Maigret Hesitates

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Yes, on Place Constantin-Pecqueur.’

  ‘Was Tortu your boyfriend?’

  ‘He’s nearly one metre eighty tall, for a start … Then, except for one occasion, there was never anything between us.’

  ‘Except for one occasion?’

  ‘I have instructions to be completely honest, don’t I? … One evening, not long before I started here, we went to the cinema in Place Clichy after leaving Chez Maurice … Chez Maurice is our restaurant in Rue Caulaincourt.’

  ‘Do you always eat there?’

  ‘Almost every evening. I’m part of the furniture.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Not so often since he got engaged.’

  ‘So, after the cinema …’

  ‘He asked if he could come back to my place for a nightcap … We’d already had a few, and I was a little drunk … I refused, because I hate men coming into my apartment … It’s physical … I preferred to go with him to his place in Rue des Saules.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ever go back?’

  ‘Because it didn’t work out. We both felt it … A matter of chemistry, when you come down to it … We’ve remained good friends.’

  ‘Is he getting married soon?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s in any hurry.’

  ‘Is his fiancée also a secretary?’

  ‘She’s the assistant to Dr Parendon, my boss’s brother.’

  Maigret was puffing at his pipe, trying to absorb all these people he hadn’t known the day before but who had suddenly appeared in his life.

  ‘As we were on the subject, I’m going to ask you another personal question. Are you sleeping with Monsieur Parendon?’

  It was very much her manner. She listened attentively to the question, her face solemn, paused for a moment then, as she replied, began to smile, with a smile that was both wicked and spontaneous, while her eyes sparkled behind her glasses.

  ‘In a way, the answer is yes. We do sometimes make love, but it’s always on the sly. The word “sleep” isn’t really appropriate. We’ve never slept side by side.’

  ‘Does Tortu know?’

  ‘We’ve never talked about it, but he probably suspects.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘When you’re more familiar with the apartment, you’ll understand. Let’s see, how many people come and go during the day? Monsieur and Madame Parendon, plus their two children, that makes four. Three in the office, that makes seven. Ferdinand, the cook, the maid and the housekeeper bring us to eleven. And I haven’t mentioned madame’s masseur, who comes four mornings a week, or her sisters, or mademoiselle’s friends. There may be a lot of rooms, but we always end up running into each other. Especially here.’

  ‘Why here?’

  ‘Because everyone comes to this office to get their supplies of paper, stamps, paper clips. If Gus needs a piece of string, he looks in these drawers. Bambi always needs stamps or adhesive tape. As for madame …’

  He looked at her, curious as to what she would say next.

  ‘She’s everywhere. True, she goes out a lot, but you never know if she’s out or in. You’ll have noticed that all the corridors and most of the rooms are carpeted. You don’t hear anyone coming. The door opens, and you see someone you weren’t expecting. Sometimes, for instance, she opens my door and says, “Oh, I’m sorry!” as if she’s made a mistake.’

  ‘You mean she’s nosy?’

  ‘That or absent-minded. Unless it’s just a habit.’

  ‘Has she ever caught you with her husband?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Once, just before Christmas, when we thought she was at her hairdresser’s, she did come in at a rather delicate moment. We had time to compose ourselves, at least I think we did, but I can’t be certain. She seemed perfectly natural and started talking to her husband about the gift she’d just bought for Gus.’

  ‘Did her attitude towards you change?’

  ‘No. She’s pleasant to everyone, in her own special way, rather as if she’s hovering over us to protect us. In my own head, I sometimes call her the angel.’

  ‘But you don’t like her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have her as my friend, if that’s what you mean.’

  A bell rang, and the young woman sprang to her feet.

  ‘Will you excuse me? The boss is calling.’

  She was already at the door, having grabbed a stenographer’s pad and a pencil in passing.

  Maigret stayed where he was, looking out at the courtyard, still in shadow, where the chauffeur was now polishing the Rolls with a chamois leather and whistling a tune.

  Mademoiselle Vague hadn’t come back, and Maigret remained in his seat by the window. He wasn’t impatient, even though he usually hated to wait. He could have taken a walk along the corridor, to the office occupied by Tortu and Julien Baud, but it was as if he was numb, his eyes half closed, looking now at one object, now at another.

  The table that served as a desk had heavy oak feet with sober carvings and must once have been in another room. The surface had been polished by time. On it was a beige blotting pad with four leather corners. The pencil box was a very ordinary plastic one, and contained pens, pencils, a rubber and a scalpel. There was a dictionary near the typewriter table.

  After a while, he frowned, stood up as if reluctantly and walked over to the table to get a closer look at it. He hadn’t been mistaken. A thin, still fresh groove ran across the surface, such as might have been made by the scalpel in cutting a sheet of paper.

  Next to the pencil box was a flat metal ruler.

  ‘You noticed it, too?’

  He gave a start. Mademoiselle Vague had come back in, the stenographer’s pad still in her hand.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The groove. Isn’t it terrible to ruin such a beautiful table?’

  ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘It could have been anybody with access to this room, in other words, anybody. As I told you, they all just make themselves at home.’

  So he wouldn’t have to search. The previous day, he had vowed to examine all the tables in the apartment, having noticed that the paper had been cut neatly, as if with a guillotine.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Monsieur Parendon would like to see you for a moment …’

  Maigret noticed that there was nothing written on the pad.

  ‘Did you tell him about our conversation?’

  She replied without any embarrassment:

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Including what was said about your relationship?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is that why he called you?’

  ‘No. He really did have something to ask me about the case he’s working on.’

  ‘I’ll be back to see you in a moment. I don’t suppose you need to take me there again?’

  She smiled.

  ‘He told you to come and go as if this was your home, didn’t he?’

  He knocked at the tall oak door and opened it to find the little man at his vast desk, which this morning was covered with official-looking papers.

  ‘Come in, Monsieur Maigret. I’m sorry to have interrupted you. Actually, I didn’t know you were with my secretary. So, you’re starting to find out a little bit more about our household. Would it be indiscreet of me to ask if I could take a glance at the second letter?’

  Maigret willingly handed it to him. He had the impression that the man’s face, already colourless, became waxy. His blue eyes no longer sparkled behind the thick lenses of the glasses but turned to fix Maigret with an anxious, questioning stare.

  ‘“The murder may be committed any time now” … Do you believe that?’

  Maigret, who was looking at him just as fixedly, merely replied:

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. Yesterday, I was inclined to take the whole matter lightly. I didn’t think it was a hoax, but I was tempted to think that someone was taking an innocent, if underhand, kind of revenge.’<
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  ‘Revenge on whom?’

  ‘Me, my wife, anyone here. A clever way to bring the police in and have us subjected to questioning.’

  ‘Have you talked about it to your wife?’

  ‘I had to, after she saw you in my office.’

  ‘You could have told her I’d come to see you on a professional matter.’

  Parendon’s face expressed mild surprise.

  ‘Would Madame Maigret be content with an explanation like that?’

  ‘My wife never asks me questions.’

  ‘Mine does. And she repeats them, just as you do in your interrogations, if the newspapers are to be believed, until she feels she’s got to the bottom of things. Then, as far as possible, she confirms it with apparently innocuous little questions addressed to Ferdinand, the cook, my secretary or the children.’

  He wasn’t complaining. There was no sourness in his voice. Rather a kind of admiration, when it came down to it. He seemed to be talking about a phenomenon that deserved praise.

  ‘What was her reaction?’

  ‘That it’s a servant taking revenge.’

  ‘Do they have grounds for complaint?’

  ‘They always have a reason to complain. Madame Vauquin, the cook, for example, whenever we have a dinner party, works quite late, whereas the cleaner, whatever happens, leaves at six. On the other hand, the cleaner earns two hundred francs less. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘What about Ferdinand?’

  ‘Would you believe that Ferdinand, who’s so stiff and correct, is a former legionnaire who used to take part in commando operations? Nobody checks what he does in his room over the garage in the evenings, who comes to see him, where he goes.’

  ‘Do you agree with your wife?’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Parendon made up his mind to be honest.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because none of them would have written the phrases found in these letters or used certain words.’

  ‘Are there any weapons in the house?’

  ‘My wife owns two hunting rifles, because she’s often invited on hunts. I don’t shoot.’

  ‘Because of your eyesight?’

  ‘Because I hate killing animals.’

  ‘Do you own a gun?’

  ‘Yes, an old Browning, which I keep in a drawer in my bedside table. A habit a lot of people have, I think. You tell yourself that if ever a burglar …’

  He laughed softly.

  ‘I could at least scare them. Here, look.’

  He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a box of cartridges.

  ‘The automatic is in my room, at the other end of the apartment, and the cartridges are here, a habit I got into when the children were younger and I was afraid of an accident. Come to think of it, they’re old enough now, so I could load my Browning.’

  He continued to rummage in the drawer and this time took out an American-style cosh.

  ‘You know where this toy comes from? Three years ago, I was surprised to be summoned to the police station. When I got there, I was asked if I had a son named Jacques. He was twelve at the time. A fight had broken out between boys outside the school, and the constable had found Gus in possession of this cosh. I questioned him when he got home and found out that he’d got it from a chum of his in return for six packets of chewing-gum!’

  He smiled, amused by this memory.

  ‘Does he have violent tendencies?’

  ‘He went through a difficult period when he was about twelve or thirteen. He’d fly into brief but violent tempers, especially when his sister made some kind of remark. That’s all over now. These days, he’s a bit too calm, too solitary for my taste.’

  ‘Does he have any friends?’

  ‘I only know of one, who comes to see him quite often. They listen to music together. The boy’s name is Génuvier, his father owns a patisserie on Faubourg Saint-Honoré. You probably know the name. Women come from far and wide for his cakes.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going back to speak to your secretary.’

  ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘She seems intelligent. She’s spontaneous and at the same time thoughtful.’

  That seemed to please Parendon, who purred:

  ‘She’s very precious to me.’

  He plunged back into his files, and Maigret went back to Mademoiselle Vague’s office. She was making no pretence of working and was conspicuously waiting for him.

  ‘I have a question you may find ridiculous, mademoiselle. Has Monsieur Parendon’s son—’

  ‘Everyone calls him Gus.’

  ‘Fine! Has Gus ever flirted with you?’

  ‘He’s only fifteen.’

  ‘I know. That’s precisely the age when boys feel curious about things, or even develop crushes.’

  She thought this over. Like Parendon, she took time to think before replying, as if he had taught her precision.

  ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘When I met him, he was a little boy who came and asked me for stamps for his collection and filched an incredible number of pencils and rolls of adhesive tape. Occasionally, he’d ask me to help him with his homework. He’d sit where you are and watch me working with a solemn look on his face.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now he’s half a head taller than me and has been shaving for a year. The only thing he ever filches from me is cigarettes, when he’s forgotten to buy them.’

  And with that, she lit one, while Maigret slowly filled his pipe.

  ‘Does he come to see you more frequently now?’

  ‘On the contrary. As I think I told you, he has his own life, outside the family, apart from mealtimes. And even then he refuses to come to the table when there are guests and prefers to eat in the kitchen.’

  ‘Does he get on well with the staff?’

  ‘He doesn’t make any distinction between people. Even when he’s late, he won’t allow the chauffeur to drive him to school, for fear of being seen in a limousine by his classmates.’

  ‘In other words, he’s ashamed of living in a place like this?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘Have his relations with his sister improved?’

  ‘Don’t forget, I don’t eat my meals with them and don’t often see them together. I think he looks at her as some kind of curious creature, trying to figure out what makes her tick, rather as he might look at an insect.’

  ‘What about his mother?’

  ‘She’s a little boisterous for him. I mean, she’s always bustling about, always talking about lots of people.’

  ‘I see … And what about the girl? Paulette, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘They all call her Bambi. Don’t forget, both children have nicknames. Gus and Bambi. I don’t know what they call me among themselves — it must be something quite funny.’

  ‘How does Bambi get on with her mother?’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘Do they argue?’

  ‘Oh, no, they barely talk to each other.’

  ‘Who does the animosity come from?’

  ‘From Bambi. You’ll see her. Young as she is, she judges the people around her, and you can tell from the way she looks at them that she judges them harshly.’

  ‘Unfairly?’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘Does she get on well with you?’

  ‘She accepts me.’

  ‘Does she sometimes come and see you in your office?’

  ‘When she needs me to type up one of her lessons or photocopy a document.’

  ‘Does she ever talk to you about her friends?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Do you have the impression she knows about your relationship with her father?’

  ‘I’ve sometimes wondered that. I don’t know. Anyone could have caught us without our knowing.’

  ‘Does she love her father?’

  ‘She’s taken him under her wing. She probably thinks he’s victimized by
her mother, which is why she resents her mother for always being at the centre of things.’

  ‘In other words, Monsieur Parendon doesn’t play a major role in the family?’

  ‘Not a conspicuous one, no.’

  ‘Has he ever tried?’

  ‘In the past, perhaps, before I came here. He must have realized it was a losing battle and …’

  ‘… and withdrew into his shell.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Not as much as you think. He knows what’s going on. He doesn’t ask questions like Madame Parendon. But he listens, he observes, he deduces. He’s an extremely intelligent man.’

  ‘That’s the impression I had, too.’

  She seemed delighted by this. There was a friendlier look in her eyes now, as if he had won her over. He had grasped the fact that she sometimes slept with Parendon not because he was her boss but because she had real feelings for him.

  ‘I’d wager you don’t have a boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s true. I don’t want one.’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you to live alone?’

  ‘On the contrary. It’s having someone around me I wouldn’t be able to bear. Especially having someone in my bed.’

  ‘Never any flings?’

  Again that slight hesitation between truth and falsehood.

  ‘Occasionally … Not very often.’

  And with comical pride, she added, as if it were a profession of faith:

  ‘But never at my place.’

  ‘How do Gus and his father get on? I asked the question earlier but the conversation got diverted.’

  ‘Gus admires him. But he admires him from a distance, without showing it, with a kind of humility … Really, to understand this family, you’d have to get to know them, and your investigation would never end. As you know, the apartment used to belong to Monsieur Gassin de Beaulieu and it’s still full of memories of him. For the past three years, he’s been disabled and hasn’t left his manor house in the Vendée. But, before that, he’d often come and spend a week here — he still has his room. As soon as he arrived, he’d be the master of the house again.’

  ‘So you knew him?’

  ‘Very well. He used to dictate all his mail to me.’

  ‘What kind of man is he? Judging from his portrait—’

  ‘The one in Monsieur Parendon’s office? If you’ve seen the portrait, you’ve seen him. He’s the kind of magistrate they call upright and learned. You know what I mean? An important figure who always walked around looking larger than life, as if he’d just come down off his pedestal. Whenever he stayed here, we weren’t allowed to make any noise. We all walked on tiptoe and whispered. The children, who of course were younger then, lived in terror … Monsieur Parendon’s father, on the other hand, the surgeon …’