‘How long have you known Couchet?’
‘Six months maybe.’
There was no need to ask her many questions. It was enough to watch her. A fairly pretty girl, still at the beginning of her career. Her outfit was from a quality fashion house, but her make-up, the way she held her bag and gloves and the aggressive look in her eyes gave away her music-hall background.
‘Dancer?’
‘I was at the Moulin Bleu.’
‘What about now?’
‘I’m with him.’
She hadn’t had time to cry. Everything had happened too fast and the facts hadn’t properly sunk in yet.
‘Did he live with you?’
‘Not exactly, because he was married. But—’
‘Your address?’
‘Hôtel Pigalle, Rue Pigalle.’
The police station deputy commented, ‘In any case, no one can claim it was a burglary!’
‘Why not?’
‘Look! The safe’s behind him! It’s not locked, but the body is blocking the door!’
Nine, who had taken a small handkerchief out of her bag, sniffed and dabbed at her nostrils.
A moment later, the atmosphere changed. Cars screeching to a stop outside. Footsteps and voices in the courtyard. Then handshakes, questions, noisy discussions. The public prosecutor and his investigating team had arrived. The pathologist examined the body and the photographers set up their equipment.
For Maigret, it was an unpleasant wait. After exchanging the obligatory pleasantries, he went outside, his hands in his pockets, lit his pipe and bumped into someone in the dark. It was the concierge, who could not stand by and let strangers run around her building without finding out what they were up to.
‘What’s your name?’ Maigret asked her kindly.
‘Madame Bourcier. Are these gentlemen going to be here long? Look! The light’s gone out in Madame de Saint-Marc’s bedroom, she must have gone to sleep, poor thing.’
Looking up at the building, the chief inspector noticed another light, a cream-coloured curtain and, behind it, a woman’s silhouette. She was small and thin, like the concierge. You couldn’t hear her voice, but even so, you could tell she was angry. Sometimes she would remain stock still, staring at an unseen person, then abruptly she would start speaking, gesticulating, taking a few steps forward.
‘Who is that?’
‘Madame Martin. You saw her husband return earlier, you know, the man who picked up his rubbish bin, the Registry Office official.’
‘Are they in the habit of arguing?’
‘They don’t argue. She’s the one who shouts. He doesn’t dare open his mouth.’
From time to time, Maigret took a look inside the office where ten or so people were busy at work. Standing in the doorway, the prosecutor called the concierge.
‘Who is Monsieur Couchet’s second-in-command?’
‘The manager, Monsieur Philippe. He doesn’t live far away, he’s on the Ile Saint-Louis.’
‘Does he have a telephone?’
‘He’s bound to.’
There was a sound of voices speaking on the phone. Upstairs, Madame Martin’s silhouette could no longer be seen against the curtain. However, a nondescript individual came down the stairs, furtively crossed the courtyard and went out into the street. Maigret recognized Monsieur Martin’s bowler hat and putty-coloured overcoat.
It was midnight. The girls playing the gramophone switched off their lights. Apart from the office, the only light left on was on the first floor, in the Saint-Marcs’ sitting room, where the former ambassador and the midwife were conversing in low voices, a faint odour of disinfectant in the air.
Despite the late hour, when Monsieur Philippe arrived, he was impeccably turned out, his dark, well-kempt beard, his hands gloved in grey suede. He was in his forties, the epitome of the serious-minded, well-brought-up intellectual.
He was certainly astonished, devastated even, by the news. But he seemed somehow to be holding back in his reaction.
‘With the life he led,’ he sighed.
‘What life?’
‘I refuse to speak ill of Monsieur Couchet. Besides, there’s no ill to speak of. He was master of his own time—’
‘Just a minute! Did Monsieur Couchet manage his company himself?’
‘Neither hands-on nor hands-off. It was he who started it up. But once it was up and running, he left me to handle everything. To the extent that sometimes I didn’t see him for a fortnight. Take today, I waited for him till five o’clock. It’s payday tomorrow. Monsieur Couchet was supposed to bring me the money to pay the staff’s wages. Around 300,000 francs. At five o’clock, I had to go and I left a report for him on the desk.’
The typed report was still there, beneath the dead man’s hand. A mundane report: a suggested rise for one worker and the sacking of one of the delivery men; a draft advert for the Latin American companies and so on.
‘So the 300,000 francs should be here?’ inquired Maigret.
‘In the safe. The fact that Monsieur Couchet opened it proves it. He and I are the only two people who have the key and the code.’
But to open the safe, the body had to be moved, which could not be done until the photographers had finished their job. The pathologist was making his verbal report. Couchet had been hit by a bullet in the chest, which had severed the aorta, and death had been instantaneous. The distance between the killer and his victim was estimated at three metres. And lastly, the bullet was of the most common calibre: 6.35mm.
Monsieur Philippe explained some things to the examining magistrate.
‘Here in Place des Vosges, we only have our laboratory, which is behind this office.’
He opened a door. They glimpsed a vast room with a glazed roof where thousands of test tubes stood in rows. Behind another door, Maigret thought he heard a noise.
‘What’s in there?’
‘The guinea pigs. And to the right are the offices of the typists and the clerical staff. We have other premises in Pantin, from which most of the dispatching is done, for you probably know that Doctor Rivière’s Serums are renowned worldwide.’
‘Was it Couchet who launched them?’
‘Yes! Doctor Rivière had no money. Couchet financed his research. Ten years ago he opened a laboratory which wasn’t as big as this one yet.’
‘Is Doctor Rivière still involved?’
‘He died five years ago, in a road accident.’
At last Couchet’s body was removed. But, the moment the safe was opened, there was consternation: all the money it had contained had vanished. Only business documents remained. Monsieur Philippe explained, ‘Not only the 300,000 francs that Monsieur Couchet would definitely have brought, but another 60,000 francs held by a rubber band that had been cashed that afternoon and which I myself put in the safe!’
In the dead man’s wallet, nothing. Or rather two numbered tickets for a theatre near Madeleine, the sight of which made Nine cry.
‘They were for us! We were supposed to be going to the theatre.’
The forensics team was done. There was mounting chaos as the photographers folded up their unwieldy tripods, the pathologist washed his hands at a basin he’d come across in a closet, and the prosecutor’s clerk yawned.
Despite all the goings-on around him, for a few moments Maigret had a sort of tête-à-tête with the dead man.
A vigorous man, on the short side, tubby. Like Nine, he had doubtless never entirely shed a certain vulgarity, despite his well-cut clothes, manicured nails and bespoke silk underwear.
His fair hair was thinning. His eyes were probably blue and had a slightly childlike expression.
‘A good man!’ sighed a voice behind him.
It was Nine, who was crying piteously and who took Maigret as witness, not daring to address the public prosecutor’s more formal men.
‘I swear to you he was a good man! Whenever he thought something would make me happy – and not just me, anybody – I’ve never seen a man
give such generous tips. I even used to scold him, I told him people took him for a ride. And he’d reply, “So what?”’
Maigret asked gravely, ‘Was he a cheerful man?’
‘He seemed cheerful, but not deep down, if you know what I mean. It’s hard to explain. He needed to be moving, doing something. If he sat still, he’d become broody or anxious.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘I only saw her once, from a distance. I don’t have anything bad to say about her.’
‘Where did Couchet live?’
‘Boulevard Haussmann. But most of the time he’d go to Meulan, where he has a villa.’
Maigret abruptly turned his head, saw the concierge, who did not dare come in. She was signalling to him, looking more unhappy than ever.
‘Listen! He’s coming down.’
‘Who?’
‘Monsieur de Saint-Marc. He must have heard all the commotion. Here he is. Just think! On a day like today!’
The former ambassador, in his dressing gown, was loath to approach. He had realized this was an investigation by the public prosecutor’s office. Besides, the body on the stretcher passed close to him.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Maigret.
‘A man’s been murdered. Couchet, the owner of the serums laboratory.’
The chief inspector sensed that Monsieur de Saint-Marc had suddenly been struck by a thought, as if recalling something.
‘Did you know him?’
‘No. I mean, I knew of him.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing! I know nothing. What time did—’
‘The murder must have been committed between eight and nine p.m.’
Monsieur de Saint-Marc sighed, smoothed his silver hair, nodded to Maigret and headed for the staircase leading up to his apartment.
The concierge had kept her distance. Then she went over to someone who was pacing back and forth under the archway, bent forward. When she came back to Maigret, he asked her, ‘Who is that?’
‘Monsieur Martin. He’s looking for a glove he dropped. He never goes out without his gloves, even to go and buy cigarettes fifty metres from here.’
Now searching around the dustbins, Monsieur Martin lit a few matches but eventually gave up and resigned himself to going back up to his apartment.
People were shaking hands in the courtyard. The public prosecutor left. The examining magistrate spoke briefly with Maigret.
‘I’ll leave you to get on with your job. Naturally you’ll keep me posted.’
Monsieur Philippe, still looking as though he’d stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, bowed to the detective chief inspector.
‘You no longer need me?’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll be at your office, I suppose?’
‘At nine on the dot, as usual.’
Suddenly there was a moving scene, even though nothing particular happened. The courtyard was still plunged in shadow. A single lamp. And then the archway with its dusty light bulb.
Outside, cars revved up and glided over the asphalt, briefly picking out the trees of the Place des Vosges with their headlamps.
The body was no longer there. The office looked as if it had been ransacked. Nobody had thought to switch off the lights, and the laboratory was lit up as if in anticipation of a hard night’s work.
And now there were three of them left in the middle of the courtyard, three very different people who an hour earlier had not known each other and who now seemed to be drawn to each other by an inexplicable kinship.
Or rather, they were like the family members who remain behind after a funeral when the rest of the guests have left.
At least this was Maigret’s fleeting impression as he looked from Nine’s exhausted face to the concierge’s drawn features.
‘Have you put your children to bed?’
‘Yes, but they’re not asleep. They’re anxious, it’s as if they can sense what’s going on.’
Madame Bourcier had a question she wanted to ask, a question she was almost ashamed of, but which, for her, was capital.
‘Do you think …’
Her gaze swept the courtyard and seemed to pause at each of the dark windows.
‘… that … it’s one of the residents?’
And now she was staring at the entrance, at the vast archway with its door constantly open, except after eleven p.m., which led from the courtyard to the street and gave the entire unknown world outside access to the building.
Nine meanwhile was looking uncomfortable, shooting the inspector covert glances.
‘The investigation will doubtless answer your question, Madame Bourcier. For the time being, one thing seems certain, and that is that the person who stole the 360,000 francs is not the murderer. At least that is probable, since Monsieur Couchet’s body was blocking the safe. By the way, were the lights on in the laboratory this evening?’
‘Wait! Yes, I think so. But it wasn’t as brightly lit as now. Monsieur Couchet must have switched on a light or two on his way to the toilet, which is right at the back of the building.’
Maigret went back to Couchet’s office and switched off all the lights, while the concierge remained in the doorway, even though the body was no longer there. In the courtyard, the inspector found Nine waiting for him. He heard a noise somewhere above his head, the sound of an object swishing against a window pane.
But all the windows were shut, all the lights out.
Someone had moved, someone was watching from the shadows of a room.
‘See you tomorrow, Madame Bourcier. I’ll be here before the office opens.’
‘I’ll follow you. I have to lock the main door.’
Nine, standing on the edge of the pavement, remarked, ‘I thought you had a car.’
She seemed reluctant to leave him. Looking at her feet, she added, ‘Whereabouts do you live?’
‘Very close by, Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.’
‘The last Métro’s gone, hasn’t it?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’d like to tell you something.’
‘Go ahead.’
She still did not dare meet his eye. Behind them, they could hear the concierge bolting the door and then her footsteps echoing as she went back to her lodge. There was not a soul in the square. The fountains were babbling. The town hall clock struck one.
‘You’re going to think that I’m imposing on … I don’t know what you’ll think. I told you that Raymond was very generous. He wasn’t aware of the value of money. He used to give me anything I wanted. Do you understand?’
‘And?’
‘It’s stupid, I asked for as little as possible. I’d wait until he thought of it. In any case, since he was with me nearly all the time, I didn’t need anything. Tonight I was supposed to be having dinner with him. Well—’
‘Broke?’
‘It’s not even that!’ she protested. ‘It’s even more stupid! I was thinking of asking him for some money this evening. At lunchtime I paid a bill.’
This was excruciating for her. She kept an eye on Maigret, ready to clam up at the slightest hint of amusement.
‘It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t show up. I had a little money left in my bag. While I was waiting for him, at the Select, I ate oysters, and then lobster. I telephoned. It was only when I got here that I realized I only had enough to pay my taxi fare.’
‘And at home?’
‘I live in a hotel.’
‘I’m asking if you have any money saved up.’
‘Me?’
A nervous little laugh.
‘What for? How could I have known? Even if I had, I wouldn’t have wanted—’
Maigret sighed.
‘Walk with me to Boulevard Beaumarchais. That’s the only place you’ll find a taxi at this hour. What are you going to do?’
‘Nothing. I—’
She shivered. True, she was dressed only in silk.
‘Had he not made a will?’
&nbs
p; ‘How would I know? Do you think people worry about such things when everything’s fine? Raymond was a good man. I—’
She wept silently as she walked. The inspector slipped a 100-franc note into her hand, flagged down a passing car and, thrusting his fists in his pockets, muttered, ‘See you tomorrow. You did say Hôtel Pigalle didn’t you?’
When he got into bed, Madame Maigret woke up only long enough to murmur, sleepily, ‘Did you at least have dinner?’
3. The Couple at Hôtel Pigalle
Leaving home at around eight a.m., Maigret had to choose between three pressing tasks: revisiting the premises at Place des Vosges and questioning the staff, paying a visit to Madame Couchet, who had been apprised of events by the local police, and lastly questioning Nine again.
On waking, he had telephoned police headquarters and given them the list of residents at number 61, as well as all the people connected either closely or remotely with the tragedy, so that when he went to his office, detailed information would be waiting for him.
The market on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir was in full swing. The weather was so cold that the inspector turned up the velvet collar of his overcoat. Place des Vosges was close by, but he had to walk there.
A tram going to Place Pigalle rumbled past and that prompted Maigret to make up his mind. He would see Nine first.
Of course, she was not up yet. The hotel receptionist recognized Maigret and expressed concern.
‘She’s not mixed up in any trouble, I hope? Such a quiet girl!’
‘Does she have many visitors?’
‘Only her friend.’
‘The old one or the young one?’
‘She only has one. He’s neither young nor old.’
It was a comfortable hotel with a telephone in each room and a lift. Maigret was deposited on the third floor. He rapped on the door of room 27, heard someone thrashing around in bed, and then a voice stammer, ‘What is it?’
‘Open the door, Nine!’
A hand must have emerged from under the blankets and unbolted the door. Maigret entered the damp gloom, glimpsed the young woman’s tired face, and went to draw the curtains.
‘What time is it?’
‘Not yet nine. Don’t get up.’
She half-closed her eyes, because of the harsh light. In that state, she wasn’t pretty and looked more like a country girl than a coquette. She ran her hand over her face a couple of times, eventually sat up in bed and placed a pillow behind her. Finally she picked up the telephone.
The Shadow Puppet Page 2