Maigret and the Tall Woman

by Georges Simenon

  And again he knew he was pandering to Boissier’s self-esteem.

  ‘I was just doing some paperwork. I’m off to Brittany tomorrow.’

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘I’ll get my jacket and hat. Shall I ring Brussels first?’

  ‘Yes. Holland too.’

  ‘All right.’

  They took the bus there, riding on the rear platform. Rue de la Ferme was a quiet, provincial-looking street; they spotted a small restaurant with four tables out on the terrace, between potted green plants, and sat down to have something to eat.

  Inside, there were just three builders in white smocks, having lunch and drinking red wine. Some flies were buzzing round Maigret and Boissier as they waited. Further down the street on the opposite side they saw a black gate that could only belong to number 43a.

  They weren’t in any hurry. If there really had been a dead body inside the house, the murderer would have had more than twenty-four hours to get rid of it.

  A waitress in a black dress and white apron took their orders, but the owner also came out to greet them.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  ‘Good afternoon. Do you, by any chance, know of a dentist around here?’

  A flick of the chin.

  ‘There’s one just there across the street, but I don’t know what he’s like. My wife prefers to get her teeth seen to on Boulevard Sébastopol. I think he’s probably quite expensive. People aren’t exactly queueing up to see him.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  The owner hesitated and gave them both a long look, especially Boissier.

  ‘Police, eh?’

  On balance, Maigret thought it better to say yes.

  ‘Has he done something?’

  ‘We are simply looking for help with our inquiries. What’s he like?’

  ‘Taller and stronger than either you or me,’ he said, looking at Maigret. ‘I weigh ninety-eight kilos; he must weigh around a hundred and five.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Fifty, maybe? Around that sort of age. Not that well dressed, which is surprising in a dentist. Looks a bit like a crusty old bachelor.’

  ‘He’s not married?’

  ‘Just a minute . . . Now I think about it, he did get married about two years ago . . . There’s also an old woman living in the house – his mother, I suppose. She does the shopping every morning . . .’

  ‘Do they have a maid?’

  ‘Just a cleaning lady. To be honest, I’m not very sure. I only know him because he occasionally pops in here on the sly.’

  ‘On the sly?’

  ‘Just a manner of speaking. People like him aren’t in the habit of frequenting cafés like this one. When he does come here, he’s always casting a glance at the house, as if he’s checking that he’s not being watched. He always looks very furtive when he orders a drink at the bar.

  ‘“A red wine!” he says. Never anything else. I know not to put the bottle away afterwards, because he always orders a second one. He knocks them back straight, wipes his mouth and has the money already in his hand.’

  ‘Does he ever get drunk?’

  ‘Never. Two glasses, and that’s his lot. When he leaves I see him slip a cachou lozenge or a clove into his mouth to take away the smell of the wine.’

  ‘What’s his mother like?’

  ‘A wizened old woman, always dressed in black, who never says hello to anyone; she doesn’t seem the easy-going type.’

  ‘And the wife?’

  ‘I’ve only ever spotted her as they drive past in the car, but I’ve heard she’s a foreigner. She’s tall and sturdy like him, dark complexion.’

  ‘Do you think they are away on holiday?’

  ‘Hold on. I think the last time I served him his two glasses was two or three days ago.’

  ‘Two or three?’

  ‘Let’s think. It was the evening the plumber came to fix the beer pump. I’ll check with my wife to make sure I’m not talking nonsense.’

  It was the day before yesterday, Tuesday in other words, a few hours before Alfred Jussiaume discovered a woman’s body in the house.

  ‘Can you remember what time it was?’

  ‘He usually pops in around six thirty in the evening.’

  ‘Was he on foot?’

  ‘Yes. They do have an old car, but this is when he goes for his evening walk. Can you tell me what all this is about?’

  ‘Nothing, at present. We’re trying to establish some facts.’

  The man didn’t believe him, that much was evident in his face.

  ‘Will you be back?’

  Then, turning to the inspector:

  ‘You’re not Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, by any chance, are you?’

  ‘Did someone tell you?’

  ‘One of the builders inside thought he recognized you. If it is you, my wife will be very pleased to meet you in the flesh.’

  ‘We’ll be back,’ he promised.

  They had had a good meal and sampled the calvados that the owner, who was from Falaise, had offered them. They were now walking on the pavement on the shady side of the street. Maigret was smoking his pipe with small puffs. Boissier had lit a cigarette; two of the fingertips on his right hand were stained brown by the tobacco like a seasoned old pipe.

  It was possible to imagine that you were in a small village more than a hundred kilometres from Paris. There were more private houses than apartment blocks, some of them grand middle-class mansions dating from the eighteenth or nineteenth century.

  There was only one gate in the street, a black metal one, behind which lay a lawn that looked like a green carpet in the sunlight. A copper nameplate read:

  Guillaume Serre

  Dental Surgeon

  And in smaller letters underneath:

  2 to 5 p.m. and by appointment

  The sun beat down on the façade of the house, warming the yellowish stone, and the shutters were closed at all but two of the windows. Boissier could sense Maigret hesitating.

  ‘Are you going over?’

  Before crossing the road, he glanced both ways down the street and frowned. Boissier looked in the direction that Maigret was staring.

  ‘La Grande Perche!’ he exclaimed.

  She was coming down from Boulevard Richard-Wallace and was wearing the same green hat as that morning. When she noticed Maigret and his companion, she came to a halt, then made a beeline for them.

  ‘Are you surprised to see me here?’

  ‘You knew the address?’

  ‘I telephoned your office about half an hour ago. I wanted to tell you that I’d found the list. I knew it was around somewhere. I’ve seen Alfred consulting it, marking it with crosses. When I left you this morning, I thought of a place where Alfred might have hidden it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Do I have to tell you?’

  ‘It would be better if you did.’

  ‘I’d rather not. Not right now.’

  ‘What else did you find?’

  ‘What makes you think I found something else?’

  ‘You didn’t have any money this morning, yet you came here by taxi.’

  ‘That’s true. There was some money.’

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘More than I expected.’

  ‘Where is the list?’

  ‘I burned it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of the crosses. They probably refer to addresses Alfred has burgled, and I won’t go as far as providing you with evidence against him.’

  She glanced at the front of the house.

  ‘Are you going in?’

  Maigret nodded.

  ‘Would it bother you if I waited for you on the terrace over there?’

  She hadn’t said a word to Boissier, who was giving her a stern look.

  ‘If you wish,’ said Maigret.

  And, accompanied by his colleague, he stepped out of the shadow into the sunlight, while Ernestine’s tall silhouette headed off to the terr
ace.

  It was ten past two. If the dentist wasn’t away on holiday he should, according to his nameplate, be in his surgery ready to receive patients. There was an electric button to the right of the gateway; Maigret pressed it, and the gate opened automatically. He walked across the small garden and found another button at the front door of the house, which did not open automatically. After the bell had rung inside there was a long silence. The two men strained to hear, both sure they could sense a presence on the other side of the panel, and looked at each other. Finally, a chain was pulled back, the latch was released, and the door opened a small crack.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘We wish to speak to Dr Serre.’

  ‘He only sees patients by appointment.’

  The door did not open any wider. They could just make out, behind the door, the silhouette and the thin face of an old woman.

  ‘According to your sign—’

  ‘That sign is twenty-five years old.’

  ‘Would you be so kind as to tell your son that Detective Chief Inspector Maigret would like to see him?’

  The door didn’t move for a moment or two, then it opened to reveal a wide corridor with a black-and-white tiled floor reminiscent of the corridor in a convent. The old woman who ushered them in would not have looked out of place dressed in a nun’s habit.

  ‘You must forgive me, detective chief inspector, but my son does not care to take patients off the street.’

  The woman wasn’t bad looking. She had a surprising elegance and dignity about her. She was smiling to try to wipe away the bad first impression she had made.

  ‘Please, do come in. I will have to ask you to wait a short while. For the last few years my son has been taking an afternoon nap, especially in the summer, and he is still in bed. If you would care to come this way . . .’

  She led them through some varnished oak double doors to the left, and Maigret had an even stronger feeling of being in a convent, or rather, a well-to-do priest’s house. The smell in particular – faint and mysterious – reminded him of something; he couldn’t think what and strained to remember. The living room they entered into was illuminated only by the light coming through the slats of the shutters; after the heat of the outside, it felt refreshingly cool.

  The sounds of the city didn’t seem to be able to penetrate all the way in, and you got the impression that nothing had changed in this house for more than a century, that the upholstered armchairs, side tables, piano and china figurines had always stood in the same place. Even the enlarged photographs in black wooden frames hanging on the wall looked as if they had been taken in the era of Nadar. There was a man in a restrictive collar from an earlier century with large bushy sideburns, and, on the facing wall, a woman of about forty, a parting in her hair, who bore a resemblance to Empress Eugénie.

  The old lady herself could almost have appeared in one of these portraits. She continued to attend to them, showing them to their chairs, her hands joined in a solicitous gesture.

  ‘I don’t wish to pry, detective chief inspector, but my son has no secrets from me. We have never been apart, even though he is now in his fifties. I have no idea of the purpose of your visit, so before I wake him I would like to know . . .’

  Leaving that sentence hanging, she beamed a benevolent smile in their direction.

  ‘Your son is married, I believe?’

  ‘He has been married twice.’

  ‘Is his second wife here?’

  There was a hint of sadness in her eyes. Boissier started crossing and uncrossing his legs: this wasn’t the sort of milieu he felt comfortable in.

  ‘She isn’t here any more, inspector.’

  She walked softly to the door and closed it. She returned and took a seat on the corner of a sofa, sitting bolt upright, as young girls are taught to do in convent schools.

  ‘I hope she hasn’t done anything silly,’ she said in a low voice. ‘If you’re here about her I will need to ask you some questions before I wake my son. Is it because of her that you have come?’

  Did Maigret give a slight nod to this question? He wasn’t sure himself. He was far too fascinated by the atmosphere of this house and even more so by this woman: behind the gentle exterior there was a formidable energy at work.

  She didn’t strike a single false note: neither in her dress, nor in her bearing, nor in her voice. She was someone you might have expected to come across in a chateau or rather in one of those sprawling country houses that are like museums of a bygone age.

  ‘When he was widowed fifteen years ago my son did not consider remarrying for a long time.’

  ‘But he did remarry – two years ago, if I am not mistaken?’

  She displayed no surprise that he was so well informed.

  ‘Indeed. Two and a half years to be exact. He married one of his patients, a woman of a certain age, like himself. She was forty-seven at the time. Originally from Holland, she was living on her own in Paris. I won’t live for ever, inspector. I sit before you now, a woman of seventy-six.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘I know. My mother lived to the age of ninety-two, and my grandmother died in an accident at the age of eighty-eight.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He died young.’

  She said this as if it were of no importance, or rather, as if it was in the nature of things for men to die young.

  ‘I almost encouraged Guillaume to remarry; I told myself that that way he wouldn’t end up on his own.’

  ‘Was the marriage an unhappy one?’

  ‘Not exactly unhappy. Not at the beginning. I believe all the problems came from her being a foreigner. There are all sorts of little things that you can’t adapt to. I don’t know how to describe it to you . . . Just things to do with food, liking some dishes but not others. Also, perhaps, when she married my son she thought he was richer than he actually is.’

  ‘She had no fortune herself?’

  ‘A certain amount. She wasn’t penniless, but with the rise in the cost of living . . .’

  ‘When did she die?’

  The old woman looked at him with wide eyes.

  ‘Die?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought she was dead. You speak about her in the past tense.’

  She smiled.

  ‘That’s true, but not for the reason you imagine. She’s not dead, though to us it feels that way. She left.’

  ‘After an argument?’

  ‘Guillaume is not the sort of man who has arguments.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘I’m too old to have arguments any more, inspector. I’ve seen it all before. I know all about life and I let people—’

  ‘When did she leave the house?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Did she tell you she was leaving?’

  ‘My son and I both knew she would leave sooner or later.’

  ‘Has she spoken to you about it?’

  ‘Often.’

  ‘Did she give a reason?’

  She didn’t reply immediately, seemed to be thinking.

  ‘Would you like me to tell you what I really think? If I sound a bit hesitant, it is because I am worried that you will make fun of me. I don’t like talking about such matters in front of men but I suppose a police inspector is like a doctor or a priest.’

  ‘Are you a Catholic, Madame Serre?’

  ‘Yes. My daughter-in-law was a Protestant. Not that that matters. You see, she was at that difficult age for a woman. All we women, more or less, go through this period of a few years when we are not ourselves. We get irritated by the most trivial things. We can so easily get the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘I understand. And that was what was going on here?’

  ‘That and other things besides, probably. By the end she was thinking about nothing but her native Holland; she spent days writing to the friends she had kept in touch with back there.’

  ‘Did your son ever go to Holland with her?’


  ‘Never.’

  ‘So she left on Tuesday?’

  ‘She took the nine-forty train from Gare du Nord.’

  ‘The night train?’

  ‘Yes. She had spent all day packing her bags.’

  ‘Did your son accompany her to the station?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she call a taxi?’

  ‘She went out to hail one at the corner of Boulevard Richard-Wallace.’

  ‘Have you had any word from her since?’

  ‘No. I don’t think she feels the need to write to us.’

  ‘Was divorce ever discussed?’

  ‘I told you we are Catholics. Besides, my son has no desire to remarry. I still don’t understand what on earth can have brought about this visit by the police.’

  ‘I would like to ask you, madame, to describe exactly what happened in the house on Tuesday evening. One moment. You have a maid, don’t you?’

  ‘No, inspector. Our cleaning lady, Eugénie, comes every morning at nine o’clock and stays until five.’

  ‘Is she here today?’

  ‘You have come on her day off. She will be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Does she live in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘She lives in Puteaux, on the other side of the Seine. Just above a hardware shop opposite the bridge.’

  ‘I assume she helped your daughter-in-law to pack her bags?’

  ‘She brought the bags downstairs.’

  ‘How many suitcases?’

  ‘To be precise, one trunk and two leather suitcases. There was also a jewellery case and a toilet bag.’

  ‘Did Eugénie leave at five o’clock as normal?’

  ‘Indeed she did. Forgive me if I look a little put out. I have never been questioned in this manner before and I confess I—’

  ‘Did your son go out that evening?’

  ‘What do you mean by “evening”?’

  ‘Let’s say, just before dinner.’

  ‘He went for a walk, as usual.’

  ‘Presumably to drink an aperitif?’

  ‘He doesn’t drink.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Just a glass of wine mixed with water at each meal. Certainly not those terrible drinks they call aperitifs.’

  Boissier, who had been sitting quietly in his armchair, seemed at that moment to inhale the last trace of aniseed clinging to his moustache.

  ‘We sat down for dinner as soon as he got back. He always follows the same route. He got into the habit when we used to have a dog and he took it for walks at the same time each day. Now he carries on the same routine.’