Maigret Sets a Trap

by Georges Simenon

  It must have been about three thirty in the afternoon when he went up to the laboratory and Moers asked him:

  ‘Did you get my note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I just sent it, and you probably passed the messenger on your way up. The burn on the jacket is no more than twelve hours old. Do you want me to give you details …?’

  ‘No. You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Certain. But I’ll do a few tests. I presume there’s no objection to my burning the jacket in a couple of other places. Some test burns would be evidence if it goes to court.’

  Maigret nodded and went back downstairs. By now, Marcel Moncin would be in the Criminal Records section for the usual checks, and would have to strip for an initial medical examination and measurements, then, after dressing again, but without a tie, he would be photographed full face and in profile.

  The papers were already printing the photographs taken by the reporters when he had arrived at Quai des Orfèvres, and inspectors, also now armed with his picture, were once more patrolling the Grandes-Carrières neighbourhood, endlessly asking the same questions of employees of the Métro, local shopkeepers, and anyone else who might have seen the interior decorator the day before, or at the time of the other attacks.

  Maigret got into one of the cars in the courtyard and had himself driven to Boulevard Saint-Germain. The same maid as in the morning answered the door.

  ‘Your assistant is in the drawing room,’ she announced. She meant Janvier, who was alone there, putting the finishing touches to the notes taken during his search.

  Both men were equally tired.

  ‘Where’s the wife?’

  ‘About half an hour ago, she asked permission to go and lie down.’

  ‘How did she act the rest of the time?’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of her. Now and then, she’d come and peer into the room where I was to see what I was doing.’

  ‘You haven’t questioned her?’

  ‘You didn’t tell me to.’

  ‘I suppose you haven’t found anything very interesting?’

  ‘I chatted with the maid. She’s only been here six months. The couple didn’t have many visitors, and didn’t go out a lot. They don’t seem to have any close friends. Occasionally they spend a weekend with her parents, who have a villa in Triel and live there all year round.’

  ‘What kind of people are the parents?’

  ‘The father was a pharmacist on Place Clichy, and retired a few years ago.’

  Janvier showed Maigret the photograph of a group in a garden. It showed Moncin, wearing a light summer jacket, and his wife in a cotton dress, alongside a man with a pepper and salt beard and a buxom woman beaming vacantly, her hand resting on the bonnet of a car.

  ‘Here’s another. The young woman with the two children is Madame Moncin’s sister, who married a garage-owner in Levallois. They have a brother too, he’s in Africa.’

  There was a whole box full of photographs, mostly of Madame Moncin, including one of her on the day of her first communion, and the inevitable wedding photograph of the young couple.

  ‘A few business letters, not many. He doesn’t seem to have had more than about a dozen clients. Some bills. As far as I can see, they don’t pay them until the tradesmen have sent two or three demands.’

  Madame Moncin, who had perhaps heard Maigret arrive, or been alerted by the maid, appeared in the doorway, her features looking more drawn than in the morning, and it was clear that she had done her hair again and applied fresh make-up.

  ‘You haven’t brought him back?’ she asked.

  ‘Not until he gives us a satisfactory explanation for certain coincidences.’

  ‘You really think it was him?’

  He did not reply, and for her part she did not launch into any vehement protestations, merely shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘One day you’re going to realize that you’ve made a big mistake, then you’ll be sorry for all the distress you’ve caused him.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  Hardly was the question out of his mouth than he thought it stupid.

  ‘He’s my husband,’ she replied.

  Did that mean she did love him, or that, as his wife, it was her duty to stand by him?

  ‘Have you taken him to prison?’

  ‘No, not yet, he’s at police headquarters. We’ll be asking him some more questions.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He refuses to answer. You really have nothing to tell me, Madame Moncin?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘You do realize, don’t you, that even if your husband is found guilty, as I have every reason to believe, he is unlikely to go to the guillotine, or to receive a prison sentence with hard labour. I told him this just now. I am quite sure the medical experts will declare that he is not responsible for his actions. A man who kills five women in the street, and then tears their clothes, is sick. When he’s not in a state of crisis, he may well deceive those around him. He certainly does practise some deceit, since no one seems to have harboured any suspicion about his behaviour. Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes. I’m listening.’

  She might have been listening, but it was as if this conversation did not concern her, and was nothing to do with her husband. She was even following with her eyes a fly that was crawling up the net curtain.

  ‘Five women have died so far, and as long as the killer, or the maniac, or the insane person, call him what you will, remains at large, other lives are at risk. Do you realize this? And do you also realize that if, until now, he has attacked only unknown women who happened to be in the street, that might change, and tomorrow he might start to attack people close to him. Are you not afraid?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t think that for months, and possibly for years, you have been in mortal danger?’

  ‘No.’

  It was discouraging. Her attitude was not even one of defiance. She remained calm, almost serene.

  ‘You’ve seen my mother-in-law? What did she say?’

  ‘She protested energetically. May I ask why you and she are not on good terms?’

  ‘I don’t wish to talk of such matters. They are not important.’

  What else could he do?

  ‘Come along, Janvier.’

  ‘You’re not going to send my husband back to me?’

  ‘No.’

  She saw them to the door and closed it behind them. That was almost all for the afternoon. Maigret went to eat with Janvier and Lapointe, while Lucas took his turn to remain alone with Marcel Moncin in Maigret’s office. Then they had to resort to subterfuge to remove the suspect from the building, since a mass of journalists and photographers had colonized the corridors and anterooms.

  A few large drops of rain fell on the pavements at about eight o’clock, and everyone hoped for the thunderstorm to break, but if it did, it must have been out somewhere to the east, where the sky remained a poisonous black.

  They had no need to wait for the exact time at which the previous night’s attack had happened, since by nine o’clock the streets were just as dark and the lighting exactly the same.

  Maigret came out alone on to the grand staircase, chatting with reporters. Lucas and Janvier pretended to be taking Moncin to the Mousetrap, in handcuffs this time, but once they were downstairs, they went into the courtyard, where they made him get into a car.

  They all met up at the corner of Rue Norvins, where Marthe Jusserand was already waiting with her fiancé.

  It took only a few minutes. Moncin was taken to the exact spot where the young policewoman had been attacked. They had made him wear the jacket with the cigarette burn.

  ‘There was no more light than now?’

  The policewoman glanced around and nodded.

  ‘That’s right. It was just like this.’

  ‘Now try to look at him from the angle you saw him.’

  She bent her head in various directions, and had them
move the man to different positions.

  ‘Do you recognize him.’

  Appearing deeply upset, her chest heaving, she whispered, after a brief glance at her fiancé who was keeping discreetly to one side:

  ‘It’s my duty to tell the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s your duty.’

  Another glance seemed almost to beg Moncin’s forgiveness, as he stood waiting, seemingly indifferent.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it was him.’

  ‘You formally recognize him?’

  She nodded her head and suddenly this young woman who had been so brave burst into tears.

  ‘I won’t be needing you again tonight. And thank you, mademoiselle,’ said Maigret, shepherding her towards her fiancé. ‘You heard that, Monsieur Moncin?’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to say?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Take him back, men.’

  ‘Goodnight, boss.’

  ‘Goodnight, everyone.’

  Maigret got into one of the police cars.

  ‘Take me home, Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.’

  But this time he stopped the car at Square d’Anvers to drink a beer in a brasserie. His own role was virtually over now. In the morning, Coméliau, as examining magistrate, would no doubt wish to question Moncin, and would then send him for psychiatric tests.

  At Quai des Orfèvres, it would just be a matter of following routine, contacting witnesses, asking them questions, compiling as complete a file as possible.

  Why Maigret should have felt dissatisfied, though, was another matter entirely. Professionally, he had done all that was required of him. Only he had not yet understood. The ‘click’ had not happened. At no moment had he had the feeling of any human contact between him and the interior decorator.

  The attitude of the younger Madame Moncin worried him too. He would try once more with her.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Madame Maigret remarked. ‘Is it really over?’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘The papers. And the radio.’

  He shrugged. After all these years, she still believed what was printed in the papers!

  ‘In a sense, it’s over, yes.’

  He went into the bedroom and began undressing.

  ‘I hope that you’ll be able to lie in a bit tomorrow morning.’

  He hoped so too. He wasn’t so much tired as sickened, without being able to say quite why.

  ‘Are you upset?’

  ‘No. Don’t worry. You know it often gets me this way in this kind of case.’

  The excitement of the chase no longer existed, and it was as if he was plunged into a kind of void.

  ‘Pay no attention. Just pour me a little glass of something so that I’ll sleep like a log for ten hours.’

  He didn’t look at the clock before going to sleep, and tossed restlessly for a while, in sheets that felt damp already, as a dog barked persistently somewhere nearby.

  He had no sense of the time, or of anything else, even where he was, when the telephone rang.

  He let it ring for some time, then stretched out his hand so clumsily that he knocked over a glass of water on the bedside table.

  ‘Hello …’

  His voice was hoarse.

  ‘Is that you, boss?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Lognon here. Forgive me for disturbing you …’

  There was a note of sadness in Inspector Hard-done-by’s voice.

  ‘Yes. I’m listening. Where are you?’

  ‘Rue de Maistre.’

  And, dropping his voice, Lognon went on, as if regretfully:

  ‘There’s been another murder … A woman … Knifed, yes. Her dress was slashed …’

  Madame Maigret had put the light on.

  She saw her husband, who had been lying down until then, sit up and rub his eyes.

  ‘Are you sure? Hello? Lognon?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here.’

  ‘When? And anyway, what time is it now?’

  ‘Ten past midnight.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘About three quarters of an hour ago. I tried to get you at headquarters. I was alone on duty.’

  ‘I’m on my way …’

  ‘Another?’ his wife asked.

  He nodded yes.

  ‘But I thought the murderer was under lock and key?’

  ‘Moncin is in the Mousetrap. Get me headquarters on the line, while I get dressed.’

  ‘Hello? Is that the Police Judiciaire? Detective Chief Inspector Maigret wants a word …’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’ grunted Maigret. ‘Mauvoisin? You’ve already heard from Lognon? I presume our man hasn’t budged, has he? What? … You’ve just checked? All right, I’ll handle this. Can you send me a car right away? … To my home address. Yes.’

  Madame Maigret understood that the best thing to do in the circumstances was to say nothing, and she opened the sideboard to take out the plum brandy, handing a glass to her husband. He drank it off automatically, and she followed him on to the landing, listening to his footsteps going down the stairs.

  On the drive there, he did not open his mouth, looking straight ahead of him, and once he was out of the car and surrounded by a group of about twenty people, in an ill-lit section of Rue de Maistre, he slammed the car door behind him.

  Lognon came to meet him, with the look of someone announcing a death in the family.

  ‘I was at the station when they called me, I came straight over.’

  An ambulance was parked at the side of the road, and its attendants were waiting for instructions, their white coats patches of light through the darkness. A few bystanders were there as well, speechless and aghast.

  A female shape was lying on the pavement, almost up against the wall, and a trickle of blood zigzagged away from it, already congealing.

  ‘Is she dead?’

  Someone approached him, a local doctor, as Maigret later ascertained.

  ‘I counted at least six stab wounds,’ he said. ‘I could only examine her superficially.’

  ‘All in the back?’

  ‘No, at least four in the chest. And one across the throat which seems to have been made after the others and probably after the victim was already on the ground.’

  ‘The coup de grâce,’ Maigret said grimly.

  Could it not be said that this murder had delivered a sort of coup de grâce to him too?

  ‘There are shallower cuts on the forearms and hands.’

  That made him frown.

  ‘Do we know who she is?’ he asked, pointing to the dead woman.

  ‘I found her identity card in her bag. Jeanine Laurent, a domestic servant, working for a couple called Durandeau, Rue de Clignancourt.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  Maigret preferred not to look at her. The little skivvy had certainly put on her best frock, sky-blue tulle, almost a ballroom dress. No doubt she’d gone out dancing. She was wearing high-heeled shoes, one of which had come off her foot.

  ‘Who raised the alarm?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  It was a bicycle patrol officer, patiently awaiting his turn.

  ‘I was doing my rounds with my partner here, when I saw her lying on the left-hand pavement.’

  He had witnessed nothing of the attack. When he bent over the corpse, it was still warm, and blood was still flowing from the wounds. Because of that, he had thought at first that the girl was not dead.

  ‘Have her taken to the morgue and call Doctor Paul.’

  And to Lognon:

  ‘You’ve given instructions?’

  ‘I got hold of all the men I could to comb the district.’

  But what was the use? It had already been done before, without result. A car screeched to a halt, and young Rougin leaped out, his hair sticking up on end.

  ‘Well, my dear chief inspector, what now?’

  ‘Who tipped you off about this?’ />
  Maigret was angry and aggressive.

  ‘Someone from the street. There are people in this world who believe in the usefulness of the press. So, you still haven’t got the right man?’

  Without paying any more attention to the inspector, the journalist hurried over to the pavement, followed by his photographer, and while the latter took pictures, he was questioning the bystanders.

  ‘Take care of the rest of it,’ Maigret muttered to Lognon.

  ‘You don’t need anyone?’

  He shook his head and got back into the car, head bowed, as if trying to digest some uncomfortable reflections.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the driver asked.

  Maigret looked at him without finding an answer.

  ‘Just go down towards Place Clichy. Or Place Blanche.’

  There was nothing for him to do at Quai des Orfèvres. What else could be done that had not already been tried?

  Nor did he have the heart to go back home to a comfortable bed.

  ‘Wait here for me.’

  They had reached the bright lights of Place Clichy, where the café terraces were still illuminated.

  ‘What can I serve you, sir?’

  ‘Anything you have.’

  ‘Beer? Cognac?’

  ‘Get me a beer.’

  At a neighbouring table, a platinum blonde, her breasts largely revealed by her tightly fitting dress, was trying to persuade her companion to take her across the street into a nightclub with a flashing neon sign.

  ‘You won’t regret it, I promise you. It might cost a bit, but …’

  Did he understand what she was saying? He was either an Englishman or an American, and kept shaking his head and saying ‘No! No!’

  ‘Can’t you say anything else? “No! No!” What if I said “No!” as well and just left you?’

  He merely smiled placidly at her, and, losing patience, she called the waiter and ordered more drinks.

  ‘And bring me a sandwich. Since he won’t take me to supper over the way.’

  Other customers were discussing the sketches of a revue they had seen in a nearby cabaret. An Arab was hawking peanuts. An old woman selling flowers recognized Maigret and preferred to inch away.

  He smoked at least three pipes without budging, watching the passers-by, the taxis in the street, hearing snatches of conversation, as if he needed to plunge back into everyday life.