Maigret and Monsieur Charles

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Perhaps he changed his mind on the way?’

  ‘Perhaps … Are you certain that he hasn’t telephoned you even once for over a month?’

  ‘Not once.’

  ‘Whereas during his previous absences he remained in telephone contact with you …’

  ‘Every two or three days, yes. He was very conscientious. Two years ago, he came rushing back because we needed his signature …’

  ‘How were your relations with him?’

  ‘Very cordial … He trusted me completely …’

  ‘Do you know what he kept in the drawers of his desk upstairs?’

  ‘I have no idea. I seldom went up to the apartment and I’ve never seen the drawers open …’

  ‘Have you seen the keys?’

  ‘Often. He had a set which he always kept on him. Among them was the key to the big safe which you must have noticed in the typing pool.’

  ‘What does it contain?’

  ‘Our clients’ confidential papers, especially their wills—’

  ‘Do you also have the key?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who else does?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Were there matters that your boss dealt with in person, without talking to you about them?’

  ‘He saw some clients on his own in his office, almost always took notes and, once they’d left, he put me in the picture.’

  ‘Who was in charge of financial transactions when he was away?’

  ‘Me. I have a power of attorney.’

  ‘Is your boss very wealthy?’

  ‘He’s wealthy, yes.’

  ‘Has he increased his fortune since his father died?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘And his wife is his sole heir?’

  ‘I and another member of staff acted as witnesses when he drew up his will, but I didn’t read it. I presume he made provision for a number of fairly large bequests.’

  ‘What about the firm?’

  ‘It will all depend on Madame Sabin-Levesque.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  And Maigret suddenly became aware that since Nathalie’s visit to the Police Judiciaire, people spoke of the lawyer sometimes in the present and sometimes in the past tense.

  Mainly in the past.

  ‘If you wish to see me today, come right away, because I’m operating at one o’clock …’

  Doctor Florian, it seemed to Maigret, was not averse to a certain formality, like many society doctors. He lived on Avenue Foch, which suggested a select clientele.

  ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes …’

  He and Lapointe were in a bar on Boulevard Saint-Germain, having a beer and making phone calls.

  ‘He’s expecting us … Avenue Foch …’

  A few moments later, the little black car was driving up the Champs-Élysées. Lapointe was silent, slightly downcast, as if there was something troubling him.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘It’s that woman … I can’t help feeling sorry for her …’

  Maigret said nothing, but he must have been thinking the same thing because, as they drove around the Arc de Triomphe, he muttered:

  ‘I’m waiting to get to know her a little better …’

  The apartment building was luxurious, imposing, more modern than the one on Boulevard Saint-Germain. A spacious lift took them smoothly up to the sixth floor where a manservant in a striped waistcoat opened the door to them.

  ‘This way … The professor is expecting you …’

  First of all, he relieved them of their hats and coats. Then he opened a double door guarded on either side by Greek statues that were almost intact.

  The surgeon was taller and broader than Maigret, and he shook his hand vigorously.

  ‘Inspector Lapointe …’ said Maigret, introducing his colleague.

  ‘I apologize for rushing you, but I have a heavy workload. For the past fifteen minutes – since your telephone call – I have been wondering how I can help you …’

  The study was vast, very luxurious, with sunlight streaming in. The French window, which opened on to a terrace, stood ajar and the curtains billowed in the breeze.

  ‘Please have a seat …’

  His greying hair made him look older than his years and he was dressed austerely in striped trousers and a black jacket.

  ‘You are a friend of Gérard Sabin-Levesque’s, unless I’m mistaken …’

  ‘We are the same age and were at university together. He was studying law, while I studied medicine … We were part of a boisterous crowd and he was the life and soul …’

  ‘Has he changed a great deal?’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of him since he got married …’

  Doctor Florian’s expression clouded.

  ‘I have to ask you why you are questioning me like this. As a doctor, I am bound by professional confidentiality, and as a friend, I have a duty to maintain a certain discretion …’

  ‘I understand. Sabin-Levesque has been missing for over a month … He told no one he was going away, neither his wife nor his chief clerk.

  ‘One evening, on the 18th of February, he walked out of his home without any luggage. I’ve tracked his movements, that evening, or rather, that night, to a nightclub in Rue Clément-Marot, the Cric-Crac. He left alone, for an address he’d been given on Avenue des Ternes, but he never showed up there …’

  ‘What does his wife say?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘In the early days of their marriage, I saw the two of them quite frequently.’

  ‘Was he already in the habit of what I call absconding?’

  ‘You know about it? Even as a student, he was drawn to women and to the atmosphere of nightclubs … He still is, but there’s nothing pathological about it and the word “absconding” is inappropriate, as it happens.’

  ‘I use it for want of anything better …’

  ‘He didn’t confide in me on that subject during our dinners but I don’t think he ever stopped going out as a bachelor, as it were …’

  ‘Did you know his wife well?’

  ‘I met her a dozen or so times …’

  ‘Did he tell you how they met?’

  ‘He’s very secretive about it … I don’t think she’s from the same sort of family as he is … I am vaguely aware that at one point in her life she was a secretary, in a law firm, I believe …’

  ‘That’s correct. What impression did you have of her?’

  ‘She didn’t say much to me. During our dinners she seemed dejected, or aggressive, and sometimes she’d leave the table mumbling an excuse …’

  ‘Do you think she’s of sound mind?’

  ‘That’s not my department. I am a surgeon, not a psychiatrist. I think her main problem was that she drank a lot …’

  ‘She’s drinking more and more. She was inebriated when she came to Quai des Orfèvres to inform me of her husband’s disappearance …’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘And he’s been missing since February?’

  ‘Yes. She waited over a month. After a week, the chief clerk suggested she speak to the police and she told him to mind his own business …’

  ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘Worrying, more than anything.’

  The doctor lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and said to Maigret:

  ‘You may smoke your pipe … Your questions are troubling. What I can tell you is that Gérard was, and must still be, a very brilliant man. When I met him, he was already a playboy, as it’s called these days. He loved sports cars and places where people have fun. He rarely turned up to lectures, I was told, but he still managed to sail through his exams.

  ‘I don’t know
whether he’s changed …’

  ‘That’s how people have described him to me. He appears to have married on impulse and very soon realized his mistake …’

  ‘That’s what I think too … It’s because of his wife that he’s found himself socially isolated … Nathalie would humiliate him in front of his friends … I never heard him respond … He would carry on the conversation as if no one had spoken …’

  ‘Then he lived with her as if she didn’t exist … Do you think that was painful for him?’

  ‘It is hard to judge when someone’s always joking … Clearly he wasn’t living a normal life … I understand the little escapades he indulged in … The fact that he’s been missing for a month is more serious … Has he not even been in touch with his office?’

  ‘Even though he was in the habit of calling in. This time, he didn’t bother to check whether he was needed …’

  ‘You seem very concerned about his wife …’

  ‘She lived in the same apartment and there was probably a time when they spoke of love …’

  ‘Poor old Gérard …’

  The doctor rose to his feet.

  ‘Forgive me, but I must get back to work … By the way, we have a mutual friend who became a psychiatrist and is based at Sainte-Anne … Doctor Amadieu, who lives in the Latin Quarter … You’ll find his address in the phone book … He was also a guest at several of the Sabin-Levesques’ dinners …’

  He showed them to the door where the manservant was waiting with their coats over his arm.

  ‘Ten past twelve …’ said Maigret once they were back in the little car. ‘The main thing is to find out whether Doctor Amadieu goes home for lunch …’

  Which gave him an excuse to have an aperitif, in order to telephone. This time, he chose a pastis without hesitating.

  ‘The same for me,’ muttered Lapointe.

  Amadieu was home. He didn’t resume work until two o’clock.

  ‘I presume it’s urgent?’

  ‘I believe the case I’d like to discuss with you is urgent, yes.’

  Amadieu lived in an apartment amid a certain degree of untidiness, and he appeared to be single, because there was only one place setting at the table, which the maid was clearing away. He had thick, auburn hair and freckles, and his tweed suit was as crumpled as if he’d slept in it.

  Maigret would subsequently learn that he was one of the most renowned psychiatrists in France, if not in Europe.

  ‘Have a seat. Smoke your pipe and tell me what you’d like to drink.’

  ‘Nothing for now. I know your time is precious. You knew Sabin-Levesque very well …’

  ‘In our student days, we went on enough jaunts together for me to know him … Don’t tell me he’s in trouble with the police …?’

  ‘He hasn’t been in touch with anyone for over a month …’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘No one. Since he left, he hasn’t even telephoned his chief clerk as he always did when he went off for less than a week …’

  ‘What can have happened to him?’ said Amadieu to himself.

  Then, as if surprised:

  ‘And how do you think I can help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for a man I have never seen and about whom yesterday I knew absolutely nothing, and I need to build up some idea of him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Your friend Florian, from whose place I’ve just come and who gave me your name, considers him to be a strong character.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Could the life he’s been living for such a long time have pushed him to commit suicide?’

  ‘He’s not the type. Besides, he found his compensations …’

  ‘I know. I’ve met several of his girlfriends …’

  ‘After he got married, I went to dinner at Boulevard Saint-Germain several times …’

  ‘Merely as a friend?’

  ‘I think I can answer that question without betraying professional confidentiality … It was Gérard who asked me to come and observe his wife … He wondered whether she was mentally sound … I discovered a woman with a sharp mind who, from the first evening, saw right through me … She looked at me calmly, as if she was defying me … She deliberately drank non-stop …’

  ‘She still does …’

  ‘I know but, when I was there, she drank twice as much and, each time she refilled her glass, she would glance at me.

  ‘“It’s an illness, isn’t it, doctor?” she’d say. “I’m what’s called an incurable alcoholic …”

  ‘“People can be cured of almost anything, madame, so long as they want to be cured, of course …”

  ‘“How can a person want it if they can’t face up to life … I’m here, alone, despised by a husband who doesn’t have the slightest affection for me …”

  ‘“I am certain you are mistaken. I know Gérard. If he married you, it’s because he loved you …”

  ‘“He thought he loved me … I didn’t love him, but I hoped I would learn to … He’s the most selfish, cynical person I’ve ever come across …”’

  Amadieu relit his pipe and blew a puff of smoke up towards the ceiling. There were books and journals scattered all around the room, which was neither a sitting room nor a study, nor a consulting room.

  ‘You see the situation in which I found myself. Poor Gérard, who was present, put up with it without batting an eyelid.

  ‘On my sixth or seventh visit, she made her way over to me, in the big drawing room, before I’d had a chance to greet her, and she said in a slurred voice:

  ‘“Monsieur Amadieu, don’t bother to come any further. There won’t be any dinner and from now on you will not be welcome in this house. When I need a psychiatrist, I’ll choose one for myself …”

  ‘She turned her back on me and stumbled in the direction of her rooms.

  ‘The next day, my friend Gérard turned up here to apologize. He told me that she was becoming more and more insufferable and that he was doing everything he possibly could to avoid her. Admittedly, he added that she was doing likewise …’

  ‘Why didn’t your friend ask for a divorce?’

  ‘Because, despite the life he leads, he is a fervent Catholic. And besides, his behaviour would count against him.’

  Maigret smoked and gazed pensively at the burly redhead with Delft-blue eyes. At length, he rose and sighed:

  ‘So you don’t think she’s mad after all?’

  ‘Not at first sight. Don’t forget that I only saw her under the influence of drink. It would take more extensive and thorough observations to reach a diagnosis … I’m sorry I can’t be of more help …’

  They shook hands and Amadieu watched the two men go down the stairs because there was no lift.

  ‘Brasserie Dauphine?’

  ‘Gladly, chief.’

  ‘A pity we can’t send her to Sainte-Anne under the care of a man like that …’

  ‘Her husband must find it unbearable at times to live with her, even if they avoid each other. Knowing that she’s under the same roof. Given her feelings towards him, I think I’d be afraid …’

  Maigret looked at Lapointe solemnly.

  ‘Do you think she’d be capable …?’

  ‘I said earlier that I felt sorry for her … I still do, because she must be very unhappy, but at the same time, she scares me …’

  ‘In any case, he’s out there somewhere, dead or alive …’

  ‘Dead, most likely …’ sighed Lapointe very quietly.

  The first thing Maigret did on walking into the Brasserie Dauphine, was to head for the telephone and request his home number.

  ‘I know,’ said Madame Maigret before he could open his mouth. ‘You won’t be home for lunch. I was so certain that I haven’t cooked anything and you’d have had to make do with ham and sala
d.’

  He was tempted to order a second pastis, but he remembered his friend Pardon’s advice and refrained from having an aperitif. On the menu there was tripe à la mode de Caen, which he was also supposed to avoid, but which he relished anyway.

  ‘I’m loath to ask the public prosecutor for a search warrant. I’d have difficulty obtaining one, given that there’s no proof that a murder has been committed …’

  ‘What would you look for?’

  ‘A weapon … Did Savin-Levesque have a revolver? … Does his wife have one …?’

  ‘But do you think her capable of killing him?’

  ‘I think anything is possible as far as she’s concerned. She could just as well have killed him with a poker or a bottle …’

  ‘And what would she have done with the body?’

  ‘I know. I can’t exactly see her waiting for her husband to come out of the Cric-Crac, knocking him out, since there were no shots, and disposing of the body …’

  ‘Maybe she has an accomplice?’

  ‘Unless we’re barking up the wrong tree and our man was attacked by thugs … People are mugged in the street every night …’

  ‘Why, in that case, go to the trouble of getting rid of the body?’

  ‘I know … I know … I’m going round in circles … There are moments when I think I’m getting close to the answer and a second later I realize that it doesn’t make sense …’

  He gave a forced little laugh.

  ‘The best thing would be if our lawyer were to reappear suddenly, bright and breezy, and ask what was wrong with us …’

  ‘What do you think of Lecureur?’

  ‘The chief clerk? I don’t like him very much, for no particular reason. He’s one of those cold men who are unflappable and who remain composed in all circumstances …’

  ‘You spoke about what would happen to the firm if it turns out that Sabin-Levesque is dead … Lecureur’s been working there for over twenty years … He must be tempted to consider the business almost as his own …’

  ‘The widow will have to agree to keep him on, which I think is unlikely … There doesn’t seem to be much love lost between them …’

  ‘It’s not as if they would kiss in front of us …’

  Maigret gave Lapointe a long, hard look.