The Judge's House

by Georges Simenon

Maigret looked in the direction indicated and saw Hulot, squinting even more in the sunlight than at night. He was hoping they would call him over. He was only waiting for the signal and he would come running.

  ‘Stay here until I get back. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Do I have time to get a cup of coffee?’

  Permission granted! Maigret was in a good mood at this stage. Soon afterwards, he walked into the police station and introduced himself to the sergeant.

  ‘First of all, I need to use your telephone. Could you call the prosecutor’s office in La Roche-sur-Yon for me?’

  The prosecutor hadn’t arrived yet. His deputy listened to the verbal report and approved it. Then Luçon. Then two or three more phone calls.

  Yes, Maigret would manage to get things moving eventually. Of course, he felt nostalgic. In Paris, he would have had his whole team around him, fellows who knew his methods, to whom he would barely need to speak: Lucas, who had been promoted, Janvier, Torrence, the men in Criminal Records …

  Here, he had to wait until midday for the photographer to arrive, and the gendarme on guard near the judge’s house was looking at the passers-by so fiercely that they were starting to suspect something at the café on the corner.

  Maigret rang the bell. The old woman opened the door.

  ‘I’ll go and see if Monsieur can …’

  ‘Let him in, Élisa.’

  He was standing in the library, where perfect order reigned, and the sun came in through the three windows.

  ‘I’ve come to photograph the body. You left it in the laundry, I hope?’

  ‘I’ll give you the key. I locked it, to stop the maids from …’

  ‘Do they know?’

  ‘Not yet. I preferred …’

  ‘Is your daughter up?’

  What a question! Couldn’t Maigret hear her playing the piano on the first floor?

  ‘I assume she doesn’t know either?’

  ‘She knows absolutely nothing …’

  Maigret had perhaps never before encountered such unflappability.

  Here was a man with refined manners, a quiet, cultivated man who, at the end of a bridge party, finds his giant of a son sitting on the stairs and regards it as quite natural!

  The following morning, he opens a door and discovers the body of a murdered man, a man he doesn’t know.

  He takes even that in his stride, doesn’t mention it to anybody and goes for his usual walk with his daughter.

  He waits for a favourable tide. He sews the corpse into some sacks. He …

  The police are in his home. His son appears, in an excitable mood. The door to his daughter’s room is broken down. It’s clear that a man has spent part of the night there.

  He remains calm. The maids arrive as usual, and the house is cleaned without any fuss. The young girl with the naked breast plays the piano. The father merely locks the door of the laundry where the corpse is …

  The photographer got down to work, and the judge watched him as if it were the most natural thing in the world to sit a dead man up and try to give him the appearance of life.

  ‘I must inform you,’ Maigret grunted, ‘that the prosecutor will be here at about three in the afternoon. Until then, I don’t want you to leave the house. The same goes for Mademoiselle Forlacroix …’

  Why did it feel strange to say ‘Mademoiselle Forlacroix’? Because he had seen her in her bed, one breast outside her nightdress? Because a man had left muddy footprints in her room?

  ‘May I ask you if my son has spoken to you, inspector? You will have a glass of port, won’t you?’

  ‘Thank you. Your son simply pointed out a young man named Marcel Airaud. Do you know him?’

  The judge blinked, and his nostrils became a little pinched.

  ‘You also think it was this Marcel who was in your daughter’s …’

  A very low voice, a mere breath. ‘I don’t know …’

  The door to the library was open. Logs were burning.

  ‘Come in a moment, would you?’

  It was a plea. He left the photographer at the door.

  ‘I assume you’ve realized?’

  Maigret said neither yes nor no. It was an embarrassing situation, especially dealing with a father.

  ‘It’s because of her that I left Versailles and moved here … This house has belonged to my family for a long time, and we’d sometimes spend a month here in the summer …’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Sixteen. The doctors warned me that the episodes would be more and more frequent … At other times, she’s completely normal …’

  He turned his head away. Then, shrugging his shoulders:

  ‘I didn’t tell you about it straight away. I’m not too sure what I was hoping … You do understand now why it would have been better if the sea had carried the body away? They’ll say … God knows what people’s imagination will dream up! Not to mention that fool Albert …’

  ‘What was he doing here that night?’

  Too late. Already the judge’s dismay had faded. For a few seconds, it had been possible to believe that he was melting, that he was going to open up.

  Was it because Maigret had asked too specific a question? He looked at the inspector with his cold eyes, the pupils almost colourless in the sunlight.

  ‘No, it wasn’t about that! … It doesn’t matter … Are you sure you wouldn’t like some port? … I have a Portuguese friend who …’

  One friend sent him armagnac, another port. Didn’t he seem preoccupied with giving his life all the refinement he possibly could?

  Through the gap in the curtains, he suddenly noticed the gendarme pacing up and down outside and gave a nervous little laugh.

  ‘Is he here for me?’

  ‘You know I have no choice …’

  The judge sighed and said something unexpected: ‘This is all very regrettable, inspector!’

  Overhead, the piano was still being played, and Chopin’s chords harmonized perfectly with the atmosphere of this grand house where life should have been so sweet.

  ‘See you later!’ Maigret said abruptly, like a man resisting temptation.

  The men who had returned from the mussel fields were filling the main room of the Hôtel du Port. Who had spoken? Whoever it might have been, everyone watched Maigret as he sat down at a table with Méjat and ordered lunch.

  Their blue clothes had been washed clean by the rain and the seawater into sumptuous shades. Thérèse, the little maid, was in an emotional state and, following the direction of her gaze, Maigret recognized Marcel Airaud, sitting among a group of men, drinking rosé wine.

  A sturdy young man of about twenty-five, as heavy as the rest of them, especially in their boots, with a calm gaze and slow gestures.

  The conversations, which had been noisy earlier, had ceased. The men turned towards Maigret. Then they took a slug of their drinks, wiped their mouths, looked for something to say, anything, just to break the embarrassing silence.

  One of the older men left, then another.

  ‘Off for my grub! The wife must be starting to bellyache …’

  Marcel was one of the last to remain, one elbow on the table, a cheek resting on his open hand. Thérèse came and asked Maigret:

  ‘Would you like the mouclade?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mussels in cream. A local dish.’

  ‘I can’t stand cream,’ Méjat declared.

  When she walked away, Marcel stood up to take her place. He pulled over a straw-bottomed chair, sat down astride it and touched the brim of his cap.

  ‘Can I talk to you for a minute, detective chief inspector?’

  No humility. No bravado either. He was at ease.

  ‘How do you know I’m a detective chief inspector?’

  Marcel shrugged. ‘People talk. Since we got back from the mussel fields, they’ve been talking …’

  There were only two men left, both fishermen, listening from a corner. A clatter of plates came fro
m the kitchen.

  ‘Is it true that a man was murdered in the judge’s house?’

  Beneath the table, Méjat’s knee touched Maigret’s. The inspector, his mouth full, raised his head and looked calmly at Marcel, who did not lower his eyes.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘In the fruitery?’

  This time there was a touch of dew-like moisture on his upper lip.

  ‘You know the fruitery?’

  Marcel didn’t reply, but threw a glance at Thérèse, who was just then bringing the steaming mouclade. ‘What day did it happen?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you a question first. What time did you get home last night? You live with your mother, don’t you?’

  ‘Did Albert say something?’

  ‘I’m asking the question.’

  ‘It was just after midnight …’

  ‘Do you usually leave the judge’s house so early?’

  Another glance, this time towards the kitchen, into which Thérèse had just disappeared.

  ‘It depends …’

  A pity this was happening just as the mouclade had arrived, because it was a masterpiece. In spite of himself, Maigret was trying to identify a taste of … what could it be? … a slight hint … barely an aroma …

  ‘What about Tuesday?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t go there on Tuesday …’

  Maigret frowned, sat motionless for a moment, staring into space, then suddenly cried triumphantly:

  ‘Curry! I’d bet anything you like there’s curry in this …’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘About Tuesday? I have no idea, my friend. How could I possibly know that yet? …’

  ‘I’m ready to swear …’

  Of course it would have been nice to believe him!

  Just as it would have been nice to believe the judge! Just as you instinctively believed Albert!

  All the same, the corpse hadn’t got there by itself!

  4. Under the Eyes of La République

  All in all, Maigret had no cause for complaint. It all went well, very well even, and at the end Monsieur Bourdeille-Jaminet deigned to utter a few feeble words which must have been meant as congratulations.

  It was Maigret who had chosen the town hall, because the police station was really too dark and smelled of old leather, cabbage soup and unwashed brats. The town hall had a spacious reception room, with dazzling whitewashed walls. There was a flag in a corner, a bust of La République on the mantelpiece and a pile of family record books on the green baize table.

  The gentlemen arrived in two cars: first the prosecutor, Monsieur Bourdeille-Jaminet, so tall that his gaze seemed not to reach the ground, with his deputy, then an examining magistrate whose name Maigret did not catch, a clerk, the pathologist and a lieutenant of gendarmes.

  Other gendarmes had arrived from Luçon and seen fit to set up what amounted to a roadblock in the street, which meant that people would have gathered even if they hadn’t known anything was happening.

  The body was already there, in the courtyard. The pathologist had asked permission to work in the open air. The trestle tables used for banquets had been brought out. Dr Brénéol had finally arrived, looking quite nervous. He was distantly related to the prosecutor. They exchanged polite remarks and talked about the will of some cousin by marriage.

  Everyone was smoking. Beyond the glass door was the ballroom, still hung with paper chains from the most recent dance, the benches lined up against the walls for the mothers.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen … My dear colleague, may I ask you to …’

  The doctors in the courtyard. The legal people in the reception room, the clerk sitting behind a pile of papers. As for the mayor, he was waiting in the doorway with a self-important air, chatting with a police sergeant.

  After a while, Maigret began wondering if anyone would talk about the case at all, so remote did everyone seem from the drama. The judge was telling a story about a duck hunt he had attended the previous winter on the headland near L’Aiguillon.

  ‘Shall we both begin?’ Maigret said to the clerk.

  He dictated in a low voice, a very low voice in order not to upset the others. Had they learned anything new since morning? Nothing really, apart from the fact that Thérèse had identified the traveller who had got off the bus on Tuesday. The bus driver had also identified him immediately, but couldn’t remember if the man had got on at Luçon or Triaize.

  Photographs had gone out in all directions. All the gendarmes would be provided with them. They would be shown to innkeepers and hoteliers. The following morning’s newspapers would publish the photograph. In other words, the usual routine.

  ‘You’re going to wrap this up nicely, aren’t you, inspector?’ the magistrate asked pleasantly, as if awarding Maigret a good mark.

  The doctors returned, unfazed, and washed their hands at the drinking fountain behind the mayor’s office … A blunt instrument, as expected … The blow had been a violent one … The cranium had been shattered … The stomach contents would be examined later …

  A strong, healthy fellow … The liver a little enlarged … He must have liked his food …

  ‘I’m sure, my dear prosecutor, that my friend Forlacroix, with whom I played bridge that night, had nothing to do with this …’

  ‘Shall we go, gentlemen?’

  In a procession, on foot, because it wasn’t worth getting in the cars. With the populace following on! And that cheerful sun up above …

  ‘After you, prosecutor …’

  The door opened without their having to ring the bell. Old Élisa showed everybody in. Judge Forlacroix was standing self-effacingly in a corner of the library. It was embarrassing: they wondered if they should say hello to him, shake his hand …

  ‘I put keys in all the doors, gentlemen …’

  His daughter, Lise, sat in an armchair, watching them with large astonished eyes, and a ray of the setting sun set a lock of red hair ablaze. Well, well! The night before, Maigret hadn’t noticed that she was a flaming redhead.

  ‘If you’d like to show us the way, inspector,’ the prosecutor sighed, a man of the world apologizing for intruding in someone else’s house and anxious to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  ‘This way … This is the girl’s room. The judge’s room is at the end of the corridor … The fruitery is here …’

  Six men in coats and hats, looking around them, bending down, touching the odd object, nodding.

  ‘There are tools in this cupboard. There’s a hammer here that the killer could have used, but I haven’t found any prints …’

  ‘Gloves, do you think?’ the prosecutor uttered from his great height, as if saying something very intelligent.

  It was a little like a tour of a house where the contents were being auctioned off. Were they going to visit the judge’s room? Maigret opened the door. The room was of average size, furnished soberly but with taste. That same mixture of almost peasant simplicity and refinement.

  Inspector Méjat was outside. Maigret had entrusted him with the task of keeping an eye on the onlookers, observing the reactions of certain people, listening in on conversations. Didine was in the front row, shaking her head, outraged at being left with the crowd, since it was she, after all, who’d done everything.

  The magistrate and the prosecutor talked in low voices in a corner. The prosecutor nodded. He walked up to Maigret.

  ‘I’m told you want him to be left free provisionally, at least for two or three days? … It’s delicate, isn’t it, very delicate, because the one thing we’ve established is that he was in possession of the corpse … Well, if you’re prepared to take the responsibility … Your reputation … We’ll leave you an arrest warrant. Perhaps a blank warrant, too, what do you think? …’

  Satisfied, he screwed up his eyes, which was his way of smiling.

  ‘Well, gentlemen …’

  They were leaving. It was over. Dr Brénéol apologized and said he would be staying in
the house with his friend Forlacroix. It only remained for the others to get back in their cars. Raised hats. Handshakes.

  A big sigh from Maigret.

  Phew! Now he could begin his investigation!

  There she stood before him, all thin, lips pursed.

  ‘If you’d like to come and see me, I may have some things to tell you …’

  ‘Of course, Madame Didine! Let’s see, now … I’ll drop by no later than this evening …’

  She walked away, pulling her shawl tight across her chest. Groups were standing here and there. Everyone was watching Maigret. Children followed him, one of them imitating his heavy gait.

  A little world was closing in on itself again. Now that the formalities were over and the magistrates had left, the village was going to resume its life, the only difference being that Maigret was now embedded in it, so to speak. Pointless to chase the kids away! They’d get used to him!

  He saw the mayor standing in his doorway and went to say hello to him.

  ‘It occurred to me, inspector … Obviously you’ll need a place to work … If you’d like me to give you the key to the town hall …

  An excellent idea! That big white room was pleasant, and Maigret went there immediately, as if to accustom himself to the atmosphere and make himself at home. The stove on the right. He would have to light it every morning and keep stoking it. A place for his pipe and his tobacco. Beyond the window, a courtyard with a lime tree in the middle, then railings, and the street leading to the sea.

  Who was that walking so quickly? Oh! It was only Méjat. He came in, out of breath.

  ‘I think I have something new, chief … Marcel Airaud …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Something I heard, listening to people talking. Apparently when he left you earlier, he went straight to his boat … He has a motor-boat … People saw it moving off towards the end of the bay, over by Pont du Brault. There’s no reason for him to go to that side. It isn’t time to harvest the mussels.’

  There was a telephone on the table. Maigret tried it.

  ‘Hello, mademoiselle … Is there a telephone at Pont du Brault? … You say there’s only one house … An inn? … Could you put me through? … Yes, Detective Chief Inspector Maigret … I’m at the town hall and I’ll be disturbing you quite often …’