Maigret's Patience

by Georges Simenon

  Everyone was talking at once. Photographers were taking pictures. The doctor with the bald head was asking for silence, and Moers was unable to reach Maigret.

  The little magistrate found himself next to Maigret, who dragged him out into the open air.

  ‘A glass of beer, sir?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no, if I could get through.’

  They slipped through with great difficulty. The death of the relatively unknown Jef had not passed as unnoticed as that of Manuel Palmari, and a crowd had gathered outside the building which two policemen were struggling to contain. Some reporters started following Maigret.

  ‘No comment this morning, boys. After three o’clock, back at HQ.’

  He led his stout companion to Chez l’Auvergnat, where some regulars were already having lunch and the air was cooler.

  ‘Two large beers.’

  ‘Are you on top of all this, Maigret?’ the magistrate asked, mopping his brow. ‘It seems that they are discovering a lot of up-to-date diamond-cutting equipment in the cellar. Were you expecting that?’

  ‘I’ve been looking for it for twenty years.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Very much so. I knew how all the other pawns moved. Cheers!’

  He drained his glass slowly, put it down on the bar and murmured:

  ‘Same again.’

  Then, still with a hard expression:

  ‘I should have understood everything yesterday. Why didn’t I remember that business in Douai? I sent my men scurrying off in all directions except the right one, and when it finally dawned on me, it was too late.’

  He watched the landlord pour him another beer. He was breathing heavily, like a man holding himself in check.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I sent Barillard to the cells.’

  ‘Have you interrogated him?’

  ‘No. It’s too early. I have someone else I need to question before him, now, straight away.’

  He looked out of the window at the building opposite, in particular at a certain window on the fourth floor.

  ‘Aline Bauche?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At her place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she be more subdued in your office?’

  ‘Nothing subdues her.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll confess?’

  Maigret shrugged his shoulders, thought about ordering another beer, decided against it and offered his hand to the little magistrate, who looked at him with both admiration and a certain disquiet.

  ‘See you later. I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘I think I’ll have lunch here and as soon as they have finished up across the road I’ll go back to the Palais.’

  He didn’t dare add: ‘Good luck!’

  Maigret, his shoulders slumped, went back across the road, looking up once more to the window on the fourth floor. They let him pass, and just one photographer had the presence of mind to take a snap of the inspector marching resolutely ahead.

  7.

  When Maigret knocked noisily on the door of what used to be Manuel Palmari’s apartment he heard irregular footsteps approaching on the inside, and it was Inspector Janin who opened, looking, as usual, as if he had been caught in the act. Janin was a scrawny fellow, and his left leg splayed outwards when he walked. He was like one of those dogs that always anticipates being hit.

  Was he afraid that Maigret would reproach him for taking off his jacket and having his dubious shirt unbuttoned over his skinny, hairy chest?

  Maigret barely gave him a glance.

  ‘Has anyone used the telephone?’

  ‘Just me, chief, to tell my wife …’

  ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  And Maigret frowned again. The apartment was a mess. In the kitchen, Aline was smoking a cigarette in front of a plate containing the congealing remains of some fried eggs. The woman sitting here had little in common with the spruce, well-buffed ‘little lady’ who dressed with great care every morning before going to do her shopping.

  She was probably wearing nothing but that blue silk dressing gown, which was sticking to her skin because of the sweat. Her dark hair was unbrushed, she was wearing no make-up. She hadn’t bathed and was emitting a tangy odour.

  It wasn’t the first time Maigret had encountered this phenomenon. He had known several women as stylish and well groomed as Aline had been who, left to their own devices after the deaths of their husbands, had similarly let themselves go virtually overnight.

  Their tastes and attitudes changed suddenly. They dressed more gaudily, spoke in a more vulgar manner, adopting a language they had tried hard to suppress, as if their natural tendencies were regaining the upper hand.

  ‘Come.’

  She knew Maigret well enough to realize that this time the game was deadly serious. Nevertheless, she took her time getting up, stubbed out her cigarette on the greasy plate, put the packet in her dressing-gown pocket and went to the fridge.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘No.’

  She didn’t insist but got a bottle of cognac and a glass for herself from the cupboard.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘I told you to come here, with or without the cognac.’

  He made her walk across the living room and pushed her none too gently into Palmari’s little room, where the wheelchair still stood as a reminder of the old gang leader.

  ‘Sit down, lie down or stay standing …’ Maigret muttered as he took off his jacket and looked for a pipe in the pocket.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘What’s happened is, it’s all over. It’s time to settle accounts. You understand that, don’t you?’

  She had sat on the edge of the yellow sofa, her legs crossed, and with trembling hands she tried to light the cigarette she held between her lips.

  She didn’t care that she was exposing part of her thighs. Maigret didn’t care either. Whether she was clothed or naked, the time when she could tempt a man had passed.

  Maigret was witnessing a sort of collapse. He had known her when she was quite sure of herself, often arrogant, mocking him with a sharp tongue or insulting him in terms that led to Manuel ticking her off.

  He had known her as a natural beauty, still with a whiff of the street about her, which added a certain spicy quality.

  He had known her in tears, as a grief-stricken woman or as an actress playing that role so well that he had let himself be taken in by it.

  Now she was just a cornered animal, crouching, smelling of fear and wondering what fate had in store for her.

  Maigret fiddled with the wheelchair, turning it this way and that, then finally sat down on it in the pose in which he had so often seen Palmari.

  ‘He lived here three years, a prisoner of this instrument.’

  He was talking as if to himself, his hands pressing the buttons that made it turn left and right.

  ‘You were his only way of communicating with the outside world.’

  She turned her head away, disturbed by seeing someone of the same build as Manuel sitting in his chair. Maigret carried on talking, as if unconcerned about her.

  ‘He was an old-school gangster, a “daddy” gangster. And those old guys were wary in a different way from the younger generation. In particular, they never allowed women to be involved in their business, except to pimp them out for profit. Manuel had moved beyond that stage. Are you listening?’

  ‘I’m listening,’ she stammered like a little girl.

  ‘The truth of the matter is that, late in life, the old crocodile fell in love with you like a schoolboy with a crush, fell in love with a girl he picked up outside some sleazy hotel on Rue Fontaine.

  ‘He had saved up a hoard of cash that would have enabled him to retire to the banks of the Marne or somewhere in the South.

  ‘The p
oor sucker thought he would be able to turn you into a real lady. He dressed you in fine clothes. He taught you how to be presentable. He didn’t need to teach you how to count, since you had learned that in the womb.

  ‘And how affectionate you were with him! Daddy this and Daddy that. Are you feeling OK, Daddy? Do you want me to open a window? Are you thirsty, Daddy? Can your little Aline give you a kiss?’

  He stood up suddenly and growled:

  ‘You bitch!’

  She didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle. She knew that in anger he was quite capable of slapping or even punching her in the face.

  ‘Was it you who persuaded him to put the properties in your name? And the bank accounts? It doesn’t matter! While he was stuck here within these four walls you were out meeting his accomplices, giving them instructions, picking up the diamonds. Do you still have nothing to say?’

  The cigarette slipped from her fingers, and she stubbed it out on the carpet with the tip of her slipper.

  ‘How long have you been the mistress of that strutting peacock Fernand? A year, three years, a few months? The hotel on Rue de l’Étoile was very handy for your trysts.

  ‘Then, one day, one of you, Fernand or you, got impatient. Even in his much-diminished state, Manuel was in stable health and could have gone on for another ten or fifteen years.

  ‘He had enough put away that he could think about ending his days somewhere else, where he could be taken out into the garden and feel in contact with nature.

  ‘Was it you or Fernand who couldn’t bear the thought of that? Now it’s your turn to speak, and be quick about it.’

  With a heavy tread he walked from one window to the other, glancing occasionally at the street below.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

  ‘Was it you?’

  ‘It was nothing to do with me.’

  Then, with a great deal of effort:

  ‘What have you done with Fernand?’

  ‘He’s in the cells, stewing in his own juices, waiting for me to interrogate him.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he has said. Let me put this to you a different way. You didn’t kill Manuel with your own hands, I get that. Fernand took care of that while you were out shopping. As for the second murder …’

  ‘What second murder?’

  ‘You really don’t know that there has been another death in the building?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Come on! Think about it, unless this is just an act. Palmari is out of the picture. But Barillard, whom no one has ever suspected, finds himself all of a sudden under investigation by the police.

  ‘Instead of bringing you both into Quai des Orfèvres and putting you face to face, we left you each in your own cage, you here, him over the hallway with his wife, with no links to the outside world and no means of communicating with each other.

  ‘And what happens then? You wander around from your bed to your chair, and from your chair to the kitchen, nibbling at bits of food and not even bothering to wash.

  ‘He is wondering how much we know. Above all, he is wondering who could have given evidence against him that put him in the frame. Rightly or wrongly, he is not worried that you will talk. But upstairs, in the garret, there is a stooge who might be not quite right in the head, who might be more cunning than he lets on and who might snitch.’

  ‘Old Jef is dead?’ she stammered.

  ‘You didn’t think he’d be first on the list, did you?’

  She stared at him, completely thrown, looking for something to cling to.

  ‘How?’

  ‘He was found hanged this morning in Barillard’s cellar, a cellar which was long ago converted into a workshop where Jef Claes, or more accurately Victor Krulak, re-cut stolen gems.

  ‘He didn’t hang himself. He was fetched from upstairs, taken down to the cellar, where he was killed before having a noose put round his neck.’

  He spoke slowly and didn’t look the young woman in the face.

  ‘Now it is no longer a matter of burglaries, precious stones or sleeping together at the Hôtel Bussière. It’s a matter of two murders, rather two assassinations, committed in cold blood, with premeditation. One of you at least has your head on the line.’

  Unable to sit still any longer, she stood up and started walking round in turn, taking care not to pass too near to Maigret.

  ‘What do you think?’ he heard her murmur.

  ‘That Fernand is a wild animal and you became his mate. That you lived here for months and years with a man you called Daddy and who trusted you, and the whole time you were just waiting for the moment when you could hop into bed with that lowlife.

  ‘You must have each been as impatient as the other. It hardly matters who actually held the gun that killed Manuel.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Sit down here.’

  He pointed to the wheelchair, and she stiffened, her eyes like saucers.

  ‘Sit down here!’

  Suddenly he grabbed her arm and forced her to sit down where he wanted her to.

  ‘Don’t move. I want you to sit in the exact spot where Manuel spent the vast majority of his day. Here! With the radio within reach of one hand, magazines in reach of the other. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where was the gun, which Manuel never went anywhere without?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re lying, because you saw Palmari put it there every morning after having it with him all night in his bedroom. Is that correct?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no “maybe” about it, for God’s sake! It’s the truth! You forget that I’ve been here twenty, thirty times to talk to him.’

  She sat frozen in the chair where Manuel had died, her face drained of colour.

  ‘Now listen carefully. You left to do your shopping, all dressed up, after giving Daddy a kiss on the forehead and a parting smile as you went through the door of the living room.

  ‘Let’s assume that at this point the gun was still in its place behind the radio. Fernand came in using his key – because he had his own key, which allowed him to make contact with the chief whenever he needed to.

  ‘Look around at the furniture. Can you imagine Fernand walking round the chair and slipping his hand behind the radio to take hold of the gun and fire a first bullet into Manuel’s neck?

  ‘No, my dear. Palmari wasn’t born yesterday and he’d have been suspicious from the very first movement.

  ‘The truth, you see, is that when you kissed Daddy, when you smiled at him, when you skipped out, very much the neat and pretty young lady, wiggling your little behind, the gun was stashed inside your handbag.

  ‘It was all choreographed. On the landing, you just had to slip it into the hand of Fernand, who was coincidentally leaving his apartment at the same moment.

  ‘While you entered the lift and headed off to do your shopping, some nice red meat and vegetables still with an earthy smell about them, he stayed in his apartment until the prearranged time.

  ‘So no need now to squeeze past the old man’s chair and slip a hand between him and the radio.

  ‘Just one quick movement, after an exchange of words. I know what care Manuel took of his weapons. The gun was well oiled, and I’m sure we will find traces of the oil in your bag.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ she cried, throwing herself at Maigret and battering his shoulders and face with her fists. ‘I didn’t kill him! It was Fernand! He did everything! It was all his idea!’

  Maigret didn’t bother to parry the blows. He just called out:

  ‘Janin! Will you take care of her?’

  ‘Shall I ’cuff her?’

  ‘Just until she calms down. Here! Let’s put her on this sofa. I’ll send you up something to eat and I’ll try to get some lunch myself. Later she will have to get dressed, or we will have to make her get dressed our
selves.’

  8.

  ‘A beer for starters.’

  The little restaurant still smelled of lunch, but the paper tablecloths had disappeared, and there was only one customer in the corner, reading the paper.

  ‘Could you ask your waiter to take two or three sandwiches to the fourth floor, left-hand apartment, in the building opposite, as well as a carafe of wine?’

  ‘And you? Have you had lunch? All finished over there?

  ‘Would you like some sandwiches too? Some Cantal ham?’

  Maigret felt damp under his clothes. His huge body was empty, his limbs were limp. He felt a bit like someone who has been battling a raging fever, which had suddenly relented.

  For hours he had been forging ahead, oblivious to the familiar scenery around him, and he would have been hard put to even remember what day it was. He was surprised to see the clock showing two thirty.

  What had he forgotten? He was vaguely aware that he had missed a meeting with someone. But who? Ah, yes! Gelot Junior on Avenue des Gobelins, who would have drawn up that list of jewellers visited by Fernand Barillard.

  Things had moved on apace since then. The list would prove useful later, and Maigret imagined the little examining magistrate in the subsequent weeks summoning witness after witness to his messy office and compiling an ever-thickening file.

  The world around Maigret was starting to return to life. He heard the sounds of the street once more, noticed the reflections of the sunlight and slowly relished the taste of his sandwich.

  ‘Is this wine any good?’

  ‘A little harsh for some tastes. That’s because it hasn’t been tampered with. It comes direct from my brother-in-law’s place; he only produces about twenty bottles a year.’

  He tasted some of the wine that he had sent up to Janin and, when he left the restaurant, he no longer seemed like a raging bull.

  ‘When is my house going to get back to normal?’ the concierge lamented as he walked in.

  ‘Soon, soon, my dear lady.’

  ‘Should I still be paying the rent money to the young lady?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The examining magistrate will decide.’