‘I always smoke a pipe.’
‘It’s true. I’d forgotten. I myself haven’t smoked for twelve years.’
‘Doctor’s orders?’
‘No. One fine day, I said to myself that it was stupid to make smoke and . . .’
Rose came in with a tray on which there was a bottle covered with a fine film of dust from the cellar and a single crystal glass.
‘You don’t drink any more either?’
‘I gave up at the same time. Just a little watered-down wine at mealtimes. As for you, you haven’t changed.’
‘You think?’
‘You appear to be enjoying excellent health. It really is a pleasure to see you.’
Why did he not sound entirely sincere?
‘You’ve promised to visit these parts and then cried off at the last minute so often that I confess I wasn’t really expecting you.’
‘But here I am, aren’t I? You see!’
‘Your wife?’
‘She’s well.’
‘She didn’t come with you?’
‘She doesn’t like congresses.’
‘Did it go well?’
‘We drank a lot, talked a lot, ate a lot.’
‘Myself, I travel less and less.’
He lowered his voice because footsteps could be heard upstairs.
‘It’s difficult with my mother. Besides, I can’t leave her on her own any more.’
‘Is she still as robust?’
‘She hasn’t changed. Only her eyesight is deteriorating a little. It upsets her not to be able to thread her needles, but she refuses to wear glasses.’
It was obvious that his mind was elsewhere as he looked at Maigret rather in the same way as Vernoux de Courçon had stared at him in the train.
‘Have you heard?’
‘About what?’
‘About what’s going on here.’
‘I haven’t read the papers for almost a week. But I travelled earlier with a certain Vernoux de Courçon who claims to be your friend.’
‘Hubert?’
‘I don’t know. A man of around sixty-five.’
‘That’s Hubert.’
There was no sound coming from the town. You could only hear the patter of rain beating against the windowpanes and, from time to time, the crackling of the logs in the hearth. In his day, Julien Chabot’s father had been an investigating magistrate in Fontenay-le-Comte and the study hadn’t changed since his son had taken it over.
‘In that case, people must have told you-’
‘Almost nothing. A journalist with a camera cornered me in the hotel dining room.’
‘A redhead?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s Lomel. What did he say to you?’
‘He was convinced I was here to handle some case. I didn’t have the time to disabuse him before the police chief turned up too.’
‘In short, right now, the entire town knows you’re here?’
‘Does that bother you?’
Chabot just managed to conceal his hesitation.
‘No . . . except that . . .’
‘Except that what?’
‘Nothing. It’s very complicated. You’ve never lived in a small town like Fontenay.’
‘I lived in Luçon for more than a year, you know!’
‘There was never a case like the one I’ve got on my hands.’
‘I remember a certain murder, in L’Aiguillon . . .’
‘That’s true. I was forgetting.’
Maigret was referring to a case where he had been obliged to arrest a former magistrate, universally considered to be utterly respectable, for murder.
‘At least it’s not as bad as that. You’ll find out tomorrow morning. I’d be surprised if the journalists from Paris didn’t arrive on the first train.’
‘A murder?’
‘Two.’
‘Vernoux de Courçon’s brother-in-law?’
‘You see, you do know about it!’
‘That’s all I’ve heard.’
‘His brother-in-law, yes, Robert de Courçon, who was killed four days ago. That alone would have been enough to cause a scandal. The day before yesterday, it was the widow Gibon’s turn.’
‘Who is she?’
‘No one of importance. Quite the opposite. An old woman who lived alone at the far end of Rue des Loges.’
‘What’s the connection between the two murders?’
‘They were both committed in the same way, probably with the same weapon.’
‘A revolver?’
‘No. A blunt object, as we say in police reports. A section of lead piping, or a tool like a monkey wrench.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Isn’t it enough? . . . Sssh!’
The door opened noiselessly and a tiny, thin woman dressed in black walked in, her hand extended.
‘It’s you, Jules!’
How many years had it been since anyone had called him by his first name?
‘My son went to the station. When he came back he told me you wouldn’t be coming now and I went upstairs. Haven’t you been given anything to eat?’
‘He had dinner at the hotel, Mother.’
‘What do you mean, at the hotel?’
‘He’s staying at the Hôtel de France. He refuses to—’
‘I won’t hear of it! I will not allow you to . . .’
‘Believe me, madame, it is much better that I stay at the hotel because the newshounds are already after me. If I were to accept your invitation, tomorrow morning, if not tonight, they’d be ringing your bell non-stop. In fact, it would be better not to say that I’m here at the invitation of your son . . .’
So that was what was bothering the magistrate, and Maigret saw the confirmation written on his face.
‘People will still say that you are!’
‘I’ll deny it. This case, or rather these cases, are none of my concern. I have no intention of getting involved.’
Was Chabot afraid that he would get mixed up in something that was none of his business? Or was he worried that Maigret, with his sometimes rather idiosyncratic methods, could put him in a delicate situation?
Maigret had turned up at a bad time.
‘I wonder, Mother, whether Maigret mightn’t be right.’
And, turning towards his old friend:
‘This is no ordinary investigation, you see. Robert de Courçon, the man who was murdered, was well known, and related in one way or another to all the prominent families in the region. His brother-in-law Vernoux is also a leading figure. After the first murder, rumours began to circulate. Then the widow Gibon was killed, and that changed the nature of the speculation somewhat. But . . .’
‘But . . .?’
‘It’s hard to explain. The police chief is in charge of the investigation. He’s a good man, who knows the town, even though he’s from the south, from Arles, I think. The Poitiers Flying Squad’s on the scene too. As far as I’m concerned . . .’
The old lady had sat down on the edge of a chair as if she were a visitor, and was listening to her son talk as if listening to the sermon at high mass.
‘Two murders in three days, that’s a lot for a town with a population of eight thousand. People are getting scared. It’s not just because of the rain that there’s no one out and about tonight.’
‘What do people think?’
‘Some reckon it’s a madman.’
‘Nothing was stolen?’
‘Not in either case. And in both instances the murderer gained entry to the house without arousing the victim’s suspicion. That’s a clue. It’s more or less the only one we have.’
‘No fingerprints?’
‘None. If it is a madman, he’ll probably strike again.’
‘I see. What about you, what do you think?’
‘Nothing. I’m trying to find out. There’s something bothering me.’
‘What?’
‘It’s still too vague for me to be able to explain. I have a huge responsibility on my s
houlders.’
He said that like an overburdened official. And it was very much an official that Maigret now had in front of him, an official from a small town, living in dread of making a mistake.
Had Maigret become like that with age too? Because of his friend, he felt himself growing old.
‘I wonder whether it might be best for me to take the first train to Paris. I only came to Fontenay to say hello to you. I’ve done that. My presence here is likely to make things difficult for you.’
‘What do you mean?’
Chabot’s instinctive reaction had not been to protest.
‘Already the redhead and the police chief are convinced that you asked me to come to the rescue. People will say that you’re afraid, that you don’t know how to deal with it, that—’
‘Not at all.’
The magistrate half-heartedly dismissed that idea.
‘I won’t allow you to leave. I’m entitled to receive visits from my friends when I so wish.’
‘My son is right, Jules. And I think you should come and stay with us.’
‘Maigret prefers to be free to come and go as he pleases, don’t you, Maigret?’
‘I have my little ways.’
‘I shan’t press you.’
‘I still think it would be for the best if I left tomorrow morning.’
Was Chabot about to concur? The telephone rang and the sound wasn’t the same as normal telephones; this one had an old-fashioned ring.
‘Would you excuse me?’
Chabot picked up the receiver.
‘Investigating Magistrate Chabot speaking.’
The way he said that was another signal, and Maigret tried hard to suppress a smile.
‘Who? . . . Oh! Yes . . . Go ahead, Féron . . . What? . . . Gobillard? . . . Where? . . . On the corner of Champ-de-Mars and Rue . . . I’m on my way . . . Yes . . . He’s here . . . I don’t know . . . Don’t let anyone touch anything until I get there . . .’
His mother watched him, one hand on her chest.
‘Another one?’ she gasped.
He nodded.
‘Gobillard.’
He explained to Maigret:
‘An old drunkard who everyone in Fontenay knows because he spends most of his time fishing near the bridge. He’s just been found dead in the street.’
‘Murdered?’
‘His skull smashed, like the other two, probably with the same instrument.’
He sprang to his feet, opened the door and took an old trenchcoat from the rack and a battered hat, which he probably only wore when it was raining.
‘Are you coming?’
‘Are you sure that I should go with you?’
‘Now everyone knows you’re here, people will wonder why I haven’t brought you. Two murders was already a lot. With a third, people willbe terrified.’
Just as they were leaving, a nervous little hand tugged Maigret’s sleeve and the elderly mother whispered to him:
‘Keep an eye on him, Jules! He’s so conscientious that he doesn’t realize the danger he’s in.’
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in French as Maigret et l’homme du banc by Presses de la Cité 1953
This translation first published 2017
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1953
Translation copyright © David Watson, 2017
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert /Magnum Photos
Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-141-98399-8
Maigret and the Man on the Bench Page 16