Maigret's Failure

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Monsieur Fumal doesn’t know I’m here.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In an expensive restaurant on the Left Bank, where he has invited several people for lunch. He has business lunches almost every day.’

  Maigret wasn’t helping her, or discouraging her either. To tell the truth, he was wondering as he looked at her why, despite a well-proportioned, shapely figure and regular, rather pretty features, she wasn’t more attractive.

  ‘I don’t want to waste your time, inspector. I’m not sure exactly what Monsieur Fumal told you. I’m assuming he brought you some letters.’

  ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘The first one, and at least one other. The first because I was the one who opened it, the other because he left it lying on his desk.’

  ‘How do you know that there are more than two?’

  ‘Because I handle all the post and I recognized the block capitals as well as the yellowish paper of the envelopes.’

  ‘Has Monsieur Fumal talked to you about them?’

  ‘No.’

  She hesitated again, although without becoming flustered, despite Maigret’s insistent stare.

  ‘I think you should know that he wrote them.’

  Her cheeks had become pinker, and she seemed relieved now she had managed to spit it out.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I caught him writing them once, for a start. I never knock before going into his office – it’s his idea. He thought I’d gone out, but in fact I’d forgotten something. I went back into the office and saw him writing in block capitals on a sheet of paper.’

  ‘What day was that?’

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  ‘Did he seem annoyed?’

  ‘He immediately put a blotter over the piece of paper. Yesterday I wondered where he’d got the paper and the envelopes. We don’t have any like it at Boulevard de Courcelles or in the Rue Rambuteau offices, or anywhere else. As you’ll have seen, it’s the sort of cheap paper they sell in grocers’ and tobacconists’ in packs. When he was away I started looking.’

  ‘Did you come up with anything?’

  She opened her bag and took out a sheet of lined paper and a yellowish envelope, which she handed to him.

  ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘In a cabinet full of old files we don’t use any more.’

  ‘May I ask, mademoiselle, why you decided to come and see me?’

  She started, but only slightly, and immediately recovered her poise. In a clear voice, with a touch of defiance, she replied:

  ‘To protect myself.’

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘Against him.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Because you don’t know him the way I do.’

  She didn’t suspect that Maigret had known him much longer than she had.

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘There’s nothing to explain. He never does anything without a reason, you understand? If he goes to the trouble of sending himself threatening letters, he’s up to something. Especially if he then disturbs the minister of the interior and comes to see you.’

  Her reasoning couldn’t be faulted.

  ‘Do you think, inspector, that there are fundamentally wicked people, I mean wicked for the sake of it?’

  Maigret preferred not to answer.

  ‘Well, that’s what he’s like. He employs, directly or indirectly, hundreds of people and he does everything in his power to make their lives as miserable as possible. He’s sly too. It’s almost impossible to hide anything from him. His managers, who are badly paid, all try to cheat him in different ways, and he loves catching them out when they least expect it.

  ‘There was an old cashier at Rue Rambuteau whom he loathed for absolutely no reason but still kept on for almost thirty years because he did odd jobs for him. He was like a sort of slave; he started shaking whenever his master was near. He was poorly, had six or seven children.

  ‘When his health deteriorated, Monsieur Fumal decided to get rid of him without paying him any compensation, or even acknowledging his debt of gratitude. Do you know what he did?

  ‘He went to Rue Rambuteau one night and took some cash out of the safe, which only he and the cashier had keys to.

  ‘Then the next morning in the office he slipped some of the money into the cashier’s sports jacket, which the man used to hang on a nail when he got to work so he could change into an old coat.

  ‘Then he had the safe opened on some pretext or other. You can guess the rest. The veteran employee wept like a child, went down on his knees. Apparently it was horrendous. Monsieur Fumal threatened to call the police until the very last minute, so that in the end it was the poor man who left saying thank you.

  ‘Do you understand now why I wanted to protect myself?’

  He muttered distractedly:

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’ve only given you one example. There’s more. He never does anything without an ulterior motive and his motives are always unpredictable.’

  ‘Do you think he fears for his life?’

  ‘I’m sure he does. He’s always been afraid. In fact that’s why, strange though it may seem, he told me not to knock on his door. Hearing a sudden knock at the door makes him jump.’

  ‘So, in your opinion there are a certain number of people who have good reason to resent him?’

  ‘Plenty, yes.’

  ‘Everyone who works for him, essentially?’

  ‘As well as the people he does business with. He has ruined dozens of small butchers who’ve refused to sell up. Monsieur Gaillardin was the most recent.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘A very nice man. He lives in a beautiful apartment on Rue François Premier with a mistress twenty years younger than him. He had a good business and lived a comfortable life until the day Monsieur Fumal decided to set up Associated Butchers. It’s a long story. They fought for two years, and in the end Monsieur Gaillardin had to beg for mercy.’

  ‘Don’t you like your employer?’

  ‘No, inspector.’

  ‘Why do you keep working for him?’

  She blushed for the second time but again wasn’t thrown.

  ‘Because of Félix.’

  ‘Who is Félix?’

  ‘The chauffeur.’

  ‘Are you the chauffeur’s lover?’

  ‘If you want to be crude, yes. We’re engaged too, and we’re going to get married when we’ve put aside enough money to buy an inn near Gien.’

  ‘Why Gien?’

  ‘Because we’re both from there.’

  ‘Did you know each other before you came to Paris?’

  ‘No. We met at Boulevard de Courcelles.’

  ‘Does Monsieur Fumal know about your plans?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘And your relationship?’

  ‘Knowing him as I do, he probably does know about that. He’s not the sort of person you can hide things from. I’m sure he spies on us now and again. He’s careful not to let it slip, though. He only comes out with things when there’s something in it for him.’

  ‘I imagine Félix feels the same way about him as you do?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  The young woman couldn’t be accused of a lack of frankness.

  ‘There’s a Madame Fumal, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes. They got married a long time ago.’

  ‘What is she like?’

  ‘What do you expect her to be like with a husband like him? He terrorizes her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s like a shadow in that house. He comes and goes, swans in and out, brings home friends and business acquaintances. He pays her no more mind than a servant, never takes her to a restaurant and in the summer packs her off to spend her holidays in a little backwater in the mountains.’

  ‘Was she a beauty?’

/>   ‘No. Her father was one of the biggest butchers in Paris, on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and in those days Monsieur Fumal wasn’t rich yet.’

  ‘Do you think she’s suffering?’

  ‘I wouldn’t even say that. She doesn’t care about anything. She sleeps, drinks, reads novels and sometimes goes to the nearest cinema on her own.’

  ‘Is she younger than him?’

  ‘Probably. You couldn’t tell, though.’

  ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘I’d better be going so I can be back by the time he gets to Boulevard de Courcelles.’

  ‘Do you have your meals there?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘With the staff?’

  She nodded, and for the third time her cheeks reddened.

  ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. I’ll probably drop by this afternoon.’

  ‘You won’t tell him …’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘He’s so sly …’

  ‘So am I!’

  He watched her walk off down the long corridor, start down the stairs and then disappear from sight.

  Why on earth was Ferdinand Fumal sending himself threatening letters and asking for police protection? An answer immediately came to mind, but Maigret didn’t like overly simple explanations.

  This one went: Fumal had plenty of enemies, some of whom resented him enough to make an attempt on his life. Who knew if he hadn’t recently given someone even greater cause to hate him?

  He couldn’t go to the police and say:

  ‘I’m a bastard. One of my victims could be planning to kill me. Protect me.’

  So he went about it in a roundabout way, sending himself anonymous letters, which he then waved in Maigret’s face.

  Was that it? Or was it more likely that Mademoiselle Bourges had been lying?

  Unable to make up his mind, Maigret started up the staircase leading to the laboratory. Moers was working, and he handed him the sheet of paper and envelope the secretary had just given him.

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘Fingerprints.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Three people’s. A man’s first, I don’t know who, with wide, square fingers, then yours and Lucas’.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are this piece of paper and envelope the same as the others?’

  Moers didn’t need to examine them for long to be certain they were.

  ‘Naturally I haven’t dusted the envelopes for prints. There’s always lots of different ones, including the postman’s.’

  When Maigret got back to his office he was tempted to forget about Fumal and his story. How are you supposed to protect a man who drives all over Paris without putting at least a dozen officers on the job?

  ‘Rotten bastard!’ he muttered a few times through gritted teeth.

  Someone rang about Mrs Britt. Another lead which they’d been following for a day, which turned out to be a dead end.

  ‘If anyone asks for me,’ he announced, going into the inspectors’ office, ‘I’ll be back in an hour or two.’

  Downstairs he chose one of the black cars.

  ‘Boulevard de Courcelles. 58a.’

  It had started to rain again. You could tell from the expressions on the faces of passers-by that they were sick of splashing through the cold rain and mud.

  Built around the end of the last century, the townhouse was palatial, with a carriage entrance, bars on the ground-floor windows and very tall windows on the first floor. He pressed a brass doorbell. Eventually a manservant in a striped waistcoat opened the door.

  ‘Monsieur Fumal, please.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘In that case I’ll see Madame Fumal.’

  ‘I don’t know if Madame can see you.’

  ‘Tell her it’s Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  At the far end of the courtyard a row of what had once been stables was used as garages, and he could see two cars, which suggested the former butcher had at least three.

  ‘If you’d care to follow me …’

  A broad staircase with a carved bannister led up to a first-floor landing flanked by two marble statues that looked as if they were standing guard. Maigret was asked to wait and took a seat on an uncomfortable Renaissance chair.

  The manservant continued upstairs and was gone for a long time. Whisperings could be heard on the floor above, as well as the click-click of a typewriter somewhere: Mademoiselle Bourges at work, probably.

  ‘Madame will see you in a moment. If you’d be so kind as to continue waiting …’

  The manservant went back down to the ground floor, and almost a quarter of an hour passed before a maid came down from the second floor.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? This way please …’

  The house was as gloomy as a magistrate’s court. There was too much space and not enough life; voices echoed off the imitation-marble walls.

  Maigret was shown into an old-fashioned drawing room with a grand piano surrounded by at least fifteen armchairs upholstered in faded tapestry. He waited a little longer. Finally, the door opened to admit a woman in a housecoat whose expressionless eyes, puffy, pale face and inky black hair reminded him of an apparition.

  ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting …’

  Her voice was flat, like a sleepwalker’s.

  ‘Sit down, please. Are you sure you want to see me?’

  Louise Bourges had hinted at the truth when she spoke about her drinking, but the reality was far worse than Maigret had imagined. The woman opposite him wore a weary but resigned expression, devoid of emotion, and seemed in a different world.

  ‘Your husband came to see me this morning. He has reason to believe that someone wants to kill him.’

  She didn’t recoil, just looked at him with the vaguest hint of surprise.

  ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘He doesn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Do you know if he has any enemies?’

  The words seemed to take a long time to reach her brain, then time was also needed for an answer to take shape.

  ‘I suppose he has, don’t you?’ she muttered eventually.

  ‘Did you marry for love?’

  This was too much for her to understand. Her only response was:

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you have children, Madame Fumal?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Would your husband have liked children?’

  She repeated:

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Then she added, indifferently:

  ‘I suppose so.’

  What else could he ask her? It seemed almost impossible to communicate with her, as if she lived in a different world or as if they were separated by the impenetrable walls of a glass cage.

  ‘I imagine I’ve interrupted your afternoon nap?’

  ‘No. I don’t take a nap.’

  ‘Well, all that remains …’

  Well, all that remained was for him to leave, and that’s what he was about to do when the door was shoved open.

  ‘What on earth are you doing in here?’ asked Fumal, with a harder look than ever.

  ‘As you can see, I’m introducing myself to your wife.’

  ‘First they tell me one of your men is downstairs questioning my staff. Now I find you in here tormenting my wife, who …’

  ‘One moment, Monsieur Fumal. You were the one who came to me for help, weren’t you?’

  ‘I didn’t give you permission to interfere in my private life.’

  Maigret waved goodbye to the woman, who was looking at them uncomprehendingly.

  ‘I’m sorry, madame. I hope I haven’t disturbed you too much.’

  The master of the house followed him out on to the landing.

  ‘What did you talk to her about?’

  ‘I asked her if she knew of any enemies you might have.’

  ‘What did she
say?’

  ‘That you must have some but that she didn’t know who they were.’

  ‘Does that get you anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well nothing.’

  Maigret almost asked him why he had sent himself anonymous letters but thought it wasn’t the moment.

  ‘Is there anyone else in the house you’d like to question?’

  ‘One of my inspectors is seeing to it. He’s downstairs, as I now know, thanks to you. Incidentally, if you really are serious about being protected, it might be better to let one of our men accompany you when you’re out and about. It’s all very well watching the house, but when you’re over at Rue Rambuteau or anywhere else …’

  They were both on the stairs. Fumal appeared to be thinking, scrutinizing Maigret as if he was wondering whether a trap was being set for him.

  ‘Starting when?’

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll send someone tomorrow morning. When do you usually leave the house?’

  ‘It depends on the day. Tomorrow I’m going to La Villette at eight.’

  ‘An inspector will be here at seven thirty.’

  They had heard the carriage entrance open and close. When they got to the first floor, they saw a short, bald man coming towards them, dressed entirely in black, carrying his hat in his hand. He seemed very at home and looked inquiringly first at Maigret, then at Fumal.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Joseph,’ Fumal said. ‘There was a small matter I had to attend to with him.’

  Then, turning to Maigret, he went on:

  ‘Joseph Goldman, my business manager – my right hand, I should say. Everyone calls him Monsieur Joseph.’

  Monsieur Joseph had a black leather briefcase under his arm. He gave a strange smile, revealing a row of bad teeth.

  ‘I won’t see you to the door, inspector. Victor will show you out.’

  Victor, the manservant in the striped waistcoat, was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘So, we’re agreed about tomorrow morning.’

  ‘All agreed,’ repeated Maigret.

  He didn’t remember ever having such a feeling of powerlessness, or, more precisely, unreality. Even the building seemed fake! He sensed the manservant give a mocking smile as he closed the door behind him.

  When he got back to headquarters he debated who to send the next day to watch over Fumal and ended up choosing Lapointe. He briefed him: