Maigret Hesitates

by Georges Simenon

  He was forced to improvise. At the other end, the neurologist was probably looking out at Promenade des Anglais and the blue waters of the Baie des Anges.

  ‘Do you think your sister-in-law is a stable person?’

  ‘Between ourselves — and of course I wouldn’t repeat this in the witness box — if all women were like her, I’d have stayed a bachelor.’

  ‘I asked you if she was stable.’

  ‘Yes, I understood that. Let’s just say that she’s always going to extremes. And to be fair, let’s also admit that it hurts her as much as it hurts anyone else.’

  ‘Is she the kind of woman to become obsessed?’

  ‘Of course, provided these obsessions have a basis in fact and are plausible. I’m certain that if she lied to you, her lie was so perfect that you didn’t even notice it.’

  ‘Would you use the word hysteria?’

  There was quite a long silence.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare go that far, although I have occasionally seen her in a state that could be described as hysterical. The thing is, even though she’s highly strung, she somehow, by some miracle or other, finds the strength to control herself.’

  ‘Did you know she has a gun in her room?’

  ‘Yes, she told me about it one evening. She even showed it to me. It’s not much more than a toy.’

  ‘A toy that can kill. Would you let her keep it in her drawer?’

  ‘You know, if she ever decided to kill someone, she’d do it anyway, with or without a firearm.’

  ‘Your brother also has a gun.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Would you say the same thing about him?’

  ‘No. I’m convinced, not only as a man, but as a doctor, that my brother will never kill anyone. The only thing that might happen, one evening when he’s feeling discouraged, would be that he would put an end to his own life.’

  His voice had cracked.

  ‘You love him very much, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s just the two of us.’

  The words struck Maigret. They still had their father, and Germain Parendon was also married. And yet he’d said:

  ‘There’s just the two of us.’

  As if they only had each other in the world. Was the brother’s marriage also a failed marriage?

  Having probably checked the time, Dr Parendon snapped out of it.

  ‘Well, let’s hope nothing happens. Have a good evening, Monsieur Maigret.’

  ‘You, too, Monsieur Parendon.’

  Maigret had made the call to reassure himself. But the result had been quite the opposite. After talking to Émile Parendon’s brother, he felt even more worried.

  … The only thing that might happen, one evening when he’s feeling discouraged …

  Could that be what was brewing? Could it be Parendon himself who had written the anonymous letters? To stop himself from going ahead with it? To put a kind of barrier between the impulse and the act that tempted him?

  Maigret had forgotten all about Janvier, who had gone to stand by the window.

  ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘What you said, yes.’

  ‘He doesn’t like his sister-in-law. He’s convinced his brother will never kill anyone, but isn’t so certain he won’t be tempted to kill himself one of these days.’

  The sun had disappeared, and it was suddenly as if something was missing from the world. It wasn’t night yet. There was no point putting the lights on. Maigret did so anyway, as if to chase away ghosts.

  ‘Tomorrow, you’ll see the place and you’ll start to understand. There’s nothing to stop you from ringing the bell, telling Ferdinand who you are and wandering around the apartment and the offices. They’ve been informed. They’re expecting it. The only thing you risk is seeing Madame Parendon suddenly appear when you’re least expecting it. It’s as if she’s able to move around without displacing any air. She’ll look at you, and you’ll feel vaguely guilty. That’s the impression she makes on everyone.’

  Maigret called the office boy and gave him the signed documents and the mail that needed sending.

  ‘Anything new? Anyone for me?’

  ‘No, nobody, sir.’

  Maigret wasn’t expecting visitors. He was struck nevertheless that neither Gus nor his sister had come forward at any time. Like the rest of the household, they must know what had been happening since the day before. They had certainly heard that Maigret was questioning people. They might even have caught sight of him in the corridor.

  If, at the age of fifteen, Maigret had heard that …

  Of course he would have run to the police officer and bombarded him with questions, even if it meant being put in his place.

  He realized that time had passed, that this was a different world.

  ‘Shall we have a drink at the Brasserie Dauphine before we head off home for dinner?’

  Which was what they did. Maigret walked for quite a while before taking a taxi, and by the time his wife, hearing his footsteps, opened the door, he didn’t look too anxious.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘I’ve heated up the lunch.’

  ‘And what was for lunch?’

  ‘Cassoulet.’

  They both smiled, but she had nevertheless guessed his mood.

  ‘Don’t worry, Maigret.’

  He hadn’t told her anything about the case he was dealing with. But then, weren’t all cases the same?

  ‘You’re not responsible.’

  After a moment, she added:

  ‘At this time of year, it can turn cold quite suddenly. I’d better shut the window.’

  5.

  As on other mornings, his first contact with life was the smell of coffee, then his wife’s hand touching him on the shoulder, and finally the sight of Madame Maigret, already fresh and alert in a flowered house dress, handing him the cup.

  He rubbed his eyes and asked quite stupidly:

  ‘Have there been any telephone calls?’

  If there had been any, they would have woken him as well as her. The curtains were open. The spring, premature as it was, remained fair. The sun had risen, and the noises of the street were clearly audible.

  He heaved a sigh of relief. Lapointe hadn’t called him. That meant that nothing had happened in the apartment on Avenue Marigny. He drank half his coffee, got up, feeling cheerful, and went into the bathroom. He had worried unduly. As soon as the first letter had arrived, he should have realized that it wasn’t serious. This morning, he felt a little ashamed at having let it spook him. He had been like a child who still believes in ghost stories.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I slept wonderfully.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be home for lunch?’

  ‘This morning, I have the feeling I will.’

  ‘Would you like fish?’

  ‘Ray in brown sauce, if you can find it.’

  He was surprised, embarrassed even, when he opened the door to his office half an hour later and found Lapointe sitting in an armchair. The poor boy was a little pale and drowsy. Rather than leaving his report and going to bed, he had preferred to wait for him, presumably because Maigret had seemed so worried the day before.

  ‘Well, young man?’

  Lapointe had got to his feet. Maigret sat down in front of the pile of mail on his desk.

  ‘Just a moment …’

  He wanted to make sure first that there wasn’t another anonymous letter.

  ‘Fine! Go ahead.’

  ‘I got there just before six o’clock and made contact with Lamure, the concierge, who insisted on my having dinner with his wife and him. The first person who entered the building after me, at six ten, was the Parendon boy, the one they call Gus.’

  Lapointe took a notebook from his pocket in order to refer to his notes.

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘Yes. He was holding a few school books under his arm. Then a few minutes later, an effeminate-looking man came in, holding a leather bag. Lamure to
ld me he was the Peruvian woman’s hairdresser. “There must be a gala or a big party somewhere,” he said calmly as he knocked back his glass of cheap red wine … Incidentally, he got through a whole bottle by himself and was surprised, and even a bit annoyed, that I wouldn’t do the same.

  ‘Let’s see, now … At seven forty-five, a woman arrived in a chauffeur-driven car. Madame Hortense, the concierge called her. She’s one of Madame Parendon’s sisters, the one who goes out with her most often. She’s married to a Monsieur Benoît-Biguet, who’s rich and important, and their chauffeur is Spanish.’

  Lapointe smiled.

  ‘Sorry, I know these details aren’t very interesting, but since I didn’t have anything to do, I noted everything down. At eight thirty, the Peruvians’ limousine stopped under the archway, and the couple came out of the lift. He was wearing a suit, and she had an evening dress on under a chinchilla stole. Not the kind of thing you see very often these days.

  ‘At eight fifty-five, Madame Parendon and Madame Hortense left. I found out later where they’d gone. When the chauffeurs get back, they usually come and have a drink in the lodge with Lamure, who always has a litre of red wine to hand … There was a charity bridge party at the Crillon, and that’s where they went. They got back just after midnight. The sister went up and stayed up there for half an hour. That’s when the chauffeur came and had his drink … Nobody paid any attention to me. They must have thought I was some friend or other. The hardest part was not having the drinks I was offered … Mademoiselle Parendon, the one they call Bambi, got back about one in the morning.’

  ‘What time had she gone out?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see her leave. That means she didn’t have dinner at home. She was with a young man and she kissed him at the foot of the stairs. She didn’t seem to care that we were there. I asked Lamure if she always did that. He said she did, and that it was always the same young man, but that he didn’t know where he was from. He was wearing a jacket and shapeless moccasins, and his hair was quite long.’

  His eyes on his notes, Lapointe seemed to be reciting, all the while fighting sleep.

  ‘You haven’t said anything about Mademoiselle Vague, Tortu or Julien Baud leaving.’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t make a note of it, because I assumed it was all part of the routine. They came down the stairs at six o’clock and separated once they were out on the street.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I went up to the fourth floor two or three times but didn’t see or hear anything. I could just as well have been wandering around a church at night … The Peruvians came back about three in the morning after dinner at Maxim’s and a film premiere on the Champs-Élysées. Apparently, they’re well-known figures on the Paris scene … That’s it for the night. Not a soul came in or out after that, not even a cat. Actually, there isn’t a single pet in the building, apart from the Peruvians’ parrot … Did I mention that Ferdinand, the Parendons’ butler, went to bed about ten? Or that the cook left at nine?

  ‘Ferdinand was the first to come out into the courtyard in the morning. That was at seven. He left the building because he’s in the habit of going to the bar at the corner of Rue du Cirque to have his first coffee of the day with fresh croissants. He stayed out for half an hour. During that time, the cook arrived, and so did the cleaner, Madame Marchand. The chauffeur came down from his room, which is next to Ferdinand’s, over the garages, and went upstairs for his breakfast …

  ‘I didn’t write everything down straight away. That’s why my notes are in a bit of a mess. During the night, I went up about ten times and listened at the Parendons’ door, but didn’t hear anything … The Peruvians’ chauffeur took out his employers’ Rolls and washed it, as he does every morning …’

  Lapointe put his notebook back in his pocket.

  ‘That’s all, chief. Janvier arrived. I introduced him to Lamure, though apparently Lamure already knew him, and left.’

  ‘Now straight to bed with you, young man.’

  In a few minutes, the bell for the daily briefing would echo through the corridors. Maigret filled a pipe, picked up his paper knife and quickly went through the mail.

  He was relieved. He had every reason to be. All the same, he still had a knot in the pit of his stomach, a vague sense of apprehension.

  In the commissioner’s office, they talked mostly about a minister’s son who had had a car accident on the corner of Rue François-Ier at four in the morning, in unpleasant circumstances. Not only had he been drunk, but it would cause a scandal if the name of the girl who had been with him and who had had to be taken to hospital was revealed. As for the driver of the car they had crashed into, he had died instantaneously.

  ‘What do you think, Maigret?’

  ‘Me? Nothing, sir.’

  When it came to politics, or anything related to politics, Maigret ceased to exist. He was good at assuming a vague, almost stupid air.

  ‘We have to find a solution, though. The press don’t know anything about it for the moment, but they’re bound to find out in an hour or two.’

  It was ten o’clock. The telephone rang on the desk, and the commissioner nervously picked up the receiver.

  ‘Yes, he’s here.’

  And, handing the receiver to Maigret:

  ‘It’s for you.’

  He had a premonition. He knew, before lifting the receiver to his ear, that something had happened in the apartment on Avenue Marigny, and it was indeed Janvier’s voice that he heard at the other end. It was low, almost embarrassed.

  ‘Is that you, chief?’

  ‘Yes. Who is it?’

  Janvier immediately grasped the meaning of the question.

  ‘The young secretary.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Was she shot?’

  ‘No. It happened without a sound. Nobody noticed anything. The doctor hasn’t arrived yet. I’m calling you before I have any details because I was downstairs. Monsieur Parendon is with me now, he’s devastated. We’re expecting Dr Martin any moment.’

  ‘Stabbed?’

  ‘Her throat was cut.’

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  The commissioner and his colleagues were looking at him, surprised to see him looking so pale and so upset. At Quai des Orfèvres, especially in the crime squad, didn’t they deal with murder on a daily basis?

  ‘Who is it?’ the commissioner asked.

  ‘Parendon’s secretary.’

  ‘Parendon the neurologist?’

  ‘No. His brother, the lawyer. I’ve been receiving anonymous letters …’

  He rushed to the door without further explanation and went straight to the inspectors’ room.

  ‘Lucas?’

  ‘Here, chief.’

  He looked around.

  ‘You, too, Torrence. Come into my office, both of you.’

  Lucas, who knew about the letters, asked:

  ‘Has the murder happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Parendon?’

  ‘The secretary. Phone Moers and tell him to get over there with his technicians. I’ll call the prosecutor’s office.’

  It was always the same palaver. For a good hour, instead of working in peace, he was going to have to provide explanations to the deputy prosecutor and whichever examining magistrate was assigned to the case.

  ‘Let’s go, boys.’

  He was overcome, as if this had happened to a family member. Of all the people in the household, Mademoiselle Vague was the last one he would have thought of as a victim.

  He had taken a liking to her. He liked the proud yet simple way she had spoken about her relationship with her employer. He had sensed that deep down, despite the difference in age, what she had felt for him was the kind of passionate loyalty that might well constitute one of the truest forms of love.

  So why was she the one who had been killed?

  He sank into the little black car while Lucas got in behind the
wheel and Torrence took the back seat.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Torrence asked as they set off.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ Lucas replied, aware of Maigret’s state of mind.

  Maigret didn’t see the streets, the people walking, the trees that were getting greener with each passing day, the big buses veering dangerously close to them.

  He was already there, in the apartment. He pictured himself sitting by the window in Mademoiselle Vague’s little office at this time yesterday. She was looking him straight in the face, as if to demonstrate the sincerity of her gaze. And whenever she hesitated after a question, it was because she was searching for the exact words.

  There was already a car outside the door. It belonged to the chief inspector from the local station. Janvier must have alerted him. Because whatever happens, you have to follow the regulations.

  Lamure was standing grim-faced in the doorway of his luxurious lodge.

  ‘Who would have thought …’ he began.

  Maigret walked past him without replying. The lift being on one of the upper floors, he set off up the stairs. Janvier was waiting for him on the landing. He said nothing. He, too, could guess his chief’s state of mind. Ferdinand was at his post, as if nothing had happened, but Maigret didn’t even notice him taking his hat.

  He set off along the corridor, passed the door of Parendon’s office and came to the open door of Mademoiselle Vague’s office. All he saw at first were two men, the local chief inspector, a man named Lambilliote, whom he had often met, and one of his colleagues.

  He had to look down at the ground, almost under the Louis XIII table that served as a desk.

  She was wearing an almond-green spring dress, presumably for the first time in the season: the previous day and the day before that he had seen her in a navy-blue skirt and a white blouse. It had struck him that it must be a kind of uniform for her.

  After the attack, she must have slid off her chair. Her body was folded in on itself in a strangely twisted way. Her throat was open and she had lost a considerable amount of blood — it was probably still warm.

  It took him a while to notice that Lambilliote was shaking his hand.