Félicie

by Georges Simenon

  ‘You weren’t his mistress, were you, Félicie …’

  Should she agree or should she deny it? What is he trying to make her say?

  ‘If you were his mistress, you would have seen him again, because the quarrel with his uncle had nothing to do with the way you felt about him. You would have had an opportunity to tell him that the old man had moved back to his old room. That way, Pétillon would have known that the piggy-bank wasn’t in his old room but with the rest of the junk. Now listen carefully … Knowing that, he wouldn’t have broken into the bedroom, where, God only knows why, he’d been forced to kill his uncle …’

  ‘It’s not true …’

  ‘Therefore, you weren’t his mistress.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Did you ever sleep with him?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Did he know you were in love with him?’

  ‘No.’

  Maigret allows a satisfied smile to spread over his face.

  ‘Well now, girl, that, I think, is the first time you haven’t lied to me since the start of this investigation … Look, I knew all about this love affair of yours from the start. You’re a girl whose life hasn’t exactly been showered with good things. So in the absence of solid realities, you wove your own reality out of your dreams. You stopped being young Félicie, old man Lapie’s housekeeper, and became all the glamorous heroines in those novels you read.

  ‘In your dreams, Pegleg wasn’t just a pernickety old man you worked for but, as in the best novelettes, you became a child conceived in sin … No need for blushes … You craved drama, if only to impress your friend Léontine, but also so you could write it down in your diary.

  ‘So when a man came to live in the house, you told yourself that you were his mistress, you became the heroine of a love story, and I’m pretty sure the poor boy never suspected a thing … And I’m equally sure that Forrentin, the estate manager, never gave you a second glance, and that it was that goatee of his that helped you to turn him into a satyr.’

  For a moment, a fleeting smile appears on Félicie’s lips. But then it is gone and she becomes spiteful again.

  ‘Where is all this leading?’

  He is frank:

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I will soon, and it will all be due to the parcel of notes we found … Now I’m going to ask you something. The people who are looking for the money and need it so badly that they are prepared to run all the risks they have taken since yesterday aren’t going to give up at this stage of the game. What I worked out, the fairly obvious conclusion about the furniture being moved round, they could work out too. I’d rather you weren’t here alone tonight. Hate me if you like, but I must ask you to let me stay the night in the house. You can lock yourself in your room … What are you having for dinner?’

  ‘Black pudding. I was about to start making the mashed potato.’

  ‘Excellent. Invite me. I’ve just got to go down to Orgeval and give few instructions and I’ll come back. Agreed?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘Smile!’

  ‘No.’

  He stuffs the banknotes in his pocket, then retrieves the bike, which is parked outside the wine store. He makes the most of the opportunity to pour himself a glass, and just as he is getting into the saddle she calls out:

  ‘I still hate you!’

  He turns with a smile:

  ‘And I adore you, Félicie!’

  7. The Night of the Lobster

  Six thirty in the evening. It is approximately the time when, outside Cape Horn, Maigret gets on his bike and turns round with his parting shot to Félicie, who is standing in the door of the house:

  ‘And I adore you, Félicie!’

  In Béziers, the ringing of the telephone echoes through the police station. The front window is wide open. The office is empty. Arsène Vadibert, the station chief’s secretary, who is outside in his shirtsleeves watching a game of boules under the plane trees, turns towards the barred window, where the phone continues to ring insistently and malevolently.

  ‘I’m coming! I’m coming!’ he cries reluctantly.

  And still in his strong Midi accent he mutters: ‘Hold your horses:’

  ‘Hello? … Is that Paris? … Speak up! … What? … This is Béziers … Béziers, yes, as it is written … Police Judiciaire? … We got your request … I said we received your request … Don’t you speak French in Paris? … Your request concerning a woman called Adèle … It so happens we might just have what you’re looking for …’

  He leans forwards a little so that he has a clear view of his white-shirted, pock-faced friend, who is lining up for an onslaught on an opponent’s boule.

  ‘It happened last week, Thursday, at the house … What was that? … Which house? … The whorehouse… . It’s called the Paradou … Girl called Adèle, small, dark hair … What? … Breasts like pears? … That I couldn’t tell you, no sir … I never saw them myself … Anyway, she’s gone away … If you’d only listen you’d know already … I got other things to do … I’m telling you this girl called Adèle wanted to move on and asked to be paid what was owed her. The madam called the owner. Seems she couldn’t just walk out like that, she had to work to the end of the month, so he wouldn’t give her what she said was owing, so she smashed bottles, tore up cushions, kicked up one hell of a shindig, in the end, since she didn’t have any money, she borrowed some from another girl and walked out anyway … Went to Paris … How? … Haven’t a clue … You asked about Adèle and I’m giving you one … Not at all, ’bye …’

  Six thirty-five. The Anneau d’Or at Orgeval. An open door in the middle of the greyish-white frontage. A bench on either side of the door. A laurel bush in a sawn-down wine barrel at the end of each. The benches and the half-barrels are painted dark green. The line between shade and sun bisects the pavement exactly. A van pulls up. The butcher gets out. He is wearing an overall patterned with small blue checks.

  Inside, in the bar, it is cool and shady. The landlord is playing cards with Forrentin, Lepape and the driver of the taxi which brought Maigret. Lucas looks on, smoking his pipe with a composure borrowed from his boss. The landlord’s wife is washing glasses. The butcher comes in:

  ‘Evening all! A large glass of the white, Jeanne. Listen, fancy a nice fresh lobster? I was given two in town, and at home there’s only me that eats them because the wife reckons lobster brings her out in a rash …’

  He goes out to get the lobster, which is still alive, from his van. He comes back, holding it by one claw. Then a window opens across the road, a hand waves, and a voice sings out:

  ‘Phone, Monsieur Lucas!’

  ‘Before you go, tell me, Monsieur Lucas. Do you like lobster?’

  Does he like lobster!

  ‘Germaine! Make us up a stock! For cooking a lobster.’

  ‘Hello? … Yes, Lucas … The chief isn’t very far … Say again? Béziers? … Adèle … Last Thursday? …’

  Maigret gets off his bike just as the butcher drives off. He watches the card game while Lucas is still on the phone. The lobster crawls clumsily across the stone-flagged floor, along the front of the counter

  ‘Tell me, madame, is that lobster yours? Do you really want it?’

  ‘I was just about to cook it. I thought it would do for your sergeant and the taxi-driver.’

  ‘They can have something else. I’ll take it off your hands, if it’s all right with you.’

  Lucas walks back across the street.

  ‘They’ve come up with an Adèle, sir. In Béziers. She left in a hurry
on Thursday and travelled to Paris.’

  From time to time, the card-players give them the odd glance and listen and catch snippets of their conversation.

  Ten minutes to seven. Inspector Rondonnet and Chief Inspector Piaulet are talking in an office of the Police Judiciaire. Tall windows look down on the Seine, where a tug is straining hard.

  ‘Hello? … Is that Orgeval? … Operator, would you be good enough to ask Detective Chief Inspector Maigret to come to the phone?’

  The same hand again waves out of the window. Lucas runs across the road. Maigret, the lobster in one hand, is just about to mount his bike.

  ‘It’s for you, sir.’

  ‘Hello? … That you Piaulet? … Anything new?’

  ‘Rondonnet thinks he’s come up with something … According to the doorman at the Sancho, which is just over the road from the Pelican, the club’s owner went out last night while you were there and phoned from the bar on the corner … Hello? … Yes, still here … A little later, a taxi pulled up. No one got out of it. The owner, keeping his voice down, talked to somebody inside … Are you with me? … There’s some funny business there … Also, on Saturday evening, an argument broke out in the tobacconist’s in Rue Fontaine … Hard to know exactly … It involved a dubious character …’

  ‘Ouch!’ growls Maigret.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh nothing. It’s the lobster … I’m listening …’

  ‘That’s about it, really. We’re continuing to interview the ones we rounded up. Some seem to know more than they’re saying …’

  ‘My turn now … Hello? … Check records … A report, I don’t know, a break-in or similar, maybe fraud or false pretences, about thirteen months ago. Find out who in the Place Pigalle sector was living at that time with a girl called Adèle … You can phone any time tonight … Lucas will stay near the phone … What is it?’

  ‘Just a moment … Rondonnet’s listening on the extension, he’s saying something … I’ll pass him on to you …’

  ‘Hello, is that you, chief? I don’t know if this is relevant. It suddenly came back to me because the date is right. In April last year. I dealt with it. Rue Blanche, do you remember? Pedro, who owned the Chamois …’

  Since the lobster won’t stay still, Maigret carefully puts it on the floor and growls at it:

  ‘Stay there!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Talking to the lobster … Pedro … Remind me …’

  ‘A small club in Rue Blanche on the lines of the Pelican, but raunchier … Tall and thin, always looked pale, had a white streak, just the one, running through his black hair …’

  ‘I’m with you …’

  ‘It was three in the morning. He was about to close. A car stopped outside, five men got out, left the engine running, walked in, barged past the head waiter, who was already putting up the shutters …’

  ‘I remember vaguely …’

  ‘They manhandled Pedro into a small room behind the bar. A few minutes later there was gunfire, mirrors were shattered, bottles were thrown, then suddenly all the lights went out. I was on duty in the neighbourhood. It was a miracle that we arrived in time to nab four of the gang, including Legs, who’d hidden on the roof … Pedro was dead, with four or five bullets in him. Only one of the murderers got away, and it was a good few days before we found out that it was a musician, Albert Babeau. He was the one they called Shorty because he was really small and wore heels to make himself look taller … Just a moment … Chief Inspector Piaulet is telling me something … No … He wants to speak to you himself … I’ll pass you back to him …’

  ‘Hello, Maigret … I remember it too … I have the file in my office … Do you want me to …’

  ‘Don’t bother … The Musician was arrested at Le Havre, it’s all coming back to me now … How many days later? …’

  ‘About a week. There was an anonymous tip-off …’

  ‘How many years did he get?’

  ‘If you need that, you’ll have to contact Court Records. Cat Burglar’s the one who got the stiffest sentence because there were three bullets missing from the cartridge-clip of his revolver. Twenty years he got if I remember correctly. For the rest, sentences ranged from five years to one. It was always thought that Pedro kept large sums of money at home, but none of it was ever recovered. Do you think there’s a connection? … Look, would it help if you came back here? …’

  Maigret hesitates. His foot accidentally nudges the lobster.

  ‘I can’t just now. Listen. This is what we’ll have to do. Lucas will stay in contact all night …’

  When he eventually comes out of the phone booth he tells the woman operating the exchange:

  ‘I warned you that you wouldn’t get much sleep tonight … Actually, I don’t think you’ll get any at all.’

  Then he has a few words for Lucas, who gazes glumly at the lobster.

  ‘Will do, sir … Yes, sir … Shall I keep the taxi on?’

  ‘That would be safest.’

  Maigret again takes to the road he has already travelled so many times in recent days, lit by a gorgeous sunset. He looks with some satisfaction at the toy houses of Jeanneville, which will soon cease to feature on his horizon and be no more than a memory.

  A wholesome smell rises from the earth, the crickets begin to sing, and there is nothing more artless or more restful than vegetables growing in the neat beds by the placid retired men in straw hats who are now wielding their watering cans.

  ‘It’s me!’ he cries as he walks into the hallway of Cape Horn, which is full of the smell of grilled sausage.

  Holding the lobster behind his back he says:

  ‘Say, Félicie … One very important question …’

  She is immediately on the defensive.

  ‘Do you know how to make a decent mayonnaise?’

  A smile of disdain.

  ‘Good. In that case you can make one now and put this customer on to cook …’

  He is content. He rubs his hands. Seeing that the door to the dining room is open, he goes in but scowls when he sees that the table is laid with a red checked tablecloth, a single crystal glass, silver cutlery and an attractive bread basket, but only one place is set.

  He says nothing. He waits. He is in no doubt that the lobster, which is now beginning to turn red in the boiling water, will be a never-ending source of barbed comments from his wife. Madame Maigret is not jealous, or at least she says she isn’t.

  ‘Jealous of what, for goodness’ sake!’ she readily exclaims with a little laugh that is not altogether natural.

  But that never stops her saying again and again when they are with family or friends and the topic of Maigret’s job comes up:

  ‘It’s not always as awful as people imagine … For example, it happens that a case can be investigated while eating lobster with a young woman named Félicie and then spending the night close to her.’

  Poor Félicie! God knows she has love on the brain! She comes and goes, with that hard Norman head and solid, thrusting brow full of anxious or desperate thoughts. The coming of dusk makes her gloomy and apprehensive. Through the open window she watches Maigret walking up and down. Perhaps she wonders, like the good Lord, if this cup will ever be taken from her.

  But has he not picked some flowers? He has even arranged them nicely in a vase.

  ‘By the way, Félicie, where did poor old Lapie used to eat?’

  ‘In the kitchen. Why? It was hardly worth making the dining room untidy just for him.’

  ‘Quite so.’

&nbs
p; Whereupon he moves the cutlery and the cloth and lays the table next to the gas stove while she, tense and nervous, just knows she’ll ruin the mayonnaise.

  ‘If all goes well, if you do what you’re told, I might have some good news for you in the morning …’

  ‘What sort of news?’

  ‘I told you, it will have to keep until tomorrow morning!’

  Though he might want to avoid being cruel to her, he cannot help himself. He may sense that she is unhappy, that she does not know which way to turn and has reached the end of her tether, but he still can’t help teasing her, as if he feels the need to get his own back for something she has done.

  Is this partly because he feels guilty for being here instead of directing the epic operation which is even now getting under way in the area around Place Pigalle?

  ‘A general’s place isn’t in the middle of the battle!’

  Point taken! But does he really have to stay so far away that he has had to devise a system of couriers and relays, mobilize the woman on the switchboard and make poor Lucas traipse from Orgeval to Jeanneville and from Jeanneville to Orgeval, as if he were some country postman?

  ‘The man who is after the money may well work it out for himself that the furniture could have been switched round. He might also be thinking of coming back and who knows if this time he’ll settle for stopping Félicie with just a punch?’

  All that is perfectly reasonable, of course, but, say what you will, it is not the whole story. The truth is that Maigret finds a certain satisfaction in staying put here, in the peaceful, almost unreal surroundings of a make-believe village, while at the same time he pulls the strings of another world that is all too real and brutal.

  ‘Why have you moved your knife and fork in here?’