Maigret's Pickpocket

by Georges Simenon

  ‘No, no. I promise I’ll be back up in no time.’

  Then he spoke in a lower voice. She was whispering. The bedroom door was open.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Back in a few minutes.’

  He never wore a hat. He did not put on a coat.

  ‘Come along.’

  The lift was still there. They used it to go down.

  ‘Which way? The boulevard or the courtyard?’

  ‘The courtyard.’

  They reached it, and walked side by side in the darkness. When Huguet looked up, he saw his wife peering through the window, and made a sign to her to get back inside.

  There was still a light on in the Ricains’ bathroom. Was the young man’s stomach lurching again?

  ‘You guessed?’ the photographer asked in the end, after giving a cough.

  ‘I’m just wondering.’

  ‘This isn’t a very pleasant situation, you know. Ever since, I’ve tried to play the clown. Just now at the table, I spent the worst evening of my life.’

  ‘That was obvious.’

  ‘Have you got a match?’

  Maigret passed him the box and slowly started to pack one of the two pipes he had in his pockets.

  8.

  ‘Did Ricain and his wife have dinner at the Vieux-Pressoir on Wednesday night?’

  ‘No. Tell you the truth, they only ate there if by chance they were in funds, or if someone else was paying. They called in at about eight thirty. It was only Francis that came inside. Often, in the evening, he’d just push the door open a bit. If Carus was there, he’d come right in, followed by Sophie, and go and sit at his table.’

  ‘And on Wednesday, did he talk to anyone?’

  ‘When I saw him, he was just exchanging a word or two with Bob. He asked him:

  ‘“Is Carus here?”

  ‘And when the answer was no, he left.’

  ‘He didn’t try to borrow any money?’

  ‘Not then.’

  ‘If he was counting on Carus to invite him to dinner, that would mean they hadn’t yet eaten?’

  ‘They must have picked up a snack in the self-service café on Avenue de La Motte-Picquet. They often went there.’

  ‘And did you and your wife stay long at the table?’

  ‘We left the Vieux-Pressoir at about nine. We took the air for about a quarter of an hour. Then we went back home and Jocelyne got undressed right away. Since she’s been pregnant, she’s always going to sleep.’

  ‘Yes, I heard …’

  The photographer looked inquiringly at him.

  ‘You talked about her during dinner. Apparently she snores.’

  ‘My other two wives did too. I think all women must snore when they’re a few months pregnant. I was saying that to tease her.’

  They were talking in low voices, in the silence which was disturbed only by the sound of traffic on Boulevard de Grenelle, on the other side of the building. Rue Saint-Charles, beyond the open gate, was deserted apart from the odd passer-by they could glimpse from a distance, sometimes a woman clicking along in high heels.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I saw her to bed, then I went to kiss my kids goodnight.’

  It was true that his two previous wives lived in the same block, one with two children, the other with just one.

  ‘And you do that every night?’

  ‘Almost every night. Unless I get back too late.’

  ‘And you’re welcome there, are you?’

  ‘Why not? My ex-wives aren’t mad at me. They know me. They know I can’t be other than the way I am.’

  ‘And the way you are means that, sooner or later, you’d leave Jocelyne for someone else?’

  ‘If the opportunity came along. You see, it’s not important to me. But I adore kids. The greatest man in history, as far as I’m concerned, was Abraham.’

  It was hard not to smile, since, this time, he seemed to be speaking sincerely. There was a certain underlying innocence in him, despite his questionable jokes.

  ‘I stayed on a bit with Nicole. She’s the second one. We sometimes get together for old times’ sake.’

  ‘And does Jocelyne know about that?’

  ‘She’s not bothered. If I wasn’t like that, she wouldn’t be with me.’

  ‘So you made love?’

  ‘No. It crossed my mind, but the kid started talking in his sleep, so I tiptoed out.’

  ‘And this was what time?’

  ‘I didn’t look at my watch. I went back home. I had to change the film in one of my cameras, because I had an early-morning job on, so I automatically did that. Then I opened the window.

  ‘I do that every night, first wide open to get rid of the cigarette smoke, then halfway because, winter or summer, I can’t sleep with it closed.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I was smoking a last cigarette. There was a full moon, like tonight. I saw a couple crossing the courtyard and I recognized Francis and his wife. They weren’t arm in arm as they usually were, and they were having some kind of heated conversation.’

  ‘You couldn’t hear what they said?’

  ‘Just one sentence from Sophie, in a raised voice, that made me think she was angry.’

  ‘Was she often angry?’

  ‘No. She said: “Don’t play the innocent – you knew perfectly well.”’

  ‘And did he reply?’

  ‘No, he grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her towards the door.’

  ‘And you still don’t remember what time that was.’

  ‘Yes I do, because I heard the church clock strike ten. The bathroom light went on. And I lit another cigarette.’

  ‘Because you were intrigued?’

  ‘No, I just wasn’t ready to go to bed. I poured myself a glass of calvados.’

  ‘You were in your living room?’

  ‘Yes. The bedroom door was open and I’d put out the lights so as not to disturb Jocelyne.’

  ‘And how much time went past?’

  ‘Well, enough time to finish both the cigarette I’d started when I was over at my wife’s, and then another one that I lit up when I was at the window. A bit more than five minutes. But less than ten anyway.’

  ‘And you heard nothing?’

  ‘No. I saw Francis come out again and walk fast towards the gates. He always parked his car in Rue Saint-Charles. After a few moments, the engine started and then the car drove off.’

  ‘And when did you go down?’

  ‘Quarter of an hour later.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just told you, I wasn’t ready to go to sleep. I wanted to chat.’

  ‘Just a chat?’

  ‘Maybe a bit more.’

  ‘Had you had any relationship with Sophie before?’

  ‘You mean had I slept with her? Just the once. It was this time when Francis was drunk, and since there wasn’t any drink left in the house, he went out to get a bottle from whichever café was still open.’

  ‘And she was willing?’

  ‘She seemed to think it quite natural.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘After that, nothing. Ricain came back empty-handed, because they’d refused to sell him any alcohol. We put him to bed and that was that. The next few days, nothing else happened.’

  ‘Let’s get back to Wednesday night. You went downstairs?’

  ‘I went to their door and knocked. And, not to frighten Sophie, I whispered:

  ‘“It’s only Jacques.”’

  ‘And there was no reply?’

  ‘No, no sound from inside at all.’

  ‘Did that seem odd to you?’

  ‘I told myself she must have quarrelled with Francis and didn’t want to see anyone. I imagined she’d be in bed, in tears or furious.’

  ‘Did you insist?’

  ‘I knocked two or three times, then I went back upstairs.’

  ‘Did you look out of the window?’

  ‘I’d got into pyjamas
, and I glanced into the courtyard. It was empty. There was still a light on in the Ricains’ bathroom. I went to bed and off to sleep.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I got up at eight, and made coffee, while Jocelyne was still sleeping. I opened the window wide and saw that the light was still on in Francis’ bathroom.’

  ‘Didn’t that seem odd to you?’

  ‘Not really. These things happen. I went to the studios, worked until one, then I grabbed a quick bite to eat with a friend. I had a meeting planned at the Ritz with an American actor who kept me waiting an hour, so I hardly had any time for his photo session. One way and another, it was four o’clock before I got home.’

  ‘Your wife hadn’t gone out?’

  ‘To do the shopping, yes. After lunch she went to lie down, so she was asleep.’

  He seemed to realize that this constant sleep leitmotif was amusing.

  ‘And the light was …?’

  ‘Still on, that’s right.’

  ‘Did you go and knock on the door?’

  ‘No, I telephoned. Nobody answered. Ricain must have got back, fallen asleep, and then they must both have gone out and forgotten to put out the light.’

  ‘Did that happen often?’

  ‘Well, it happens to everyone, doesn’t it? Then, let me see, Jocelyne and I went out to a cinema on the Champs-Élysées …’

  Maigret almost muttered:

  ‘And she went off to sleep?’

  The cat came and rubbed itself against his trouser leg and looked up at him as if hoping to be stroked. But when Maigret bent down, it bounded away, stopping a couple of metres from them with a meow.

  ‘Whose cat is that?’

  ‘Don’t know. Everyone’s. People throw it scraps from their windows. It lives out here.’

  ‘What time did you get back on Thursday night?’

  ‘About half past ten. After the cinema, we went to have a drink in a café and I bumped into a pal.’

  ‘And the light?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But that wouldn’t be surprising, because the Ricains might have got home. I did telephone. And I admit that, when there was no answer, I was a bit worried.’

  ‘Just a bit?’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to suspect what had really happened, was I? If you thought a murder had been committed every time someone forgets to turn off a light …’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Wait. Look, just now, it’s still on. But I don’t think he can be up working.’

  ‘What about next morning?’

  ‘Well, naturally, I phoned again, and twice more during the day, until I read in the evening paper that Sophie was dead. I was out at the studios in Joinville, doing the stills for a film.’

  ‘Did anyone reply?’

  ‘Yes, a voice I didn’t recognize. I thought it best not to say anything, so I hung up.’

  ‘And you didn’t try to get in touch with Ricain?’

  Huguet said nothing. Then he shrugged and put on his comedy face again.

  ‘Well, I’m not a detective at Quai des Orfèvres, am I?’

  Maigret, who was gazing automatically at the light filtering through the frosted glass of the window, suddenly moved fast to the door of the Ricains’ apartment. The photographer followed him, realization dawning.

  ‘While we were just chatting here …’

  If Francis wasn’t working, if he wasn’t asleep, and if the light had stayed on this evening …

  The inspector banged hard on the door.

  ‘Open up! It’s Maigret!’

  He made such a noise that a neighbour appeared at another door, in pyjamas, and stared at the two men in astonishment.

  ‘What’s this all about? Can’t people have a bit of—’

  ‘Go to the concierge and ask her if she’s got a pass key.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I asked her one night, when I’d forgotten my keys, we had to get a locksmith.’

  Huguet, for someone who played the fool, had not lost his presence of mind. He wrapped a handkerchief around his fist and punched the frosted-glass window, which splintered into pieces.

  ‘Quick!’ he called breathlessly, having peered inside.

  Maigret looked inside in turn. Ricain, fully dressed, was sitting in the bath, which was too small to lie down in. Water was running from the tap. The bath was overflowing and the water was pink.

  ‘Have you got a wrench or a jack or something else heavy?’

  ‘In my car. Hang on.’

  The neighbour went back inside, and re-emerged in a dressing gown, followed by his wife asking questions. He disappeared through the gate and they heard the sound of a car boot opening. As the wife looked outside in turn, Maigret shouted to her: ‘Call a doctor! Whoever’s nearest.’

  ‘What’s going on? Isn’t it enough that …?’

  She went off muttering to herself, while the husband returned with a tyre iron. He was taller, broader and heavier than the inspector.

  ‘Let me go ahead. As long as I don’t have to worry about the damage …’

  The wood resisted at first, then cracked. A couple more blows at the bottom, then the top, and the door gave way suddenly, almost pitching the man inside.

  The rest happened in confusion. Other neighbours had heard the noise, and soon there were several people crowding into the entry hall. Maigret had dragged Francis out of the bath and on to the sofa-bed in the sitting room. He remembered the drawer in the chest and its motley collection of objects.

  He found some string. A big blue pencil helped him devise a tourniquet. He had scarcely finished when a young doctor pushed him aside. He lived in the apartment block and had hastily slipped on a pair of trousers.

  ‘How long ago …?’

  ‘We’ve only just found him.’

  ‘Phone for an ambulance.’

  ‘Will he …?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t ask questions!’

  Five minutes later, an ambulance was pulling up in the courtyard. Maigret got in the front alongside the driver. In the hospital, he had to stay in the corridor while the duty doctor started a blood transfusion.

  He was surprised to see Huguet turn up.

  ‘Is he going to pull through?’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  ‘Do you think he really meant to kill himself?’

  One sensed that Huguet doubted it. As did Maigret. Cornered, Francis had needed some dramatic gesture.

  ‘Why do you think he did it?’

  The inspector misunderstood the sense of the question.

  ‘Because he thought he was too intelligent.’

  Of course, the photographer had no idea what this meant and looked at him in puzzlement.

  Maigret was not thinking about Sophie’s death just then. He was thinking about an event much less serious but perhaps more significant, and more important for Ricain’s future: the theft of his wallet.

  9.

  He had slept until ten o’clock, but had not been able to eat his breakfast in front of an open window as he had promised himself, since a fine, cold rain had begun to fall.

  Before going into the bathroom, where there was no window, frosted or otherwise, looking on to the courtyard, he telephoned the hospital, and had considerable trouble getting through to the duty doctor.

  ‘Ricain, you say? … What’s it about? … An emergency? … We had eight emergency admissions last night and if I had to remember all their names … OK … A transfusion … A suicide attempt … Ah, yes. Well, if he’d severed the artery, he wouldn’t be in here at all, or we’d have had to put him in the cold store in the basement … Yes, he’s all right … No, he hasn’t said a word … No. Not a single word … There’s a cop sitting outside his room … I suppose you know what it’s all about …?’

  By eleven, Maigret was in his office. His feet were hurting again, since he had decided to put on his new shoes, which he still needed to wear in.

&nb
sp; Sitting opposite Lapointe and Janvier, he automatically lined up his pipes in order of size, chose the longest one, and packed it carefully.

  ‘As I was saying last night to the photographer …’

  The two inspectors glanced at each other, wondering which photographer he meant.

  ‘As I was saying then, he’s too intelligent. That can sometimes be as dangerous as being too stupid. An intelligence that isn’t anchored to any strength of character. Oh, never mind. I know what I mean to say, even if I can’t find quite the right words.

  ‘And it’s not my problem now. The doctors and psychiatrists will take care of it.

  ‘I’m almost sure he was an idealist, an idealist who was unable to live up to his own ideal. Do you see what I’m getting at?’

  Not very well, perhaps. Maigret had rarely been at the same time so talkative and so unclear.

  ‘He must have wanted to be someone extraordinary in every way. To succeed very quickly, since he was bursting with impatience, yet he also wanted to remain pure.’

  He felt discouraged, his sentences lagged far behind his thoughts.

  ‘For the best and for the worst. He must have hated Carus, because he needed him so much. All the same, he accepted the dinners the producer offered him and didn’t hesitate to tap him for money.

  ‘He was ashamed of that. Angry with himself.

  ‘He wasn’t so naive as not to see that Sophie wasn’t the woman he wanted her to be. But he needed her too. And he gained some advantage in the end, from her relationship with Carus.

  ‘But he refused to admit that. He absolutely couldn’t admit it.

  ‘And that’s why he shot his wife. Already when they came into the courtyard, they were quarrelling. It doesn’t matter what about. She must have been exasperated at seeing him playing this questionable role, and she probably spat out the truth to his face.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she had called him a pimp. Perhaps the drawer was half-open. At any rate, he couldn’t bear to hear a truth like that spoken out loud.

  ‘So he fired the gun. Then he stood there, terrified by what he had done and the consequences.

  ‘From that moment, I’m sure, he decided he wasn’t going to pay the price for this, and his brain started working, building up, as he wandered the streets, a complicated plan.