Maigret: The Shadow in the Courtyard (1987)

by Georges Simenon

  From time to time Maigret cast a glance into the office, where some ten men were bustling about. From the doorway, the examining magistrate called out to the concierge.

  “Who’s in charge of the firm, after Monsieur Couchet?”

  “The managing director, Monsieur Philippe. He lives not far away, in the Île Saint-Louis…”

  “Is he on the telephone?”

  “Surely…”

  A man’s voice was heard telephoning. Upstairs, Madame Martin’s silhouette was no longer visible against the curtain. On the other hand, an odd-looking figure came down the stairs, crossed the courtyard stealthily, and made off down the street. Maigret recognized the bowler hat and buff overcoat of Monsieur Martin.

  It was midnight. The gramophone-playing girls put out their light. Apart from the offices, the only room still lighted was the Saint-Marcs’ drawing-room on the first floor, where the former ambassador and the midwife were talking in low tones, amid a sickly hospital smell.

  In spite of the lateness of the hour, Monsieur Philippe, when he appeared, was spick and span, his dark beard neat and trim, and grey suede gloves on his hands. He was a man of about forty, a typical serious, well-bred intellectual.

  True, he was astonished and even shocked by the news. But there seemed a sort of reservation in his emotion.

  “Considering the life he led…” he sighed.

  “What sort of life?”

  “I’m never going to say anything against Monsieur Couchet. In any case, there’s nothing to be said against him. He was free to do what he liked with his time.”

  “One moment. Did Monsieur Couchet run the business himself?”

  “Not even indirectly. He started it off, but once it had got going he left me entire responsibility. So much so that I sometimes didn’t see him for a fortnight. Only today, for instance, I waited for him till five o’clock. Tomorrow is pay-day. Monsieur Couchet was to bring me the necessary funds for the staff’s wages. About three hundred thousand francs. At five o’clock I had to go and I left him a report on his desk.”

  It was found there, a typewritten sheet lying under the dead man’s hand. A routine report: proposals for increasing one clerk’s salary and dismissing one of the delivery-men, publicity plans for Latin-American countries…

  “So that the three hundred thousand francs should be here?” asked Maigret.

  “In the safe. The proof of that is that Monsieur Couchet had opened it. He and I were the only two who had the key and the combination…”

  But in order to open the safe the body would have to be moved, and so they waited for the photographers to have completed their job. The police doctor made his statement. Couchet had been shot through the chest and, the aorta having been pierced, death had been instantaneous. The shot had probably been fired from about three yards. The bullet was of the commonest calibre: 6-mm 35.

  Monsieur Philippe was explaining things to the examining magistrate.

  “We only had our labs here in the Place des Vosges, they are behind this office.”

  He opened a door, and disclosed a large room with a glazed roof where thousands of test-tubes stood in rows. Behind another door Maigret thought he heard a noise.

  “What’s in there?”

  “The guinea-pigs…And on the right are the typists’ and clerks’ offices…We have other buildings at Pantin, from which most of the stuff is sent out, for you know of course that Dr Rivière’s Serums are famous throughout the world…”

  “Was it Couchet who put them on the market?”

  “Yes. Dr Rivière had no money. Couchet financed his research. About ten years ago he set up a laboratory which wasn’t on the scale of this one…”

  “Is Dr Rivière still in the business?”

  “He died five years ago in a motor accident.”

  Couchet’s body was taken away at last, and, when the door of the safe was opened, there were exclamations: all the money it contained had disappeared. Only business papers were left. Monsieur Philippe explained:

  “There were not only the three hundred thousand francs that Monsieur Couchet must certainly have brought, but also sixty thousand francs that were paid in this morning, which I put in this pigeon-hole myself, with an elastic band round them.”

  In the dead man’s wallet, nothing. Or rather, two tickets for a theatre near the Madeleine, at the sight of which Nine broke into sobs.

  “They were for us…We were to have gone there together…”

  Things were coming to an end. The confusion had increased. The photographers were folding up their ungainly camera-stands. The police doctor was washing his hands at a tap he had discovered in a closet and the examining magistrate’s clerk was showing signs of weariness.

  For a few moments, however, in spite of all this agitation, Maigret had a kind of tête – à – tête with the dead man.

  He was a plump, sturdy, shortish man: like Nine, he had probably never shed a certain vulgarity, in spite of his well-cut suit, his manicured nails, his hand-made silk shirt and underclothes.

  His fair hair was thinning. His eyes must have been blue, with a somewhat childish expression.

  “A real good sort.” a voice sighed behind Maigret.

  It was Nine, tearful with emotion, calling Maigret to witness since she dared not address the more forbidding Parquet people.

  “I give you my word, he was a real good sort. As soon as he thought something would make me happy…And not only me…Anybody…I never saw anyone tip the way he did…So that I used to scold him…I told him people took him for a sucker…Then he used to say: “What does it matter?””

  The Inspector asked gravely:

  “Was he usually cheerful?”

  “Fairly cheerful…But not deep down…You understand? It’s hard to explain…He always had to be moving about and doing something…If he stayed still he grew gloomy or anxious…”

  “His wife? ”

  “I’ve seen her once in the distance…I’ve nothing to say against her…”

  “Where did Couchet live?”

  “Boulevard Haussmann…But most of the time he went to Meulan, where he’s got a villa…”

  Maigret glanced round sharply and saw the concierge, who, not daring to come in, was making signs to him, looking unhappier than ever.

  “I say…He’s coming down…”

  “Who? ”

  “Monsieur de Saint-Marc…He must have heard all the noise…Here he comes…Today of all days…Just think…”

  The former ambassador, who was in his dressing-gown, seemed reluctant to come forward. He had recognized a police visit. Besides, the corpse on its stretcher had just passed close to him.

  “What has happened?” he asked Maigret.

  “A man’s been killed…Couchet, the owner of the Serum Laboratory…”

  The Inspector had the impression that his interlocutor had been struck by a sudden thought, as though he had remembered something.

  “You knew him?”

  “No…That’s to say I’ve heard him spoken of…”

  “And? ”

  “Nothing. I don’t know anything…At what time was…?”

  “The crime must have been committed between eight and nine o’clock…”

  Monsieur de Saint-Marc sighed, smoothed his silvery hair, nodded to Maigret, and went off towards the staircase that led to his own flat.

  The concierge had remained on one side. Then she had gone to speak to someone who was walking to and fro in the entrance-way, head bent. When she came back towards the Inspector he questioned her.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Monsieur Martin…He’s looking for a glove he lost…You see he never goes out without gloves, even to buy cigarettes over the way.”

  Now, Monsieur Martin was prowling round the dustbins, striking a few matches, until at last he resignedly made his way upstairs again.

  People were shaking hands with each other in the courtyard. The police were clearing out. The examining magistrate had a
few words with Maigret.

  “I’ll leave you to your job…Of course you’ll keep me informed…”

  Monsieur Philippe, still as formal as a fashion plate, bowed to the Inspector.

  “You don’t need me any longer?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow…I suppose you’ll be in your office? ”

  “As usual…At nine o’clock precisely…”

  And then there came a sudden moment of emotional tension, although not the slightest incident occurred. The courtyard was still immersed in shadow, save for its solitary lamp, the dusty bulb in the entrance.

  Outside, the cars moved into gear and glided off over the asphalt, their headlamps for a moment lighting up the trees of the Place des Vosges.

  The dead man was no longer there. The office seemed to have been ransacked. Nobody had thought of switching off the lights, and the laboratory was illuminated as though for intensive night work.

  And here were the three of them together in the middle of the courtyard, three dissimilar beings who had not known one another an hour before and yet seemed bound together by some mysterious affinity.

  Or rather, who were like the members of a family left behind, alone, after a funeral, when the outsiders have gone.

  Such was the fleeting impression that struck Maigret as he looked, in turn, at Nine’s piquant face and the haggard features of the concierge.

  “You’ve put your children to bed?”

  “Yes…But they aren’t asleep…They’re anxious…they seem to feel…”

  Madame Bourcier had a question to ask, a question she seemed almost ashamed of and yet which, for her, was all-important.

  “D’you think…”

  Her eyes roamed round the courtyard and seemed to linger over the darkened windows.

  “…that…that it’s somebody from the house?”

  And now she was staring at the entrance, at that broad porch whose door was always open – except after eleven at night – connecting the courtyard with the street, giving access to the building to all the unknown world outside.

  Nine’s attitude, meanwhile, was one of restraint, and from time to time she cast a furtive glance at the Inspector.

  “The investigation will probably provide the answer to your question, Madame Bourcier…For the time being, there’s just one thing that seems certain; the person who stole the three hundred and sixty thousand francs is not the same as the murderer…At least that’s probable, since Monsieur Couchet had his back against the safe…By the way, were the lights on in the laboratory this evening?”

  “Wait a minute…Yes, I believe so…But not as much as now…Monsieur Couchet must have switched on a light or two to go to the toilet, which is at the far end of the building…”

  Maigret went in to turn off all the lights, while the concierge stayed in the doorway even though the body was no longer there. In the courtyard the Inspector found Nine waiting for him. He heard a sound somewhere over his head, the sound of something brushing against a window pane.

  But all the windows were shut, all the lights out.

  Somebody had moved, somebody was keeping watch in a darkened room.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Madame Bourcier…I shall be here before the offices open…”

  “I’m coming along with you. I’ve got to close the main door…”

  Outside on the pavement, Nine commented:

  “I thought you had a car.”

  She seemed unwilling to leave him. Her eyes fixed on the ground, she added:

  “Whereabouts do you live?”

  “Quite close by, Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.”

  “The Metro’s closed, I suppose?”

  “I should think so.”

  “I’d like to tell you something…”

  “I’m listening.”

  She still dared not look at him. Behind them, they could hear the concierge bolting the door and then going back to her lodge. There was not a soul in the square. The fountains plashed musically. The town hall clock struck one.

  “I know this must seem awful cheek…I don’t know what you’ll think of me…I told you Raymond was very generous…He had no sense of the value of money…He used to give me whatever I wanted…You understand? ”

  “And so?”

  “It’s ridiculous…I used to ask for as little as possible…I’d wait till it occurred to him…Besides, as he was nearly always with me, I was never short of anything…Tonight I was going to have dinner with him…Well…”

  “You’re broke?”

  “It’s not exactly that.” she protested. “It’s even stupider. I was going to have asked him for some money tonight. I paid a bill at midday…”

  She was in agonies. She was watching Maigret closely, ready to draw back at the least hint of a smile.

  “I’d never imagined he wouldn’t come…I still had a little money in my bag…While I was waiting for him at the Select I ate some oysters, and then some crayfish…I telephoned…And when I got here I realized I’d barely got enough to pay my taxi…”

  “And at home?”

  “I live in a hotel…”

  “I’m asking you whether you’ve got any money put by…”

  “Me?”

  A nervous little laugh.

  “Whatever for? Could I have known? Even if I had, I shouldn’t have wanted…”

  Maigret heaved a sigh.

  “Come with me as far as Boulevard Beaumarchais. That’s the only place you’ll find a taxi at this hour. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing…I…”

  All the same, a shiver ran through her. It’s true that she was only wearing a silk dress.

  “Hadn’t he made a will?”

  “How should I know? D’you think one worries about things like that when everything’s going well? Raymond was a real good sort…I…”

  She was weeping silently as she walked. The Inspector slipped a hundred-franc note into her hand, hailed a passing cab, and grunted, thrusting his hands into his pockets:

  “I’ll see you tomorrow…You did say Hôtel Pigalle? ”

  When he got into bed, Madame Maigret only woke up enough to murmur half-consciously: “I hope you’ve had some dinner?”

  3

  The Couple in the Hôtel Pigalle

  When he left home at eight o’clock next morning Maigret had three alternative tasks to choose from, all of which had to be performed that day: to revisit the premises in the Place des Vosges and question the staff; to pay a call on Madame Couchet, who had been informed of events by the local police; or, finally, to have another talk with Nine.

  As soon as he woke he had rung up Police Headquarters, giving them a list of the tenants of the building and of everyone who was closely or remotely connected with the affair, and when he called in at his office he would find detailed information awaiting him.

  The market was in full swing on the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. It was so cold that the Inspector turned up the velvet collar of his overcoat. The Place des Vosges was close by, but he would have to go there on foot.

  However, a tram was passing bound for the Place Pigalle, and that decided Maigret’s course of action. He would see Nine first.

  Of course, she wasn’t up. At the hotel desk he was recognized with some anxiety.

  “She’s not mixed up in anything tiresome, I hope? Such a well-behaved girl.”

  “Does she have many visitors?”

  “Only her gentleman friend.”

  “The old one or the young one?”

  “She’s only got one. Neither old nor young…”

  The hotel was a comfortable one, with a lift, and telephones in all the rooms. Maigret was deposited on the third floor, knocked at the door of number 27, and heard someone stirring in bed, then a voice mumble:

  “What is it?”

  “Open the door, Nine.”

  A hand must have emerged from under the blankets and reached out to draw the bolt. Maigret entered the close, darkened room, caught sight of the young wom
an’s piquant face, and went to draw the curtains.

  “What time is it?”

  “Not yet nine o’clock…Don’t disturb yourself…”

  She was screwing up her eyes against the harsh daylight. Under such conditions she was not pretty, and she looked more like a little country girl than a coquette. She passed her hand over her face two or three times, and ended by sitting in the bed propped against the pillow. At last she unhooked the telephone.

  “Bring my breakfast, please.”

  And to Maigret:

  “What a business…You didn’t mind my cadging from you last night, did you? It’s so silly…I shall have to go and sell my jewellery…”

  “Have you much?”

  She pointed to the dressing table where, in an ashtray advertising somebody’s goods, there lay a few rings, a bracelet, a watch, the whole lot worth about five thousand francs.

  Somebody was knocking at the door of the neighbouring room, and Nine listened attentively; a faint smile crossed her lips when she heard the knocking renewed insistently.

  “Who is it?” asked Maigret.

  “Next door? I don’t know. But if anyone’s able to wake them up at this hour of the morning…”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Nothing. They never get up before four in the afternoon, if then.”

  “Do they take dope?”

  Her eyelashes fluttered affirmatively, but she hurriedly added:

  “You’re not going to take advantage of my having told you, I hope?”

  However, the door had eventually opened. So did Nine’s, and a maid brought in a tray with café au lait and croissants.

  “You’ll excuse me?”

  Her eyes were ringed, and her nightgown disclosed thin shoulders, and a small rather flaccid bosom like an under-grown schoolgirl’s. While she dipped pieces of croissant into her coffee she went on listening as if, in spite of everything, she was interested in what was happening next door.

  “Am I involved in the business?” she asked none the less. “It would be tiresome if my name got into the papers. Especially for Madame Couchet…”

  And as somebody was rapping a hasty low tattoo on the door, she called out: