The Night at the Crossroads

by Georges Simenon

  At the inn, the inspector simply gave Lucas a few orders without any explanation.

  ‘See to it that half a dozen inspectors are posted around the crossroads. Once an hour make sure that Monsieur Oscar is still in Paris by phoning the restaurant, then the theatre and the hotel. Have everyone who leaves any of the three houses here followed.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘At the Andersens’ place.’

  ‘You think that …’

  ‘I don’t think anything, old friend! I’ll see you later, or tomorrow morning.’

  Night had fallen. As he went back to the main road, the inspector made sure that his revolver was loaded and that he had sufficient tobacco.

  The moustachioed profile of the insurance agent and the shadow of his armchair were still visible in the Michonnets’ upstairs window.

  Else Andersen had changed her black velvet dress for the peignoir she had worn that morning and Maigret found her stretched out on the divan, smoking a cigarette, calmer than he had last seen her but frowning thoughtfully.

  ‘If you only knew how relieved I am to know you’re here, chief inspector! Some people inspire confidence from the moment you meet them … but they are rare. In any case, I personally have met few people with whom I felt an instinctive, sympathetic bond … Do smoke, if you like …’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. I don’t know any more what’s keeping me going … For four days, from the horrible instant that body was found in the car, I’ve been thinking, thinking … Trying to understand, to make up my mind …’

  ‘And you conclude that your brother is the guilty one?’

  ‘No. I do not want to accuse Carl. Especially as, even if he actually were guilty, it would only be due to a moment of uncontrollable madness … You’ve chosen the worst armchair. If you would like to lie down at any point, there is a cot in the next room.’

  She was calm and anxious at the same time. A seeming calm, deliberate, painfully achieved. An anxiety that still managed to surface at certain moments.

  ‘Something terrible has already happened in this house, a long time ago, hasn’t it? Carl has spoken about it, but only vaguely … He was afraid of frightening me. He always treats me like a little girl.’

  Her whole body leaned forwards, in a supple movement, as she flicked her cigarette ash into the china bowl on the lacquered table. Her peignoir fell open, as it had that morning, revealing a small, round breast. Only for an instant. And yet Maigret had had time to notice a scar, and he frowned.

  ‘You were wounded some time ago!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Blushing, she instinctively drew the edges of her peignoir closed over her chest.

  ‘You have a scar on your right breast.’

  She was deeply embarrassed.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m used to dressing casually here, I never thought … As for that scar … There! Another thing I’ve suddenly recalled, but it’s certainly just a coincidence … When we were still children, Carl and I used to play on the castle grounds and I remember that one day he was given a rifle, for Saint Nicholas’s Day. Carl must have been fourteen … It’s all so silly, you’ll see. At first he shot at a target. After an evening at the circus, the next day he wanted to play at being William Tell. I held out a cardboard target in each hand. The first bullet hit me in the chest.’

  Maigret had stood up. He walked over to the divan with a face so impassive that Else grew uneasy as he approached, and she clutched the neck of her peignoir.

  But he was not looking at her. He was staring at the wall behind the divan, where the snowy landscape painting was now perfectly level.

  Slowly he swung the frame to one side and discovered a niche in the wall, neither large nor deep, where two bricks had been removed. Within the niche were an automatic loaded with six bullets, a box of cartridges, a key and a tube of veronal.

  Else had watched his every move but seemed hardly to react at all. A slight rosiness in the cheeks; her eyes a bit more bright …

  ‘I would probably have got around to showing you that hiding place myself, chief inspector …’

  ‘Really?’

  As he spoke he was pocketing the revolver and noting that half the veronal tablets in the tube were gone. He went over to the bedroom door and stuck the key into the lock: it fitted perfectly.

  The young woman had risen from the divan. She no longer cared about covering her chest and moved her hands awkwardly and abruptly as she spoke.

  ‘What you just discovered confirms what I’ve already told you, but you must understand my position! How could I accuse my brother? … If I had confessed to you, when you first came here, that I have for a long time now considered him insane, you would have been shocked by my behaviour. And yet, it’s the truth …’

  Her accent, which grew stronger whenever she became emotional, imparted a peculiar quality to every word she said.

  ‘The revolver?’

  ‘How can I explain … We left Denmark as paupers, but my brother was convinced that, with his education, he would find a brilliant position in Paris … He did not. And became even more distressingly strange. When he resolved to bury us out here, I understood that he was seriously ill. Especially as he insisted on locking me in my bedroom every night under the pretext that enemies might attack us! You can imagine my situation, imprisoned within these walls, unable to escape in case of fire, for example, or any other catastrophe … I couldn’t sleep! I was as frantic as if I’d been underground in a tunnel …

  ‘One day when he was in Paris, I had a locksmith come to make me a key to the bedroom door. Since I was locked in here, I had to climb out of the bedroom window …

  ‘Now I could move around freely, but it wasn’t enough. There were days when Carl was half mad … He often talked about destroying us both to avoid complete ruin.

  ‘I bought a revolver in Arpajon on another day when my brother was in Paris. And as I was sleeping poorly, I got myself some veronal.

  ‘You see how simple it is! He’s so distrustful … No one is more wary than a deranged man who’s still lucid enough to realize that he is disturbed … I made this hiding place one night.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  She was surprised by his brutal bluntness.

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  Without answering, he went to the window, opened it, then the shutters – and was bathed in the cool freshness of the night.

  The road below was like a stream of ink that shone as if by moonlight whenever cars went by. The headlamps would gleam in the distance, perhaps ten kilometres away. Then suddenly there’d be a sort of cyclone, a roaring whoosh of air, a single red tail light fading into the darkness.

  The petrol pumps were lit up. In the Michonnets’ villa, one light still outlined the silhouette of the insurance agent in his armchair on the pale blind upstairs.

  ‘Close the window, chief inspector!’

  Maigret turned around. He saw Else shivering, drawing her peignoir tightly around her.

  ‘Do you understand now why I’m worried? You’ve persuaded me to tell you everything – but I wouldn’t want anything to happen to Carl, not for the world! He’s told me many times that we would die together …’

  ‘Would you please be quiet!’

  He was straining to hear the noises of the night, so he drew his armchair over to the window and put his feet up on the railing.

  ‘But I’m cold, I tell you …’

  ‘Put some clothes on!’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Be quiet, dammit!’

  And he began smoking. Vague sounds came from a distant farm: a lowing cow, shifting, indistinct noises of movement … Off in the garage, though, as steel objects were banged about, the el
ectric tyre-pump began vibrating.

  ‘And I trusted you! … But now—’

  ‘Once and for all, are you going to be quiet?’

  He had spotted a shadow behind a tree by the road, close to the house, and assumed it was one of the inspectors he had requested.

  ‘I’m hungry …’

  He turned around angrily to face the young woman, who looked pathetic.

  ‘Go and get something to eat!’

  ‘I don’t dare go; I’m afraid …’

  Maigret shrugged, made sure that everything was quiet outside and abruptly decided to go downstairs. He knew his way around the kitchen. Near the stove were some leftover cold meat, bread and part of a bottle of beer.

  He took everything upstairs and placed it on the lacquered table, near the cigarette bowl.

  ‘You’re being mean to me, chief inspector.’

  She looked like such a little girl … She seemed about to burst into tears!

  ‘I don’t have time to be mean or nice. Eat!’

  ‘You’re not hungry? … Are you angry that I told you the truth?’

  But he was already turning his back on her to look out of the window. Behind the shade, Madame Michonnet was bending over her husband, probably giving him some medicine, for she was holding a spoon to his face.

  Else had picked up a piece of cold veal with her fingertips and now nibbled on it glumly. Then she poured herself a glass of beer.

  ‘It tastes terrible!’ she exclaimed, and gasped convulsively. ‘But why won’t you close that window? I’m scared … Don’t you ever feel sorry for people?’

  Exasperated, Maigret suddenly shut the window and looked over at Else like a man about to lose his temper.

  Then he saw her turn white, saw her blue eyes glaze over and her hand reach out for some support … He reached her just in time to slip an arm around her waist as she collapsed.

  He lowered her gently to the floor, raised her eyelids to check her pupils and sniffed the empty glass, which had an acrid smell.

  There was a spoon on the table. He used it to pry Else’s jaws open and immediately thrust the spoon into her mouth, repeatedly touching it to her palate and the back of her throat.

  Her face twitched a few times. Her chest heaved in spasms.

  She was lying on the rug. Tears trickled from beneath her eyelids, and when her head fell to one side, she was shaken by a huge hiccup.

  The contractions caused by the spoon were clearing her stomach: a yellowish liquid stained the rug; some drops glistened on her peignoir.

  Taking the water pitcher from the dressing table, Maigret moistened her face.

  He kept turning impatiently towards the window.

  And Else was taking a long time to come around. She moaned weakly. Finally she raised her head.

  ‘What …?’

  She got to her feet, disoriented and still shaky, and saw the spoon, the empty glass, the stained rug.

  Then she began sobbing, her head in her hands.

  ‘You see, I was right to be afraid: they’ve tried to poison me! And you didn’t want to believe me … You—’

  She started at the same instant as Maigret. Both of them froze for a few moments, listening intently.

  A shot had been fired near the house, probably in the garden, and been followed by a hoarse cry.

  Now a long, shrill whistle was sounding over by the road. People were running. Someone was shaking the front gate. Through the window Maigret could see his inspectors’ flashlights searching in the darkness. Not quite a hundred metres away, in the villa’s window, Madame Michonnet was settling a pillow behind her husband’s head …

  The inspector opened the bedroom door. He heard noise below.

  Then Lucas yelled up the stairs: ‘Chief!’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Carl Andersen … He isn’t dead … Are you coming?’

  Maigret turned and saw Else sitting hunched on the edge of the divan with her elbows on her knees, staring straight ahead, with her chin cupped in her hands and her jaws clenched. She was shivering uncontrollably.

  7. The Two Wounds

  Carl Andersen was carried up to his bedroom. An inspector followed, bringing the lamp from the drawing room. The wounded man neither moved nor groaned. Only after he had been laid on his bed did Maigret lean over him and see that his eyes were half open.

  Andersen recognized him, seemed somewhat comforted and reached for the inspector’s hand, murmuring, ‘Else?’

  She was standing in the doorway in an attitude of anxious waiting, looking bleakly into the bedroom.

  It was a striking tableau. Carl had lost his black monocle, and next to the healthy but blood-shot, half-closed eye, the glass one still stared vacantly.

  The glow of the oil lamp made everything seem mysterious. The police could be heard searching the grounds and raking the gravelled paths.

  As for Else, when Maigret told her firmly to go over to her brother, she went rigid and hardly dared advance towards him at all.

  ‘I think he’s badly wounded,’ whispered Lucas.

  She must have heard. She looked at him but hesitated to go any closer to her brother, who gazed at her intently, struggling to sit up in bed.

  In a sudden storm of tears, she turned and ran to her own room, where she threw herself, weeping, on to the divan.

  Maigret motioned to the sergeant to keep an eye on her and attended to the wounded man, removing Andersen’s jacket and waistcoat with the ease of someone familiar with this sort of incident.

  ‘Don’t be afraid … We’ve sent for a doctor. Else is in her room.’

  Andersen was silent, like someone crushed by some mysterious misgiving. He looked around him as if he were anxious to resolve an enigma or discover a solemn secret.

  ‘Later on I will question you, but—’

  Examining the man’s bare torso, the inspector frowned.

  ‘You’ve been shot twice … This wound in your back is far from fresh …’

  And it was a terrible injury: ten square centimetres of skin had been torn away. The flesh was literally cut up, burned, swollen, encrusted with scabs of dried blood. This wound had stopped bleeding, which showed that it was a few hours old, whereas the latest bullet had fractured the left shoulder blade. As Maigret was cleaning the wound, the deformed bullet spilled out of it.

  He picked it up. The bullet was not from a revolver, but from a rifle, like the one that had killed Madame Goldberg.

  ‘Where is Else?’ murmured the wounded man, who was bearing his pain without grimacing.

  ‘In her room. Don’t move … Did you see who just shot you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the other shooter? Where was that?’

  Andersen frowned, opened his mouth to speak, but gave up, exhausted. With a faint motion of his left arm he tried to explain that he could not talk any more.

  ‘Well, doctor?’

  It was irritating trying to function in the semi-darkness. There were only two oil lamps in the house, one currently in the wounded man’s bedroom, the other in Else’s.

  Downstairs, one candle burned, without lighting even a quarter of the drawing room.

  ‘Unless there are unexpected complications, he’ll pull through. The first wound is the more serious one. He must have received it early in the afternoon, if not late this morning. A bullet from a Browning fired point-blank into the back. Absolutely point-blank! I even think it possible that the muzzle of the weapon was right against the flesh. The victim made a sudden movement, deflecting the shot, so the ribs are basically all that were hit. Bruises on the shoulder, the arms, some scratches on the hands and knees – these must have occurred at the same time …’

  ‘And the other bullet?’

  ‘The shoulder blade is shattered. He must be seen
to by a surgeon tomorrow. I can give you the address of a clinic in Paris … There is one in the area, but if the wounded man can afford it, I recommend Paris.’

  ‘Was he able to get about after the first incident?’

  ‘Probably … No vital organ was hit … It would have been a question of stamina, of will-power. Although I do fear that he’ll have a stiff shoulder for the rest of his life.’

  The police had found nothing out in the grounds, but they had taken up positions so as to be ready for a thorough search at first light.

  Maigret then went to check on Andersen, who was relieved to see him.

  ‘Else?’

  ‘In her bedroom, I’ve already told you twice.’

  ‘Why …’

  Always that morbid anxiety, betrayed by the man’s twitching face and by his every glance.

  ‘Do you know of any enemies you might have?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself. Simply tell me how you got shot that first time. Go slowly … Take it easy …’

  ‘I was on my way to Dumas and Son …’

  ‘You didn’t get there.’

  ‘I tried! At the Porte d’Orléans, a man signalled to me to pull over.’

  Andersen asked for some water and drained a large glass, then looked up at the ceiling and continued.

  ‘He told me he was a policeman. He even showed me a card, which I didn’t really look at. He ordered me to drive across Paris and take the road to Compiègne, claiming that I was going to be brought face to face with a witness. He got into the passenger seat beside me.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, wearing a grey fedora. Shortly before Compiègne, the main road goes through a forest. At a turning, I felt a violent impact on my back … A hand grabbed the steering wheel from me while I was pushed out of the car. I lost consciousness. I came to in the roadside ditch. The car was gone.’

  ‘What time was it?’

  ‘Perhaps eleven in the morning … I’m not sure. The clock in my car doesn’t work. I walked into the forest, to recover from the shock and have time to think. I was having dizzy spells … I heard trains going by … Finally I came to a small station. By five o’clock I was in Paris, where I got a room. There I took care of myself, brushed off my clothes … And I came here.’