Signed, Picpus

by Georges Simenon

  He smokes his pipe. He turns things over in his mind. He plays a strange game in which human beings are counters and each counter has to be put in its proper place.

  It’s really quite simple! But it’s also very complicated at the same time! Damn that nuisance Mascouvin for being a fly in the ointment!

  His feelings are not charitable towards Mascouvin, who, bandaged up to the eyeballs, is still at the Hôtel-Dieu … If it hadn’t been for him …

  Yet at the same time Maigret feels very indulgent towards him … Could this be on account of the girl with the dimples, that nice Mademoiselle Berthe? …

  So simple! …

  To see the full picture, he had only to understand Mascouvin, the honest dishonest man who stumbled once and is haunted by remorse …

  All he had to do was to proceed like an accountant by adding up receipts and outgoings: what the clerk earned at Proud and Drouin on the one side, and what he spent bringing up Mademoiselle Berthe and settling her in her flat on the other …

  What he earned would not have been enough …

  And Monsieur Drouin had stated categorically: his clerk had not been in a position to steal money from the till.

  With every bump and rut, Maigret is shaken, and his pipe twitches between his teeth, but he does not lose the thread of what he intends to say to them later, in his office on Quai des Orfèvres, when all of them, all the counters, are assembled …

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he will say to the examining magistrate, ‘that’s where it all started … Mascouvin was tempted … Tempted by whom? … By one of his firm’s clients, a man who dealt only on a small scale himself but took a keen interest in all the other business transacted there … Because, you must understand, this man, Monsieur Blaise, is the most evil and intelligent of all blackmailers …

  ‘My, my! What a set-up he created! He has accomplices and yet he is never seen to associate with anyone! No one comes to his apartment in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, where he is regarded as the very model of a rich man who does not have to work for a living …

  ‘At Morsang, at the Beau Pigeon, he is a keen angler who does not mix with the other guests …

  ‘He fishes for pike … He fishes for them in the tall reeds on the left bank, where he is hidden from view …’

  And as recently as this morning, Isidore was forced to confess to Maigret:

  ‘What do you want me to say. He used to go off to see a married woman somewhere. I don’t know who. I never saw her. He didn’t want it to look obvious so he asked me to catch fish for him so that …’

  So who was it then who came to meet him there, between the locks at Morsang and Citanguette?

  Let’s see … Who does Monsieur Blaise, a careful man, who never appears in person in any of his shady dealings, need? He needs a strong-arm man …

  In other words, Justin! … Justin shuttles between the Côte d’Azur and Paris. His job is to make ‘clients’ understand that if they don’t ‘cough up’ …

  Justin, the man in the green convertible …

  Who else does Monsieur Blaise need? People to supply information about more or less dodgy business deals which are done …

  And that is how Mascouvin, honest Mascouvin, was tempted … He is a clerk with a financial services firm which processes, among others, large-scale land development schemes and compulsory purchase orders in which town councillors and others receive …

  Don’t you understand, Monsieur Drouin? You were quite correct in saying that it is absolutely impossible for a clerk employed by you to steal a thousand-franc note. But what about copies of compromising letters? …

  That is what Mascouvin supplied! That is where he got the money to set his sister up in her own place and in one for himself, to pay for …

  From then on, there is no going back. Henceforth, someone has a hold over him. He is the honest dishonest man who strayed once from the straight and narrow and is doomed to be dishonest for the rest of his life.

  And how he suffers for it … He suffers too from the indifference of the countess, with whom he has fallen in love …

  He is a worrier, a very complicated man … Monsieur Drouin said it … He is a man who believes he is constantly under suspicion, for whom everything he touches goes wrong in the end …

  ‘What?’ he replies, still anticipating the examining magistrate’s questions. ‘Is there something else? …’

  Maigret raps on the glass panel between him and the driver. They are just entering Paris. Still some way off, on Quai des Orfèvres, they are all waiting for him.

  ‘Stop here a moment, driver … I’m thirsty.’

  Actually, the truth is that he needs a little more time to prepare his verbal report.

  ‘But what about Mademoiselle Jeanne, the clairvoyant?’ the magistrate will ask.

  ‘An accomplice …’ Maigret will say.

  ‘Whose accomplice?’

  ‘A confederate, if you like, one of Monsieur Blaise’s partners in crime. What better informant is there for a blackmailer than an extra-far-sighted clairvoyant? Clients leak all their secrets to her in the questions they ask her about their future. Those secrets, not always pure as the driven snow, are extracted with the aid of the crystal ball, collected every week by Justin, the man in the green convertible, passed over by him at Morsang and used by Monsieur Blaise, the mastermind … Now do you understand, sir?

  ‘What’s that? … How did Mademoiselle Jeanne … That I couldn’t say … Don’t forget that her mother went to the bad and that her father ended up a tramp, that she’d tried to make a go of her life and that she made some bad choices. Did she fall for Justin’s good looks? Or was she in the racket just for the money?

  ‘We’ll find others, you’ll see, people who sold secrets for cash to Monsieur Blaise, from which he made large profits.

  ‘And then Justin recognizes the man posing as Le Cloaguen and uncovers the mystery of the house on Boulevard des Batignolles …

  ‘A solid gold opportunity! Madame Le Cloaguen will cough up! She is the ideal victim! … They’ll make her pay through the nose if she wants to keep her income of 200,000 francs coming in …’

  Maigret is sitting at a table near the counter of the small bistro, and the driver begins to wonder if he hasn’t gone to sleep.

  ‘That, I am sure, sir, is how it all happened … When Mademoiselle Jeanne learned they were going to blackmail Madame Le Cloaguen and that in the process her father would get into trouble, she perhaps begged, then threatened, to go to the police and expose the whole gang …

  ‘It was then that they decided to kill the clairvoyant!

  ‘Do you see it all now? Without realizing it, she gave them a fantastic target on a plate! Through her, they’d get their hands on a goose that laid golden eggs … How much would they demand from Madame Le Cloaguen? Two hundred thousand francs to start with? … One full year of the annuity paid to the bogus ex-ship’s doctor?

  ‘But it’s no go. Mademoiselle Jeanne won’t play, so they get rid of her …

  ‘You know, sir, it’s actually very difficult to find people who are crooked to the core, if I can put it that way.

  ‘She was like Mascouvin, not crooked enough …

  ‘Monsieur Blaise’s speciality is using what we at Police HQ call the small fry …

  ‘And so the clairvoyant will die at five in the afternoon.’

  At Police Headquarters, people are getting impatient. The examining magistrate has left his own office and moved into Maigret’s. The driver of the inspector’s taxi is also getting impatient because he has been ‘on’ all night and would very much like to get to bed.

  ‘Give me another calva …’

  They will kill her! The gang will kill her! Poor Mascouvin knows! He has been told all about it, perhaps to tighten the hold they have on him! He looks for a way of stopping it happening, whatever the cost …

  Picture him in his usual café on Place de la République …

  Maigret seethes with anger! He clenches his
fists with rage! Because if that man hadn’t been so complicated …

  Obviously, he can hardly be expected to go to the police and say:

  ‘I’m part of a gang of extortionists. At five o’clock tomorrow afternoon we’re going to murder a clairvoyant whose name and address I don’t know.’

  He tries to think of a way, his brain works overtime, he devises plans and comes up with the business with the blotter, which will keep him out of the picture. To shield himself from the revenge of his accomplices, he even concocts the theft of the thousand-franc note, which will mean that he will be kept safely locked up for some time …

  ‘And there, sir, you have it!’

  Picpus! Ha! Ha! Mascouvin is about to sign when, gazing vaguely around, he spots a jovial smiling face on a fairground strong man who is carrying a mirror-fronted wardrobe around …

  Signed, Picpus …

  And when he learns that the deed has been done, all the fool can think of is committing suicide.

  ‘Excuse me! …’

  The chauffeur shakes his fare, who has fallen asleep at his table. Maigret opens his eyes blearily.

  ‘Where do you want me to take you?’

  ‘Quai des Orfèvres.’

  ‘What? …’

  ‘Police Judiciaire …’

  He had been deeply asleep. What is left of the distance to his destination is not long enough for him to come fully awake. As far as he is concerned, the Picpus case is solved. But now the hard work starts: to explain it to the examining magistrate and then …

  Suddenly, he gives a start. The image of Madame Le Cloaguen comes back to him, and he most definitely, it must be said, has it in for her. If there had been no Monsieur Blaise and no murder in Rue Coulaincourt, she would have gone on with her sordid little scheme. She would have continued to rake in 200,000 francs every year until the old tramp’s death and all that time she wouldn’t let him smoke and would bolt the door to his room!

  ‘What a bitch! …’

  The Police Judiciaire building … It is a grim Maigret who climbs the stairs.

  ‘Everybody’s there, waiting for you, detective chief inspector …’

  ‘I know … I know …’

  It is now noon. Everyone is waiting for him, and they are all annoyed with him, even and especially the examining magistrate, who considers that his dignity …

  Maigret’s exposition of his conclusions lasts until three.

  ‘You’ll have to prove it,’ jeers Monsieur Blaise.

  ‘We have proof … Justin has been questioned by the Nice police …’

  It’s true. In the end, they made Justin ‘spill’ by threatening to throw the book at him, and, as happens so often, he loaded the blame on Blaise in the hope of being allowed to claim extenuating circumstances.

  ‘Aren’t you coming home yet?’ Madame Maigret says into the phone.

  ‘I’ll be there in … say an hour … What’s for dinner? …’

  Just one more small thing to do. The examining magistrate has pointed out that before proceeding against Madame Le Cloaguen the victim must press charges.

  The victim is the Argentinian who originally arranged to pay an annuity of 200,000 francs to the man who saved his daughter’s life.

  It turns out he is dead.

  Like many South American heiresses, his daughter has married a foreign prince and lives in Paris.

  A footman in knee-length breeches shows Maigret into a sumptuous drawing room in a grand town house off the Champs-Élysées and waits. He waits for an hour. Poor Madame Maigret! He is kept waiting for another hour and falls asleep again.

  ‘You must forgive me, detective chief inspector … They forgot to let me know you were here … though I can’t think …’

  The girl who had once been saved by Dr Le Cloaguen is now a woman of fifty who dresses like a damsel and is certain to be one of the best customers in all the beauty parlours. She is escorted by a young man who performs the role of attendant knight.

  ‘I wanted to ask … You may remember that your father, a long time ago, arranged for an annuity of 200,000 francs to be paid to a doctor who …’

  ‘Oh yes … When I had yellow fever … Can you believe it, José, I caught yellow fever and …’

  ‘The beneficiary is dead and …’

  ‘Poor thing! … He must still have been a young man …’

  ‘Actually, he was …’

  Careful! It would not do to mention age in this house! …

  ‘His wife … To avoid losing the annuity … She found a tramp hanging around the port at Cannes who looked like her husband …’

  ‘Oh, how priceless! Heavens, José, it’s perfectly priceless! Tell me, inspector, did she … you know … with her tramp? … What I mean is did she behave as if the tramp was really her husband, and did they have children? …’

  ‘Given the fact that we’re dealing with a swindle of which you are the victim, I am here to ask if you wish to press charges and if …’

  ‘Press charges? Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because you have been defrauded annually for the past ten years of a sum of …’

  ‘Poor woman! If she had only written to me. I’d forgotten all about this annuity. I leave all that to the accountants. I have no wish to … Inspector, tell me, it would be so amusing to meet a woman who … It’s too priceless! … Another husband but just the same … José, don’t you think it’s perfectly thrilling? Tell her to ring me and fix a time for her to come here for tea and …’

  ‘At last! There you are, Maigret! I was beginning to think … I’ve made the veal fricandeau just as you asked me to over the phone.’

  But the inspector, as soon as he is in the hall, removes his jacket, tie and collar and mumbles:

  ‘Must sleep …’

  ‘What? Aren’t you going to eat? You …’

  He is not listening. He makes a bee-line for his bedroom and sighs as he undresses:

  ‘Too stupid! … You know, people are just too stupid for words …’

  He makes the bed-springs creak, wrestles with his pillow to make a hollow for his head and, already half-asleep, mutters:

  ‘Still, if they weren’t so stupid, there’d be no need for policemen …’

  1. Evening on the Local Train

  Maigret watched the world go by with large, sullen eyes, unintentionally giving himself that contrived dignity people tend to affect on after hours spent sitting blankly in a train carriage. Well before the train slowed to enter the station, he saw men in voluminous overcoats spill out of every compartment, leather briefcase or suitcase in hand. Apparently oblivious to one another, they spent the rest of the journey standing in the corridor, carelessly hanging on to the brass rail across the window with one hand.

  The window nearest the inspector was streaked horizontally with thick tears of rain. Gazing at that film of water, he saw the lights of a signal-box shatter into a thousand pointed rays; darkness had fallen. The next moment down below there were streets in straight lines, glistening like canals, houses, all absolutely identical, windows, doorsteps, pavements, and, in that entire universe, a lone human figure, a man in a reefer jacket, hood up, on his way somewhere or other.

  Maigret filled his pipe, slowly, carefully. To light it, he turned in the direction the train was travelling. Four or five passengers who, like him, were waiting for the train to stop before hurrying off into the empty streets or making a dash for the station buffet, stood between him and the end of the corridor. Among them, he glimpsed a pale face that immediately looked away.

  It was Cadaver!

  The inspector’s first reaction was to grumble: ‘He’s pretended not to see me, the idiot.’

  His second was to frown. Why on earth would Inspector Cavre be going to Saint-Aubin-les-Marais?

  The train slowed, came to a halt in Niort station. On the wet, cold platform, Maigret hailed a member of staff.

  ‘Excuse me, to get to Saint-Aubin?’

  ‘Twenty seventeen, platform th
ree …’

  He had half an hour to spare. After a quick trip to the public urinal at the far end of the platform, he pushed open the buffet door. He headed for one of the many unoccupied tables and sank into a chair to wait idly in the dusty light.

  At the other end of the room Cadaver was sitting at an identical table without a tablecloth, still pretending not to see him.

  The man’s name was Cavre, Justin Cavre, not Cadaver, of course. But Inspector Cadaver was the nickname he had been given twenty years earlier and that was still what they called him at the Police Judiciaire whenever he came up in conversation.

  He was a ridiculous sight, in his corner, ill at ease, twisting uncomfortably in his seat to avoid looking in Maigret’s direction. It was obvious he had seen him. Lank and pasty-faced, with red eyelids, he was like one of those kids who mope around by themselves in the playground, hiding their longing to play with the other children under a sulky expression.

  That was Cavre to a tee. He was intelligent. He may even, in fact, have been the most intelligent man Maigret had ever come across on the force. They were pretty much the same age, and, to tell the truth, Cavre was slightly the better educated of the two of them. Who knew, if he had persevered, he might have been promoted to detective chief inspector before Maigret.

  So why had he already seemed to be carrying some sort of curse on his skinny shoulders even as a very young man? Why did he scowl at everyone as if he suspected them of wishing him ill?

  ‘Inspector Cadaver’s begun his novena …’

  That was a phrase that used to be heard a lot in the old days at Quai des Orfèvres. On some flimsy pretext, or for no reason at all, Cavre would suddenly start giving everyone the silent, suspicious treatment. The loathing treatment, it seemed. For a week he wouldn’t say a word to a soul, and his colleagues would catch him sniggering to himself, like a man who has just uncovered the darkest desires of those around him.

  Not many people knew why he had suddenly quit the force. Maigret himself had only found out later and he had felt sorry for him.

  Cavre was madly in love with his wife, consumed by a jealous, devastating passion that was more like a lover’s feelings than a husband’s. What could he possibly find so extraordinary about that vulgar creature with the looks of a tart or a failed starlet?. The fact remained, however, that for her sake he had crossed the line in his work. Some nasty business to do with money had come to light. One evening Cavre had emerged, head bowed, shoulders hunched, from the chief’s office, and a few months later they learned that he had opened a private detective agency above a stamp dealer on Rue Drouot.