Had the money still been in the safe when he sat down at his desk again?
Probably not, for if it had been, the murderer would have had to move the body to open the heavy door and take the wads of cash.
So much for the technicalities. But was it a thief and murderer or a murderer and a thief operating separately?
Maigret spent ten minutes with the examining magistrate, apprising him of the progress to date. Then, since it was just after noon, he set off home, hunching his shoulders, a sign he was in a bad mood.
‘Is it you who’s investigating the Place des Vosges case?’ asked his wife, who had read the newspaper.
‘It is!’
And Maigret had a very particular way of sitting down and looking at Madame Maigret, with a mixture of increased affection and a hint of anxiety.
He could still picture Madame Martin’s thin face, black clothes and sorrowful eyes.
And those tears that had suddenly welled up, then disappeared, as if consumed by an inner fire, only to flow again a little later!
Madame Couchet who had furs … Madame Martin who didn’t … Couchet who fed the Tour de France cyclists while his first wife had to wear the same hat for three years.
And what about the son … And the bottle of ether on the bedside table in Hôtel Pigalle?
And Céline, who only went on the streets periodically, when she didn’t have a regular boyfriend?
And Nine?
‘You don’t look happy … You don’t look well, you look as though you’re coming down with a cold.’
It was true! Maigret could feel a tickle in his nostrils and his head was like cotton wool.
‘What’s that umbrella you’ve brought in? It’s horrible!’
Madame Martin’s umbrella! The Martins, putty-coloured overcoat and black silk dress, out for a Sunday stroll down the Champs-Élysées!
‘It’s nothing. I don’t know what time I’ll be back.’
There are impressions that cannot be explained: something felt wrong, something that emanated from the façade itself.
Was it the flurry of activity in the shop that made beaded funeral wreaths? Of course, the residents must have clubbed together to buy a wreath.
Or the anxiety on the face of the ladies’ hairdresser on the other side of the archway whose salon faced on to the street?
In any case, there was something unsavoury about the building that day. And, since it was four p.m. and beginning to grow dark, the feeble little lamp under the archway was already lit.
Opposite, the park keeper was locking the gates. In the Saint-Marcs’ first-floor apartment, the manservant was drawing the curtains, slowly, meticulously.
When Maigret knocked at the door of the concierge’s lodge, he found Madame Bourcier telling the whole story to a Dufayel credit collector in the store’s navy blue livery who wore a little inkwell pendant on a chain around his neck.
‘This is a respectable residence where nothing has ever happened … Sssh! … Here comes the inspector.’
She vaguely had something in common with Madame Martin, in that both women were ageless, and sexless. And both had suffered, or considered they had.
Except that the concierge seemed more resigned, displaying an almost animal acceptance of her fate.
‘Jojo … Lili … Don’t stand in the way … Good evening, Detective Chief Inspector … I was expecting you this morning … What a business! … I thought it was the right thing to do to go round to all the residents to ask them to club together for a wreath. Do we know when the funeral will be? … Oh, by the way … Madame de Saint-Marc … you know! … Please don’t say anything to her … Monsieur de Saint-Marc came by this morning … He doesn’t want her upset, in her condition.’
In the dusky light of the courtyard, the two lamps, the one hanging in the archway and the one on the wall, threw long yellow lines.
‘Madame Martin’s apartment?’ asked Maigret.
‘Second floor, third door on the right, after the bend.’
Maigret recognized the window, where a light was on, but there was no shadow against the curtain.
A clatter of typewriters could be heard coming from the offices. A delivery man arrived.
‘Doctor Rivière’s Serums?’
‘At the back of the courtyard. Right-hand door. Jojo! Leave your sister alone!’
Maigret started walking up the stairs, Madame Martin’s umbrella under his arm. The building had been renovated up to the first floor, the walls repainted and the stairs varnished.
From the second floor, it was a different world – grubby walls and a rough floor. The apartment doors were painted an ugly brown and had either name cards tacked on to them or little spun aluminium plates.
A calling card at three francs a hundred: Monsieur and Madame Edgar Martin. To the right, a three-colour braided bell-pull with a silk tassel. When Maigret yanked it, a reedy bell rang in the hollowness of the apartment. Then there were rapid footsteps. A voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘I’ve brought back your umbrella.’
The door opened. The entrance hall was reduced to one square metre with a coat stand from which the putty-coloured overcoat hung. Directly opposite, the open door of a room, part living room, part dining room, with a wireless set on a sideboard.
‘Forgive me for the intrusion. This morning you left this umbrella in my office.’
‘There you go! And I was convinced I’d left it on the bus. I was saying to Martin—’
Maigret did not smile. He was used to women who were in the habit of calling their husbands by their surnames.
Martin was there, in his striped trousers over which he’d slipped a chocolate-coloured, coarse-cloth smoking jacket.
‘Do come in.’
‘I wouldn’t want to disturb you.’
‘You never disturb people who have nothing to hide!’
The primordial characteristic of a home is probably its smell. Here, the smell was indistinct, a blend of caustic soda, cooking and musty old clothes.
A canary was hopping about in a cage, occasionally spraying a drop of water.
‘Offer the detective chief inspector the armchair.’
The armchair! There was only one, a high-backed Voltaire leather armchair so dark that it looked black.
And Madame Martin, very different from how she had been that morning, simpered, ‘You’ll have a drink, won’t you … Oh you must! Martin! Pour an aperitif.’
Martin was flustered. Perhaps there was nothing to drink? Perhaps they were nearly out?
‘No thank you, madame. I never drink on an empty stomach.’
‘But you have the time—’
It was sad. So sad that it almost made you want to give up on being a man, on living on this earth, even though the sun shines over it for several hours a day and there are real birds flying freely!
These people didn’t seem very fond of light, for the three electric bulbs were carefully shrouded in heavy, coloured shades that let only the tiniest amount of light through.
‘Caustic soda mainly,’ thought Maigret.
That was the dominant smell! What’s more, the surface of the solid oak table was polished as smooth as an ice rink.
Monsieur Martin wore the smile of a man entertaining.
‘You must have a marvellous view over the Place des Vosges, which is the only square of its kind in Paris,’ said Maigret, who was perfectly aware that the windows overlooked the courtyard.
‘No! The apartments at the front, on the second floor, have very low ceilings, because of the architectural style … All the buildings around the square are classed as historical monuments, you know. We can’t change anything, which is a great shame! We’ve been wanting to put in a bathroom for years and—’
Maigret had walked over to the window. He casually tweaked the shadow-puppet blind. And stood stock still, so stunned that he forgot to make polite conversation.
Facing him were the Couchet firm’s offices and laboratory.
From downstairs he had noticed that there were frosted-glass windows, but from up here, he saw that only the lower panes were frosted. The others were clear, transparent, washed two or three times a week by the cleaning women.
There was a clear view of the spot where Couchet had been killed, and of Monsieur Philippe signing the typed letters that his secretary was handing to him one at a time. He could see the lock on the safe.
And the communicating door to the laboratory stood ajar. Through the laboratory windows, a row of women in white overalls, sitting at a massive bench, could be seen packing glass tubes.
Each woman had a particular task. The first took the bare tubes from a basket and the ninth passed the neat packages with their patient information leaflets to an office worker, in other words, goods ready to be delivered to the pharmacists.
‘Pour him a drink anyway,’ said Madame Martin’s voice behind Maigret.
And her husband busied himself opening a cupboard with a clinking of glasses.
‘Just a thimbleful of Vermouth, Detective Chief Inspector! … No doubt Madame Couchet is able to offer you cocktails—’
And Madame Martin gave a peeved smile, as if her lips were barbs.
5. The Madwoman
Glass in hand, watching Madame Martin closely, Maigret said, ‘If only you’d been looking out of the window yesterday evening, my investigation would be over! Because from here it is impossible not to see everything that goes on in Couchet’s office.’
His voice and manner contained no insinuations. He sipped his Vermouth and carried on chatting.
‘I’d even say that this case would have been one of the most unusual instances of witnessing a criminal act. Someone who was present at a murder from a distance! What am I saying? With binoculars, you’d be able to see the lips of the speakers so clearly that you could work out what they were saying.’
Not knowing what to think, Madame Martin remained guarded, a vague smile frozen on her pale lips.
‘But also, how upsetting for you! Standing at your window, minding your own business, and suddenly seeing someone threatening your ex-husband! Even worse, for the scenario must have been more complicated than that. I can picture Couchet all alone, absorbed in his accounts. He gets up and goes to the toilet. When he comes back, someone has ransacked the safe but hasn’t managed to get away. But there is one odd detail, which is that Couchet sat down again. True, perhaps he knew the thief? … He speaks to him … He chides him, asks him to hand back the money—’
‘The only thing is, I’d have had to be at the window,’ said Madame Martin.
‘Perhaps other windows on this floor afford the same view? Who lives on your right?’
‘Two girls and their mother … The ones who play records every night.’
Just then came a scream, which Maigret had heard before. He said nothing at first, then murmured, ‘That’s the madwoman, isn’t it?’
‘Sssh!’ said Madame Martin tiptoeing over to the door.
She flung it open and in the dimly lit corridor the shape of a woman beating a hasty retreat could be seen.
‘Old cat!’ grumbled Madame Martin loudly enough to be heard by the receding figure.
Coming back into the room, furious, she explained, ‘It’s old Mathilde! A former cook. Did you see her? She looks like a fat toad! She lives in the room next door with her sister, who’s mad. I don’t know which one’s the ugliest. The mad one hasn’t left her room once in all the years we’ve had this apartment.’
‘Why does she scream like that?’
‘Why indeed! She screams when she’s left alone in the dark. She’s afraid, like a child. She screams … I’ve finally worked out what’s going on. From morning till night, old Mathilde roams the corridors. You’re bound to come across her lurking behind a door. And when you catch her, she’s not even embarrassed … She wanders off with her ugly, placid grin. You don’t feel at home here any more, you have to talk in whispers if you want to discuss private matters. I just caught her at it, didn’t I? Well, I bet she’s already back.’
‘It’s not very pleasant,’ agreed Maigret. ‘But can’t the landlord do anything about it?’
‘He’s done his best to throw them out, but unfortunately there are laws. To say nothing of the fact that it’s both unhealthy and repugnant, those two old women in one tiny room! I bet they never wash.’
Maigret had grabbed his hat.
‘Forgive me for having disturbed you. It’s time for me to go.’
Now he had a clear picture of the apartment in his mind, from the doilies to the calendars on the walls.
‘Be very quiet and you’ll catch the old lady at it.’
That was not entirely the case. She wasn’t in the corridor, but behind her half-open door, like a plump spider waiting to ambush her prey. She must have been disconcerted when the inspector greeted her politely as he walked past.
Aperitif time found Maigret sitting in the Select, not far from the American bar where all the talk was of horse-racing. When the waiter came over, he showed him the photo of Roger Couchet, which he had ‘borrowed’ from the young man that morning.
‘Do you know this young man?’
The waiter looked surprised.
‘That’s strange.’
‘What’s strange?’
‘He left not even fifteen minutes ago. He was sitting at this table! I wouldn’t have noticed him except that instead of telling me what he wanted to drink, he said, “Same as yesterday”! But I didn’t recall seeing him, so I said, “Can you remind me what that was?” “A gin-fizz, remember?”, and that’s the oddest part. Because I’m sure I didn’t serve a single gin-fizz yesterday evening.
‘He stayed for a few minutes and then he left … It’s strange that you should come in just now and show me his photograph.’
It wasn’t strange at all. Roger had been determined to establish that he had been at the Select the previous evening, as he had told Maigret. He had used quite a clever trick but his mistake had been to choose a drink that was out of the ordinary.
A few minutes later, Nine came in, looking downcast, and sat at the table closest to the bar. Then, spotting Maigret, she rose, dithered, and came over to him.
‘Did you want to talk to me?’ she asked.
‘Not especially. Actually yes! I’d like to ask you a question. You come here almost every evening, don’t you?’
‘Raymond always asked me to meet him here.’
‘Do you have a regular table?’
‘Over there, where I sat when I came in.’
‘Were you there yesterday?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘And do you remember seeing the original of this portrait?’
She looked at the photo of Roger and murmured, ‘But that’s my next-door neighbour!’
‘Yes, he’s Couchet’s son.’
Troubled by this coincidence, her eyes opened wide as she wondered what it meant.
‘He came over shortly after you left this morning. I’d just got back from the Moulin Bleu.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He asked me if I had an aspirin for Céline, who was ill.’
‘And did they hire you at the theatre?’
‘I have to go there this evening. One of the dancers is injured. If she’s not better, I’ll stand in for her and perhaps they’ll give me a permanent job.’
She lowered her voice and went on, ‘I have the hundred francs. Give me your hand.’
And that gesture revealed her entire character. She didn’t want to give Maigret the money in public. She was afraid of embarrassing him! So she had the note folded into a tiny oblong in the palm of her hand. She passed it to him as if he were a gigolo.
‘Thank you, you were so kind.’
She sounded despondent. She looked about her without taking the slightest interest in the pantomime of people coming and going. She gave a wan smile and said, ‘The head waiter’s looking at us. He’s wondering why I’m with you. He must think I’ve alread
y replaced Raymond … This must be awkward for you!’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said discreetly. ‘If ever you need me … At the Moulin Bleu, my stage name is Élyane … Do you know where the stage door is, in Rue Fontaine?’
It wasn’t too difficult. Maigret rang the bell of the apartment on Boulevard Haussmann a few minutes before dinner time. The moment he stepped inside there was an overpowering smell of chrysanthemums. The maid who opened the door walked on tiptoe.
She thought the inspector simply wanted to leave his card and wordlessly she showed him to the room where the body was laid out, draped in black. By the door were numerous calling cards on a Louis XVI tray.
The body was already in its casket, which was invisible under all the flowers.
In a corner, a tall, very distinguished young man in mourning nodded briefly at Maigret.
Opposite him kneeled a woman in her fifties, with coarse features, dressed like a countrywoman in her Sunday best.
The inspector went up to the young man.
‘May I see Madame Couchet?’
‘I’ll ask my sister if she can see you. You are Monsieur—?’
‘Maigret! The detective chief inspector in charge of the investigation.’
The countrywoman stayed where she was. A few moments later, the young man returned and steered his guest through the apartment.
Apart from the all-pervasive scent of flowers, the rooms retained their usual look. It was a magnificent late nineteenth-century apartment, like most of the buildings on Boulevard Haussmann. Vast rooms. Slightly over-ornate ceilings and doors.
And classy period furniture. In the drawing room, a monumental crystal chandelier tinkled when people walked underneath it.
Madame Couchet sat flanked by three people, whom she introduced. First of all, the young man in mourning:
‘My brother, Henry Dormoy, barrister.’
Then a gentleman of a certain age:
‘Colonel Dormoy, my uncle.’
And lastly, a lady with magnificent silver hair:
‘My mother.’
And all of them, in mourning, looked extremely distinguished. The table had not yet been cleared of the tea things and there was toast and cakes.
The Shadow Puppet Page 5