Maigret's First Case

by Georges Simenon

  ‘If she’d stayed in her village, got married and had ten children, probably no one would have noticed. They might not all have been from the same father, that’s all.’

  ‘Look! Isn’t that your friend pacing up and down the street?’

  He leaned out, one cheek covered in lather, and spotted Justin Minard waiting patiently for him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite him up?’

  ‘There’s no point. I’ll be ready in five minutes. Were you planning to go out today?’

  Maigret rarely inquired about her plans, and she guessed at once.

  ‘Do you want me to chaperone the young lady?’

  ‘It’s highly likely that I will ask you. I can’t let her loose in Paris, given that she simply can’t keep her mouth shut. Goodness knows who she’ll speak to or what she’ll tell them.’

  ‘Are you going to see her now?’

  ‘Right away.’

  ‘She’ll still be in bed.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I bet you’ll have a job getting away from her.’

  As he emerged from under the arch Minard stopped him and began to walk alongside him, completely at ease, asking:

  ‘What are we doing today, chief?’

  Years later, Maigret would remember that the little flautist had been the first person to call him chief.

  ‘Did you see her? Do you have any leads? I hardly slept. Just as I was about to doze off, a question came into my mind.’

  Their footsteps echoed on the pavement of Boulevard Richard-Lenoir. From a distance they could see the crowds on Boulevard Voltaire.

  ‘If a shot was fired, it must have been aimed at someone. So I was wondering whether it had hit home. Am I boring you?’

  On the contrary, since the same question had occurred to Maigret.

  ‘Supposing the shot didn’t hit anyone. Of course it’s difficult to imagine yourself in the shoes of people like that … But it seems to me that if no one was wounded or killed, they wouldn’t have put on such an elaborate performance … Do you follow me? … As soon as they’d thrown me out, they hurriedly tidied the room to make it look as if no one had set foot inside … There’s another detail: do you remember, while the butler was trying to get rid of me, a voice from the landing said: “Hurry up, Louis!”, as if there was some trouble up there. And, if they had to stick the young lady in the maid’s room, it’s probably because she was too upset to play her part …

  ‘I’m free all day … You can send me anywhere you like …’

  Next to the lodging house where Germaine had spent the night there was a café with a terrace, pedestal tables with white marble tops, a waiter with side whiskers straight out of a promotional calendar who was cleaning the windows with whiting.

  ‘Wait here for me.’

  He had hesitated. He had almost sent Minard upstairs in his place. Had anyone asked him why he needed to see Germaine, he would have found it hard to reply. That morning, he wished he could be in several places at once. He was feeling almost nostalgic for the Vieux Calvados and was sorry not to be sitting by the window watching the comings and goings of the house in Rue Chaptal. Now that he was better acquainted with all the people who lived there, it seemed to him that the sight of Richard Gendreau getting into his motor-car, or his father walking towards his carriage, or Louis coming out into the street for a breath of air would have a precise significance.

  He also wished he could be at the Hôtel du Louvre, Avenue du Bois, or even in Anseval.

  But only one of these characters − all of them unknown to him two days earlier − was accessible to him, and he instinctively clung to him.

  Curiously, that feeling was rooted in the dreams of his childhood and adolescent years. His father’s premature death had put an end to his medical studies after two years, but the fact was that he had never intended to become a real doctor treating patients.

  The profession he had always yearned for did not actually exist. As he grew up, he had the sense that many people in his village were out of place, that they had followed a path that was not theirs, purely because they didn’t know what else to do.

  And he imagined a very clever, above all very understanding man, a cross between a doctor and a priest, a man capable of understanding another’s destiny at first glance.

  His reply to his wife on the subject of Germaine fitted that image: if she’d stayed in Anseval …

  People would have come to see him the way they consulted a doctor. He would have been a sort of mender of destinies. Not only because he was clever. Perhaps he didn’t need to have an exceptional mind but simply to be able to live the life of every man, to put himself in anyone’s shoes.

  Maigret had never spoken of this to a soul; he didn’t dare think about it too much, because he would have laughed at himself. Prevented from completing his medical studies, he had joined the police by chance. But was it really chance? And aren’t the police sometimes menders of destinies?

  He had spent the entire night, sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, among those people whom he barely knew, starting with the elderly Balthazar who had died five years earlier. Now, as he knocked on Germaine’s door, he had the entire clan with him.

  ‘Come in!’ replied a husky voice.

  Then, immediately after:

  ‘Hold on! I forgot the door’s locked.’

  She was barefoot in her nightdress, her hair cascading down her back, her plump breasts heaving with vitality. But she had clearly been awake for a while, because on the bedside table was a tray with some left-over hot chocolate and croissant crumbs.

  ‘Are we going out? Do I need to get dressed?’

  ‘You can either get back into bed or put on some clothes. I simply want to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Don’t you feel awkward standing there fully clothed while I’m in my nightdress?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Doesn’t your wife get jealous?’

  ‘No. I’d like you to talk to me about Count d’Anseval. Or rather … you know the house, the people who live in it and the regular visitors … Imagine that it’s one o’clock in the morning … One o’clock in the morning … An argument breaks out in Mademoiselle Gendreau’s room … Think hard … Who, in your opinion, might be in her room?’

  She had started to comb her hair in front of the mirror, displaying the auburn tufts under her arms, her rosy flesh visible through her nightdress. She racked her brains.

  ‘Louis?’ he prompted.

  ‘No. Louis wouldn’t have gone upstairs so late.’

  ‘Wait a minute. There’s a detail I forgot to mention. Louis was fully dressed, with his tailcoat, his starched white shirt-front and his black tie. Does he generally go to bed late?’

  ‘Sometimes, but he doesn’t keep his butler’s uniform on. That means there was a visitor in the house.’

  ‘Could Hubert Balthazar, Mademoiselle Gendreau’s uncle, have been in his niece’s bedroom, for example?’

  ‘I don’t think he’d have come at one o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘If he had, where would she have entertained him? In one of the downstairs drawing rooms, I imagine?’

  ‘Definitely not. That’s not how they do things in Rue Chaptal. They all lead separate lives. The drawing rooms are only for receptions. The rest of the time, they all stay shut away in their own rooms.’

  ‘Could Richard Gendreau have gone up to his sister’s room?’

  ‘Definitely. He often did. Especially when he was angry.’
/>
  ‘Did he sometimes carry a pistol? Have you ever seen him with a gun in his hand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Mademoiselle Gendreau?’

  ‘Just a minute! Monsieur Richard owns two guns, a big one and a little one, but they are in his desk. Mademoiselle has one too, with a mother-of-pearl grip. She keeps it in her bedside table drawer. Every night, she takes it out and puts it on the table.’

  ‘Is she afraid?’

  ‘No. She’s wary. Like all shrews, she always reckons someone’s got it in for her. Supposing I told you that she’s already a miser, even at her age. She leaves small change lying around on purpose, having counted it, to see if anyone will steal a few sous. The maid before Marie got caught and was fired.’

  ‘Has she ever entertained the count in her bedroom?’

  ‘Maybe not exactly in her bedroom, but in the boudoir next door.’

  ‘At one o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘Probably. I read a book about that English queen, Elizabeth I … Have you heard of her? I know it’s a novel, but it must be true … She was a cold woman, who couldn’t make love. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mademoiselle was like that too.’

  The comb rasped through her hair and she arched her back, glancing occasionally at Maigret in the mirror.

  ‘I’m glad I’m not like that!’

  ‘Is it possible that, on hearing a noise coming from the second floor, Monsieur Richard could have rushed upstairs with his pistol?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To catch his sister’s lover …’

  ‘That wouldn’t bother him. The only thing those people care about is money.’

  She continued to flaunt herself in front of him, oblivious of the fact that he was miles away, his thoughts on the bedroom in Rue Chaptal, trying to position all the main actors, like a theatre director.

  ‘Has Count d’Anseval ever brought a friend with him?’

  ‘It’s possible, but then she would have entertained him downstairs, and I hardly ever went down.’

  ‘Did Mademoiselle Lise telephone him sometimes?’

  ‘I don’t think he has a telephone. She didn’t call him; now and then he called her, probably from a café.’

  ‘How did she address him?’

  ‘Jacques, of course.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-five, perhaps? He’s a handsome fellow, but there’s something thuggish about him. He always looks as if he’s making fun of people.’

  ‘Is he the sort of man who’d carry a gun in his pocket?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’

  ‘Because he’s that sort of fellow. Have you read the Fantômas books?’

  ‘Monsieur Félicien, the father, does he side with his daughter or with his son?’

  ‘He doesn’t side with anyone. Or rather, he’s on my side, if you really want to know. He sometimes shuffles into my room in his slippers at eight in the morning, saying he needs a button sewing on.

  ‘The others pretty much ignore him. The servants call him the old boy, or mutton chops. Apart from Albert, who’s his personal manservant, no one takes any notice of what he says. They know it’s of no importance. Once, I said to him bluntly: “If you keep getting all excited like this, you’ll have a heart attack. And that won’t do you any good!” That didn’t stop him. Now it’s Marie’s turn, and I don’t know whether she gave in …

  ‘By the way, aren’t you embarrassed watching a woman getting dressed?’

  Maigret rose and looked for his hat.

  ‘Where are you off to? You’re not going to leave me all on my own?’

  ‘I have some important meetings to attend. In a moment, my friend who brought you here will come and keep you company.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Downstairs.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring him up? Admit that you had something in mind! Are you scared? Because of your wife?’

  She had already poured water into the bowl to wash, and Maigret could see she was about to slip off her nightdress, the straps of which slid down a little further every time she moved.

  ‘I’ll probably see you at some point during the day,’ he said, opening the door.

  He found Justin Minard enjoying a café-crème on the terrace of the café, illuminated by a slanting ray of sunshine.

  ‘Your wife was here a moment ago.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just after you left, an urgent letter arrived. She ran to try and catch up with you. When I saw her, I realized that she was looking for you.’

  Maigret sat down, ordered a beer without thinking, oblivious of the time of day, and opened the letter delivered by pneumatic tube. It was signed Maxime Le Bret.

  I should like you to come into the office this morning. Regards.

  It had definitely been written from his home on Boulevard de Courcelles because if he had sent it from the office, Le Bret would have used headed notepaper. He was a stickler for etiquette. He had at least four different visiting cards for different purposes: Monsieur and Madame Le Bret de Plouhinec, Maxime Le Bret de Plouhinec, Maxime Le Bret, Officer of the Legion of Honour, Maxime Le Bret, Detective Chief Inspector.

  This handwritten note marked a new intimacy between him and his secretary, and he must have thought carefully about how to begin: Dearest Maigret? Dear Jules? Monsieur? In the end, he had resolved the problem by putting nothing.

  ‘Tell me, Minard, do you really have some time on your hands?’

  ‘As much time as you need.’

  ‘The young lady is upstairs. I don’t know when I’ll be free. I’m worried that if we allow her to wander around on her own, she might go to Rue Chaptal and blab.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘If you go out with her, leave me a note telling me where you are. If you need to get away, leave her with my wife.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Maigret walked into the police station and his colleagues looked at him with that slightly envious admiration reserved for officers on leave or on a special mission − those lucky enough to escape the daily grind.

  ‘Has the chief inspector arrived?’

  ‘Ages ago.’

  There was the same hint of friendliness in Le Bret’s voice as in his note. He even proffered his hand, which he did not usually do.

  ‘I shan’t ask you how your investigation is progressing, as I imagine it’s still early days. I asked you to come and see me … I’d like to make one thing clear, because this is a delicate matter. Although anything I find out when I’m at home in Boulevard de Courcelles is certainly no business of the chief inspector, on the other hand …’

  He paced up and down the office, his face fresh and rested, puffing on his gold-tipped cigarette.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you to stew for want of a piece of information. Yesterday evening Mademoiselle Gendreau telephoned my wife.’

  ‘Did she telephone from the Hôtel du Louvre?’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘She took a cab there in the afternoon.’

  ‘In that case … That’s all … I’m aware of how hard it is to find out what goes on in some houses.’

  He sounded anxious, as if he was wondering what else Maigret might have discovered.

  ‘She has no intention of returning to Rue Chaptal and she plans to restore her grandfather’s house.’

  ‘Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogn
e.’

  ‘Yes. I see that you already know a great deal.’

  Emboldened, Maigret asked:

  ‘May I take the liberty of asking whether you know Count d’Anseval?’

  Surprised, Le Bret frowned, as if trying to understand. He racked his brains for a moment.

  ‘Oh! Yes. The Balthazars bought the Chateau d’Anseval. That’s right, isn’t it? But I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Gendreau and Count d’Anseval used to meet each other regularly.’

  ‘Are you sure? That’s rather strange.’

  ‘Do you know the count?’

  ‘Not personally, and I’d prefer not to. But I have heard about him. What I find surprising … Unless they’re old childhood friends, or she’s not aware … Bob d’Anseval has gone off the rails. All doors are closed to him, he’s not a member of any club, and I think he’s been in trouble with the Drug Squad on several occasions.’

  ‘Do you happen to have his address?’

  ‘He’s said to hang around certain disreputable little bars in Avenue de Wagram and around Place des Ternes. Perhaps the Drug Squad will be able to help.’

  ‘May I ask them?’

  ‘On condition you don’t mention the Gendreau-Balthazars.’

  He was visibly anxious. He muttered to himself a couple of times:

  ‘How strange!’

  And, bolder still, Maigret asked:

  ‘Do you think that Mademoiselle Gendreau is a normal person?’

  This time, Le Bret gave a start and shot his secretary an unintentionally stern look.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I phrased my question awkwardly. I’m convinced that it was Lise Gendreau I saw in the maid’s room on the night in question. Which means that something had happened in her room that was serious enough to require a cover-up, and I have no reason to doubt the testimony of the musician who heard a gunshot as he was walking down the street.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It is probable that Mademoiselle Gendreau was not alone with her brother in her room that night.’

  ‘What are you saying?’