The Shadow Puppet

by Georges Simenon; Translated by Ros Schwartz

  ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘One question, if I may. The lady who is sitting with the body—’

  ‘My husband’s sister,’ replied Madame Couchet. ‘She arrived this morning from Saint-Amand.’

  Maigret did not smile, but he understood. He clearly sensed that they were not overly keen to see the Couchet family turn up, dressed like bumpkins or got up like petty bourgeois.

  There were the relatives on the husband’s side and the relatives on the Dormoy side.

  The Dormoys were elegant, discreet. For a start, everyone was wearing black.

  From the Couchets, for the moment there was only this countrywoman, whose black silk blouse was straining under the arms.

  ‘May I have a few words with you in private, madame?’

  She apologized to her family, who made to leave the drawing room.

  ‘Please stay, we’ll go into the yellow boudoir.’

  She had been crying, there was no doubt. Then she had powdered her face and her puffy eyelids barely showed. There was a note of genuine weariness in her voice.

  ‘You haven’t received any unexpected visits today, have you?’

  She looked up, vexed.

  ‘How do you know? Yes, early this afternoon, my stepson came.’

  ‘Had you met him before?’

  ‘Very briefly. He used to go and see my husband at his office. But we ran into him at the theatre on one occasion and Raymond introduced us.’

  ‘What was the purpose of his visit?’

  Embarrassed, she looked away.

  ‘He wanted to know if we’d found a will. He also asked me the name of my lawyer so he could contact him concerning the formalities.’

  She sighed by way of an apology for all this unpleasantness.

  ‘He’s entitled to. I think that half the inheritance goes to him, and I don’t intend to stand in his way.’

  ‘May I ask a few personal questions? When you married Couchet, was he already wealthy?’

  ‘Yes. Not as wealthy as he is today, but his business was beginning to flourish.’

  ‘A love marriage?’

  An enigmatic smile.

  ‘You could say so. We met in Dinard. After three weeks, he asked me if I’d consent to be his wife. My parents made inquiries.’

  ‘Were you happy?’

  He looked her in the eyes and needed no reply. He murmured the answer himself, ‘There was a certain age gap. Couchet had his business. In other words, there was not a great deal of intimacy. Is that so? You ran his household. You had your life and he had his—’

  ‘I never criticized him!’ she said. ‘He was a man with a great appetite for life, who needed excitement. I didn’t want to hold him back.’

  ‘Weren’t you jealous?’

  ‘At first. Then I got used to it. I believe he loved me.’

  She was quite attractive, but with no spark, no spirit.

  Rather nondescript features. A soft body. A sober elegance. She probably made a gracious hostess, serving her friends tea in the warm, comfortable drawing room.

  ‘Did your husband often talk to you about his first wife?’

  Then her pupils contracted. She tried to hide her anger, but realized that Maigret was no fool.

  ‘It’s not for to me to—’ she began.

  ‘My apologies. Given the circumstances of his death, I’m afraid I have to be direct.’

  ‘You don’t suspect—?’

  ‘I suspect nobody. I’m trying to piece together your husband’s life, and the lives of those around him, his movements and actions during his last evening. Did you know that his ex-wife lived in the building where Couchet had his offices?’

  ‘Yes! He told me.’

  ‘In what terms did he talk about her?’

  ‘He resented her … Then he was ashamed of his feelings and claimed that in reality she was a sad creature.’

  ‘Why sad?’

  ‘Because nothing could satisfy her … and also—’

  ‘And also?’

  ‘You can guess what I mean. She’s very grasping. In short, she left Raymond because he didn’t earn enough money. So when she found out that he was rich … after she’d ended up the wife of a petty bureaucrat!’

  ‘She didn’t try to—’

  ‘No! I don’t think she ever asked him for money. It’s true that my husband wouldn’t have told me if she had. All I know is that for him every time he bumped into her at Place des Vosges it was awkward. I think she deliberately waylaid him. She never spoke to him, but she gave him malicious looks.’

  Maigret couldn’t help smiling at the thought of those encounters, under the archway: Couchet getting out of the car, fresh and pink, and Madame Martin, starchy, with her black gloves, her umbrella and her handbag, her spiteful face …

  ‘Is that all you know?’

  ‘He was looking for new premises, but it’s difficult to find laboratories in Paris.’

  ‘I presume you are not aware of your husband having any enemies?’

  ‘None! Everyone loved him. He was too kind. Kind to the point of making a fool of himself. He didn’t just spend money, he threw it away. And when criticized, he’d reply that he’d spent enough years counting every sou, now he could afford to be generous.’

  ‘Did he often see your family?’

  ‘Very little! They have nothing in common, do they? And different tastes—’

  Maigret found it hard to imagine Couchet in the drawing room with the young lawyer, the colonel and the stately mother.

  All this made sense.

  A strong, fiery, coarse young man who had started out with nothing and who had spent thirty years of his life struggling to make his fortune.

  He had grown rich. In Dinard, at last he had access to a world that had hitherto been closed to him. A real young lady, a bourgeois family, tea and petits fours, tennis and outings to the country.

  He had got married. To prove to himself that now, the world was his! To have a home like those he had only ever seen from the outside!

  He had got married, too, because he was in awe of this nice, well-brought-up young lady.

  And then it was the apartment on Boulevard Haussmann, with the most traditional trappings.

  Except he needed outside stimulation, to see other people, talk to them without having to mind his ‘P’s and ‘Q’s … go to brasseries, bars …

  And other women.

  He loved his wife. He admired her. He respected her. He was in awe of her.

  But precisely because he was in awe of her, he needed girls like Nine to relax with.

  Madame Couchet had a question on the tip of her tongue. She was reluctant to ask it. Then she took the plunge, averting her gaze.

  ‘I wanted to ask you if … It’s a delicate matter … I’m sorry … He had girlfriends, I know … He only kept it quiet – and barely – out of consideration. I need to know whether, on that front, there’ll be any problems, a scandal—’

  She obviously imagined her husband’s mistresses to be like prostitutes in a novel, or screen vamps!

  ‘You have nothing to be afraid of!’ smiled Maigret, who was thinking of little Nine with her distraught face and the handful of jewellery she had taken that same afternoon to the Crédit Municipal.

  ‘There won’t be any need to—?’

  ‘No! No allowance.’

  She was astonished. Perhaps a little put out, because if these women were making no demands, it must be because they were fond of her husband! And he of them.

  ‘Have you decided on the date of the funeral?’

  ‘My brother is dealing with it. It will take place on Thursday, at Saint-Philippe-du-Roule.’

  A clatter of plates came from the dining room next door. Was the table being laid for dinner?

  ‘All that remains is for me to thank you and take my leave. I apologize again.’

  And, walking down the Boulevard Haussmann, he caught himself muttering as he filled his pipe, ‘Good old Couchet!’

&nb
sp; The words escaped his lips as if Couchet had been an old friend. And the feeling was so strong that the thought that he had only seen him dead astounded him.

  He felt as if he knew him literally inside out.

  Perhaps because of the three women?

  First, there’d been the confectioner’s daughter, in the apartment in Nanterre, despairing at the thought that her husband would never have a proper job.

  Then the young lady from Dinard, and Couchet’s pride and satisfaction at becoming the nephew of a colonel.

  Nine … Their dinners at the Select … Hôtel Pigalle …

  And the son who came to sponge off him! And Madame Martin who contrived to run into him under the archway, hoping perhaps to plague him with remorse.

  A strange ending! All alone, in the office where he came as seldom as possible. Leaning against the half-open safe, his hands on the table.

  Nobody had noticed or heard anything. The concierge, crossing the courtyard, had seen him sitting in the same place as usual behind the frosted glass, but she was mainly concerned about Madame de Saint-Marc, who was giving birth.

  The madwoman upstairs had screamed! In other words, old Mathilde, padding around in felt slippers, had been concealed behind a door on the landing.

  Monsieur Martin, in his putty-coloured overcoat, had come downstairs to hunt for his glove by the dustbins.

  One thing was certain: right now, someone had the stolen 360,000 francs in their possession!

  And someone had committed a murder!

  ‘All men are self-centred!’ Madame Martin had said bitterly, with her pained expression.

  Was she the one who had the 360 brand new thousand-franc notes handed over by the Crédit Lyonnais? Did she now have money, a lot of money, a whole wad of fat notes promising years of comfort with no worries about the future or about the pension she would receive on Martin’s death?

  Was it Roger, with his puny body, ravaged by ether, and that Céline he’d picked up to moulder away with him in the dampness of a hotel bed?

  Was it Nine, or Madame Couchet?

  In any case, there was one place from which the whole thing could have been witnessed: the Martins’ apartment.

  And there was a woman prowling around the building, loitering in the corridors, listening at every keyhole.

  ‘I’d better pay old Mathilde a visit!’ thought Maigret.

  But when he arrived at Place des Vosges the next morning, the concierge, who was sorting the post (a big pile for the Couchet laboratory and only a handful of letters for the other residents), intercepted him.

  ‘Are you on your way up to the Martins’? I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Madame Martin was taken very ill last night. We had to call the doctor out urgently. Her husband is out of his mind.’

  The laboratory staff were crossing the courtyard on their way to the offices and the lab. At a first-floor window, a manservant was shaking rugs.

  A baby could be heard wailing and a nanny was crooning monotonously.

  6. A Raging Fever

  ‘Sssh! … She’s asleep … Come in anyway.’

  Monsieur Martin stood aside, resigned. Resigned to showing his home in a state of disorder. Resigned to showing himself ungroomed, his moustache drooping, a greenish colour, which betrayed the fact that it was dyed.

  He had sat up with his wife all night. He was worn out, listless.

  He tiptoed over to close the door that communicated with the bedroom, through which Maigret glimpsed the foot of the bed and a bowl on the floor.

  ‘The concierge told you?’

  He whispered, glancing anxiously at the door. As he spoke, he turned off the gas ring on which he had been making coffee.

  ‘Some coffee?’

  ‘No thank you. I shan’t disturb you for long. I wanted to inquire after Madame Martin.’

  ‘You’re too kind!’ said Martin emphatically.

  He really did not suspect any ulterior motive. He was so distraught that he must have lost his critical faculties, although it was not certain he had ever possessed any.

  ‘It’s terrible, these attacks she has! Would you excuse me for drinking my coffee in front of you?’

  He grew flustered on noticing that his braces were flapping against his calves. He hastily adjusted his clothes and removed the bottles of medicine that were sitting on the table.

  ‘Does Madame Martin often suffer these attacks?’

  ‘No. And especially not as violent as this. She’s very highly strung. When she was a girl, apparently she had nervous fits every week.’

  ‘And still does?’

  Martin gave him a hangdog look, barely daring to admit, ‘I have to make allowances for her. One little disagreement and she’s seething!’

  With his putty-coloured overcoat, carefully waxed moustache and leather gloves, he had been ridiculous. A caricature of the pretentious petty official.

  But now the dye had faded from his moustache, the look in his eyes was that of a defeated man. He hadn’t had the time to shave, and was still wearing his nightshirt under an old jacket.

  And he cut a pathetic figure. He was, astonishingly, at least fifty-five.

  ‘Did something upset her last night?’

  ‘No … No—’

  He became agitated, looking about him, panic-stricken.

  ‘No one came to see her? Her son, for example?’

  ‘No! You came, then we had dinner. And then—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know … It just came over her … She’s very sensitive. She’s had so much unhappiness in her life!’

  Did he really believe what he was saying? Maigret sensed that Martin was trying to convince himself.

  ‘In short, you personally have no ideas about the murder?’

  And Martin dropped the cup he was holding. Was he of a nervous disposition too?

  ‘Why would I have any ideas? I swear … If I did, I …’

  ‘You—’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a terrible business! Just when we’re inundated at the office. I haven’t even had the time to inform my boss this morning.’

  He wiped his thin hand across his forehead then busied himself picking up the pieces of broken china. He spent ages looking for a cloth to clean the wooden floor.

  ‘If only she’d listened to me, we wouldn’t have stayed here.’

  He was afraid, that was patent. He was beside himself with fear. But fear of what, fear of whom?

  ‘You’re a good man, aren’t you, Monsieur Martin? And an honest man.’

  ‘I have thirty-two years’ service and—’

  ‘So if you knew something that could help the police unmask the culprit, you would feel duty-bound to tell me.’

  Were his teeth chattering?

  ‘I would most definitely do so … but I don’t know anything … and I too would like to know! This is no life …’

  ‘What do you think of your stepson?’

  Martin stared at Maigret in amazement.

  ‘Roger? He’s …’

  ‘He’s depraved, I know!’

  ‘But he’s not a bad boy, I swear. It’s all his father’s fault. As my wife always says, you shouldn’t give young people so much money. She’s right! And as she says I don’t think Couchet did it out of generosity or fatherly love, he had no interest in his son. He did it to get rid of him, to salve his conscience.’

  ‘His conscience?’

  Martin turned red, and became even more flummoxed.

  ‘He treated Juliette badly, didn’t he?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Juliette?’

  ‘My wife, his first wife. What did he ever do for her? Nothing! He treated her like a skivvy. And she was the one who helped him through the hard times, and later—’

  ‘He didn’t give her anything, obviously. But she had remarried.’

  Martin’s face had turned beetroot. Maigret watched him with amazement, and pity. For he realized that the poor man was in no way to blame for this staggering
story. He was merely repeating what he must have heard hundreds of times from his wife.

  Couchet was rich! She was poor! And so …

  But the civil servant was straining to listen.

  ‘Did you not hear something?’

  They kept quiet for a moment. A faint cry was heard coming from the bedroom. Martin went over and opened the door.

  ‘What are you telling him?’ asked Madame Martin.

  ‘But … I—’

  ‘It’s Inspector Maigret, isn’t it? … What does he want now?’

  Maigret couldn’t see her. The voice was that of someone lying in bed, very weary, but who still has all her wits about her.

  ‘The detective chief inspector came to inquire after you.’

  ‘Tell him to come in. Wait! Pass me a wet towel and the mirror. And the comb.’

  ‘You’ll get yourself all upset again.’

  ‘Hold the mirror straight, will you! No! Put it down … You’re hopeless … Take away that bowl. Honestly, men! As soon as their wife’s not there, the place looks like a pigsty. You can show him in now.’

  Like the dining room, the bedroom was drab and cheerless, furnished in poor taste with a profusion of old curtains, old fabrics and faded rugs. The minute he stepped inside, Maigret felt Madame Martin’s eyes boring into him. Her gaze was calm and extraordinarily clear.

  Her drawn face broke into an invalid’s syrupy smile.

  ‘The place is a terrible mess! Please don’t take any notice,’ she said. ‘It’s because I was taken ill.’

  And she stared mournfully in front of her.

  ‘But I’m feeling better. I must be back on my feet tomorrow, for the funeral. It is tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s tomorrow! You’re prone to these attacks—’

  ‘I had them even as a child, but my sister—’

  ‘The sister who—?’

  ‘I had two sisters. Now don’t you go believing what’s not … The youngest suffered fits too. She got married. Her husband turned out to be a good-for-nothing and one fine day, when she was having an attack, he had her put away. She died a week later.’

  ‘Don’t get upset!’ implored Martin, who didn’t know where to put himself or where to look.

  ‘Insane?’ asked Maigret.

  The woman’s features hardened again and there was malice in her voice.