Maigret is Afraid

by Georges Simenon

  Chalus gave a weary shrug.

  ‘I should have expected this,’ he said.

  Then he added something like:

  ‘You and your sort . . .’

  Chabot wasn’t listening any more. He was saying to Inspector Chabiron:

  ‘Take down his statement anyway. I’ll question his wife this afternoon.’

  When he and Maigret were alone, the magistrate put on a show of making notes. Five minutes went by before he muttered, without looking at Maigret:

  ‘Thank you.’

  And, puffing on his pipe, Maigret replied gruffly:

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  4. The Italian Woman with Bruises

  Throughout the entire lunch, whose main course was a stuffed shoulder of lamb the likes of which Maigret couldn’t remember ever having eaten, Julien Chabot seemed like a man suffering from a guilty conscience.

  As they entered the house, he had felt the need to murmur:

  ‘Let’s not talk of this in front of my mother.’

  Maigret had no intention of doing so. He saw his friend bend over the letterbox and, pushing aside various leaflets, pick up an envelope similar to the one that had been handed to him that morning at the hotel. But this one, instead of being a greenish colour, was salmon pink. Perhaps it came from the same writing set? He couldn’t check because the magistrate slipped it casually into his pocket.

  They had hardly spoken on the way back from the law courts. Before leaving, they had had a brief conversation with the prosecutor and Maigret had been quite surprised to find that he was a man of barely thirty, fresh out of law school, a handsome fellow who did not seem overly burdened by his duties.

  ‘Apologies for last night, Chabot. There’s a good reason why no one could get hold of me. I was in La Rochelle without my wife’s knowledge.’

  He added with a wink:

  ‘Luckily!’

  Then, not suspecting a thing:

  ‘Now that you have Detective Chief Inspector Maigret to help you, it won’t take you long to catch the murderer. Do you also think it’s a madman, sir?’

  What was the point of arguing? It was clear that relations between the magistrate and the prosecutor weren’t exactly friendly.

  In the corridor, they were besieged by journalists already informed of Chalus’ statement. He must have talked to them. Maigret was convinced that, in town too, people knew. It was hard to explain that particular atmosphere. On the way from the law courts to the magistrate’s house, they came across no more than around fifty souls, but that was enough to gauge the local mood. The two men read mistrust in their eyes. The common folk, especially the women on their way back from the market, had an almost hostile attitude. At the top of Place Viète there was a little café where a number of people were having an aperitif and, as they walked past, they heard an unfriendly murmur and sniggers.

  Some must have been starting to feel alarmed, and the presence of the gendarmes patrolling the streets on bicycles was not enough to reassure them; on the contrary, they added a note of drama, a reminder that there was a killer at large.

  Madame Chabot hadn’t attempted to ask any questions. She fussed over her son, over Maigret too, seeming to be imploring him with her eyes to protect Julien, and she tried hard to bring up agreeable subjects of conversation.

  ‘Do you remember that girl with a squint whom you met at dinner here one Sunday?’

  She had a terrifying memory, reminding Maigret of aquaintances he had encountered some thirty years earlier, during his brief stays in Fontenay.

  ‘She made a good marriage; a young man from Marans who founded a large dairy. They had three children, each more beautiful than the other, then suddenly, as if fate thought they were too happy, she contracted tuberculosis.’

  She spoke of others, who had fallen ill or died, or suffered misfortunes.

  For dessert, Rose brought in a huge dish of profiteroles and the old woman watched Maigret with a mischievous look in her eyes. At first he wondered why, sensing that something was expected of him. He wasn’t very fond of profiteroles, but he took one.

  ‘Go on! Help yourself. Don’t be shy!’

  Seeing her disappointment, he took three.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve lost your appetite? I remember that evening when you ate twelve. Each time you came, I made you profiteroles and you declared you had never eaten such delicious ones anywhere.’

  (Which, incidentally, was true: he never ate profiteroles anywhere else!)

  He had no recollection of it. He was even surprised that he had ever expressed a liking for pastries. He must have said that, in the past, to be polite.

  He did what was expected, exclaimed with pleasure, ate everything that was on his plate, and helped himself to more.

  ‘And the partridge with cabbage! Do you remember? I’m sorry it’s not the season, because . . .’

  Coffee was served and she tactfully withdrew. Out of habit, Chabot placed a box of cigars on the table along with the bottle of brandy. The dining room had no more changed than the study and it was almost painful to find everything exactly as it had been. Even Chabot, seen in a certain way, appeared unchanged.

  Maigret helped himself to a cigar to please his friend and stretched out his legs in front of the hearth. He knew that Chabot wanted to raise a particular matter, that he had been preoccupied since they had left the courts. It took him a while. The voice of the magistrate, who was looking elsewhere, was lacking in confidence.

  ‘Do you think I should have arrested him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alain.’

  ‘I don’t see any reason to arrest the doctor.’

  ‘Chalus seems to be telling the truth, though.’

  ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘Do you also think he wasn’t lying?’

  Inwardly, Chabot was wondering why Maigret had stepped in because, had it not been for him, without the question of the sleeping tablets, the teacher’s statement would have been much more damning for the younger Vernoux. This intrigued the magistrate and made him uncomfortable.

  ‘First of all,’ said Maigret awkwardly smoking his cigar, ‘it is possible that he really did drop off. I am always wary of the testimony of people who have heard something when in bed, perhaps because of my wife.

  ‘She frequently claims she has lain awake until two o’clock in the morning. She truly believes it, is prepared to swear to it. But I’m myself often awake during her so-called insomnia, and I’ve seen her fast asleep.’

  Chabot was not convinced. Perhaps he thought to himself that his friend had simply wanted to get him out of a tight spot?

  ‘I would add,’ Maigret went on, ‘that even if the doctor is the killer, it is better not to have arrested him. He’s not a man from whom you can extract a confession with a little light questioning, even less by roughing him up.’

  The magistrate was already indignantly brushing away this notion.

  ‘At the present stage of the investigation, there isn’t even a shred of evidence against him. In arresting him, you would be pandering to a section of the population that would come and demonstrate outside the prison shouting: “Death to the murderer!” Once the rabble was stirred up, it would be hard to calm them down.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?’

  ‘I’m saying it because it’s the truth. As always happens in a case like this, public opinion more or less openly points to a suspect, and I have often wondered why. It’s a mysterious, rather terrifying phenomenon. If I understand correctly, from day one people’s suspicions fell on the Vernoux family, no matter whether it was the father or the son.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Now, the anger is directed at the son.’

  ‘What if he is the murderer?’

  ‘Before leaving, I heard you giving orders to have him shadowed.’

  ‘He can e
lude the surveillance.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be wise on his part, because if he shows his face too much in town, he’s likely to get lynched. If it is him, sooner or later he’ll do something that will provide a clue.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. To be honest, I’m glad you’re here. Yesterday, I admit, I was a little irritated. I was worried you’d be watching me and that you’d find me awkward, clumsy and old-fashioned. In the provinces we nearly all have an inferiority complex, especially vis-à-vis those who come from Paris. All the more so when it’s a man like you! Are you angry with me?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the stupid things I said to you.’

  ‘You talked a lot of sense. In Paris too we have to take situations into account and handle people with kid gloves.’

  Chabot felt better already.

  ‘I’m going to spend my afternoon questioning the witnesses Chabiron’s unearthed for me. Most of them saw nothing and heard nothing, but I don’t want to leave any stone unturned.’

  ‘Be gentle with Chalus’ wife.’

  ‘Admit that you have a soft spot for those people.’

  ‘Yes, probably!’

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘No. I prefer to sniff around town and have a beer here and there.’

  ‘By the way, I haven’t opened this letter. I didn’t want to do so in front of my mother.’

  He drew the salmon-pink envelope out of his pocket and Maigret recognized the handwriting. The paper came from the same writing set as the note he had received that morning.

  Try and find out what the doctor done to the Sabati gurl.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Never heard that name.’

  ‘I think I recall your saying that Doctor Vernoux isn’t a womanizer.’

  ‘He is reputed not to be. Anonymous letters are going to start pouring in. This one comes from a woman.’

  ‘As do most anonymous letters. Would you mind telephoning the police station?’

  ‘About the Sabati girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right away?’

  Maigret nodded.

  ‘Let’s go into my study.’

  He picked up the receiver and dialled.

  ‘Is that you, Féron? Investigating magistrate Chabot here. Do you know a woman named Sabati?’

  They had to wait. Féron went and asked his officers, perhaps looked through the log books. When he came back to the phone, Chabot scribbled a few words on his blotter as he listened.

  ‘No. Probably no connection . . . What? . . . Certainly not. Don’t worry about her for the time being.’

  As he said this, his eyes sought Maigret’s approval and the latter nodded emphatically.

  ‘I’ll be in my office in half an hour . . . Yes . . . Thank you.’

  He hung up.

  ‘There’s a Louise Sabati in Fontenay-le-Comte. The daughter of an Italian builder who probably works in Nantes or the surrounding area. She was a waitress at the Hôtel de France for a while, and then at the Café de la Poste. She hasn’t worked for several months. Unless she’s moved recently, she lives in the barracks neighbourhood in lodgings in a large, ramshackle house on the bend on the La Rochelle road where six or seven families live.’

  Maigret, who had had enough of his cigar, stubbed out the smouldering tip in the ashtray and then filled a pipe.

  ‘Do you intend to go and see her?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you still think that the doctor —?’

  He broke off, frowning.

  ‘By the way, what are we going to do this evening? I would normally be playing bridge at the Vernoux’s. From what you told me, Hubert Vernoux is expecting you to come with me.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I wonder whether, given the public mood . . .’

  ‘Are you in the habit of going there every Saturday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if you don’t go, people will conclude that they are under suspicion.’

  ‘And if I go, people will say . . .’

  ‘People will say you’re protecting them, that’s all. They already are. A little more or a little less . . .’

  ‘Do you plan to come with me?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘If you want to . . .’

  Poor Chabot gave up arguing and went along with Maigret’s suggestions.

  ‘It’s time for me to go over to the courts.’

  They left the house together and the sky was still the same luminous but murky white, like a sky seen reflected in a pond. On the street corners, the strong wind plastered the women’s dresses to their bodies; sometimes a man’s hat blew off and he would run after it flailing absurdly.

  They each set off in separate directions.

  ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘I may drop into your chambers. Otherwise I’ll be at your house for dinner. What time is bridge at the Vernoux’s?’

  ‘Half past eight.’

  ‘I must warn you I don’t know how to play.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  Curtains twitched as Maigret walked past, following the pavement, his pipe between his teeth, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed to stop his hat from flying off. Once alone, he felt a little less sure of himself. Everything he had just said to his friend Chabot was true. But when he had intervened that morning at the end of Chalus’ questioning, he had been acting on a hunch as well as wanting to rescue the magistrate from an awkward situation.

  The towns people were still jittery. Although they went about their day-to-day activities as usual, there was anxiety in their eyes and they seemed to be walking faster, as if they were afraid the murderer would suddenly appear. Maigret would have sworn the housewives didn’t normally stand around on doorsteps talking in hushed tones.

  People gazed after him and he thought he could read an unasked question on their faces. Was he going to do something? Or would the stranger be able to carry on killing with impunity?

  Some greeted him timidly, as if to say: ‘We know who you are. You have the reputation of solving the most difficult cases. And, you won’t let yourself be intimidated by a handful of big shots.’

  He nearly went into the Café de la Poste to have a beer. Unfortunately, there were at least a dozen customers inside, who all turned to look at him when he approached, and right then he didn’t feel like having to alleviate their worries.

  To reach the barracks neighbourhood he had to cross the Champ-de-Mars, a vast, bare parade ground surrounded by recently planted trees that trembled in the north wind.

  He turned into the same sidestreet that the doctor had taken the previous evening, the one where Gobillard had been attacked. As he walked past a house, he heard the sound of raised voices coming from the second floor. That was probably the home of Émile Chalus, the teacher. Several people were arguing hotly, friends of his who must have come over to find out what was going on.

  He crossed the Champ-de-Mars, skirted the barracks and headed down the street off to the right, looking for the big run-down building his friend had described. There was only one that fitted the description, in an empty street between two patches of wasteland. It was hard to guess what it might have been in the past – a warehouse or a mill, perhaps a small factory? Children were playing outside and bare-bottomed toddlers in the hallway. A fat woman with hair cascading down her back poked her head out of a half-open door. She had never heard of Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.

  ‘Who do you want?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Sabati.’

  ‘Louise?’

  ‘I think that’s her name.’

  ‘Go round the house and in through the back door, then up the stairs. There’s only one door. It’s there.’

  He did as instructed, brushing against rubbish bins and stepping over refuse, the bugle call from the barracks ringing in his ears. The back door was open. A steep staircase with no handrail took him up to a floor on a different level
from the others, and he knocked at a blue door.

  At first there was no reply. He rapped harder and heard the shuffling of a woman in slippers, and had to knock a third time before she asked:

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mademoiselle Sabati?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk to you.’

  He added on the off-chance:

  ‘The doctor sent me.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  She pattered away, probably to put on some suitable clothing. When she finally opened the door, she was wearing a cheap cotton dressing gown with a leaf pattern, beneath which she must only have had a nightdress. Her feet were bare inside her slippers, her black hair dishevelled.

  ‘Were you asleep?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked him up and down warily. Behind her, at the end of a tiny hallway, was an untidy bedroom which she did not invite him to enter.

  ‘What does he have to say to me?’

  As she twisted her head slightly to one side, he noticed a bruise around her left eye. It wasn’t entirely recent. The purple was beginning to turn yellow.

  ‘Don’t be frightened. I’m a friend. I simply wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.’

  What must have decided her to let him in was the fact that two or three kids had come to gawp at them from the bottom of the stairs.

  There were only two rooms, the bedroom, which he glimpsed with its unmade bed, and a kitchen. A novel lay open on the table next to a bowl containing the remains of a café au lait, and there was a portion of butter on a plate.

  Louise Sabati was not beautiful. In a black dress and white apron, she must have had that weary look of most chambermaids in provincial hotels. Yet there was something appealing, almost pathetic, about her pale face and dark eyes with their intense expression.

  She cleared a chair.

  ‘Did Alain really send you?’