Maigret's Childhood Friend

by Georges Simenon

  ‘What about the car?’

  Because Maigret had never wanted to learn to drive.

  ‘I’ll take a taxi.’

  And to Florentin:

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘You don’t intend to arrest me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you going to do? Why do you need me?’

  ‘To have a chat.’

  2.

  Maigret’s first idea had been to go with his companion to Quai des Orfèvres, but as he leaned forward towards the driver he changed his mind.

  ‘What number Boulevard Rochechouart?’ he asked Florentin.

  ‘55A … Why?’

  ‘55A, Boulevard Rochechouart.’

  It was no distance away. The driver, annoyed to have been stopped for such a short trip, muttered between his teeth.

  On one side there was a picture-framer, on the other a tobacconist. Between the two, a cul-de-sac with uneven cobblestones, with a handcart parked in it. At the end, two studios with large windows. In the one on the left, a painter was busy painting a view of Sacré-Coeur which he would probably sell to a tourist. It looked as if he mass-produced them. He had long hair, a salt-and-pepper beard and a floppy neck-tie like the Montmartre artists of the turn of the century.

  Florentin pulled his keys from his pocket and opened the door of the studio on the right, and Maigret was angry with him for spoiling his childhood memories.

  What had become of the other boys in his class? He hadn’t seen any of them again. Crochet, the son of a notary, must have followed in his father’s footsteps. Orban, gentle and podgy, talked about studying medicine. Others must have scattered and settled elsewhere in France and abroad.

  Why did it have to be Florentin, of all people, that he met up with again in such unpleasant circumstances?

  He remembered the patisserie, even though he hadn’t gone in often. Other pupils, who had more pocket money, met there for ice cream and cake, in a setting of mirrors, marble and gilt, a warm, sweet atmosphere. For the ladies of the town, a cake was only any good if it came from Florentin’s.

  Now he found himself in a dusty junk shop, and the windows, which had probably never been washed, allowed in only a faint light.

  ‘Apologies for the mess.’

  The term ‘antiques dealer’, in fact, was more than just pretentious. The items of furniture that Florentin bought, God knows where, were mostly old things without style or value. He merely repaired them and sanded them to give them a slightly more attractive appearance.

  ‘Have you been doing this job for a long time?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘I worked in exports.’

  ‘Exporting what?’

  ‘Pretty much everything. Mostly to the countries of sub-Saharan Africa.’

  ‘And before that?’

  Then Florentin, humiliated, murmured:

  ‘You know, I tried pretty much everything. I didn’t want to be a pastry-chef and end my days in Moulins. My sister married a pastry-chef, and they carried on the business.’

  Maigret remembered the sister with the well-filled blouse who stood behind the white counter. Hadn’t he been slightly in love with her? She was fresh and cheerful, like her mother, whom she resembled.

  ‘In Paris, it isn’t easy to hold your own. I’ve had my ups and downs …’

  Maigret had known others who had had highs and lows, who had set up lucrative businesses that collapsed like houses of cards, and who were constantly on the brink of jail. People who ask you for a limited partnership of a hundred thousand francs to build a harbour in a faraway country and who settle in the end for a hundred francs so as not to be thrown out of their apartment.

  Florentin had found Josée. Looking at the studio, it was plain that Florentin didn’t live by selling furniture.

  Maigret pushed a half-open door and revealed a cramped, windowless room containing an iron bed, a wash-stand and a rickety wardrobe.

  ‘Is this where you sleep?’

  ‘Only on Thursdays.’

  Who did Thursday belong to again? The only one who spent the night once a week at Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.

  ‘Fernand Courcel,’ Florentin explained. ‘He was Josée’s friend before I was. As long as ten years ago he came to see her and they went out together. He’s less free now, but on Thursday evening he has an excuse to stay in Paris.’

  Maigret peered in the corners, opened drawers, old unremarkable wardrobes whose varnish had faded. He couldn’t have said exactly what he was looking for. One detail bothered him.

  ‘You told me that Josée had no bank account?’

  ‘Yes. At least not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Was she suspicious of banks?’

  ‘That’s part of it. Mostly, she didn’t want anyone to know about her income, because of taxes.’

  Maigret spotted an old pipe.

  ‘Do you smoke a pipe these days?’

  ‘Not at her place. She didn’t like the smell. Only here.’

  A blue suit hung in a rustic wardrobe, along with some work trousers. Some shirts, three or four, and, apart from a pair of sawdust-covered espadrilles, one pair of shoes.

  A scruffy bohemian. Joséphine Papet must have had money. Was she miserly? Was she suspicious of Florentin, who would have taken her for everything she had?

  He couldn’t find anything interesting and was almost sorry to have come, because in the end he felt sorry for his former classmate. From the doorway he thought he could see a piece of paper on top of a wardrobe. He turned on his heels, climbed on a chair and stepped down holding a rectangular package wrapped in newspaper.

  Sweat glistened on Florentin’s forehead.

  Having unfolded the newspaper, Maigret revealed a white biscuit tin with the trademark still visible in red and yellow. When he opened it, he found rolls of hundred-franc notes.

  ‘Those are my savings …’

  The inspector looked at him as if he hadn’t heard him and sat down at the workbench to count the rolls. There were forty-eight.

  ‘Do you often eat biscuits?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Can you show me another tin?’

  ‘I don’t think I have any at the moment.’

  ‘I’ve seen two of the same brand at Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette.’

  ‘That’s probably where I got it.’

  He had always lied, instinctively or for fun. He needed to tell stories, and the more unlikely they were the cheekier he became. Except this time there was a lot at stake.

  ‘I understand why you didn’t get to Quai des Orfèvres until five o’clock.’

  ‘I held back … I was worried that I would be accused …’

  ‘You came here.’

  He denied it again, but he was starting to get rattled.

  ‘Do you want me to go and ask the painter next door?’

  ‘Listen, Maigret …’

  His lip was trembling. It looked as if he was going to cry, and it wasn’t a pleasant sight.

  ‘I know I don’t always tell the truth. It’s stronger than me. You remember the stories I made up to amuse you … Today, I beg you to believe me: I wasn’t the one who killed Josée and I was in the wardrobe when it happened …’

  His expression was melodramatic, but then again wasn’t he used to acting?

  ‘If I had killed somebody, I wouldn’t have come to you.’

  ‘So why didn’t you confess the truth to me?’

  ‘What truth?’

  He was playing for time. He was hedging his bets.

  ‘At three o’clock, this afternoon, the white tin was still in Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s easy to understand … Josée had no relationship with her family. Her only sister is in Morocco, where her husband grows citrus fruits. They’re rich. I’m hanging on by my fingernails. So, when I realized that she was dead …’

  ‘You
took advantage of the situation to walk off with the loot.’

  ‘That’s putting it crudely, but I can see it from your point of view. Once and for all, I didn’t hurt anyone. What was going to become of me without her?’

  Maigret stared at him, tugged in different directions by contradictory emotions.

  ‘Come with me.’

  He was hot. He was thirsty. He felt tired, dissatisfied with himself and everyone else.

  Leaving the courtyard, he paused, before at last pushing his former classmate into the bar.

  ‘Two beers,’ he ordered.

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘We’ll talk again later.’

  Maigret had two beers and then went to look for a taxi. It was rush hour, and it took them almost half an hour to get to the Police Judiciaire. The sky was a solid, heavy blue, the café tables were full, and a lot of men could be seen in shirt-sleeves with their jackets under their arms.

  His office was quite cool, because the sun was no longer shining into it.

  ‘Sit down. You can smoke if you like.’

  ‘Thank you. You know, it feels strange, finding myself face to face with somebody I was at school with.’

  ‘Me too,’ Maigret muttered, stuffing his pipe.

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘You’re judging me harshly, aren’t you! You must think I’m a scoundrel.’

  ‘I’m not judging you. I’m trying to understand.’

  ‘I loved her.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I’m not claiming it was a grand romance, or that we thought we were Romeo and Juliet …’

  ‘I can’t actually imagine Romeo waiting in the wardrobe. Has that happened to you often?’

  ‘Only three or four times, when someone turned up unexpectedly.’

  ‘Were these gentlemen aware of your existence?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You never met them?’

  ‘I saw them. I wanted to know what they looked like and I waited for them in the street. You can see that I’m talking to you openly.’

  ‘You weren’t tempted to blackmail them? I assume they’re married, they have children.’

  ‘I swear …’

  ‘Would you stop swearing?’

  ‘Fine. But what can I tell you, since you don’t believe me?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘I’ve never blackmailed anybody.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d settled on our little life. I’m not as young as I was. I’ve been around long enough to want some peace and security. Josée was calming and she saw to my every need.’

  ‘Was it you who suggested that she buy a car?’

  ‘We thought about it together. Maybe I mentioned it first.’

  ‘Where did you go on Sundays?’

  ‘Anywhere, the Chevreuse valley, the forest of Fontainebleau, sometimes, more rarely, to the seaside.’

  ‘You knew where she kept her money?’

  ‘She didn’t hide it from me. She trusted me completely … Tell me, Maigret, why would I have killed her?’

  ‘Supposing she’d tired of you.’

  ‘That’s the opposite of what happened. If she saved money, it was so that one day we could go and live in the countryside together. Put yourself in my place …’

  In spite of himself, Maigret pulled a face.

  ‘Did you own a revolver?’

  ‘There was an old revolver in the bedside table. I found it over two years ago in a piece of furniture that I’d bought at auction.’

  ‘With its cartridges?’

  ‘It was loaded, yes.’

  ‘And you brought it to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette?’

  ‘Josée was quite fearful and, to reassure her, I put the gun in the bedside table.’

  ‘That weapon has disappeared.’

  ‘I know. I’ve looked for it too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s stupid, I realize. Everything I do, everything I say is stupid. I’m too frank. I would have been better off calling the local station and waiting. I could have told them anything at all, that I’d just turned up and found her dead …’

  ‘I asked you a question. Why did you look for the revolver?’

  ‘To get rid of it. I would have thrown it in the sewer, or in the Seine. The simple fact that it belonged to me meant that they were obviously going to accuse me. And you can see that I was right, because even you …’

  ‘I haven’t accused you yet.’

  ‘But you brought me here and you don’t believe what I’m saying to you … Am I under arrest?’

  Maigret looked at him hesitantly. He was serious and worried.

  ‘No,’ he said at last.

  He was taking a risk, he knew, but he didn’t feel brave enough to act otherwise.

  ‘What are you going to do when you get out of here?’

  ‘I’ll have to have a bite to eat, I suppose. Then I’ll go to bed.’

  ‘Where?’

  Florentin hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know … I suppose it’s better if I don’t go to Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette …’

  Was it a lack of awareness?

  ‘I’ll probably have to sleep at Boulevard Rochechouart.’

  In the windowless storeroom at the end of the studio, in a bed that didn’t even have any sheets, only a rough old grey blanket.

  Maigret got up and stepped into the inspectors’ office. He waited behind Lapointe until he had finished speaking on the phone.

  ‘I’ve got somebody in my office, a tall, thin fellow. He’s my age, and he’s in poor shape. He lives at the end of a courtyard, at 55A, Boulevard Rochechouart. I don’t know what he’s going to do, where he will go when he leaves here. I’d like you not to let him out of your sight.

  ‘For the night, arrange something with a colleague. And someone else to take over tomorrow morning.’

  ‘He mustn’t know he’s being tailed?’

  ‘It would be better if he didn’t notice, but that’s not hugely important. He’s as sly as a fox and he’s bound to suspect it.’

  ‘Fine, chief. I’ll wait for him in the corridor.’

  ‘I’ll only be with him for a few more minutes.’

  When Maigret pushed the door open, Florentin started abruptly, trying to regain his composure.

  ‘Were you listening?’

  The other man hesitated and finally stretched his wide mouth into quite a pitiful smile.

  ‘What would you have done in my place?’

  ‘Did you hear?’

  ‘Not everything.’

  ‘One of my inspectors is going to follow you. If you try and give him the slip, I should warn you that I’ll send your description to the whole police force and have you arrested.’

  ‘Why are you talking to me like this, Maigret?’

  The inspector almost asked him to stop calling him by his surname, and to stop being so familiar with him. He didn’t have the stomach for it.

  ‘Where were you planning to go?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘You believed that there would be an investigation, that you’d fall under suspicion. The fact that you hid the money so badly is because you haven’t had time to find anywhere to stash it securely. Were you already planning to come and see me?’

  ‘No. First of all I intended to go to the station.’

  ‘Not to leave France before the body was discovered?’

  ‘Just for a moment …’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘My flight would have been taken as proof of my guilt, and I would have been extradited. Then I had the idea of going to the local station, and then all of a sudden I remembered you. I’ve often seen your name in the papers. You’re the only one in the whole class to have become almost famous.’

  Maigret was still looking at him with the same curiosity, as if his former classmate presented him with an insoluble problem.

  ‘They say you don’t trust appearanc
es, and that you get to the bottom of things. So I hoped you would understand … I’m starting to wonder if I wasn’t mistaken … Admit it, you believe that I’m guilty …’

  ‘I’ve already told you I don’t believe anything.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have taken the money. It only occurred to me at the last minute, when I was already at the door.’

  ‘You can go.’

  They were both standing up, and Florentin was reluctant to extend his hand. Perhaps to avoid the handshake, Maigret took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s quite likely.’

  ‘Goodbye, Maigret.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  He didn’t watch him go down the stairs with Lapointe on his heels.

  For no precise reason, Maigret was displeased with him. Not with himself or anyone else. Someone had spoiled a day which had, until five in the afternoon, been pleasant and idle.

  The files were still on his desk, waiting for him to pay attention to them and annotate them. The fly had disappeared, perhaps upset that he hadn’t turned up for their appointment.

  It was 7.30. He called his apartment on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.

  ‘Is that you?’

  An odd habit, because he had easily recognized his wife’s voice.

  ‘Aren’t you coming home for dinner?’

  She was so used to it that it was her first reflex when he called.

  ‘As it happens, I’m on my way. What are we having? … Fine … Fine … I’ll see you in about half an hour.’

  He stepped into the inspectors’ office, where only a few members of the team were left, sat down at Janvier’s desk and wrote a note asking him to call him as soon as he got back.

  He still felt slightly uneasy. This was no ordinary case, and the fact that Florentin was a kind of childhood friend didn’t make it any better. Then there were the others, middle-aged men occupying more or less important positions. Each of them led calm and regular lives in the bosom of their families.

  Except one day a week! Except for the few hours that they spent in Joséphine Papet’s hushed apartment.

  Tomorrow morning the papers would get hold of the story, and they would start trembling.

  He needed to go up under the eaves, to the offices of Criminal Records, to ask Moers if any results had come in. In the end he shrugged and took his hat off the hook.