Maigret and the Headless Corpse

by Georges Simenon

He was surprised, however, that she was away for so long. They could still hear her moving about, and there were sounds of water running and drawers being opened and closed.

  In the kitchen, she stopped again. She was probably telling herself that this was the last brandy she would have a chance to drink in a while.

  When she finally appeared, the three men looked at her with the same surprise, a surprise that, in Maigret, was mixed with a touch of admiration.

  In less than twenty minutes, she had undergone an almost complete transformation. She was now wearing a black dress and coat that made her look very elegant. With her hair done and a nice hat on, it was as if the features of her face themselves had become firmer, her gait more distinct, her bearing resolute, almost proud.

  Had she been expecting the effect she produced? Was there an element of flirtatiousness? She didn’t smile, didn’t seem amused at their surprise, merely made sure she had what she needed in her bag, put on her gloves and said:

  ‘I’m ready.’

  She gave off an unexpected smell of eau de Cologne and cognac. She had powdered her face and painted her lips.

  ‘Aren’t you taking a case?’

  She said no, as if defiantly. Taking a change of clothes and underwear would be tantamount to admitting guilt – or at least to admitting that there might be good reasons to detain her.

  ‘See you later!’ Maigret said to Moers and his colleagues.

  ‘Are you taking the car?’

  ‘No. I’ll find a taxi.’

  It made a curious impression on him to find himself with her on the pavement and to walk in step with her in the sunshine.

  ‘I suppose we have more chance of finding a taxi if we walk down to Rue des Récollets?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’d like to ask you a question.’

  ‘You haven’t been shy so far.’

  ‘How long is it since you last dressed like that?’

  She took the trouble to think this over.

  ‘At least four years,’ she said at last. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason.’

  What was the point of telling her, since she knew as well as he did? Just in time, he raised his arm to stop a passing taxi. He opened the door for his companion and let her get in first.

  6. The Threads of String

  To tell the truth, he didn’t yet know what he was going to do with her. It was quite likely that with another examining magistrate he wouldn’t have acted as he had done so far and would have taken more risks. With Coméliau, that was dangerous. Not only was the magistrate finicky, anxious to observe the formalities, worried about public opinion and the reaction of the government, but he had always viewed Maigret’s methods with suspicion, finding them unorthodox. Several times in the past, the two men had clashed openly.

  Maigret knew that the magistrate had his eye on him, ready to make him bear responsibility for the slightest mistake, the slightest imprudent move.

  He would much have preferred to leave Madame Calas at home on Quai de Valmy until he’d built up a clearer idea of her character and the role she might have played. He would have put one or two men to keep watch on the bistro. But had Judel’s officer stopped young Antoine escaping from the building on Faubourg Saint-Martin? Antoine was nothing but a boy, with not much more intelligence than a child of thirteen. Madame Calas was quite another matter. As they passed the newsstands, he could see that the papers were already announcing the search of the bistro. In any case, the name Calas was in all the headlines.

  He imagined how it would be if, next day for example, the morning newspapers announced ‘Madame Calas has disappeared’, and he had to go in and see the magistrate.

  Without turning his head to her, he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. She didn’t seem to notice. She was holding herself very upright on her seat, not without dignity, and there was curiosity in the way she looked out at the city.

  She hadn’t dressed up for at least four years, she had admitted earlier. She hadn’t said in what circumstances, on what occasion, she had last worn her black dress. Had it been even longer since she had last gone to the centre of town and seen the crush of people on the boulevards?

  Since he couldn’t do exactly what he wanted, because of Coméliau, he was forced to go about it differently.

  As they neared Quai des Orfèvres, he opened his mouth for the first time.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have anything to say?’

  She looked at him with a hint of surprise.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About your husband.’

  She shrugged imperceptibly.

  ‘I didn’t kill Calas,’ she said.

  She called him by his surname, the way the wives of some peasants and shopkeepers are in the habit of calling their husbands. That struck Maigret, as if, coming from her, it didn’t sound natural.

  ‘Shall I drive into the courtyard?’ the driver asked, opening his window.

  ‘If you like.’

  The viscount was there, at the foot of the grand staircase, with two other journalists and some photographers. They’d had wind of what was happening, and it was pointless trying to hide the prisoner from them.

  ‘One moment, detective chief inspector …’

  Did she think it was Maigret who had asked for them to come? She walked past them, very stiffly, while they took photographs and followed her up the stairs. They must have photographed young Antoine, too.

  Even upstairs, in the corridor, Maigret still hesitated. He opened the door to the inspectors’ office. Lucas wasn’t there. He spoke to Janvier instead.

  ‘Can you take her into an empty office for a few minutes and stay with her?’

  She had heard. There was still a silent reproach in the gaze she brought to bear on Maigret. Or was it more disappointment than reproach?

  He walked out without adding anything and went into his own office, where Lapointe, who had taken off his jacket, was sitting in his place. Opposite the window, Antoine was sitting upright on his chair. He looked very red, as if he was too hot.

  Between them, on a tray that had been brought up from the Brasserie Dauphine, could be seen the remains of sandwiches and two glasses with dregs of beer at the bottom.

  As Maigret’s eyes came to rest on the tray, then on him, Antoine seemed upset at having yielded to his appetite, presumably having previously vowed to ‘punish’ them by refusing all food. They were used to that kind of attitude here, and Maigret couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked Lapointe.

  With his eyes, Lapointe made it clear that he had obtained nothing so far.

  ‘Carry on, boys!’

  He walked upstairs to see Coméliau and found him in his office, ready to go to lunch.

  ‘Have you arrested both of them?’

  ‘The young man’s in my office, Lapointe is questioning him.’

  ‘Has he talked?’

  ‘Even if he knows something, he won’t say anything until we wave the evidence right under his nose.’

  ‘Is he bright?’

  ‘That’s just it, he isn’t. You usually end up by getting the better of someone intelligent, if only by demonstrating that his answers don’t stand up. An idiot simply denies everything, in spite of the evidence.’

  ‘What about the woman?’

  ‘I’ve left her with Janvier.’

  ‘Are you going to interrogate her yourself?’

  ‘Not now. I don’t know enough yet.’

  ‘When are you planning to do it?’

  ‘Tonight perhaps, or tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  Maigret appeared so meek, so good-natured, that Coméliau wondered what he was up to.

  ‘I’ve come to ask you what you’ve decided.’

  ‘You can’t keep her in an office indefinitely.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s difficult. Especially with a woman.’

  ‘Don’t you t
hink it’s wise to put her in the cells?’

  ‘That’s for you to say.’

  ‘Personally, would you release her?’

  ‘I’m not sure what I would do.’

  Frowning, Coméliau thought this over. He was angry. He finally said to Maigret, like a challenge:

  ‘Send her to me.’

  Why was Maigret smiling as he walked along the corridor? Was he imagining the conversation between Madame Calas and the exasperated magistrate?

  He didn’t see her again that afternoon. He merely went back into the inspectors’ office and said to Torrence:

  ‘Judge Coméliau is asking to see Madame Calas. Will you ask Janvier to deal with it?’

  When the viscount saw him on the stairs and tried to grab hold of him, he got away by saying:

  ‘Go and see Coméliau. I’m certain that he has, or will soon have, news for the press.’

  He walked to the Brasserie Dauphine and stopped at the bar for an aperitif. It was late. Almost everyone had finished lunch. He picked up the telephone.

  ‘Is that you?’ he said to his wife.

  ‘Aren’t you coming home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I hope you have time to have some lunch?’

  ‘I’m at the Brasserie Dauphine right now and I’m just about to.’

  ‘Will you be here for dinner?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Among the smells still hovering in the air, there were two that dominated the others: Pernod, around the bar, and coq au vin wafting in from the kitchen.

  Most of the tables were free in the dining room, where a few colleagues had got to the coffee and calvados stage. He hesitated, then finally remained standing and ordered a sandwich. The sun was as bright as it had been in the morning, the sky as clear, but a few white clouds were racing across it, and a breeze that had just risen raised the dust in the streets and stuck the women’s dresses to their bodies.

  The owner, who was behind the counter, knew Maigret well enough to know that now was not the time to engage him in conversation. Maigret ate distractedly, looking outside with the same gaze as the passengers of a boat watching the sea roll past, monotonous and hypnotic.

  ‘Same again?’

  He said yes, perhaps without knowing what he had been asked, ate his second sandwich and drank the coffee they had served him even though he hadn’t ordered it.

  A few minutes later, he was in a taxi taking him to Quai de Valmy. He stopped it on the corner of Rue des Récollets, opposite the lock, where three barges were waiting. In spite of the dirtiness of the water, with dubious-looking bubbles occasionally bursting on the surface, a few anglers, as always, were attaching their floats.

  As he passed the yellow-painted facade of Popaul’s, the owner recognized him. Maigret saw him through the window, pointing him out to a group of customers. A line of heavy goods lorries bearing the name ‘Roulers and Langlois’ were parked at the kerb.

  Maigret passed a few shops, the kind found in all the working-class neighbourhoods of Paris. A fruit and vegetable display overflowed into the middle of the pavement. A little further on, there was a butcher’s shop, empty of customers, then, very near Calas’ bistro, a grocer’s shop so dark it was impossible to make out anything inside.

  Madame Calas had to leave home sometimes, even if only to do her shopping, and it was likely that she frequented these shops, in her slippers, with that thick black woollen shawl around her shoulders that he had noticed in the bistro.

  Judel must have dealt with these people. The local police knew them, and were trusted by them more than anyone from Quai des Orfèvres could ever be.

  The door of the bistro was locked. Sticking his forehead to the window, he could see nobody inside. In the kitchen, though, a figure occasionally caught a beam of sunlight. He knocked, had to knock again two or three times before Moers appeared, recognized him and rushed to the door.

  ‘Sorry, we were making noise. Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Maigret said, turning the key in the lock. ‘Have you been disturbed a lot?’

  ‘Some customers try to open and then go away. Others knock at the door and wave their arms insistently, demanding that we open up.’

  Maigret looked around him, then went behind the counter to search for the kind of blotting pad he had seen on the table in the bedroom. Most bistros kept several of these, and he was surprised not to find a single one, whereas there were three boxes of dominoes, four or five baize covers and half a dozen packs of cards.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said to Moers. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

  He wormed his way between the equipment the technicians had set up in the kitchen and climbed to the first floor, from which he returned with the ink and the blotting paper.

  Sitting at a table in the bistro, he wrote in capital letters:

  Closed temporarily

  He had hesitated before writing the second word, thinking perhaps of Coméliau, who right now was alone with Madame Calas.

  ‘Have you seen any drawing pins anywhere?’

  ‘On the left-hand shelf under the counter,’ Moers replied from the kitchen.

  He found them and went and stuck his notice to the crossbar of the door. When he turned, he felt something alive brushing against his leg and recognized the ginger cat, which turned its head towards him, looked at him and meowed.

  It hadn’t occurred to him. If the house was to stay empty for a while, the cat couldn’t be left alone in it.

  He went to the kitchen, found some milk in an earthenware jug and a cracked soup plate.

  ‘I wonder who I can get to look after the cat.’

  ‘Don’t you think a neighbour would do it? I noticed a butcher’s shop not far from here.’

  ‘I’ll ask them later. What have you found so far?’

  They were combing the house, leaving no corner, no drawer unexplored. Moers would go first, examining objects with a magnifying glass, using if need be a portable microscope he had brought with him, and the photographers came after him.

  ‘We started with the yard, which is the untidiest part of the house. It occurred to me they might have tried to hide something in all that mess.’

  ‘I assume the dustbins have been emptied since Sunday?’

  ‘Monday morning. We examined them anyway, looking for bloodstains, for instance.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ Moers said, although he seemed hesitant.

  That meant he had an idea but wasn’t sure of it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, chief. Just an impression. All three of us had the same thought. We were talking about it when you arrived.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘At least as far as the yard and kitchen are concerned, there’s something strange. This isn’t the kind of house where you’d expect to find everything spick and span. You just have to look in the drawers to see how untidy the place was. All sorts of things were stuffed in there, and most of them are covered in dust.’

  Maigret, who was looking around him, thought he knew what Moers was getting at.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said with growing interest.

  ‘Next to the sink, we found dishes from three days ago and saucepans that haven’t been cleaned since Sunday. It’s reasonable to assume this was normal, unless the wife had been neglecting the housework while the husband was away.’

  Moers was right. The untidiness – even a degree of dirt – was probably customary.

  ‘Logically we should have found a five- or ten-day layer of dirt everywhere. And yes, in some drawers, in some corners, there’s dirt that’s even older than that. But almost everywhere else it looks as if a lot of cleaning has been done recently. Sambois found two bottles of bleach in the yard. One of them’s empty, and to judge by the state of the label it was bought recently.’

  ‘When do you think this cleaning might have been done?’

  ‘Three or four days ago. I’ll be more specific in my r
eport. Before that, I’ll have to run a few tests in the lab.’

  ‘What about fingerprints?’

  ‘They confirm our theory. In the drawers and cupboards, we’ve found some of Calas’.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘They certainly match the prints from the body fished up from the canal.’

  They finally had evidence that the dismembered man was indeed the owner of the bistro on Quai de Valmy.

  ‘Are there similar prints upstairs?’

  ‘Not on the furniture, only inside it. Dubois has studied the first floor in detail, we’ll go back there later. What struck us is that there isn’t a speck of dust on the furniture, and the floor has been carefully cleaned. As for the bedsheets, they haven’t been used in the past three or four nights.’

  ‘Have you found any dirty sheets anywhere?’

  ‘I thought of that. No.’

  ‘Did they do the washing at home?’

  ‘I haven’t seen any machine or any tub.’

  ‘So they took dirty washing to a laundry.’

  ‘Almost certainly yes. Now, unless the launderer came round yesterday or the day before …’

  ‘I’m going to find out which laundry it is.’

  Maigret was about to go and question one of the local shopkeepers. Stopping him, Moers opened a drawer in the kitchen sideboard.

  ‘You have the name here.’

  He showed him a wad of receipts, among which there were some from the Récollets Laundry. The most recent was from ten days earlier.

  Maigret went to the phone booth, dialled the number and asked if any laundry had been collected from the bistro on Quai de Valmy that week.

  ‘We only collect on Thursday morning,’ he was told.

  It was the previous Thursday that the last collection had been made.

  Moers was right to be surprised. Two people couldn’t have lived in the house since Thursday without producing some dirty linen, and it should have been somewhere, at least a few sheets, since those in the bedroom were almost clean.

  Pensively, Maigret went back to the team.

  ‘What were you saying about the prints?’

  ‘So far, in the kitchen, we’ve found three sets, not counting yours and Lapointe’s, which I know by heart. The most frequent are a woman’s. I assume they’re Madame Calas’ prints.’