Maigret and the Ghost

by Georges Simenon

  ‘All that only lasted a few seconds. I also heard Monsieur Lognon’s footsteps in the corridor. Then the door slammed. Immediately afterwards, the sound of the engine grew louder, the car pulled away and a shot rang out, then another, and a third …

  ‘They might as well have taken aim at the lodge itself with that last one, because it hit the shutter, broke the window, and there was a strange sound above my head …’

  ‘Did the car carry on driving? Are you sure there was a car?’

  The husband looked from one to the other, his head bowed, stirring the spoon in his cup.

  ‘I’m positive. The street is on a slope. To drive up it, cars accelerate. That one went full throttle in the direction of Rue Norvins.’

  ‘You don’t recall hearing a shout?’

  ‘No. At first I stayed put because I was frightened. But women always want to know, to find out what’s going on. I switched on the light, grabbed my dressing gown and rushed into the corridor.’

  ‘Was the front door closed?’

  ‘I told you. I heard it slam. I pressed my ear to it and could only hear the rain. So I opened it a fraction and I saw the body barely two metres from the doorway.’

  ‘Facing the top of the street or the bottom?’

  ‘More as if he’d been heading towards Rue Caulaincourt. The poor man was clutching his stomach with both hands and blood was streaming over his fingers. His open eyes were staring at me.’

  ‘You leaned over and that’s when you heard, or thought you heard, the word ghost?’

  ‘I’d swear that that’s what he whispered. Windows opened. Residents don’t have their own telephones and have to use the one in the lodge. Two of them who’ve applied for a phone have been on the waiting list for over a year.

  ‘I came back inside and looked up the emergency services number in the directory. You should know these things, but you don’t think about it, especially in a quiet building like ours …’

  ‘Was the light on in the corridor?’

  ‘No. Only in my lodge. The operator on the other end asked me questions, thinking it was a hoax, so it took a while …’

  The telephone was wall-mounted. From where it was positioned, you could see into the corridor.

  ‘Residents came down … I told you all that … After hanging up, I thought of Marinette and I dashed up to the fourth floor—’

  ‘Thank you. May I use your phone?’

  Maigret called the Police Judiciaire.

  ‘Hello! Is that you, Lucas? You must have found a note from Lapointe about Lognon … No, I’m not at the hospital any more … They don’t know if he’ll pull through yet … I’m at Avenue Junot … I’d like you to go over to Bichat … Yes, yourself preferably … Put on your most official manner, because those people don’t much care for outsiders …

  ‘Try to see the junior doctor who was present during surgery, because Monsieur Mingault’s probably unavailable at this hour … I presume they found the bullet, two most likely … Yes … I’d like to have as many details as possible while I’m waiting for the official report … And take the bullets to the laboratory …’

  In the past, this job was given to a civilian expert, Gastinne Renette, but now they had a ballistics expert in the Police Judiciaire laboratories, in the eaves of the Palais de Justice.

  ‘I’ll see you soon or early this afternoon …’

  Maigret turned to Lapointe.

  ‘Do you really not want to go home to bed?’

  ‘I’m not sleepy, chief.’

  The night porter from Le Palace shot him a look that was a mixture of envy and disapproval.

  ‘In that case, go over to Avenue Matignon. There can’t be so many beauty salons that you won’t be able to find the one where Marinette Augier works … It’s highly unlikely she’ll be there … Try to discover as much as you can about her …’

  ‘Understood, chief.’

  ‘And I’ll go upstairs …’

  Maigret was a little annoyed not to have thought of the bullets when he was at the hospital, but this was no ordinary investigation. It was as if, because it involved Lognon, it had taken on a less professional character.

  At Bichat, he had been thinking first and foremost about the inspector and had allowed himself to be intimidated by the matron, the consultant and the wards where the rows of patients followed him with their eyes.

  The building on Avenue Junot had no lift. There was no carpet on the stairs either, but the wooden treads, shiny from wear, were well polished, the handrail smooth. There were two apartments on each floor, and some doors had brass name plates.

  On the fourth floor, he pushed the half-open door, crossed a dark hallway and found himself in a living room where Inspector Chinquier was sitting in a floral chintz-covered armchair, smoking his cigarette.

  ‘I was waiting for you … Did she tell you everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she mention the car? … That’s what I found most striking … Look at this …’

  He stood up and pulled from his pocket three shiny cartridge cases which he’d wrapped in a piece of newspaper.

  ‘We found them in the street … If the gun was fired from a moving car, which is likely, the shooter had his arm out of the door … You’ll notice that it’s a 7.63 …’

  Chinquier was a conscientious police officer who knew his job.

  ‘The weapon was probably an automatic Mauser pistol. A heavy weapon that can’t be slipped into a handbag or a trouser pocket … You see what I mean? … It appears to be the work of a professional who had at least one accomplice at the wheel, because he didn’t shoot while driving … Generally, a jealous lover doesn’t enlist his friends to help him kill his rival … What’s more, he aimed at the stomach …’

  It is more certain than aiming at the chest, because a man rarely survives when his intestines have been perforated in a dozen places by a high-calibre bullet.

  ‘Have you looked around the apartment?’

  ‘I’d like you to see for yourself.’

  This investigation presented another distinctive characteristic that made Maigret feel uncomfortable. It had been launched by the neighbourhood police force. Now, although they readily laughed at Lognon when he was on both feet, it was still their colleague who had been gunned down. Under the circumstances, Maigret could hardly sideline them and take over the case on his own.

  ‘This room’s not bad, is it?’

  With a little sunshine, it would be even more pleasant. The walls were a vibrant yellow and the floor varnished, with a light-yellow rug in the centre. The modern furniture had been tastefully chosen, creating a lounge-dining room, and there was both a television and a record player.

  On the central table, Maigret had immediately noticed an electric coffee maker, a cup with coffee dregs, a sugar bowl and a bottle of brandy.

  ‘Only one cup …’ he grunted. ‘You haven’t touched it, Chinquier? You should call Quai des Orfèvres and ask them to send the lab team.’

  He did not remove his overcoat and had put his hat back on. One of the armchairs was facing the window, close to a pedestal table, and an ashtray contained seven or eight cigarette ends.

  Two doors opened into the living room. The first led to the kitchen, which was clean and tidy and resembled one of those model showroom kitchens rather than the kind usually found in old Parisian apartment buildings.

  The second door led to the bedroom. The bed was unmade. The pillow, the only pillow, still had the dent made by one head.

  A pale-blue silk dressing gown had been slung over the back of a chair, a woman’s pyjama jacket of the same colour lay on the floor, and the bottoms at the foot of a wardrobe.

  Chinquier was already coming back up.

  ‘I got Moers on the phone. He’s sending the team over right away. Have you had a chance to look around? Have you opened the wardrobe?’

  ‘Not yet …

  He opened it. Five dresses on hangers, a fur-trimmed winter coat and two suits
, one beige and the other navy blue.

  Suitcases were stacked on the top shelf.

  ‘You see what I mean? It doesn’t look as if she took any luggage. In the chest of drawers, you’ll find her underwear, neatly arranged.

  The window had a view over part of Paris but mainly, especially today, of the grey sky from which the rain continued to pelt down. Past the bed, a door led into the bathroom, where nothing was missing either, not the toothbrush or the beauty creams.

  Judging from her apartment, Marinette Augier was a person with taste, who spent a good deal of time at home and liked her comfort.

  ‘I forgot to ask the concierge whether she cooked or whether she ate in restaurants,’ admitted Maigret.

  ‘I did. She nearly always eats here …’

  The refrigerator contained half a cold chicken, butter, cheese, fruit, two bottles of beer and a bottle of mineral water. In the bedroom, on the bedside table, another bottle had been opened.

  On the same bedside table, Maigret was more interested in the ashtray, which contained two lipstick-stained cigarette butts.

  ‘She smokes Virginia tobacco …’

  ‘Whereas in the living room, someone was smoking Gauloises, correct?’

  The two men exchanged a look, because the same thing had occurred to both of them.

  ‘Judging by the state of the bed, there are no signs that last night was spent love-making …’

  Despite the tragedy, it was hard not to smile at the thought of Inspector Hard-Done-By in the arms of a pretty, young beautician.

  Had they argued? Had a sulking Lognon taken refuge in the next room, sunk in an armchair and chain-smoked while his mistress was in bed?

  Something wasn’t right, and Maigret realized, once again, that from the start he had not handled this case with his usual clear-headedness.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask you to go downstairs again, Chinquier, but there’s one more question I forgot to ask. I’d like to know whether the concierge found a light on in the living room when she came upstairs.’

  ‘I can tell you. There was a light in the bedroom, whose door was open, but not in the other rooms.’

  They went back together into the living room whose full-length windows opened on to a balcony running the entire length of the façade, as is common on the top floor of old apartment buildings in Paris.

  Despite the greyness, it was just about possible to make out the Eiffel Tower, the church bell towers and, on hundreds of roofs glistening in the rain, smoking chimney stacks.

  In the early days of his career, Maigret had known Avenue Junot when it was still a building site with only a few apartment blocks amid the patches of wasteland and gardens. A painter had been the first to build a sort of private mansion, which at the time was considered very modern.

  Others had followed his example – a novelist, an opera singer – and Avenue Junot had become a fashionable address.

  Through the French windows, Maigret could see several private residences which had ended up adjoining each other. From its style, the one opposite must have been around fifteen years old, and it had two storeys.

  Did it belong to a painter, as the almost entirely glazed second floor seemed to suggest? Dark curtains were drawn, leaving only a thirty- to forty-centimetre gap between them.

  Had Maigret been asked what he was thinking about, he would have had difficulty answering. He was taking it all in. In no particular order. Randomly. At times he looked outside, at times inside the apartment, knowing that at a given moment, some images would connect up and make sense.

  A noise was heard coming from the street, heavy footsteps on the stairs, voices, banging. The team from Criminal Records had arrived with all their equipment, and Moers had taken the trouble to come in person.

  ‘Where’s the body?’ he asked, his blue eyes always seeming a little startled behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  ‘There’s no body. Didn’t Chinquier tell you?’

  ‘I was in such a rush …’ apologized the latter.

  ‘It’s Lognon, who was shot as he was leaving the building.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘He’s been taken to Bichat. He may pull through. He spent part of the night in this apartment with a woman. I’d like to know if there are any of his fingerprints in the bedroom or only in this room. Take all the prints you can find … Are you coming downstairs with me, Chinquier?’

  He waited until they were in the corridor downstairs before saying to him quietly:

  ‘It might be useful to question the residents and neighbours. There’s not much likelihood anyone was at their window, given the weather at the time of the shooting, but you never know.

  ‘It is also possible that young Marinette took a taxi and, if she did, it won’t be hard to find the driver. She probably went down to Place Constantin-Pecqueur, where there are more cars than up on Montmartre … You know the area better than me, so do your colleagues …’

  Shaking Chinquier’s hand, he sighed:

  ‘Good luck!’

  And he pushed open the glass lodge door. The concierge’s husband had decided to go to sleep in his bed because his regular breathing could be heard coming from behind the curtain.

  ‘Do you need anything else?’ whispered Angèle Sauget.

  ‘No. I wanted to make a telephone call, but I’ll go elsewhere. I’d rather not disturb him.’

  ‘Don’t be annoyed with him. When he doesn’t get enough rest, he’s impossible. I gave him a sleeping tablet, which is beginning to work.’

  ‘If you remember any further details, please do telephone the Police Judiciaire.’

  ‘I’d be surprised, but I will, I promise. If only those journalists and photographers would go away! They’re the ones attracting the gawkers.’

  ‘I’ll try to move them on.’

  As he expected, the minute he stepped outside they mobbed him, despite the police presence.

  ‘Listen, gentlemen, right now, I don’t know any more than you do. Inspector Lognon was attacked while on duty by persons unknown …’

  ‘On duty?’ shouted a mocking voice.

  ‘I said while on duty, and I repeat it. He was severely wounded and was operated on by Monsieur Mingault at Bichat, but he probably won’t be able to talk for some hours, if not days.

  ‘In the meantime, we can only surmise. In any case, there’s nothing more to see here, but it is possible that, this afternoon at Quai des Orfèvres, I’ll have some news for you …’

  ‘What was the inspector doing in this building? Is it true that a young woman has disappeared?’

  ‘See you this afternoon!’

  ‘Don’t you want to comment?’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  And, his overcoat collar upturned and his hands thrust in his pockets, he walked off down the street. The sound of a few clicks told him he was being photographed, for lack of anything else, and when he looked around, the reporters were beginning to disperse.

  In Rue Caulaincourt he went into the first café he saw and ordered a grog, since he’d felt shivery earlier.

  ‘Give me three phone tokens, would you?’

  ‘Three?’

  He took a big swig of his grog before going into the telephone booth, and his first call was to the hospital. As anticipated, he was transferred to several departments before he was put through to the matron on the surgery ward.

  ‘No, he’s not dead. A junior doctor is with him right now and one of your inspectors is waiting in the corridor. It’s still too early to say. That’s it! Now another one of your men is coming into my office …’

  Resigned, he hung up and called Quai des Orfèvres.

  ‘Is Lapointe back?’

  ‘He just tried to reach you at Avenue Junot. I’ll put him on.’

  Through the glass wall of the booth, Maigret could see the pewter counter, the bar owner in his shirt-sleeves, and two builders being served large glasses of red wine.

  ‘Is that you, chief? I found t
he beauty salon straight away because it’s the only one in Avenue Matignon. It’s a luxury establishment, run by a certain Marcellin. The ladies speak very highly of him. Marinette Augier didn’t turn up today and her colleagues are surprised because, they say, she’s very punctual and hard-working …

  ‘She hasn’t told anyone about her relationship with Lognon … She has a married brother, who lives in Vanves, but no one knows his address … He’s in insurance, and Marinette occasionally telephoned him at the office … The company’s called La Fraternelle … I looked it up in the phone book … It’s in Rue Le Peletier …

  ‘I didn’t want to go there without talking to you first—’

  ‘Is Janvier with you?’

  ‘He’s typing out a report.’

  ‘Ask him if it’s urgent. I insist you go to bed so that you’ll be available when I need you …’

  A silence at the other end. Then Lapointe’s resigned voice:

  ‘He says it’s not urgent.’

  ‘Then fill him in. Tell him to go to Rue Le Peletier and see if he can find out where Marinette might be hiding.’

  Other customers came into the little café, regulars who were served without having to be asked what they wanted to drink. People had recognized Maigret and were darting inquisitive glances over at the glass telephone booth.

  He had to look up Lognon’s number. Unsurprisingly, it was Madame Maigret who picked up the phone.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Shhh! … Whatever you do, don’t tell her I’m around the corner … How is she?’

  He understood his wife’s hesitation.

  ‘I imagine she’s in bed and that she feels worse than her husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you made her something to eat?’

  ‘After going to the local shops.’

  ‘So you can leave her on her own?’

  ‘She won’t be happy!’

  ‘Whether she likes it or not, tell her I need you and come and meet me as quickly as possible at Chez Manière.’