Georges Simenon
* * *
MAIGRET’S MISTAKE
Translated by HOWARD CURTIS
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
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about the author
Georges Simenon was born on 12 February 1903 in Liège, Belgium, and died in 1989 in Lausanne, Switzerland, where he had lived for the latter part of his life. Between 1931 and 1972 he published seventy-five novels and twenty-eight short stories featuring Inspector Maigret.
Simenon always resisted identifying himself with his famous literary character, but acknowledged that they shared an important characteristic:
My motto, to the extent that I have one, has been noted often enough, and I’ve always conformed to it. It’s the one I’ve given to old Maigret, who resembles me in certain points … ‘understand and judge not’.
Penguin is publishing the entire series of Maigret novels.
1.
It was 8.25 in the morning, and Maigret was just getting up from the table, still finishing his last cup of coffee. Even though it was only November, the lights were on. At the window, Madame Maigret had to strain to see passers-by hurrying to work through the fog, their hands in their pockets, their backs stooped.
‘I think you should put your thick overcoat on,’ she said.
Because it was by observing people in the street that she knew what the weather was like outside. They were all walking quickly that morning, many wearing scarves, and they had a characteristic way of stamping their feet on the pavement to warm themselves. She had seen several wiping their noses.
‘I’ll get it for you.’
He still had his cup in his hand when the telephone rang. Picking up the receiver, he, too, now looked outside. The houses opposite were almost invisible through the yellowish cloud that had descended over the streets during the night.
‘Hello? Detective Chief Inspector Maigret? … Dupeu here, from the Ternes district …’
It was curious that it should be Dupeu calling him, because he was probably the man most in tune with the atmosphere of that morning. Dupeu was the chief inspector at the Rue de l’Étoile police station. He squinted. His wife squinted. It was said that his three daughters, whom Maigret didn’t know, also squinted. He was a conscientious official, so anxious to do the right thing that he almost made himself sick. He made even the objects around him seem dull, and even though you knew he was the best man in the world, you couldn’t help avoiding him. Not to mention that he always had a cold, winter and summer.
‘I’m sorry to bother you at home. I assumed you hadn’t left yet, so I said to myself …’
You just had to wait. He needed to explain himself. He invariably felt the need to explain why he was doing this or that, as if he felt he was at fault.
‘… I know you always like to be there personally. I may be wrong, but I have the impression this is quite an unusual case. Mind you, I don’t know much myself yet. I’ve only just arrived.’
Madame Maigret was waiting, the overcoat in her hand, and her husband said under his breath, to stop her getting too impatient, ‘Dupeu!’
Dupeu was still speaking in a monotonous voice. ‘I got to my office at eight o’clock as usual and was just going through the early mail when, at eight minutes past, I received a telephone call from the cleaning lady. She was the one who found the body when she entered the apartment on Avenue Carnot. As it’s so close, I came straight here with my secretary.’
‘A murder?’
‘It could just possibly be suicide, but I’m convinced it’s murder.’
‘Who is it?’
‘A young woman named Louise Filon. I’ve never heard of her.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Dupeu began talking again, but Maigret, pretending not to notice, had already hung up. Before leaving, he called Quai des Orfèvres and asked to be put through to Criminal Records.
‘Is Moers there? … Yes, call him to the phone … Hello, is that you, Moers? Could you go straight to Avenue Carnot with your men? … A murder … I’ll see you there …’
He gave them the number of the building, put on his overcoat, and, a few moments later, there was one more dark figure walking quickly through the fog. It wasn’t until he got to the corner of Boulevard Voltaire that he found a taxi.
The avenues around Place de l’Étoile were almost deserted. Men were collecting the dustbins. Most of the curtains were still closed, and there were lights in only a few of the windows.
On Avenue Carnot, an officer in a cape was standing on the pavement, but no crowd of onlookers had formed.
‘Which floor?’ Maigret asked him.
‘Third.’
He walked through the main door with its highly polished brass handles. The lights were on in the lodge, where the concierge was having her breakfast. She looked at him through the window but didn’t get up. The lift worked noiselessly, as in any well-maintained building. The carpets on the polished oak stairs were a fine deep red.
On the third floor, he was confronted with three doors and was hesitating when the one on the left opened. Dupeu was there, his nose red, just as Maigret had expected to see him.
‘Come in. I thought it best not to touch anything until you arrived. I haven’t even questioned the cleaning lady.’
Crossing the entrance hall, where there was only a coat stand and two chairs, they entered a living room, where the lights were on.
‘The cleaning lady was immediately surprised when she saw the light.’
In the corner of a yellow sofa, a brown-haired young woman lay slumped in a curious position, with a large dark-red stain on her dressing gown.
‘She was shot in the head. The shot seems to have been fired from behind and very close. As you see, she didn’t fall.’
She had simply collapsed on to her right-hand side, and her head was dangling, her hair almost touching the carpet.
‘Where’s the cleaning lady?’
‘In the kitchen. She asked me if she could make herself a cup of coffee. She says she got here at eight o’clock, as she does every morning. She has a key to the apartment. She came in, saw the body, claims she didn’t touch anything and immediately phoned.’
It was only now that Maigret realized what he had found strange when he arrived. Normally, he would have had to get through a line of onlookers out on the pavement. Usually, too, the tenants are gathered on the landings, looking on. Here, though, everything was as calm as if nothing had happened.
‘Is the kitchen through there?’
He found it at the end of a corridor. The door was open. A darkly dressed woman with black hair and eyes was sitting by the gas stove, drinking a cup of coffee, blowing on the liquid to cool it.
Maigret had the feeling he had met her before. Frowning, he looked at her closely, while she calmly sustained his gaze and continued drinking. She was very short. Sitting, her feet barely touched the floor, and she was wearing shoes that were too big for her, while her dress was too loose and too long.
‘I think we know each other,’ he said.
‘That’s quite possible,’ she replied without flinching.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Désirée Brault.’
The name Désirée put him on the right track.
‘Were you ever arrested for shoplifting in department stores?’
‘Among other things.’
‘What else?’
‘I’ve been arrested so many times!’
Her face express
ed no fear. In fact, it expressed nothing. She looked at him, answered his questions, but as for what she was thinking, that was impossible to guess.
‘Have you done time?’
‘You’ll find all that in my record.’
‘Prostitution?’
‘What of it?’
A long time ago, evidently. Now, she must be about fifty or sixty. She was emaciated. Her hair wasn’t white, or even greying, but it had become sparse, and you could see the skull through it.
‘There was a time when I was as good as any other woman!’
‘How long have you been working in this apartment?’
‘Next month will make a year. I started in December, not long before Christmas.’
‘Are you here all day?’
‘Just from eight to twelve.’
The coffee smelled so good that Maigret poured himself a cup. Inspector Dupeu was standing timidly in the doorway.
‘Would you like some, Dupeu?’
‘No, thanks. I had breakfast less than an hour ago.’
Désirée Brault stood up to pour herself another cup, too. Her dress hung loosely from her body. She probably weighed no more than a fourteen-year-old.
‘Do you work in other places?’
‘Three or four. It varies from week to week.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘With my husband.’
‘Has he been in prison, too?’
‘Never. He just drinks.’
‘Doesn’t he work?’
‘He hasn’t worked a single day in fifteen years, not even to hammer a nail into a wall.’
She said this without bitterness, in a steady voice in which it was hard to detect any irony.
‘What happened this morning?’
She made a movement of her head to indicate Dupeu.
‘Didn’t he tell you? All right, then. I got here at eight o’clock.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Near Place Clichy. I took the Métro. I opened the door with my key and noticed there was a light on in the living room.’
‘Was the living-room door open?’
‘No.’
‘Was your employer usually still in bed when you arrived in the morning?’
‘She didn’t get up till around ten, sometimes later.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Carry on.’
‘I opened the living-room door and saw her.’
‘Did you touch her?’
‘I didn’t need to touch her to know she was dead. Have you ever seen anyone walking around with half their face shot off?’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I called the police station.’
‘You didn’t alert the neighbours, or the concierge?’
She shrugged.
‘Why should I have done that?’
‘What did you do after you phoned?’
‘I waited.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Doing nothing.’
It was staggering in its simplicity. She had simply stayed there, waiting for the doorbell to ring, perhaps looking at the body.
‘Are you sure you didn’t touch anything?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Did you find a gun?’
‘I didn’t find anything.’
Dupeu intervened.
‘We looked everywhere for the weapon, but there was no sign of it.’
‘Did Louise Filon own a gun?’
‘If she did, I never saw it.’
‘Are there any pieces of furniture that are kept locked?’
‘No.’
‘I assume you know what’s in the cupboards?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you never saw a gun?’
‘No, never.’
‘Tell me, did your employer know you’d been in prison?’
‘I told her everything.’
‘Didn’t that bother her?’
‘It amused her. I don’t know if she also did time, but she might have done.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That before she came to live here, she was on the game.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because she told me. Even if she hadn’t told me …’
There was the sound of shuffling on the landing, and Dupeu went and opened the door. It was Moers and his men, with their equipment.
‘Don’t start straight away,’ Maigret said to Moers. ‘Phone the prosecutor while you’re waiting for me to finish up here.’
Désirée Brault fascinated him, and so did everything that could be sensed behind her words. He took off his coat, because he felt hot, and sat down, continuing to drink his coffee in little sips.
‘Wouldn’t you like to sit down?’
‘I’d love to. It isn’t often a cleaning lady gets asked to sit.’
And this time, she almost smiled.
‘Do you have any idea who might have killed your employer?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did she have lots of visitors?’
‘I never saw any, apart from a local doctor once, when she had bronchitis. Mind you, I leave at twelve.’
‘Do you know if she had a boyfriend?’
‘All I know is that there are a man’s slippers and dressing gown in a wardrobe. A box of cigars, too. She didn’t smoke cigars.’
‘Do you know who the man is?’
‘I never saw him.’
‘Do you know his name? Did he ever phone while you were here?’
‘Yes, sometimes.’
‘What did she call him?’
‘Pierrot.’
‘Was she a kept woman?’
‘I suppose someone had to pay the rent, didn’t they? And pay for all the rest.’
Maigret stood up, put his cup down and filled a pipe.
‘What do I do now?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Just wait.’
He went back to the living room, where the men from Records were awaiting a signal from him to get down to work. The room was tidy. In an ashtray near the sofa, there was cigarette ash, and cigarette ends, too, three in all, including two with lipstick marks on them.
A half-open door led from this room to the bedroom, and Maigret noted with a touch of surprise that the bed was unmade and that there was a hollow in the pillow as if someone had been sleeping there.
‘Isn’t the doctor here yet?’
‘He isn’t at home. His wife’s phoning around the patients he was due to see this morning.’
He opened a few wardrobes, a few drawers. The clothes and underwear were those of a young woman who dresses without much taste, not the kind you expected to find in an apartment on Avenue Carnot.
‘Look for prints and anything else you can find, Moers. I’m going down to talk to the concierge.’
‘Do you still need me?’ Dupeu asked.
‘No. I’m very grateful to you. Send me your report sometime today. You’ve done a good job, Dupeu.’
‘You know, I immediately thought it would interest you. If there’d been a weapon near the sofa, I’d have said it was suicide, because the shot came from such close range. Although women like that usually use Veronal to kill themselves. I haven’t known a woman to shoot herself in this neighbourhood for at least five years. So as there isn’t any weapon …’
‘You’ve done very well, Dupeu.’
‘I try the best I can to …’
He was still talking as he descended the stairs. Maigret left him on the doormat outside the concierge’s door and went into the lodge.
‘Good morning, madame.’
‘Good morning, inspector.’
‘You know who I am?’
She nodded.
‘You know what’s happened?’
‘I asked the officer standing guard out there on the pavement. He told me Mademoiselle Louise is dead.’
The lodge had the comfortable appearance of all concierges’ lodges in this area. The c
oncierge herself, who was only in her forties, was well, even smartly dressed. She was actually quite pretty, although her features were slightly too fleshy.
‘Was she murdered?’ she asked, as Maigret sat down by the window.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t think the police would be here if she’d died a natural death.’
‘She might have killed herself.’
‘That wouldn’t have been like her.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Not that well. She never lingered in my lodge, just half opened the door as she passed to ask if she had any mail. She didn’t really feel at ease in this building, if you know what I mean.’
‘You mean she wasn’t from the same background as your other tenants?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think her background was?’
‘I don’t rightly know. I have no reason to speak ill of her. She was quiet, not conceited.’
‘Did her cleaning lady ever talk to you about her?’
‘Madame Brault and I don’t speak to each other.’
‘You know her?’
‘I have no reason to know her. I see her go up and down. That’s enough for me.’
‘Was Louise Filon a kept woman?’
‘It’s possible. She certainly always paid her rent on time.’
‘Did she have visitors?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘But not regularly?’
‘Not what I’d call regularly.’
Maigret had the impression there was something holding her back. Unlike Madame Brault, the concierge was nervous and from time to time cast a rapid glance at the glazed door. It was she who announced:
‘The doctor’s going up.’
‘Tell me, madame … What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Cornet.’
‘Tell me, Madame Cornet, is there something you’re trying to hide from me?’
She made an effort to look him in the eyes.
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘No reason. I just like to know. Was it always the same man who came to see Louise Filon?’
‘It was always the same man I saw pass by here.’
‘What kind of man?’
‘A musician.’
‘How do you know he’s a musician?’
‘Because once or twice I saw him with a saxophone case under his arm.’
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