Maigret and the Good People of Montparnasse

by Georges Simenon

  He needed to stay in touch with Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Some colleagues claimed that he insisted on doing everything himself, including tedious shadowing, as if he didn’t trust his inspectors. They didn’t understand that for him it was a necessity to get a sense of people’s lives, to try and put himself in their shoes.

  Had it not been impossible, he would have moved into the Josselins’ apartment and sat down at the table with the two women, and perhaps gone home with Véronique to observe how she behaved with her husband and children.

  He wanted to walk in the steps Josselin took on his morning constitutional each day, to see what he saw and rest on the same benches.

  Once again it was the hour when the concierge was sterilizing the baby’s bottles and she was wearing her white pinafore.

  ‘They’ve just brought the body back,’ she said, still overwhelmed.

  ‘Is the daughter upstairs?’

  ‘She arrived about half an hour ago. Her husband dropped her off.’

  ‘Did he go up?’

  ‘No. He seemed to be in a hurry.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in the apartment?’

  ‘People from the funeral directors. They’ve already taken all their equipment upstairs to set up the chapel of rest.’

  ‘Was Madame Josselin on her own last night?’

  ‘No. At around eight o’clock, her son-in-law came with a lady of a certain age who was carrying a small suitcase and she stayed up there when he left. I presume she’s a nurse or a companion. Madame Manu arrived at seven o’clock this morning, as usual, and now she’s out at the market.’

  He couldn’t remember whether he had already asked the question and, if he had, he repeated it, because it was bothering him.

  ‘You haven’t noticed anyone hanging around the building as if they were waiting, especially these past few days?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Madame Josselin never had any visitors when her husband was out?’

  ‘Not during the six years I’ve been here.’

  ‘What about him? He was often on his own in the afternoons. No one went up to see him? Did he ever go out for a few minutes?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge … I think it would have struck me if he had … Of course, when there’s nothing unusual going on, you don’t pay attention to these things … I didn’t take any more notice of them than of the other residents, less even, because they never gave me any trouble.’

  ‘Do you know which side of the street Monsieur Josselin walked back on, on his way home?’

  ‘It depended. I saw him come back from the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens, but sometimes he made a detour via Boulevard Montparnasse and Rue Vavin … After all, he wasn’t a robot, was he?’

  ‘Always alone?’

  ‘Always alone.’

  ‘Has Doctor Larue been back?’

  ‘He dropped in yesterday in the late afternoon and stayed up there for quite some time.’

  Another person Maigret would like to have talked to. He felt he had something to learn from all of them. He didn’t necessarily suspect them of lying but of hiding part of the truth, wittingly or unwittingly.

  Especially Madame Josselin. At no point had she seemed relaxed. She was visibly on her guard, trying to guess in advance the questions he was going to ask her and mentally preparing her answers.

  ‘Thank you, Madame Bonnet. Is the baby well? Did he sleep through the night?’

  ‘He only woke up once and went straight back to sleep. Funnily enough, on that night, he was very restless, as if he could sense that something was going on …’

  It was ten thirty. Lapointe must have been busy stopping people in the Luxembourg Gardens and showing them the photograph. They looked at it closely and shook their heads solemnly.

  Maigret decided to have a go himself, on Boulevard de Montparnasse and then perhaps Boulevard Saint-Michel. He started by going into the little bar where he’d drunk three beers the previous day.

  And the waiter asked him, as if he were a regular:

  ‘The usual?’

  He said yes, without thinking, even though he didn’t fancy a beer.

  ‘Did you know Monsieur Josselin?’

  ‘I didn’t know his name. When I saw his photo in the newspaper, I remembered him. In the past, he had a dog, an old German shepherd crippled with rheumatism that used to walk at his heels, hanging its head … I’m talking about at least seven or eight years ago. I’ve been working here for fifteen years.’

  ‘What became of the dog?’

  ‘It must have died of old age. I think it was mainly the young lady’s dog … I remember her too.’

  ‘Have you ever seen Monsieur Josselin in the company of a man? Have you ever had the impression that someone was waiting for him when he came out of his building?’

  ‘No … You see, I only knew him by sight … He never came in here … One morning when I happened to be on Boulevard Saint-Michel, I saw him coming out of the PMU bar … That took me aback … I’m in the habit of having a little flutter on the horses every Sunday, but it surprised me that a man like him bets on the races.’

  ‘Did you only see him at the PMU that one time?’

  ‘Yes … But I’m rarely out and about at that hour.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Next door was a grocer’s shop, which Maigret entered, photograph in hand.

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Of course! It’s Monsieur Josselin.’

  ‘Did he used to come here?’

  ‘Not him. His wife. They’ve been buying their groceries from us for fifteen years.’

  ‘Does she always do her shopping herself?’

  ‘She came in and left her order, and we delivered it a little later … Sometimes it was the maid … In the past, occasionally it was their daughter.’

  ‘Have you ever seen her in the company of a man?’

  ‘Madame Josselin?’

  His question caused consternation and even a reprimand.

  ‘She’s not the sort of woman to have assignations with men, especially in the neighbourhood.’

  Too bad! He would carry on asking his question all the same. He went into a butcher’s.

  ‘Do you know …?’

  The Josselins didn’t shop there and he received a rather curt reply.

  Another bar. He entered and, since he’d started with beer, he ordered another and took the photograph out of his pocket.

  ‘I think he lives around here …’

  How many people would he and Lapointe question like this, each on their own patch? And yet they could only count on a coincidence. It was true that coincidence had already played a part. Maigret now knew that René Josselin had a passion, harmless as it may have been, a compulsion, a habit: he bet on the horses.

  Did he play for high stakes? Or was he content to place small bets, for fun? Did his wife know? Maigret would have sworn she didn’t. It wasn’t in keeping with the apartment in Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs or with their characters as he perceived them.

  So there was a little chink. Might there not be others?

  ‘Excuse me, madame … Do you …?’

  The photo, once again. A shake of the head. He tried again further on, going into another butcher’s, the right one this time, where Madame Josselin and Madame Manu were regular customers.

  ‘We’d see him go past, almost always at the same time …’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Except when he ran into his wife on his way back from his walk.’

  ‘What about her? Was she always alone too?’

  ‘Once she came with a little boy who was just toddling, her grandson …’

  Maigret went into a brasserie on Boulevard de Montparnasse. It was the hour when the place was almost empty. The waiter was polishing the counter.

  ‘A little glass of anything but not beer,’ he ordered.

  ‘An aperitif? A brandy?’

  ‘A brandy.’

  And just when he was least
expecting it, he made a breakthrough.

  ‘I know him, yes. I immediately thought of him when I saw his photo in the newspaper. Except he wasn’t quite so fat of late.’

  ‘Did he come in for a drink sometimes?’

  ‘Not often … He came perhaps five or six times, always when there was hardly anyone here, which is why I noticed him.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘More or less … or a little later.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘No. There was someone with him and, each time, they’d sit right at the back.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘What type of man?’

  ‘Well dressed. Not that old. I’d say he was in his early forties.’

  ‘Did they appear to be discussing something?’

  ‘They kept their voices down, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying.’

  ‘When was the last time they were here?’

  ‘Three or four days ago.’

  Maigret hardly dared believe it.

  ‘Are you sure this is the man?’

  He showed the photograph again. The waiter looked at it more attentively.

  ‘I’m telling you it is! Listen! He was even carrying some newspapers, three or four at least and, when he left, I ran after him to give them back to him because he’d left them on the banquette.’

  ‘Would you be able to recognize the man who was with him?’

  ‘Maybe. He was tall, with brown hair … He was wearing a pale-coloured suit, of a lightweight fabric, very well cut.’

  ‘Did they appear to be quarrelling?’

  ‘No. They were serious, but they weren’t quarrelling.’

  ‘What did they drink?’

  ‘The fat one, Monsieur Josselin, had a small bottle of mineral water and the other one a whisky. He must be used to it, because he wanted a particular brand. I didn’t have it, so he asked for a different one.’

  ‘How long did they stay?’

  ‘Twenty minutes, perhaps? Maybe a little longer?’

  ‘Was that the only time you saw them together?’

  ‘I’d swear that when Monsieur Josselin came before, several months ago, well before the holidays, he was with the same person … And I saw that man again, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The same day … In the afternoon … Or maybe it was the following day? … No, it wasn’t! It was definitely the same day.’

  ‘So, this week?’

  ‘Definitely this week … Tuesday or Wednesday.’

  ‘Did he come back alone?’

  ‘He was on his own for quite a while, reading an evening paper … He ordered the same whisky as in the morning … Then a lady joined him.’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A young woman?’

  ‘Of a certain age. Neither young nor old. An elegant lady.’

  ‘Did they appear to know one another?’

  ‘Definitely … She seemed to be in a hurry … She sat down next to him and when I went over to take their order she signalled that she didn’t want anything.’

  ‘Did they stay long?’

  ‘About ten minutes … They didn’t leave together … The woman went out first … And the man had another drink before going.’

  ‘Are you certain that it’s the same man who was with Monsieur Josselin that morning?’

  ‘Absolutely positive … and he drank the same whisky.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that he drinks heavily?’

  ‘He seems like a man who drinks but can hold his liquor … He wasn’t tipsy at all, if that’s what you mean, but he had bags under his eyes … You see …?’

  ‘Is that the only time you saw the man and the woman together?’

  ‘The only one I recall … At certain times, you pay less attention … There are other waiters who work here …’

  Maigret paid for his drink and found himself back in the street, wondering what to do next. Although he was tempted to go straight to Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he was reluctant to turn up when the body had only just been returned to the family and they were busy setting up the chapel of rest.

  He decided instead to keep walking to the Closerie des Lilas brasserie, going in and out of shops and showing the photograph with less and less conviction.

  He met the Josselins’ greengrocer and the cobbler who mended their shoes, and went into the patisserie where they bought cakes.

  Then, as he reached Boulevard Saint-Michel, he decided to take it to get to the main entrance of the Luxembourg Gardens, following Josselin’s daily route in reverse. Opposite the gates was the kiosk where Josselin bought his newspapers.

  He showed the photograph. Questions, the same as always. He was expecting to see young Lapointe, who was working in the other direction, appear from one moment to the next.

  ‘That’s him all right … I kept his newspapers and weeklies for him.’

  ‘Was he always alone?’

  The old woman thought for a minute.

  ‘Once or twice, I think …’

  Once, in any case, there had been someone standing beside Josselin, and she’d asked:

  ‘And for you?’

  And the man had replied:

  ‘I’m with monsieur.’

  He was tall with dark hair, as far as she could recall. When was it? In the spring, because the horse chestnut trees were in blossom.

  ‘And you haven’t seen him again recently?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed him.’

  Maigret found Lapointe in the PMU bar.

  ‘Did they tell you too?’ asked Lapointe in surprise.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he was in the habit of coming here.’

  Lapointe had already questioned the owner. He didn’t know Josselin’s name, but he was positive.

  ‘He came in two or three times a week and bet five thousand francs each time.’

  No! He didn’t look like a punter. He didn’t walk in holding the racing papers. He didn’t study the odds.

  ‘These days there are quite a lot like him who don’t know which stables a horse belongs to or what the word handicap means … They pick numbers as if it’s a lottery, ask for a ticket ending in such-and-such a number …’

  ‘Did he sometimes win?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  Maigret and Lapointe walked through the Luxembourg Gardens together. Students absorbed in their books sat on the iron chairs, and couples with their arms around each other gazed vaguely at the children playing under the watchful eye of their mother or their maid.

  ‘Do you think Josselin kept secrets from his wife?’

  ‘I get that impression. I’ll find out soon.’

  ‘Are you going to question her? Shall I come with you?’

  ‘I’d rather you were there, yes.’

  The funeral directors’ van was no longer parked outside. The two men took the lift up and rang the bell, and once again Madame Manu opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.

  ‘Oh! It’s you …’

  She showed them into the drawing room where nothing had changed. The dining-room door was open, and an elderly woman was sitting near the window, knitting. Probably the nurse or companion that Doctor Fabre had brought over.

  ‘Madame Fabre has just gone back home. Shall I inform Madame Josselin that you’re here?’

  And, in a whisper, the cleaner added:

  ‘Monsieur is here …’

  She pointed to Véronique’s former bedroom, then went to let her employer know of their presence. Madame Josselin wasn’t in the chapel of rest, and she walked in dressed in dark colours as she had been the previous day, with a grey pearl necklace and earrings.

  She still looked as if she hadn’t cried. Her stare was just as fixed, her eyes just as fiery.

  ‘I understand you wish to speak to me?’

  She looked at Lapointe with curiosity.

  ‘One of my inspectors �
��’ muttered Maigret. ‘I apologize for disturbing you again.’

  She did not invite them to sit down, as if she expected the visit to be brief. Nor did she ask any questions, but her eyes looked straight into Maigret’s.

  ‘You may find this question pointless, but I would like to ask you first of all if your husband was a player.’

  She didn’t demur. Maigret even had the feeling that she was relieved, in a way, and her lips relaxed a little as she said:

  ‘He used to play chess, usually with our son-in-law, sometimes, quite rarely, with Doctor Larue …’

  ‘He didn’t speculate on the stock exchange?’

  ‘Never! He hated speculation. It was suggested to him a few years ago that he should turn his business into a limited company so as to expand, and he refused indignantly.’

  ‘Did he buy national lottery tickets?’

  ‘I never saw any in the house.’

  ‘And he didn’t bet on the horses either?’

  ‘I think we went to the races at Longchamp or Auteuil no more than ten times in all, just to see … Once, a long time ago, he took me to see the Prix de Diane, at Chantilly, but he didn’t go near the betting windows.’

  ‘Might he have bet at a PMU?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They’re cafés and bars in Paris and all over France that have a licensed betting counter.’

  ‘My husband didn’t frequent cafés …’

  There was a note of contempt in her voice.

  ‘I presume you don’t either?’

  Madame Josselin’s gaze hardened and Maigret wondered whether she was going to become angry.

  ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  He was reluctant to press his questioning further, thinking it was better not to alert her at this stage. The silence was painful and was beginning to weigh heavily on the three of them. Out of discretion, the nurse or companion had got up and closed the dining-room door.

  Behind another door there was a dead man, black drapes, probably candles burning and a sprig of boxwood steeped in holy water.

  Maigret could not forget that the woman in front of him was the widow. She had been at the theatre with her daughter when her husband was murdered.

  ‘May I ask you whether on Tuesday or Wednesday of this week, you might have gone into a café … A local café …?’

  ‘My daughter and I went for a drink when we left the theatre. Véronique was very thirsty. We didn’t stay there long.’