Maigret's Madwoman

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Did she have visitors?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Oh, wait, I’ve two or three times seen a woman ring the bell, rather a stocky woman, mannish-looking.’

  ‘During the day?’

  ‘No, in the evening. Just after supper.’

  ‘And recently, you haven’t noticed any unusual comings and goings in the building?’

  ‘There are always people coming and going, it’s like a railway station. The concierge just stays in her lodge across the yard and doesn’t bother with the tenants.’

  She turned towards her daughter, who had sidled in again silently.

  ‘What did I tell you? Back to your room, miss.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you again, because I need to interview all the tenants.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t know who did it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did they find her?’

  ‘Someone from the second floor saw the door open. And as it was still open an hour later, she called out Madame Antoine’s name and went in.’

  ‘I can guess who that was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s the nosiest person in the building. You’ll see, it’ll have been that Rochin woman.’

  They heard steps on the stairs and Maigret went to meet the prosecutor’s men, who were just arriving.

  ‘This way,’ he said. ‘Doctor Forniaux was here, but he’s busy this morning, so he had to leave.’

  The deputy was a tall young man, suave and elegantly dressed. He looked around in surprise, as if he had never before seen an interior of this kind. Then he glanced briefly at the huddled grey form on the carpet.

  ‘Do we know how she was killed?’

  ‘Suffocation.’

  ‘Well, obviously she wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight.’

  Examining Magistrate Libart arrived in turn, and he too looked around the room with curiosity.

  ‘It’s like being in an old film,’ he remarked.

  Lapointe had come back upstairs and his eyes encountered Maigret’s. They did not shrug their shoulders, but thought the same thing nevertheless.

  2.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better send you two or three uniformed officers to keep onlookers away,’ suggested the local inspector.

  The tenants were already assembling on the stairs and landing. The men from the prosecutor’s office did not stay long, and the forensic team took the body away on a covered stretcher.

  Lapointe had not failed to notice how pale Maigret was and how serious his expression. Three days earlier, Maigret had not known the woman who had died, he’d never even heard of her. But in her distress, whether imagined or real, it was to him that she had turned. She had tried to reach him personally because she trusted him, and he could still see her approaching him on the pavement, her eyes shining in admiration.

  He had assumed she was mad, or at least somewhat deranged. But a vague unease had nevertheless persisted in his mind, deep down, and he had promised her he would call round. And he would have come, perhaps this very afternoon.

  It was too late now. She had been murdered, no doubt about it, exactly as she had feared.

  ‘Get fingerprints from all the rooms, on all the objects, even those that are very unlikely to have been touched.’

  He heard a burst of noise on the landing and opened the front door. A dozen or so reporters and photographers were outside, with a uniformed policeman preventing them from entering the apartment.

  Someone thrust a microphone in his face.

  ‘What sort of crime is this, inspector?’

  ‘As of now, we don’t know anything about it, gentlemen. You might say the investigation has not yet begun.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘An old lady.’

  ‘Madame Antoine de Caramé, the concierge told us. And she says someone was round here at the beginning of the week from the Police Judiciaire, asking questions about her. Why was that? Did you have reason to believe she was at risk?’

  ‘All I can tell you at the moment is that we don’t know anything.’

  ‘She lived alone, didn’t she? And never had any visitors?’

  ‘As far as we know, that is correct. But there’s a niece, whose name I don’t yet have, who sometimes came to see her. She is a masseuse by profession and lives not far from here, across the Seine.’

  The radio station had recorded this brief statement. And it would appear in the evening papers. So the niece would probably make herself known to them once she heard the news.

  ‘Can we take any pictures inside?’

  ‘No, not yet, the Criminal Records people are still working there. And now, I must ask you to clear the stairway, please.’

  ‘We’ll be waiting in the courtyard.’

  Maigret shut the door and finally walked round the apartment. The room facing out to the front was the sitting room, where Madame Antoine had been attacked, no doubt when she came back from her usual outing to the Tuileries.

  Had someone been visiting the apartment in her absence, as she had suspected? Probably. But what could they have been looking for? What could this place conceal that would explain such determination?

  Presumably she had returned home sooner than expected, and the intruder, being surprised, had decided to get rid of her.

  Surely that meant that she knew the attacker? Otherwise, wouldn’t the visitor simply have run off? Did he need to kill her?

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘So far, only the old lady’s. And on the table in the sitting room, the doctor’s, we’re starting to recognize those.’

  There were two windows in the sitting room, which was low-ceilinged like the rest of the first floor. A door led to the dining room, as old-fashioned as the rest, and as was the old lady herself. In a corner, on a marble-topped table, was an enormous houseplant in an earthenware pot wrapped in fabric.

  Everywhere there was the same tidiness, the same meticulous cleanliness.

  The dining room had only one window, and opposite this was a door leading to the kitchen. The bread bin contained a baguette, still fresh. In the refrigerator, Maigret found several small packets, one containing a slice of ham, another half a cutlet. There was also a lettuce and half a bottle of milk.

  Only one room remained, the bedroom, and like the kitchen it looked on to the courtyard. Here there was an immense mirrored wardrobe made of walnut: the bed and other pieces of furniture were in the same wood. On the floor was a vaguely oriental carpet, its colours faded, and threadbare in patches.

  The whole place breathed a certain air of dignity. Later, this afternoon perhaps, he would have to come back to check all the objects one by one, including the contents of cupboards and drawers.

  ‘We’ve finished now, chief.’

  The photographers were taking away their equipment. As for the fingerprints, they had still found none, other than those of the old lady.

  Maigret gave instructions to the uniformed policeman not to let anyone in except the inspector he would be sending. He went down the dark stairwell with its worn steps and its bannister polished by two or three centuries of use.

  In the courtyard, journalists and photographers were besieging the concierge, who was answering them ill-humouredly. Lapointe was following Maigret without speaking. He too was shocked. He could still visualize Madame Antoine in the little office where he had interviewed her, and where he had decided that she was perhaps wandering in her wits.

  The bird-seller, Monsieur Caille, if they were to believe the name on the shopfront, was standing alongside his cages, wearing a grey canvas overall.

  ‘May I use your phone?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Monsieur Maigret.’

  He was smiling knowingly, proud of having recognized the inspector. The telephone was inside the shop, where there were other birdcages piled one on top of another, as well as goldfish in several tanks. An elderly man, also in grey overalls, was feeding them.

  ‘Hello … Lucas? … I need
someone down here, Quai de la Mégisserie, 8a … Janvier? … yes, that’s fine … He’s to come inside the flat and not let anyone else in … And can you phone my wife to tell her I won’t be home for lunch?’

  When he hung up, he turned towards the old bird-seller.

  ‘Have you lived in this building a long time?’

  ‘Since my own father brought us here when I was only ten.’

  ‘So you would have known Madame Antoine when she moved in?’

  ‘It must be about forty years ago. Her first husband, Monsieur de Caramé, was still alive. A good-looking man, rather impressive. He had some important job at the City Council offices and when there was a big do on there, he always gave us tickets.’

  ‘In those days, did they see many people?’

  ‘There were two or three couples, friends of theirs, who came round nearly every week to play cards.’

  ‘And what was Madame Antoine like then?’

  ‘Sweet, pretty. But there you are, fate plays funny tricks. To look at her, you’d think her health was fair to middling, and that she wouldn’t make old bones, she was such a thin little thing. Whereas he was the opposite, big chap, well-covered, never known him have a day’s illness. Liked his food. But he was the one who died suddenly, in his office. And until yesterday, his wife was still alive.’

  ‘And she married again soon afterwards?’

  ‘No, no, she was on her own for about ten years. Then she met Monsieur Antoine, I don’t know where, and she ended up marrying him. I’ve got nothing against him. Perfectly all right, but not as distinguished as the first husband.

  ‘He worked in the Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville, and I think he was in charge of a whole department. He was a widower. And he had a little workshop upstairs where he made things. That was his hobby, he loved it. Didn’t say much. Just good morning, good evening. And they didn’t go out a lot either.

  ‘He had a car and, on Sundays, he took his wife out to the country. In summer, they went somewhere near Étretat.’

  ‘Would there be any other tenants who knew them?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m probably the last one. The others have all died one after another, and new people have moved in. No, I don’t see anyone of the old lot left.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Monsieur Crispin, Father,’ interrupted the son, who was still standing on the threshold.

  ‘Yes, that’s true, but we don’t see anything of him any more. I’m surprised he’s still with us. He’s been in a wheelchair for five years. He has two rooms on the fifth floor and the concierge takes him his meals and does his housework.’

  ‘Was he friendly with the Antoine couple?’

  ‘Let me think. There comes a time when you get things mixed up. He moved in a little after them. So Monsieur de Caramé was still alive. No, I don’t think they saw much of each other. It was later, after Madame de Caramé had married Monsieur Antoine, that I used to see him talking to the husband. Because he was in commerce too, upholstery I think, he worked in Rue du Sentier.’

  ‘Many thanks, Monsieur Caille.’

  By now Janvier had arrived.

  ‘Have you had any lunch?’

  ‘I had a snack. What about you?’

  ‘I’ll have something to eat with Lapointe. Can you go up to the first floor and stay inside the apartment? Don’t touch anything, even the smallest little trinket. You’ll see why presently. Oh, there’s just one person allowed in if she turns up, the niece.’

  Ten minutes later, Maigret and Lapointe were at a table in the Brasserie Dauphine.

  ‘A little aperitif?’ the owner suggested.

  ‘No, we’ll have a carafe of Beaujolais straight away. What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Andouillettes, fresh in from Auvergne this morning.’

  And for a starter, Maigret chose pickled herring fillet.

  ‘So what do you think?’ he began in a rather subdued voice.

  Lapointe did not know what to answer.

  ‘I’d never have believed what she said was true. I could have sworn that she was imagining things, because old people often do.’

  ‘And now she’s dead.’

  ‘If her door hadn’t been left ajar, it might have been days before anyone found her. She must have known the murderer, otherwise he wouldn’t have needed to kill her.’

  ‘I just wonder what he was looking for.’

  ‘When we find that out, if we ever do, the investigation will be almost over. After lunch, we’re going to examine her apartment inch by inch. There must have been something the murderer wanted to get his hands on. And something that was hard to find, since he had searched the place several times before.’

  ‘But what if he’s already found whatever he was looking for?’

  ‘In that case, we’d have little chance of catching him. We’ll need to question the other tenants. How many floors are there?’

  ‘Six, plus the attics.’

  ‘Two apartments on average on every level …’

  The Beaujolais was perfect, and the andouillette, served with chips, was no less delicious.

  ‘There’s something I don’t understand. Madame Antoine was eighty-six years old. She’d been widowed for twelve years. Why is it only now that someone got the idea of searching her apartment? Perhaps whatever it is had been in her possession only a short time? In which case, she should have known about it. But she told you she had no idea what it could be.’

  ‘She seemed as much in the dark as us.’

  ‘Neither of her two husbands was particularly mysterious. Not in the least. They were both absolutely average Frenchmen, one more imposing than the other.’

  He signalled to the owner.

  ‘Two coffees, Léon.’

  The sky was just as blue as before, the air just as fresh. On the embankments of the Seine, tourists could be seen, cameras draped round their necks.

  The two men returned to Quai de la Mégisserie. Now there was only one reporter loitering in the courtyard.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to tell me?’ he muttered bitterly.

  ‘No, nothing for now.’

  ‘A lady went up there ten minutes ago, but she wouldn’t say who she was.’

  Soon afterwards, Maigret and Lapointe met the person he meant: a mannish-looking woman, who could have been between forty-five and fifty. She was installed in one of the armchairs in the sitting room and Janvier did not seem to have attempted to make conversation.

  ‘You’re Inspector Maigret?’

  ‘That’s correct. Allow me to introduce my two colleagues.’

  ‘My name is Angèle Louette.’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘No, it’s Mademoiselle. I have a son of twenty-five, but I’m not ashamed of that, on the contrary.’

  ‘And Madame Antoine was your aunt?’

  ‘She was my mother’s sister. Older sister. But it was my mother who died first, about ten years ago now.’

  ‘And you live with your son?’

  ‘No, I live on my own. I have a small place on Rue Saint-André-des-Arts.’

  ‘And your son?’

  ‘He lives here and there. I believe he’s on the Côte d’Azur at the moment. He’s a musician.’

  ‘When did you last see your aunt?’

  ‘About three weeks ago.’

  ‘Did you visit her often?’

  ‘About once a month, or perhaps every other month.’

  ‘And did you get on with her?’

  ‘Well, we never quarrelled.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That we weren’t really close. My aunt was a suspicious person. I’m pretty sure she thought I only came to see her so as to keep on good terms, and then inherit from her.’

  ‘She had money?’

  ‘She had some savings, certainly, though they can’t have amounted to a very big sum.’

  ‘Do you know if she had a bank account?’

  ‘She never mentioned one to me. What she did keep telling me was tha
t she wanted to be buried in the same grave as her first husband, who had a concession in Montparnasse Cemetery.

  ‘Really, if she married again, I think it was so as not to be all alone. She was still young. She met Uncle Antoine somewhere, I don’t know where. Then one fine day, she announced that she was getting married again, and asked me to be a witness.’

  Maigret wasn’t missing a word of what she was saying and he had signalled to Lapointe, who had taken his pad out, not to write anything down. She was the kind of woman who would probably have clammed up if they had put her through an official interrogation.

  ‘Tell me, Mademoiselle Louette, did your aunt have any reason to fear for her life?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘She never mentioned to you a mysterious visitor?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Did she ever telephone you or come to see you?’

  ‘No. It was me who’d come over now and then, to make sure she was all right and see if she needed anything. I was a bit anxious about her living alone. Anything could have happened and nobody would have known.’

  ‘She didn’t think of getting someone to help her in the house?’

  ‘She could well have afforded it, because her two pensions were generous enough. I kept pressing her not to live alone, but she wouldn’t even agree to have a cleaning lady. You can see how she kept this apartment. Not a speck of dust.’

  ‘You’re a masseuse, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. I have a good clientele. I can’t complain.’

  ‘And your son’s father?’

  ‘He left me before the child was born. Which suited me, because he was a big mistake. It was just a passing infatuation, as people say. I’ve no idea what’s become of him, and I probably wouldn’t recognize him in the street.’

  ‘So your son is registered as “father unknown”, and he has your surname?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, his name is Émile Louette. But since he’s been playing the guitar in nightclubs, he’s taken to calling himself Billy.’

  ‘Are you on good terms with him?’

  ‘He comes to see me now and then, usually when he needs money. He’s very bohemian, but a good boy at heart.’

  ‘Did he ever visit his aunt?’