The Shadow Puppet

by Georges Simenon; Translated by Ros Schwartz

‘In other words, her husband wanted to get rid of her! Not even six months later, he married someone else. Men are all the same … You devote yourself, you kill yourself for them—’

  ‘I beg you!’ sighed her husband.

  ‘I don’t mean you! Although you’re no better than the others.’

  And Maigret suddenly sensed a whiff of hatred in the air. It was fleeting, hazy, but he was convinced he was not mistaken.

  ‘All the same, if it weren’t for me—’ she went on.

  Did her voice contain a threat? Her husband busied himself doing nothing. To keep up appearances, he counted out drops of a potion into a glass, one by one.

  ‘The doctor said—’

  ‘I don’t give a fig for what the doctor said!’

  ‘But you must … Here! Drink it slowly. It’s not so bad.’

  She looked at him, then she looked at Maigret, and finally she gave a resigned shrug and drank.

  ‘You haven’t really come to inquire after my health,’ she stated suspiciously.

  ‘I was on my way to the laboratory when the concierge told me—’

  ‘Have you found any clues?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  She closed her eyes, to indicate fatigue. Martin looked at Maigret, who rose.

  ‘Well, I wish you a speedy recovery. You’re already much better.’

  She let him leave. Maigret stopped Martin from seeing him out.

  ‘Please, stay with your wife.’

  Poor fellow! He seemed afraid to stay; it was as if he were clinging to Maigret because when there was another person there, things were not so dreadful.

  ‘You’ll see, it will turn out to be nothing serious.’

  As he walked through the dining room, he heard a rustle in the corridor. And he caught up with old Mathilde just as she was about to go back into her room.

  ‘Good morning.’

  She looked at him fearfully, without replying, her hand poised on the door knob.

  Maigret spoke quietly. He guessed that Madame Martin was listening; she was perfectly capable of getting out of bed to eavesdrop.

  ‘As you probably know, I’m the detective chief inspector in charge of the investigation.’

  He already sensed that he would get nothing out of the woman with her placid, moonlike face.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Only to ask you if you have anything to tell me. How long have you been living here?’

  ‘Forty years!’ she replied curtly.

  ‘You know everyone.’

  ‘I don’t talk to anyone!’

  ‘I thought perhaps that you might have seen or heard something. Sometimes a tiny clue helps set the police on the right track.’

  Someone was moving around inside the room. But the old woman kept the door determinedly shut.

  ‘You saw nothing?’

  She did not reply.

  ‘And you heard nothing?’

  ‘You’d do better to tell the landlord to put the gas in.’

  ‘The gas?’

  ‘Everyone else here has gas. But because he’s not allowed to put my rent up, he refuses to install it in my room. He wants to boot me out! He’s doing everything he can to force me out, but he’ll be leaving before me, feet first! And you can tell him that from me.’

  The door opened a tiny crack, so tiny that it seemed impossible that the fat woman could squeeze through. Then she closed it behind her and only muffled sounds came from inside the room.

  ‘May I have your card?’

  Maigret proffered his visiting card, and the butler in a striped waistcoat took it before disappearing inside the apartment, which was extraordinarily light, thanks to its five-metre-high windows. Such windows have become rare and are only found in the buildings on Place des Vosges and the Ile Saint-Louis.

  The rooms were vast. From somewhere the hum of an electric vacuum cleaner could be heard. A nanny in a white uniform with a pretty blue headdress was going from one room to another. She shot the visitor an inquisitive glance.

  A voice, close at hand.

  ‘Show the detective chief inspector in.’

  Monsieur de Saint-Marc was in his study, in his dressing gown, his silvery hair carefully smoothed. First he went over and closed a door, through which Maigret had the time to glimpse an antique bed, the face of a young woman on the pillow.

  ‘Please take a seat. Naturally you want to speak to me about this terrible Couchet business.’

  Despite his age, he gave an impression of health and vigour. And the atmosphere in the apartment was that of a happy home, where everything was full of light and joy.

  ‘I was particularly saddened by this tragedy, which took place at a time of great emotion for me.’

  ‘I am aware of that.’

  There was a little glint of satisfaction in the eyes of the former ambassador. He was proud of having a child at his age.

  ‘May I ask you to keep your voice down, as I’d rather keep this business from Madame de Saint-Marc. In her condition, it would be unfortunate … But what was it you wanted to ask me? I barely knew this Couchet. I’d caught a glimpse of him crossing the courtyard a couple of times. He belonged to one of the clubs I go to occasionally, the Haussmann, but he must rarely have set foot in the place. I just noticed his name in the latest directory. I believe he was quite vulgar, wasn’t he?’

  ‘In other words, he was working-class. He had struggled to become successful.’

  ‘My wife told me he had married a woman from a very good family, a former school friend of hers. That’s one of the reasons why it’s better not to tell her … so, you wanted to ask me …?’

  The vast windows afforded a view of the entire Place des Vosges bathed in soft sunshine. In the square, gardeners were watering the lawns and flower beds. Drays plodded heavily past.

  ‘Just a simple question. I know that you were on edge while your wife was in labour, which is only natural, and that several times you came down and paced up and down the courtyard. Did you meet anyone? Did you not see someone heading towards the offices at the back?’

  Monsieur de Saint-Marc thought for a moment, fiddling with a paper knife.

  ‘Wait … No! I don’t think so. Don’t forget, I had other things on my mind. The concierge would be in a better position to—’

  ‘The concierge doesn’t know anything—’

  ‘And I … No! … Or rather … But it can’t have anything to do with—’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘At one point, I heard a noise by the dustbins. I was at a loose end, so I went over and I saw one of the residents from the second floor—’

  ‘Madame Martin?’

  ‘I believe that’s her name. I confess, I don’t know my neighbours very well. She was rummaging in one of the zinc bins … I remember her saying, “One of our silver spoons must have fallen into the rubbish bin.” I asked, “Have you found it?” And she said, quite excitedly, “Yes! Yes!”’

  ‘Then what did she do?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘She hurried back up to her apartment. She’s a jittery little woman who always seems to be running … If I recall, we lost a valuable ring in the same manner … and the astonishing thing is that it was returned to the concierge by a rag-picker who’d found it when he was rummaging with his hook.’

  ‘You couldn’t tell me roughly what time this incident occurred?’

  ‘That would be difficult … Wait … I didn’t want any dinner … But at around eight-thirty, Albert, my butler, urged me to have something and, since I refused to come to the table, he brought me some anchovy tarts in the drawing room. That was before—’

  ‘Before eight-thirty?’

  ‘Yes. Let us say that the incident, as you call it, took place just after eight o’clock, but I don’t think it is of any significance whatsoever. What is your opinion about this business? There’s a rumour going around, apparently, that the murder was committed by someone who lives here, but personally I refuse to believe it. When you think
that anyone can just walk into the courtyard. By the way, I’m going to write to the landlord to request that the main door be locked at dusk.’

  Maigret had risen.

  ‘I haven’t yet formed an opinion,’ he said.

  The concierge brought up the post and, since the door had remained open, she suddenly caught sight of the inspector conversing with Monsieur de Saint-Marc.

  Poor Madame Bourcier! She was all flustered! Her expression betrayed a world of anxieties.

  Would Maigret be so bold as to suspect the Saint-Marcs? Or even simply to bother them with his questions?

  ‘Thank you, monsieur … and please forgive my intrusion—’

  ‘A cigar?’

  Monsieur de Saint-Marc had the airs of a gentleman, with a tiny hint of condescending familiarity more suggestive of the politician than the diplomat.

  ‘I am entirely at your service.’

  The butler closed the door behind him. Maigret made his way slowly down the stairs and found himself in the courtyard where the delivery man from a department store was trying to find the concierge.

  In the lodge, there was only a dog, a cat and the two children busy smearing milk soup all over their faces.

  ‘Isn’t your mother here?’

  ‘She’ll be back, m’sieur! She’s taking the post up.’

  In the ignominious corner of the courtyard, near the lodge, there were four zinc bins into which, at night, the residents came one by one to throw their household waste.

  At six a.m., the concierge unlocked the main door and the municipal rubbish collectors emptied the bins into their cart.

  At night, that corner was not lit up. The only light in the courtyard was on the other side, at the foot of the stairs.

  What had Madame Martin come down to look for, more or less at the time when Couchet was killed?

  Had she taken it into her head to look for her husband’s glove?

  ‘No!’ grunted Maigret struck by a memory. Martin had only brought the rubbish down much later.

  So what had she been up to? There couldn’t have been a lost spoon! During the daytime, the residents are not allowed to throw anything into the dustbins.

  So what were the pair of them looking for, one after the other?

  Madame Martin had been rummaging in the bin itself.

  Martin, on the other hand, had been looking in the area around the bins, striking matches.

  And by the next morning, the glove had been found!

  ‘Did you see the baby?’ asked a voice behind Maigret.

  It was the concierge, who was talking about the Saint-Marcs’ child with more emotion than about her own.

  ‘You didn’t say anything to Madame, I hope? She mustn’t be told—’

  ‘I know! I know!’

  ‘For the wreath … I mean the residents’ wreath … I’m wondering whether we should have it delivered to the undertakers today or whether it’s the custom only to send it to the funeral … The staff were very generous too, they’ve collected over three hundred francs.’

  And, turning to the delivery man, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Saint-Marc!’

  ‘Right-hand staircase. First floor facing. And knock gently!’

  Then, to Maigret, ‘You should see how many flowers she’s received! So many they don’t know where to put them all. Most of them have had to be taken up to the servants’ rooms. Won’t you come in? Jojo! Leave your sister alone!’

  The inspector was still staring at the dustbins. What on earth could the Martins have been looking for in them?

  ‘This morning, did you put the bins out as usual?’

  ‘No! Since I’ve been widowed, it’s impossible! Or I’d have to take someone on, because they’re much too heavy for me … the bin men are very kind, I give them a glass of wine from time to time and they come into the courtyard to collect them.’

  ‘So the rag-pickers can’t rummage through them!’

  ‘Do you think so? They come into the courtyard too. Sometimes there are three or four of them, and they make an unholy mess.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  And Maigret left, pondering, either forgetting or not considering it worth his while to visit the Couchet offices again as he had planned to do earlier in the day.

  When he arrived at Quai des Orfèvres, he was told, ‘Someone was asking for you on the telephone. A colonel.’

  But he decided to pursue his hunch. Opening the door of the inspectors’ office, he called out, ‘Lucas! I want you to get on to this straight away. Question all the rag-pickers who operate around the Place des Vosges. If necessary, go as far as the Saint-Denis plant, where the rubbish is incinerated.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We need to know if they noticed anything unusual in the dustbins of 61, Place des Vosges, the morning before yesterday.’

  He slumped in his armchair and a word came back into his mind: colonel.

  What colonel? He didn’t know any colonels.

  Oh yes he did! There was one colonel in this case! Madame Couchet’s uncle! What on earth did he want?

  ‘Hello! Élysée 1762? This is Detective Chief Inspector Maigret from police headquarters … Excuse me? … Colonel Dormoy wants to speak to me. I’ll hold the line, yes. Hello! Is that you, Colonel? … How? … A will? … I can’t hear you very well. No, on the contrary, lower your voice! Hold the receiver a little further away. That’s better. So? You have found a will that no one knew about? And not even stamped? Understood! I’ll be with you in half an hour. No! There’s no point my taking a taxi.’

  And he lit his pipe, pushed back his armchair and crossed his legs.

  7. The Three Women

  ‘The colonel is waiting for you in Monsieur’s bedroom. Please follow me.’

  The room where the body had been laid out was closed. There was someone moving around next door, which must have been Madame Couchet’s bedroom. The maid opened a door and Maigret glimpsed the colonel standing by the table, his hand resting lightly on it, his chin high, dignified and calm as if he were posing for a sculptor.

  ‘Please sit down!’

  Maigret ignored his invitation to sit and simply unbuttoned his heavy overcoat, placed his bowler hat on a chair and filled his pipe.

  ‘Did you find the will yourself?’ he then asked, looking about him with curiosity.

  ‘Indeed I did, earlier today. My niece doesn’t know about it yet. I have to say that it is so shocking—’

  A strange bedroom, typical of Couchet! True, the furniture was period, like the rest of the apartment. There were a few items of value, but mixed in with them were things that revealed the man’s vulgar tastes.

  In front of the window was a table that pretty much served as his desk. On it were Turkish cigarettes and also a whole set of cheap, cherry-wood pipes which Couchet must have seasoned lovingly.

  A purple dressing gown! The gaudiest he could have found! Then, at the foot of the bed, slippers with holes in their soles.

  The table had a drawer.

  ‘Note that it wasn’t locked!’ said the colonel. ‘I don’t even know if there is a key. This morning, my niece needed cash to pay a supplier and I wanted to save her the trouble of writing a cheque. I searched this room, and this is what I came across.’

  An envelope with the Grand-Hôtel crest. Pale blue notepaper with the same letterhead.

  Then a few lines that appeared to have been written distractedly, like a rough draft.

  This is my last will and testament …

  And further down, these surprising words:

  Since I shall probably not get around to finding out about inheritance law, I instruct my lawyer, Maître Dampierre, to do his utmost to ensure that my fortune is shared as equally as possible between:

  1 My wife Germaine, née Dormoy;

  2 My first wife, now Madame Martin, residing at 61, Place des Vosges;

  3 Nine Moinard, residing at Hôtel Pigalle, Rue Pigalle.

  ‘What do you make of that?’<
br />
  Maigret was jubilant. This will endeared Couchet to him even further.

  ‘Naturally,’ continued the colonel, ‘this will does not hold water. There are numerous reasons why it would be deemed null and void and, immediately after the funeral, we intend to contest it. But the reason I felt it was useful and urgent to discuss it with you is that—’

  Maigret was still smiling, as if he had witnessed a good prank. Even the Grand-Hôtel letterhead! Like many businessmen, Couchet probably held some of his meetings there. So, while waiting for someone, probably, in the lobby or the smoking room, he had picked up a blotter and scribbled those few lines.

  He hadn’t sealed the envelope! He’d stuffed the whole thing in his drawer, postponing the business of having a proper will drawn up.

  That had been two weeks ago.

  ‘You must have been struck by one outrageous detail,’ the colonel was saying. ‘Couchet simply doesn’t mention his son! That alone is enough to render the will null and void and—’

  ‘Do you know Roger?’

  ‘Me? … No.’

  And Maigret was still smiling.

  ‘I was saying earlier that if I asked you to come here, it was because—’

  ‘Do you know Nine Moinard?’

  The poor man jumped as if someone had stepped on his toe.

  ‘I don’t need to know her. Her address alone, Rue Pigalle, gives me an idea of … Now what was I saying? … Oh yes! Did you notice the date on the will? It is recent! Couchet died two weeks after writing it. He was murdered! Now imagine that one of the two women concerned was aware of these provisions … I have every reason to believe that neither of them is rich.’

  ‘Why two women?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Three women! The will names three women! Couchet’s three women, if you like!’

  The colonel assumed that Maigret was joking.

  ‘I was being serious,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget that there is a dead man in the house. And that this affects the future of several people.’

  Of course. All the same, Maigret felt like laughing. He himself couldn’t have said why.

  ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  The colonel was vexed. He could not understand this attitude on the part of a police inspector of Maigret’s senior rank.