn’t even feel sad,’ the young inspector remarked.

  That was true: the nave was flooded with sunlight. The doors had not been closed and the sounds of the street could be heard.

  ‘Et ne nos inducas in tentationem …’

  ‘Amen …’

  The men carried out the coffin, which could not have weighed much. Less than a quarter of an hour later, they were entering Montparnasse Cemetery, and the cortège stopped in front of a pink marble tombstone.

  ‘I told you there wouldn’t be anyone here,’ the masseuse whispered to him as the old lady’s coffin was lowered into the vault.

  She added: ‘We haven’t ha
d time yet to have her name engraved on the stone, alongside her husband’s. The monumental masons will do it next week.’

  She was dressed soberly, all in black, which made her look even more severe. She could have been taken for a governess or a headmistress.

  ‘And now,’ murmured Maigret, ‘we’re going over to your place.’

  ‘We’re going?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

  ‘What is it you want with me now?’

  The cemetery was even more cheerful than the church, with bright sunlight dancing in the leaves on the trees and the air full of birdsong.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’d better give the undertaker’s men tips. I suppose I can’t go back in their car?’

  ‘There’s room in ours.’

  They met up again at the gates and Angèle got in the back, while Maigret took his usual place alongside Lapointe.

  ‘Rue Saint-André-des-Arts.’

  The old lady’s niece said bitterly:

  ‘I was expecting there’d be talk. There are always people who’ll say things behind your back, making things up if they have to. But for the Police Judiciaire, and Detective Chief Inspector Maigret in person, to harass me …’

  ‘I’m sorry about this, but I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘But why would I have gone secretly to my aunt’s?’

  ‘Why would anyone else?’

  ‘Do you think I’m capable of killing an old woman?’

  ‘I don’t think anything, I’m just carrying out an investigation. Lapointe, you can come up and join us once you’ve parked.’

  When they were upstairs, she took off her hat and then her suit jacket, under which she wore a white blouse. For the first time, Maigret noticed that although she had a rather masculine appearance, she had a good figure, remarkably well preserved for her age.

  ‘Now, tell me once and for all what you want.’

  He took the search warrant out of his pocket.

  ‘Read it for yourself.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to turn everything upside down, poking in every corner?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re used to this. I’m waiting for two specialists from Criminal Records, who will put everything back in its exact right place.’

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  ‘By the way, your son didn’t come to the funeral.’

  ‘I must admit that what with everything else going on, I forgot to tell him about it. I don’t even know his precise address. All I know is what you’ve told me.’