Maigret's Childhood Friend
Page 1
Georges Simenon
* * *
Maigret’s Childhood Friend
Translated by SHAUN WHITESIDE
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
Georges Simenon was born in Liège, Belgium, in 1903. He is best know in Britain as the author of the Maigret novels and his prolific output of over 400 novels and short stories have made him a household name in continental Europe. He died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life.
PENGUIN CLASSICS
Maigret’s Childhood Friend
‘I love reading Simenon. He makes me think of Chekhov’
– William Faulkner
‘A truly wonderful writer … marvellously readable – lucid, simple, absolutely in tune with the world he creates’
– Muriel Spark
‘Few writers have ever conveyed with such a sure touch, the bleakness of human life’
– A. N. Wilson
‘One of the greatest writers of the twentieth century … Simenon was unequalled at making us look inside, though the ability was masked by his brilliance at absorbing us obsessively in his stories’
– Guardian
‘A novelist who entered his fictional world as if he were part of it’
– Peter Ackroyd
‘The greatest of all, the most genuine novelist we have had in literature’
– André Gide
‘Superb … The most addictive of writers … A unique teller of tales’
– Observer
‘The mysteries of the human personality are revealed in all their disconcerting complexity’
– Anita Brookner
‘A writer who, more than any other crime novelist, combined a high literary reputation with popular appeal’
– P. D. James
‘A supreme writer … Unforgettable vividness’
– Independent
‘Compelling, remorseless, brilliant’
– John Gray
‘Extraordinary masterpieces of the twentieth century’
– John Banville
1.
The fly buzzed around his head three times before settling on the top left-hand corner of the page of the report that he was annotating.
The pencil in Maigret’s hand came to a standstill, and he looked at the insect with amused curiosity. The game had been going on for almost half an hour, and it was still the same fly. He could have sworn he recognized it. And anyway, it was the only one in the office.
It traced a number of circles in the room, particularly in the area bathed in sunlight, flew around the detective chief inspector’s head and landed on the documents that he was studying. There, it lazily rubbed its feet together; it was possible that it was taunting him.
Was it really looking at him? And if it was, what did it make of that mass of flesh, which must have seemed enormous?
He avoided startling it. He waited, pencil in the air, and all of a sudden, as if it had had enough, it took flight and passed through the open window before losing itself in the warm air outside.
It was mid-June. Every now and again a breeze blew through the office where Maigret, in shirt-sleeves, was peacefully smoking his pipe. He had decided to devote the afternoon to reading his inspectors’ reports and he did so with all the necessary patience.
It was a curious coincidence. That sun, those cooler gusts that sometimes entered through the open window, that fly that fascinated him reminded him of his years at school, when a fly gravitating towards his desk assumed much more importance than the teacher’s lesson.
Joseph, the old usher, knocked discreetly at the door, came in and handed Maigret an embossed visiting card.
Léon Florentin
Antiques Dealer
‘How old is he?’
‘About your age.’
‘Is he tall and thin?’
‘Very tall and very thin, yes, with a lot of grey hair.’
It was definitely his Florentin, a fellow pupil of his at the Lycée Banville, in Moulins, where he had been the class joker.
‘Show him in.’
He had forgotten the fly, which, perhaps offended, must have flown out the window. There was an awkward moment when Florentin came in, because the two men had only seen each other once since parting company in Moulins. That had been about twenty years ago. Maigret had found himself standing face to face, on the pavement, with an elegant couple. The woman was pretty, very Parisian.
‘Let me introduce an old school friend who joined the police.’
Then, to Maigret:
‘Allow me to …’ he began formally, then corrected himself. ‘This is Monique, my wife.’
It had been sunny that day too. They hadn’t known what to say to each other.
‘So, are you well? Still content with life?’
‘Still content,’ Maigret had replied. ‘And you?’
‘Can’t complain.’
‘Do you live in Paris?’
‘Yes, 62, Boulevard Haussmann. But I travel a lot for business. I’m just back from Istanbul. You must come and visit us. With Madame Maigret, of course, if you’re married …’
Neither of them was at ease. The couple had made their way towards an apple-green convertible sports car, and Maigret had continued on his way.
The Florentin who came into his office was less dashing than the one from Place de la Madeleine. He wore quite a tired grey suit and was no longer as self-confident as before.
‘It’s nice of you to see me straight away. How are you? How are you doing?’
He hesitated to address Maigret informally, and the inspector also struggled to adopt a familiar tone after such a long time.
‘And you? Sit down. How’s your wife?’
Florentin’s light-grey eyes stared into the distance for a moment, as if he was trying to remember.
‘You mean Monique, a little redhead? In fact, we lived together for a little while, but I never married her. A nice girl …’
‘So you aren’t married?’
‘What’s the point?’
And Florentin pulled one of those faces which had once amused his classmates so much and disarmed the teachers. It was as if his long countenance with its well-formed features was made of rubber, the way he managed to twist it in all directions.
Maigret didn’t dare to ask why he had come to see him. He studied him, struggling to believe that so many years had passed.
‘Lovely office, by the way. I didn’t know you had such nice furniture at the Police Judiciaire.’
‘You’ve become an antiques dealer?’
‘If you like. I buy up old furniture and repair it in a little studio I’ve rented on Boulevard Rochechouart. You know, at the moment almost everybody’s an antiques dealer.’
‘Are you happy?’
‘I can’t complain, except that I found myself in an awkward situation this afternoon …’
He was so used to acting the fool that his face automatically assumed comical expressions. But his face was still ashen, his eyes anxious.
‘That’s why I came to see you. It occurred to me that you’d be more likely to understand me than anyone else.’
He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one with long and bony fingers that trembled slightly. Maigret thought he caught a whiff of alcohol.
‘In fact I’m in a spot of bother.’
‘I’m listening …’
‘I know. It’s hard to explain. I’ve had a girlfriend for four years
…’
‘Another girlfriend that you live with?’
‘Yes and no … No … Not exactly … She lives on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, near Place Saint-Georges.’
Maigret was surprised by his hesitations and his sidelong glances, given that Florentin had always been so confident and loquacious. At school, Maigret had envied him his ease. He also envied him a little because his father was the best patissier in town, opposite the cathedral. He had even given his name to a nut-based cake that had become a local speciality.
Florentin’s pockets had always been filled with money. He could pull pranks in class without being punished, as if he enjoyed special immunity. And when evening came he sometimes went out with girls.
‘Tell me.’
‘Her name is Josée … Or rather, her real name is Joséphine Papet, but she prefers Josée. So do I. She’s thirty-four and you wouldn’t know it …’
Florentin’s face was so mobile that it seemed to be twitching.
‘It’s hard to explain, old man …’
He got up and walked towards the window, where his tall body was outlined against the sun.
‘It’s hot in here …’ he sighed, wiping his brow.
The fly was no longer there to settle on the corner of the pages spread out in front of the inspector. The sound of cars and buses on Pont Saint-Michel could be heard, sometimes the foghorn of a tug lowering its funnel before passing under the arch.
The black marble clock, the same as in all the offices of the Police Judiciaire and probably in hundreds of official offices, said it was 5.20.
‘I’m not the only one …’ Florentin managed to say at last.
‘The only what?’
‘Josée’s only boyfriend … That’s what’s hard to explain … She’s the best girl on earth and I was her lover, her friend and her confidant …’
Maigret relit his pipe, trying to be patient. His former classmate came and sat down facing him.
‘Did she have a lot of other boyfriends?’ he asked at last when the silence had actually gone on for a bit too long.
‘Wait till I count them … There’s Paré … One … Then Courcel … Two … Then Victor … Three … Then a young fellow I’ve never seen and whom I call the redhead … Four.’
‘Four lovers who come and see her regularly?’
‘Some once, others twice a week.’
‘They know there are several of them?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So that each one is under the illusion that he alone is keeping her?’
The word embarrassed Florentin, who started crumbling the tobacco from a cigarette over the carpet.
‘I warned you that it was difficult to understand …’
‘And where do you come into it?’
‘I’m her friend … I come running when she’s lonely.’
‘Do you sleep at Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette?’
‘Except on the night from Thursday to Friday.’
Maigret said, with no apparent irony, ‘Because your place is taken?’
‘By Courcel, yes … She’s known him for ten years. He lives in Rouen and has offices on Boulevard Voltaire … It would take too long to explain … Do you think I’m despicable?’
‘I don’t think anyone’s despicable.’
‘I know that my situation might seem problematic and that most people would judge me harshly … I swear that Josée and I love each other …’
He suddenly added:
‘Or rather we loved each other …’
The inspector was struck by the word, and his face went blank.
‘Have you two broken up?’
‘No.’
‘Has she died?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘This afternoon …’
And Florentin turned towards him, tragically, and said rather dramatically:
‘I swear it wasn’t me … You know me … It’s because you know me and I know you that I came to see you …’
They had known each other, in fact, at twelve, at fifteen, at seventeen, but since then they had each taken a different path.
‘What did she die of?’
‘She was shot.’
‘By whom?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘At her apartment … In her room …’
‘Where were you at that moment?’
He was finding it increasingly hard to avoid his usual formality.
‘In the closet.’
‘You mean in the apartment?’
‘Yes … It’s happened a few times … When someone rang the doorbell, I … Do I disgust you? I swear it’s not what you think … I earn my living … I work …’
‘Try and tell me exactly what happened.’
‘Since when?’
‘Let’s say since midday.’
‘We had lunch together. She’s a very good cook, and we were both sitting at the window. Like every Wednesday, she wasn’t expecting anyone until five thirty or six.’
‘Who?’
‘His name is François Paré, he’s about fifty, a departmental head in the Ministry of Public Works. He’s the head of Navigable Waterways. He lives in Versailles.’
‘He never turns up early?’
‘No.’
‘What happened after lunch?’
‘We chatted.’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘A dressing gown. Except when she goes out, she always wears a dressing gown. At about three thirty there was a ring on the doorbell, and I hurried to the wardrobe. It doesn’t open on to the bedroom, but on to the bathroom …’
Maigret was losing patience.
‘And then?’
‘Perhaps a quarter of an hour later I heard a sound like a gunshot …’
‘So at three forty-five …?’
‘I suppose …’
‘You ran in?’
‘No. I wasn’t supposed to be there. And anyway, what I had taken for a gunshot might have come from the exhaust of a car or a bus.’
Maigret was now looking at him with keen interest. He remembered the stories that Florentin had told them in the old days, all of which were more or less fantastical. Sometimes it seemed as if he himself couldn’t tell lies from the truth.
‘And what were you waiting for?’
‘You’re addressing me formally now? You can see that …’
He looked troubled and disappointed.
‘Fine! What were you waiting for, in the closet?’ He had softened his tone.
‘It’s not a closet, it’s quite a large wardrobe. I was waiting for the man to leave.’
‘How do you know it was a man, when you didn’t see him?’
Florentin gave him a baffled look.
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Did this Josée have no women friends?’
‘No.’
‘No family?’
‘She’s originally from Concarneau, and I’ve never seen any of her family.’
‘How did you know the person had left?’
‘I heard footsteps in the sitting room, then the door opened and closed again.’
‘At what time?’
‘About four.’
‘So the murderer stayed with his victim for a quarter of an hour?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘When you stepped into the room, where did you find your mistress?’
‘On the floor, beside the bed.’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘She was still in her yellow dressing gown.’
‘Where had she been shot?’
‘In the throat.’
‘Are you sure she was dead?’
‘It wasn’t hard to tell.’
‘Was the room untidy?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘No open drawers, scattered papers?’
‘No … I don’t think so …’
‘You’re not sure?�
��
‘I was too shocked.’
‘Did you call a doctor?’
‘No … Given that she was dead …’
‘The local police station?’
‘Not them either.’
‘You got here just after five. What had you been doing since four o’clock?’
‘First of all, I collapsed into an armchair, in a complete daze … I didn’t understand … I still don’t understand … Then I told myself that I would be accused, especially since our poisonous old concierge hates me.’
‘So you stayed in that armchair for an hour?’
‘No … I don’t know how long afterwards I went out to the bistro, the Grand Saint-Georges, where I had three brandies one after the other.’
‘And after that?’
‘I remembered that you had become the big chief of the Crime Squad.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘I took a taxi.’
Maigret was furious, but his face was so frozen that it was impossible to tell. He went and opened the door of the inspectors’ office and hesitated between Janvier and Lapointe, who were both there. In the end he chose Janvier.
‘Come here a moment … First call Moers at the lab and tell him to meet us at Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette … What number?’
‘17A.’
Every time he looked at his old schoolmate he wore the same hard and closed expression. While Janvier made his call he glanced at the clock, which said it was 5.30.
‘Who is the Wednesday client again?’
‘Paré … The man from the ministry.’
‘Normally, at this time of day, he would be turning up at the door to the apartment?’
‘This is the time, yes.’
‘Has he got a key?’
‘None of them has a key.’
‘Not even you?’
‘I’m different … You see, old man—’
‘I would rather you didn’t call me “old man”.’
‘You see! Even you …’
‘Let’s get going.’
He picked up his hat in passing and, as they walked down the wide greyish staircase, he stuffed a pipe.
‘I wonder why you waited so long to come and see me, or to alert the police … Did she have a lot of money?’
‘I suppose so … Three or four years ago, as a stopgap, she bought a house on Rue du Mont-Cenis, just above Montmartre.’