The Shadow Puppet

by Georges Simenon; Translated by Ros Schwartz

  Madame Martin in mourning! And she’d been waiting for him at police headquarters for an hour!

  All Maigret had seen of her so far was a shadow puppet, the comical, gesticulating shadow on the second-floor curtain the previous evening, whose mouth opened and shut, emitting a furious invective.

  It happens all the time! the concierge had told him.

  And the poor civil servant, who’d forgotten his glove and gone for a solitary walk along the dark banks of the Seine.

  And when Maigret had left the courtyard, at one a.m., he’d heard a noise at a window.

  He slowly climbed the dusty stairs, shook hands with a few colleagues in passing and put his head around the half-open door of the waiting room.

  Ten green velvet armchairs. A table like a billiards table. On the wall, the roll of honour: 200 portraits of inspectors killed in the line of duty.

  In the centre chair a lady in black sat very stiffly, one hand clutching her handbag with its silver clasp, the other resting on the handle of an umbrella.

  Thin lips. A steady gaze staring straight ahead.

  She did not move a muscle on sensing that she was being watched.

  She sat and waited with a set expression.

  4. The Second-Floor Window

  She walked ahead of Maigret with that aggressive dignity of those for whom mockery is the worst calamity.

  ‘Please sit down, madame!’

  It was a clumsy, friendly Maigret, with a slightly vague look in his eyes who showed her into his office, indicating a chair bathed in light streaming in through the pale oblong window. She sat down, adopting exactly the same pose as in the waiting room.

  A dignified pose, naturally! A fighting posture too. Her shoulders did not touch the back of the chair. And her black-gloved hand was poised to gesticulate without letting go of the handbag, which would swing through the air.

  He, on the other hand, sat in an armchair. It was tilted back, and he sprawled in a rather crude position, puffing avidly on his pipe.

  ‘I imagine, Detective Chief Inspector, that you are wondering why I—’

  ‘No!’

  It wasn’t malice that made Maigret throw her off balance like that the minute they met. It wasn’t a coincidence either. He knew it was necessary.

  Madame Martin jumped, or rather her chest stiffened.

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t imagine you were expecting—’

  ‘Oh yes, I was!’

  And he smiled at her good-naturedly. Suddenly, her fingers were ill at ease in her black woollen gloves. Her sharp gaze swept the room and then something occurred to Madame Martin.

  ‘Have you received an anonymous letter?’

  It was a statement as much as a question, with a false air of certainty, which made the inspector smile all the more, because this again was a characteristic trait that fitted in with everything he already knew about the woman sitting in his office.

  ‘I’ve not received any anonymous letter.’

  She shook her head dubiously.

  ‘You won’t have me believe—’

  She was straight out of a family photo album. Physically, she was a perfect match for the Registry Office official she had married.

  It was easy to imagine them strolling up the Champs-Élysées on Sunday afternoons: Madame Martin’s black, twitchy back, her hat always skew-whiff because of her bun, walking with the hurried pace of an active woman and that jerk of her chin to underline her emphatic words; Monsieur Martin’s putty-coloured overcoat, his leather gloves and walking stick, and his peaceful, assured gait, his attempts at a leisurely promenade, stopping to gaze at the window displays.

  ‘Did you have mourning clothes at home?’ murmured Maigret snidely, exhaling a big cloud of smoke.

  ‘My sister died three years ago … I mean my sister in Blois, the one who married a police inspector. You see that—’

  ‘That—?’

  Nothing. She was warning him. It was time to make him aware that she wasn’t just anyone!

  She was on edge, because the entire speech she had rehearsed was pointless, and it was the fault of this burly inspector.

  ‘When did you hear about the death of your first husband?’

  ‘Why … this morning, like everyone else! It was the concierge who told me you were handling this case and, seeing as my situation is rather awkward … You can’t possibly understand.’

  ‘I think I can! By the way, didn’t your son visit you yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s a simple question.’

  ‘The concierge will tell you that he hasn’t been to see me for at least three weeks.’

  She spoke sharply. The look in her eyes more aggressive. Had Maigret perhaps been wrong not to let her make her speech?

  ‘I’m delighted that you’ve come to see me, as it shows great delicacy and—’

  The mere word ‘delicacy’ caused something in the woman’s grey eyes to change, and she bowed her head by way of thanks.

  ‘Some situations are very painful,’ she said. ‘Not everybody understands. Even my husband, who advised me not to wear mourning! Mind you, I’m wearing it without wearing it. No veil. No crape band. Just black clothes.’

  He nodded his chin and put his pipe down on the table.

  ‘Just because we’re divorced and Raymond made me unhappy, it doesn’t mean that I must—’

  She was regaining her assurance and imperceptibly launching into her prepared speech.

  ‘Especially in a large building like ours, where there are twenty-eight households. And what households! I’m not talking about the people on the first floor. And even then! Although Monsieur de Saint-Marc is well-bred, his wife’s something else, she wouldn’t say hello to her neighbours for all the gold in the world. When one has been properly brought up, it’s distressing to—’

  ‘Were you born in Paris?’

  ‘My father was a confectioner in Meaux.’

  ‘How old were you when you married Couchet?’

  ‘I was twenty. Of course, my parents wouldn’t let me serve in the shop. In those days, Couchet used to travel. He stated that he earned a very good living, that he could make a woman happy.’

  Her gaze hardened as she sought reassurance that there was no threat of mockery from Maigret.

  ‘I’d rather not tell you how much he made me suffer! All the money he earned he lost in ridiculous gambles. He claimed he was growing rich, we moved home three times a year, and by the time my son was born, we had no savings at all. It was my mother who had to pay for the layette.’

  Finally she rested her umbrella against the desk. Maigret mused that she must have been speaking with the same sharp vehemence the previous evening when he’d seen her shadow against the curtain.

  ‘When a man isn’t capable of feeding a wife, he has no business getting married! That’s what I say. And especially when he has no pride left. I hardly dare tell you all the jobs Couchet’s had. I told him to look for a proper position, with a pension attached, in the civil service, for example. At least if anything happened to him, I wouldn’t be left destitute. But no! He even ended up following the Tour de France as some sort of dogsbody. His job was to organize food for the cyclists, or something of the sort. And he came back without a sou! That’s the man he was. And that’s the life I had.’

  ‘Where did you live?’

  ‘In Nanterre. Because we couldn’t even afford to live in the city. Did you know Couchet? He wasn’t worried, oh no! He wasn’t ashamed! He wasn’t anxious! He said he was born to make lots of money and that’s what he would do. After bicycles, it was watch chains. No! You’ll never guess! Watch chains which he sold from a stall at funfairs, monsieur! And my sisters no longer dared go to the Neuilly fair for fear of coming across him selling his watch chains.’

  ‘Were you the one who asked for a divorce?’

  She modestly bowed her head, but her features remained tense.

  ‘Monsieur Marti
n lived in the same apartment block as us. He was younger then. He had a good job in the civil service. Couchet left me on my own all the time while he went off gallivanting. Oh! It was all very above-board! I gave my husband a piece of my mind. The divorce was requested by mutual consent for incompatibility of temperaments. All Couchet had to give me was maintenance for the boy. And Martin and I waited a year before getting married.’

  Now she was fidgeting on her chair. Her fingers plucked at the silver clasp on her bag.

  ‘You see, I’ve always been unlucky. At first, Couchet didn’t even pay the maintenance money regularly. And, for a sensitive woman, it’s painful to see her second husband paying for the upkeep of a child who’s not his.’

  No, Maigret was not asleep, even though his eyes were half-closed and his pipe had gone out.

  This was becoming more and more harrowing. The woman’s eyes started brimming. Her lips began to tremble in a disconcerting manner.

  ‘No one else knows what I’ve suffered. I put Roger through school. I wanted to give him a good education. He wasn’t like his father. He was affectionate, caring … When he was seventeen, Martin found him a job in a bank, so he could learn the profession. But that’s when he met Couchet, I don’t know where.’

  ‘And he got into the habit of asking his father for money?’

  ‘Couchet had always refused to give me anything, mind you! For me, everything was too expensive! I made my own dresses and I wore the same hat for three years.’

  ‘And he gave Roger everything he asked for?’

  ‘He corrupted him! Roger left home to go and live on his own. He still comes to see me from time to time. But he also used to go and see his father.’

  ‘How long have you lived at Place des Vosges?’

  ‘About eight years. When we found the apartment, we didn’t even know that Couchet was in serums. Martin wanted to move out. That was all I needed! If it was up to anyone to move, it should have been Couchet, shouldn’t it? Couchet grown rich somehow or other. I’d see him rolling up in a chauffeur-driven car! He had a chauffeur, you know. I saw his wife.’

  ‘At her house?’

  ‘I watched her from the street, to see what she looked like. I’d rather not say anything. She’s nothing special, in any case, despite her airs and graces and her astrakhan coat.’

  Maigret drew his hand across his forehead. This was becoming obsessive. He’d been staring at the same face for fifteen minutes and right now he felt that he would never be able to get it out of his mind.

  A thin face, drained of colour, with fine features, which seemed set in an expression of resigned suffering.

  And that too reminded him of certain family portraits, even of his own family. As a child, he had had an aunt, plumper than Madame Martin, but who also complained all the time. When she visited his family, he knew that the moment she sat down she’d pull a handkerchief out of her bag.

  ‘My poor Hermance!’ she’d begin. ‘What a life! You’ll never guess what Pierre’s done now.’

  And she had that same mobile mask, those too-thin lips and eyes that sometimes registered a flicker of disarray.

  Madame Martin suddenly lost her train of thought. She grew flustered.

  ‘Now, you must understand my situation. Naturally, Couchet remarried. All the same, I was his wife, I shared his early life, in other words, the hardest years. Whereas she’s just a doll.’

  ‘Are you saying you have a claim on his estate?’

  ‘Me!’ she cried indignantly, ‘I wouldn’t touch his money with a barge pole! We’re not rich. Martin lacks drive, he doesn’t know how to put himself forward and he allows the grass to grow under his feet while less clever colleagues … but even if I had to be a cleaner to make a living, I wouldn’t want—’

  ‘Did you send your husband to tell Roger?’

  She didn’t blanch, because it wasn’t possible. Her complexion remained uniformly ashen. But her gaze clouded.

  ‘How do you know?’

  And suddenly, indignant, ‘We’re not being followed, I hope? Tell me! That would be outrageous! And, if it is the case, I shall have no hesitation in taking this to the highest authority.’

  ‘Calm down, madame … I didn’t say any such thing. I ran into Monsieur Martin by chance this morning.’

  But she was still mistrustful, staring at the chief inspector with dislike.

  ‘I’m going to end up wishing I hadn’t come. One tries too hard to do the right thing! And, instead of being grateful—’

  ‘I assure you I’m infinitely grateful to you for coming to see me.’

  She still had the feeling that something was amiss. She felt terrified by this big man with broad shoulders and a hunched neck who was looking at her with innocent eyes as if his mind were completely vacant.

  ‘Besides,’ she said shrilly, ‘it’s better you hear it from me than from the concierge … You’d have found out one way or another—’

  ‘… That you are the first Madame Couchet.’

  ‘Have you seen Madame Couchet number two?’

  Maigret struggled to repress a smile.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Oh! She’ll weep crocodile tears. Mind you, she’ll be all right now, with the millions Couchet made.’

  And suddenly she began to cry, her lower lip came up, transforming her face, softening its sharp angles.

  ‘She didn’t even know him when he was struggling, when he needed a wife to support and encourage him—’

  From time to time, a muffled sob, barely audible, escaped from her slender throat encircled by a silk moiré ribbon.

  She rose and glanced around to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She sniffed, ‘But none of that counts.’

  A bitter smile, beneath her tears.

  ‘Well, anyhow, I’ve done my duty. I don’t know what you think of me, but—’

  ‘I assure you that—’

  He would have been hard put to continue if she had not finished the sentence for him.

  ‘I don’t care. I’ve got a clear conscience! It’s not everyone who can say as much.’

  She was missing something but she didn’t know what. She glanced round the room again and shook one hand as if surprised to find it empty.

  Maigret had risen to his feet and saw her to the door.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’

  ‘I did what I felt was my duty.’

  She was in the corridor where inspectors were chatting and laughing. She swept past the group, head held high, without looking round.

  And Maigret, his door closed, walked over to the window and flung it wide open, despite the cold. He felt weary, like after a tough criminal interrogation. In particular he felt that sort of vague unease one feels when forced to consider certain aspects of life one generally prefers to ignore.

  It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t horrifying.

  She hadn’t said anything extraordinary. She hadn’t given Maigret any new leads.

  Even so, the conversation with her had left him with a faint feeling of disgust.

  On a corner of the desk, the police gazette lay open, showing twenty or so photographs of wanted individuals. Most of them faces of thugs. Faces that bore the scars of degeneracy.

  Ernst Strowitz, sentenced in absentia by the Caen tribunal for the murder of a farmer’s wife on the Route de Bénouville …

  And the warning, in red:

  Dangerous. Still armed.

  A fellow who would not sell himself cheaply. Well! Maigret would have preferred that to all this syrupy greyness, to these family sagas, to this still inexplicable murder, which he found mind-boggling.

  His head was full of images: he pictured the Martins out for their Sunday stroll. The putty-coloured overcoat and the black silk ribbon around the woman’s neck.

  He rang a bell. Jean appeared, and Maigret sent him to fetch the records of all those connected to the murder case that he had requested.

  There wasn’t much. Nine had been arrested once, onl
y once, in Montmartre, in a raid, and had been released after proving that she did not make her living from prostitution.

  As for the Couchet boy, he was being watched by the vice squad, which suspected him of drug trafficking. But they had never been able to pin anything on him.

  A call to the vice squad. Céline, whose surname was Loiseau and who was born in Saint-Amand-Montrond, was well known to them. She had a record. They picked her up fairly frequently.

  ‘She’s not a bad girl!’ said the brigadier. ‘Most of the time she’s content with one or two regular friends. It’s only when she ends up back on the street that we find her.’

  Jean had not left the room and was signalling to Maigret.

  ‘That lady forgot her umbrella!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Yes, I need it.’

  And the inspector rose with a sigh, went over and shut the window, and stood with his back to the fire in his habitual thinking posture.

  An hour later, he was able to make a mental summary of the notes he’d received from various departments and which were spread out on his desk.

  First of all, the result of the autopsy confirming the pathologist’s theory: the shot had been fired from around three metres away and death had been instantaneous. The dead man’s stomach contained a small amount of alcohol, but no food.

  The photographs from the Criminal Records Office, located under the eaves of the Palais de Justice, showed that no fingerprint matches had been found.

  And lastly, the Crédit Lyonnais confirmed that at around three p.m., Couchet, who was a well-known customer, had dropped into the bank’s head office and withdrawn 300,000 francs in new bills, as was customary on the penultimate day of each month.

  It was pretty much established that on arriving at Place des Vosges, Couchet had placed the 300,000 in the safe, alongside the 60,000 already in there.

  And since he still had work to do, he had not locked the safe again but was leaning against it.

  The lights in the laboratory suggested that at some point he had left the office, either to inspect another part of the building or, more likely, to go to the toilet.