Maigret's Holiday

by Georges Simenon

  But he did not take the cigar, filling his pipe instead. It was very hot in the room where he sensed that before his arrival the two men had been having an amicable conversation.

  ‘We were at school together, Bellamy and I. Which explains why I was able to free myself from …’

  From his duty! That’s what he meant! From a prosecutor’s visit to ordinary people of no importance, like the Duffieux family.

  ‘As soon as I had finished with that business … You know about it, inspector? … I have been told that you were here, but on holiday …’

  A sceptical smile hovered on the lips of the magistrate, who had a brown pencil moustache.

  ‘That doesn’t prevent you from knowing a lot of things, does it? … Or from refusing to help the inspectors from Poitiers … That’s up to you … Mind you, I’m only teasing … I know you by reputation, as does everyone … When you telephoned, and Philippe suggested I wait for you, I was delighted to have the opportunity—’

  ‘Did Doctor Bellamy also tell you why I wished to see him?’

  There were three of them, one smoking a pipe, one smoking a cigar, and lastly the doctor who was smoking slim Egyptian cigarettes. The cut-glass decanters and glasses on the desk contained Chartreuse and vintage Armagnac.

  ‘He has just informed me,’ retorted the magistrate cheerfully. ‘I find it rather amusing … It is typical of Philippe and, may I add, it is typical of you … Of you as one imagines you …’

  The doctor was sitting down, his elbows on the desk, calmly looking from one man to the other.

  ‘In short, if I have understood correctly, and despite your sacrosanct holiday, you thought there was something fishy about the accident of which his unfortunate sister-in-law was a victim and you started sniffing around him …’

  The amicable tone with a hint of condescension was that of a gentleman of old stock conversing with a man who is interesting but rather common, a sort of character that he will tell his friends about later.

  ‘The doctor told you that I’d been sniffing around him?’

  ‘Not in so many words … He told me he had guessed your suspicions and had made things easy for you by placing himself at your disposal and inviting you here … Is that correct?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘That’s him all over … He rather enjoys playing tricks like that on people … Since you telephoned him to ask to meet him, I presume you have some news? … Don’t worry, Philippe, I’ll be going … I am more conscious than anyone of the confidential nature of an investigation …’

  ‘Do stay … Monsieur Maigret can speak …’

  Maigret sat holding his glass. The armchair was so deep that he found himself hunched, his neck sunk into his broad shoulders.

  ‘One of the things I should like to ask you, doctor, is where you went last night.’

  It was fleeting, but there was a glance in the direction of the window. Bellamy was thinking of the light he had left on, probably to make people think he was at home. Was he also thinking of Francis? Possibly. The fact is, he replied simply:

  ‘I paid a visit to my mother-in-law, at the Hôtel de Vendée.’

  Maigret almost turned red. The magistrate smiled, as if he had scored a point.

  ‘She arrived in the late afternoon yesterday with her husband, for she is legally remarried.’

  Another point! Maigret pictured the couple he had spotted the previous day in the street. How had he failed to think of that. It was so simple!

  ‘She telephoned me at around eight o’clock in the evening. I didn’t want to put her to any trouble after her tiring journey so I went to the hotel and told her about the accident in more detail.’

  ‘Thank you very much. May I take the liberty of asking you another question: who has been treating your wife since the 1st of August?’

  ‘Doctor Bourgeois. I could have looked after her myself, since she is suffering from a nervous breakdown, but, like most of my fellow doctors, I am loath to treat a member of my own family.’

  Folletier smiled, as he notched up another point. He was enjoying himself. This would make a great story to tell back at La Roche-sur-Yon and in the neighbouring chateaux.

  ‘What date did you call Doctor Bourgeois?’

  A barely perceptible hesitation, but the examining magistrate, who was stretching out his long, booted legs, seemed to sense something in the air.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘The first day?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I presume, Monsieur Maigret, that you know what it’s like to care for a sick person at home? I was forgetting that your wife is in hospital at the moment, being treated by my colleague Bertrand. Did you call him out on the first day?’

  ‘The second.’

  ‘Because symptoms were precise, because almost immediately your wife had a raging fever. In my wife’s case—’

  Folletier wanted to protest, out of gallantry, that there could be no question of infringing Madame Bellamy’s privacy, and this time he glared at Maigret, whom he considered ill-bred.

  ‘Let it go! In my wife’s case, I was saying, it began with a state of exhaustion. She stayed in bed, as women so often do—’

  ‘What date?’

  ‘I didn’t make a note.’

  ‘It was two days before the accident, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It could have been.’

  The magistrate’s legs were twitching with impatience, with disapproval.

  ‘Don’t forget, doctor, that you’re the one who invited me to come here whenever I wished to ask you all the questions I needed to ask.’

  ‘Once again, be my guest.’

  ‘Did Doctor Bourgeois come the day of the accident?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The day after?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So, at the earliest, two days afterwards. Did he come yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Were you present at each visit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s only natural, I think!’ burst out Alain de Folletier. ‘Allow me to say, inspector, that—’

  ‘Forget it, Alain! Go on, Monsieur Maigret …’

  Maigret had been staring for ages from a distance at the objects on the desk. The solid leather writing pad bore the doctor’s monogram, as did the blotter. In front of the ink-well, there was a big ivory paper knife and another, slimmer one for opening letters.

  ‘Would you permit me to ask your butler a simple question, in your presence of course?’

  This time, the magistrate rose and, again, it was the doctor who pacified him with a gesture, while with the other hand he pressed an electric bell.

  ‘You see,’ he remarked with a hint of edginess, ‘that I’m playing the game all the way.’

  ‘Do you still think this is a game?’

  There was a knock at the door. It was Francis, who naturally made his way over to the drinks tray.

  ‘Francis, Chief Inspector Maigret wishes to ask you a question and I authorize you to answer him.’

  This was the second time today that someone was being authorized to speak to him. And it was not only because, as the magistrate had said, he was on holiday. It was a question of caste, in a way, and Maigret was beginning to get hot under the collar.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, in the most direct manner possible, ‘where have you put the silver knife?’

  He didn’t bother to watch the doctor. It was the butler whose face he stared into, and Francis racked his brains and turned to his master.

  ‘Isn’t it in its us
ual place? … I swear to you I haven’t taken it … With your permission, I’ll go and look …’

  So the silver knife did not belong to the realm of nightmares. It was there in the house, the same knife that had haunted the delirium of Lili Godreau at the hospital.

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Maigret brusquely. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Before exiting, Francis couldn’t help darting him a reproachful look. Hadn’t they been friends, the previous evening, in La Popine’s dining room? Hadn’t he told Maigret everything he knew? Why now was he as good as calling him a thief in front of people?

  ‘I remain at your disposal, Monsieur Maigret,’ said Bellamy.

  ‘And I would not wish to abuse your patience, nor that of Monsieur de Folletier.’

  The latter took his watch from his pocket as if to say that, indeed, this was beginning to drag on. That Maigret should come and put on his little act in the study where the two friends were chatting was one thing, but now he was making himself too much at home, like children who are brought in to be introduced to the grown-ups and who take advantage to misbehave.

  ‘I wish, doctor, to have a look at your consulting room.’

  ‘Your wish is my command.’

  Was there not a certain weariness in his voice?

  ‘You can follow us, Alain. I don’t believe you’ve ever had the opportunity to visit the annexe.’

  They went downstairs, Maigret in front, the other two men behind, and the magistrate spoke to his friend in hushed tones. They went through a door into the garden, which they crossed, skirting a little ornamental fountain.

  At the bottom of the garden was a red-brick garage which must have looked on to the little sidestreet and, next to the garage, a two-storey building, whose door the doctor opened with a key which he took from his pocket.

  The corridor was cold and bare; the waiting room, which Maigret only glimpsed, ordinary. At least the chairs weren’t threadbare, as they are in most doctors’ waiting rooms, and there weren’t the usual watercolours on the walls. However, there was a pedestal table with the customary pile of magazines and picture stories.

  ‘If you would like to follow me …’

  At the top of the stairs, there were only two rooms. The largest, very light and airy, was the consulting room. It was comfortably furnished. On either side of the desk, which was as vast as the one in the study, were two good leather armchairs. Against a wall, a narrow divan, not at all sagging and also upholstered in leather, must have served as the examining couch.

  The panes of the two windows that looked on to the garden were of frosted glass and received the sun directly in the afternoon. The ones that overlooked the street had curtains: there was no view, only the blind wall of a warehouse.

  Maigret opened the door into the adjacent room a fraction. It was narrower and contained a wash-basin and glass-fronted cabinets where nickel instruments were carefully laid out.

  He looked slowly about him, his hands in his pockets, much to the annoyance of the magistrate, who was becoming increasingly vexed by his attitude. Then he leaned over the desk.

  ‘The silver knife isn’t in its place,’ he stated simply.

  ‘Who told you that this is its place?’

  ‘I am merely making an assumption. If you would like to call your butler, it is easy to ask him the question.’

  ‘There was indeed a silver-handled paper knife on my desk. I hadn’t even noticed it had gone …’

  ‘But you have seen patients here since the 1st of August?’

  ‘Generally I see patients three times a week and sometimes, on other days, by appointment.’

  ‘What are your surgery hours?’

  ‘They’re on the copper plate outside. Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, between ten and twelve.’

  ‘Never in the evening?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I am asking you if you ever see patients in the evening.’

  ‘Rarely. Very occasionally, should the occasion arise that a patient is unable to come during the day.’

  ‘Has the occasion arisen recently?’

  ‘I don’t recall, but I give you permission to look at the counterfoils in my receipt book.’

  Maigret flicked through it shamelessly, and read names that meant nothing to him.

  ‘Would anyone from the house allow themselves to disturb you when you are here?’

  ‘What do you mean by “anyone from the house”?’

  ‘A servant, for example … your butler … or Madame Bellamy’s maid …’

  ‘Most certainly not. There is an intercom connecting the annexe to the main house.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘I don’t think she has ever set foot inside this consulting room. Perhaps, when I married her and I showed her around the house.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘She only comes when I’m not here, when the place is being spring-cleaned, to keep an eye on the servants.’

  ‘Your sister-in-law?’

  ‘No.’

  The two men no longer troubled with formalities. Their exchanges were short and sharp. Neither attempted to look at the other with civility.

  Maigret, completely relaxed, opened one of the windows and they could see the trees in the garden. Between a beech and a darker green pine tree, part of the house was visible, particularly two first-floor windows and a skylight on the second floor which was under the eaves.

  ‘Those windows belong to which bedrooms?’

  ‘The one on the left is a corridor, and the one on the right is my sister-in-law’s bathroom.’

  ‘And the one above?’

  ‘It’s Jeanne’s – I mean, the maid’s room.’

  ‘And you don’t know which day the knife disappeared?’

  ‘I wasn’t even aware of it until you came here. Here in my consulting room I don’t often need to cut the pages of a book. As for the post, it is delivered to the house and I usually open it in my study.’

  ‘Thank you very much …’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That is all. I’ll leave by the street door, if you don’t mind.’

  On the stairs, he turned round.

  ‘By the way, what time did you come home last night?’

  ‘I can’t tell you precisely, but it must have been around midnight. Francis had gone home but had left the whisky tray in the study. I came down to get some ice from the refrigerator.’

  ‘And did you see your wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has her mother visited her?’

  ‘This morning, before the funeral.’

  ‘In your presence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He remained unruffled. The machine was operating admirably, without a hiccup, without any hesitation. Only his voice was slightly more nervous, more trenchant.

  The previous day, they had been two companionable men who were getting to know one another. Today, they were at loggerheads.

  ‘Do you still authorize me to come and see you, doctor? Mind you, as Monsieur Alain de Folletier so accurately put it, I am here on holiday and am not entitled to ask anything of you. He himself, even though he is an examining magistrate and is at Les Sables d’Olonne on official business, is only at your house as a friend …’

  ‘I remain at your disposal.’

  He had removed the chain from the door, and released the latch.

  ‘See you soon, doctor.’

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation as Maigret stepped through the doorway, then the doctor held out his hand and Maigret
shook it. It was the magistrate who pretended not to see the hand that Maigret proffered in turn.

  ‘Good night, Monsieur de Folletier. I’d like to mention to you just in case, for the purposes of your investigation, that yesterday, at around four in the afternoon, little Lucile Duffieux came out of Madame Bellamy’s bedroom.’

  ‘I know.’

  Maigret, who was already in the street, was taken aback, and wheeled round.

  ‘My friend Philippe told me about it well before you arrived, inspector. Good night!’

  There was no one in the back street, where there was nothing but bare walls, the locked door of the doctor’s garage and the small whitewashed building with its waiting room on the ground floor and consulting room upstairs.

  A brass plate engraved with Doctor Bellamy’s name stated his consulting days and times. Another little plate requested patients to press the bell and enter.

  7.

  The street on the outer limits of the town had returned to normal. Occasionally there was an old man sitting outside his house, smoking a pipe. Occasionally too, through an open door, a strident voice could be heard calling a child. Kids played ball in the middle of the road, while somewhere a toddler, all alone, wearing nothing but a blue shirt, dragged his bare buttocks over the uncobbled pavement.

  The bereaved family’s door was closed. At last they were being left in peace, and it was Maigret who had to disturb them once again. The examining magistrate’s words had filled him with amazement. So it was Doctor Bellamy who had been the first to talk to him about the girl’s visit to his house the previous day.

  On reflection, it made sense for him to take the initiative, since Maigret had seen the girl. What explanation could he give for her presence in his wife’s room?

  Maigret knocked. He heard the sound of a chair scraping the tiled floor of the kitchen and the door opened; standing before him was the fat woman from that morning. Maybe she recognized him? Maybe, having had to open the door to so many people during the day, she had said to herself that one more or one less made no difference.

  One finger on her lips, she said:

  ‘Shhh … She’s asleep …’

  Maigret went in, removed his hat and looked at the door to the bedroom, which had been left ajar so as to hear the slightest sound from Madame Duffieux, whom the doctor had sedated.