‘I know why she’s ill!’
And that was her trump card. Her hands trembled, still clasped over her stomach. This was the high point of her entire career.
‘Why?’
The moment needed savouring.
‘Because … Wait a minute, let me ask my sister if she needs anything … Fanny, are you thirsty? … Hungry? … Not too hot?’
The little cast-iron stove was red hot. The old woman floated around the room, gliding soundlessly across the floor in her felt slippers.
‘Because?’
‘Because he didn’t bring home the money!’
She spelled out this sentence and then clammed up once and for all. It was over! She would not say another word. She had said enough.
‘What money?’
A waste of time! She wouldn’t answer any more questions.
‘It’s none of my business! That’s what I heard! Make of it what you will … Now, I have to see to my sister.’
He left, leaving the two old women to heaven-knows-what routine.
He was all churned up. His stomach heaved, as in sea-sickness. He didn’t bring home the money …
Was there not an explanation? Martin decided to rob the first husband, perhaps to stop her from criticizing his mediocrity. She watched him out of the window. He left the office with the 360 notes …
Except that, when he came back, he no longer had them! Had he hidden them somewhere safe? Had he been robbed in turn? Or had he become scared and got rid of the money by throwing it into the Seine?
Was mediocre Monsieur Martin in his putty-coloured overcoat a killer?
Earlier on, he had wanted to talk. His weariness was that of a guilty man who no longer has the strength to keep quiet, who prefers immediate prison to the anguish of waiting.
But why was his wife the one who was ill?
And above all, why was it Roger who had killed himself?
Was all this perhaps a figment of Maigret’s imagination? Why not suspect Nine, or Madame Couchet, or even the colonel?
Making his way slowly down the stairs, the inspector met Monsieur de Saint-Marc, who turned around.
‘Oh! It’s you.’
He extended a condescending hand.
‘Any news? Do you think you’ll get to the bottom of it all?’
Then came the scream of the madwoman upstairs, who must have been abandoned by her sister, gone to stand guard behind some door.
A lovely funeral. A big turnout. Distinguished people. Especially Madame Couchet’s family and their neighbours on Boulevard Haussmann.
Only Couchet’s sister in the front row looked out of place, even though she had gone to impossible lengths to be elegant. She was crying. Above all, she had a noisy way of blowing her nose that prompted the dead man’s mother-in-law to glare at her every time.
Immediately behind the family sat the laboratory staff.
And, with the employees, old Mathilde, very dignified, sure of herself, sure of her right to be there.
The black dress she wore must have served for just that purpose: attending funerals! Her eyes met Maigret’s, and she deigned to give him a slight nod.
The singing, accompanied by the organ, burst forth, the cantor’s bass, the deacon’s falsetto: Et ne nos inducas in tentationem …
The scraping of chairs. The catafalque was high, and yet it was invisible beneath all the flowers and wreaths.
The residents of 61, Place des Vosges
Mathilde must have given her share. Had the Martins added their names to the list of contributors too?
Madame Martin was not there. She was still in bed.
Libera nos, domine …
The absolution. The end. The master of ceremonies slowly leading the procession. Maigret, in a corner, by a confessional box, came across Nine, whose little nose was all red. She hadn’t bothered to give it a dab of powder.
‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What’s terrible?’
‘Everything! I don’t know! That music … and that smell of chrysanthemums.’
She bit her lower lip to stifle a sob.
‘You know … I’ve thought a lot about … Well, I sometimes think he suspected something.’
‘Are you going to the cemetery?’
‘What do you think? People might see me, mightn’t they? Perhaps it’s better if I don’t go … Even though I’d so like to know where they put him.’
‘You can always ask the keeper.’
‘True.’
They were whispering. The footsteps of the last of the guests died away on the other side of the door. Cars started up.
‘You were saying that he suspected something?’
‘Perhaps not that he would die in that manner … but he knew he didn’t have long. He had quite a serious heart disease.’
Maigret could sense that she had been fretting, that for hours and hours on end a single question had been on her mind.
‘Something he said came back to me.’
‘Was he afraid?’
‘No! On the contrary. When anyone happened to mention cemeteries, he would laugh and say, “The only place where you’ll find peace and quiet … A nice little corner in Père-Lachaise.”’
‘Did he joke a lot?’
‘Especially when he wasn’t happy … Does that make sense? He didn’t like to show he was worried. At those times, he tried somehow to snap out of it, to find something to laugh about.’
‘When he spoke of his first wife, for example?’
‘He never talked to me about her.’
‘What about his second wife?’
‘No! He didn’t talk about anyone in particular … He would talk about people in general … He found they were strange creatures. If a waiter cheated him, he would look at him more affectionately than the others. “A rascal!” he would say. And he’d say it in an amused tone, pleased even!’
It was cold. A real November day. Maigret and Nine had no business in this district of Saint-Philippe-du-Roule.
‘Is everything all right at the Moulin Bleu?’
‘It’s fine!’
‘I’ll come by and say hello one evening.’
Maigret shook her hand, and jumped on to the platform of an omnibus.
He needed to be alone, to think, or rather to let his mind wander. He pictured the procession arriving soon at the cemetery … Madame Couchet, the colonel, the brother, the people who must be gossiping about the strange will …
What had the Martins been up to, rummaging around the bins?
For that was the crux of the story. Martin had poked around the dustbins claiming he was looking for a glove, which he hadn’t found but had been wearing the next morning. Madame Martin had also rifled through the rubbish, talking of a silver spoon thrown out accidentally.
‘… because he didn’t bring home the money,’ old Mathilde had said.
In fact, things must have been lively at that hour in Place des Vosges! The madwoman, who must be on her own, wouldn’t she be screaming as usual?
The omnibus was full, and drove past bus stops without stopping. A man, pressed up against Maigret, was saying to his neighbour, ‘Did you read about that business with the thousand-franc notes?’
‘No! What was that?’
‘I wish I could have been there … At the Bougival weir … Two mornings ago … Thousand-franc notes floating on the tide … It was a sailor who spotted them first and who managed to fish out a few … but the lock-keeper saw what was going on and called the police and an officer kept an eye out for anyone trying going after the loot.’
‘No kidding? I don’t suppose that stopped them putting a bit aside.’
‘The paper says they found around thirty notes, but that there must have been a lot more, because they fished out a couple down river in Mantes too … Huh! Cash swimming down the Seine! It’s better than gudgeon.’
Maigret stood a head taller than everyone else. He remained impassive, his face composed.
; … because he didn’t bring home the money.
So was that it? Meek Monsieur Martin, overcome by fear or remorse at the thought of his crime? Martin who admitted he went for a walk that evening on the Ile Saint-Louis to relieve his neuralgia!
Maigret couldn’t help smiling a little as he pictured Madame Martin, who had seen it all from her window and was waiting.
Her husband came home, weary, defeated. She watched his every action and movement. She was eager to see the notes, perhaps to count them.
He got undressed and prepared for bed.
Didn’t she pick up his clothes to search his pockets?
She started to feel anxious. She looked at Martin with his droopy moustache.
‘The … the … money?’
‘What money?’
‘Who did you give it to? Answer me! Don’t try and lie.’
And Maigret, alighting from the omnibus at Pont-Neuf, from where he could see the windows of his office, caught himself saying in a low voice, ‘I bet once he was in bed, Martin began to cry!’
10. Identity Cards
It began at Jeumont. The time was eleven p.m. A few third-class passengers walked towards the customs shed while the customs officers began inspecting the second- and first-class carriages.
Meticulous people had got their suitcases down in advance and spread the contents out on the seats. This included a man with anxious eyes in second class, in a compartment where the only other passengers were an elderly Belgian couple.
His luggage was a model of neatness and forethought. His shirts were wrapped in newspaper to prevent them getting dirty. There were twelve pairs of detachable cuffs, winter drawers and summer drawers, an alarm clock, shoes and a pair of worn-out slippers.
A woman’s hand had clearly done the packing. There was no wasted space. Nothing would get creased. A customs officer poked around carelessly, observing the man in the putty-coloured overcoat, who looked just the type to have such suitcases.
‘All right!’
A chalk cross on the cases.
‘Anything to declare, the rest of you?’
‘Excuse me,’ asked the man, ‘where exactly does Belgium begin?’
‘You see the first hedge over there? No! You can’t see anything! But look … Count the lamps … the third on the left … Well, that’s the border.’
A voice in the corridor, repeating at the door of each compartment, ‘Have your passports ready, your identity cards!’
And the man in the putty-coloured overcoat struggled to put his suitcases back in the overhead net.
‘Passport?’
He turned around and saw a young man wearing a grey peaked cap.
‘French? Your identity card, then.’
It took a few moments. His fingers rummaged in his wallet.
‘Here you are, monsieur!’
‘Good! Martin, Edgar Émile … That’s correct! … Follow me—’
‘Where to?’
‘You can bring your luggage.’
‘But … the train—’
The two Belgians now stared at him, aghast, although they were amused to have shared a compartment with a fugitive. Monsieur Martin, his eyes wide, clambered up on to the seat to retrieve his suitcases.
‘I swear … What the—?’
‘Hurry up … The train’s about to leave.’
And the young man in the grey cap rolled the heaviest suitcase on to the platform. It was dark. In the glow of the lamplight, people were hurrying back from the buffet. The whistle was blown. A woman was arguing with the customs officers who refused to allow her back on to the train.
‘We’ll see about that in the morning—’
And Monsieur Martin followed the young man, struggling to carry his suitcases. He had never thought a station platform could be so long. It went on and on, endless, deserted, with mysterious doors leading off it.
Finally, they went through the last one.
‘Come in!’
It was dark. Nothing but a lamp with a green shade, hanging so low above the table that it only shed light on a few papers. And yet something was moving at the far end of the room.
‘Good evening, Monsieur Martin,’ said a cordial voice.
And a burly form stepped out of the shadows: Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, encased in his heavy overcoat with a velvet collar, his hands in his pockets.
‘Don’t bother taking off your coat. We’re getting the train back to Paris, which is due to arrive on platform three.’
This time it was definite! Martin was crying, silently, his hands paralysed by his neatly packed suitcases.
The inspector who had been placed on sentry duty at 61, Place des Vosges had telephoned Maigret a few hours earlier, ‘Our man is running off. He’s just taken a taxi to the Gare du Nord.’
‘Let him get away. Carry on watching the wife.’
And Maigret had caught the same train as Martin. He had travelled in the neighbouring compartment with two sergeants who had told lewd stories for the entire duration of the journey.
From time to time, the chief inspector peeped through the spy hole between the two compartments and glimpsed a gloomy Martin.
Jeumont … Identity card! … Border police.
Now, they were both on their way back to Paris, in a reserved compartment. Martin was not handcuffed. His suitcases were in the net above his head, and one of them, precariously balanced, threatened to fall on him.
They had reached Maubeuge and Maigret still hadn’t asked a single question.
It was unbelievable! He was ensconced in his corner, his pipe between his teeth. He puffed away continually, watching his companion with his laughing little eyes.
Ten times, twenty times, Martin opened his mouth without saying anything. Ten times, twenty times, the chief inspector took absolutely no notice.
And eventually it happened: an indescribable voice, which Madame Martin herself would probably not have recognized.
‘It’s me—’
And Maigret still didn’t say a word. His pupils seemed to say, ‘Really?’
‘I … I was hoping to make it across the border—’
There is a way of smoking that is aggravating for the person watching the smoker: with each puff, his lips part sensuously, making a little ‘puk’ sound. And the smoke isn’t puffed out in front, but escapes slowly and forms a cloud around his face.
Maigret smoked like this and his head nodded from right to left and left to right to the rhythm of the train.
Martin leaned forward, his hands hurting inside his gloves, his eyes feverish.
‘Do you think it’ll be long? … It won’t, will it? Because I confess … I confess everything—’
How did he manage to hold back his sobs? His nerves must have been utterly frayed. And his eyes, from time to time, were beseeching Maigret: ‘Please help me! … You can see that I have no strength left.’
But the chief inspector did not budge. He was as calm, with the same curious, detached gaze as if he were in front of an exotic animal’s cage at the zoological gardens.
‘Couchet caught me … So—’
And Maigret sighed. A sigh that meant nothing, or rather that could be interpreted in a hundred different ways.
Saint-Quentin! Footsteps in the corridor. A portly passenger tried to open the door of the compartment, realized it was locked, stood there for a moment looking in, his nose pressed to the pane, and then finally resigned himself to looking for another seat.
‘Because I confess everything, you see? There’s no point denying—’
Exactly as if he had spoken to a deaf man, or to a man who did not understand a wretched word of French. Maigret filled his pipe, meticulously tapping it with his index finger.
‘Do you have any matches?’
‘No … I don’t smoke, as you know very well. My wife doesn’t like the smell of tobacco. I want it to be done quickly, do you understand? I’ll say so to the lawyer that I’ll have to choose. No complications! I confess everything
. I read in the paper that some of the money’s been found. I don’t know why I did that. I could feel it in my pocket and I had the impression that everyone in the street was looking at me. At first I thought of hiding it somewhere, but to do what with it?
‘I walked along the embankment. There were barges. I was afraid of being seen by a bargeman. So I crossed the Pont-Marie and was able to get rid of the bundle on the Ile Saint-Louis.’
The compartment was boiling hot; condensation ran down the windows, pipe smoke curled around the lamp.
‘I should have confessed everything to you the first time I saw you. I didn’t have the courage. I hoped that—’
Martin fell silent and stared curiously at his companion, who had half-opened his mouth and closed his eyes. His breathing was regular like the purring of a fat, satiated cat.
Maigret was asleep!
Martin glanced over at the door, which only needed a push. And, as if to avoid the temptation, he huddled in a corner, clenching his buttocks, his twitching hands resting on his scrawny knees.
Gare du Nord. A grey morning. And the herd of commuters, still drowsy, streaming out.
The train had stopped a long way from the concourse. The suitcases were heavy. Martin didn’t want to stop. He was out of breath and his arms hurt.
They had to wait a long time for a taxi.
‘Are you taking me to prison?’
They had spent five hours on trains and Maigret hadn’t uttered ten sentences. If that! Words that had nothing to do either with the murder or with the 360,000 francs. He had talked about his pipe, or the heat, or the arrival time.
‘Sixty-one, Place des Vosges!’ he instructed the driver.
Martin implored him, ‘Do you think it’s necessary to—?’
And to himself, ‘What must they be thinking at the office! There wasn’t time to let them know—’
The concierge was in her lodge, sorting out the post: a huge pile of letters for Doctor Rivière’s Serums. A tiny pile for the rest of the residents.
‘Monsieur Martin! Monsieur Martin! Someone came from the Registry Office to see if you were ill … Apparently you’ve got the key to—’
Maigret dragged his companion away. And Martin had to lug his heavy suitcases up the stairs. There were milk cans and fresh bread outside the apartment doors.
The Shadow Puppet Page 10