Maigret's Madwoman

by Georges Simenon

A knock at the door. It was Lucas, who had run up the stairs and was out of breath.

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘In the hardware department, I found someone who’d worked directly under Monsieur Antoine. He’s sixty now, and a department head himself.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Seems Antoine was a kind of crank. In a good way. That is, he had his hobby. When people asked him what he did, he’d say: “I’m an inventor.”

  ‘And it’s true he’d been granted a patent for a special kind of tin-opener and sold it to a manufacturer of kitchen goods. And he’d invented other things too …’

  ‘A potato-peeler, by any chance?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Saw it in the apartment on Quai de la Mégisserie.’

  ‘He was always trying to perfect his inventions. It seems he had a workshop at home and spent all his spare time in it.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that too. Did he invent anything more important?’

  ‘Not as far as the man I talked to knew, but apparently he would sometimes nod at you with a secretive air and say: “One of these days I’ll make a real discovery, and everyone will be talking about me.”’

  ‘Nothing more precise?’

  ‘No. Apart from his obsession, he was a man of few words, but he did his job conscientiously. Didn’t drink. Didn’t go out in the evening. Seemed happy enough with his wife. I say happy, but not in love, well, given their ages … They got on well, they respected each other. This man had been round for dinner a couple of times at Quai de la Mégisserie, and he thought they seemed cosily settled there.

  ‘“A charming woman,” he said. “So refined! The only thing that was a bit odd was that when she was speaking, you didn’t know whether she was referring to her first husband or the second. It was as if she mixed them up.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘Yes, chief, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, we have one detail for certain: there was, not long ago, a gun in the drawer of the bedside table. And this gun’s disappeared. I think I’ll just go over to Boulevard des Batignolles. Coming, Lapointe? Get one of the cars, not the one that keeps stalling.’

  Before leaving the office, he picked out a different pipe.

  4.

  The artificial marble plaque outside the door of the small hotel announced: Furnished rooms, by the day, the week or the month. All mod cons.

  Most of the tenants rented by the month, and the mod cons consisted of a washbasin in each bedroom and a bathroom on every other landing.

  To the right of the entrance was a reception desk with pigeon-holes for mail and keys hanging on the wall.

  ‘Is Big Marcel in?’

  ‘Monsieur Marcel? He just came in. His car’s outside.’

  It was a bright red convertible, though the model dated back quite a few years. Two little boys were nevertheless staring at it with envy, guessing how fast it would go.

  ‘Has he lived here long?’

  ‘Over a year. Very good tenant.’

  ‘But he doesn’t often stay overnight, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘He usually comes home in the early morning, because he works at night. He’s a barman in a nightclub.’

  ‘Does he bring women back here?’

  ‘Not often. None of my business, anyway.’

  The owner was a fat man, with two or three unshaven chins, and he wore shabby bedroom slippers.

  ‘Which floor?’

  ‘Second. Room 23. I hope you’re not going to cause trouble. I know who you are! And I don’t much like seeing the police in the building.’

  ‘Well, you’re properly registered, aren’t you?’

  ‘With you people, you never know.’

  Maigret went upstairs, followed by Lapointe. A printed notice at the foot of the staircase said: Please wipe your feet and a handwritten message underneath read: No cooking in the bedrooms.

  Maigret had seen this before. It didn’t stop the tenants all having a little spirit stove, to warm up the ready-made meals they could buy from the nearest charcuterie.

  He knocked at Room 23, heard footsteps, and the door opened abruptly.

  ‘Well, well!’ said Marcel in mock surprise. ‘Here already, are we?’

  ‘Were you expecting us?’

  ‘When the police stick their noses in one place, you can be pretty sure they’ll be turning up again.’

  ‘Were you going to move out?’

  There was a suitcase on the bed and another on the floor. The ex-barman had been putting clothes in them.

  ‘Yes. I’m clearing out. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘Enough of what?’

  ‘Enough of that female, who ought to have been in the army.’

  ‘Have you quarrelled?’

  ‘Yes, we had a bit of a row. She called me all kinds of names, because I was still in bed when you came round. I’m not a masseur. I don’t go to people’s houses and pound their flesh for them.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain why you’re changing your hotel.’

  ‘I’m not just changing my hotel, I’m off, and I’m going to Toulon. Got some pals there, real ones, they’ll find me a job.’

  Maigret recognized in one of the cases the blue suit he had seen earlier hanging in the wardrobe in Rue Saint-André-des-Arts. As for the other suit, Marcel was wearing it. His name was in fact Montrond, but no one ever used it, and the hotel owner too had referred to him as Monsieur Marcel.

  ‘The red car outside, that’s yours?’

  ‘Yes, not worth much. Ten years old. But she can still put on a turn of speed.’

  ‘You’ll be leaving by road, then?’

  ‘Exactly. Unless you’ve taken it into your head to stop me.’

  ‘Why would we stop you?’

  ‘Because, with the cops, you never know where you are.’

  ‘I’ve got a question for you. Have you ever been to the apartment on Quai de la Mégisserie?’

  ‘Why would I go there? To pay my respects to the old lady? “Good morning madame. I’m your niece’s lover. Seeing as I’m in a spot of bother just now, she’s been keeping me, because she always needs a man around. She’s a real cow, let me tell you, and you don’t want to promise her too much.”’

  He went on packing his bags, looking round for anything he might have forgotten in a drawer. He took a camera out of one of them. There was a record player as well.

  ‘There we are! I’m just waiting for you to go, and I’ll be off.’

  ‘Is there an address where we can reach you in Toulon?’

  ‘You can always write to me at the Amiral Bar, Quai de Stalingrad. Care of Bob, the barman, an old pal. Do you think you’ll be needing me again?’

  ‘Like you said, you never know.’

  Before the suitcases were closed, Maigret felt around inside them, but found nothing suspicious.

  ‘How much money did you get from her?’

  ‘From that gendarme? Five hundred francs. And even then I had to promise her I’d be back soon. You never know what she’s after. Sometimes she treats me like dirt and kicks me out. Then a few minutes later, she’s weeping and wailing and saying she can’t live without me.’

  ‘Bon voyage,’ said Maigret with a sigh, making for the door.

  As he passed reception, he said to the owner:

  ‘Looks like you’re losing one of your tenants.’

  ‘Yes, he told me. He’s going down south and he’ll be away a few weeks.’

  ‘Will you keep his room for him?’

  ‘No, but we’ll give him another.’

  The two men returned to headquarters. Maigret put a call through to Toulon.

  ‘I want to speak to Chief Inspector Marella. This is Maigret at the Police Judiciaire.’

  He immediately recognized his colleague’s voice. They had started in the police together and now Marella was in charge of the Police Judiciaire in Toulon.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’


  ‘Do you know a bar called the Amiral?’

  ‘You bet I do. Hangout of all the bad boys in town.’

  ‘Fellow called Bob?’

  ‘The barman. He acts as their letterbox.’

  ‘Tonight or tomorrow, a certain Marcel Montrond will be turning up in Toulon. He’ll probably go straight to the Amiral. I’d like you to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘What do you suspect him of?’

  ‘Everything and nothing. I don’t know, really. He seems to be mixed up in a case we’re getting nowhere with.’

  ‘Is this the old lady on Quai de la Mégisserie?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Odd business, eh? Of course, I only know what’s been in the papers and on the radio, but it sounds a bit of a damned mystery. Have you clapped eyes on the boy with the guitar?’

  ‘Yes. It doesn’t look as if he’s involved. But then it doesn’t look as if anyone’s involved, and there doesn’t seem to be any obvious reason why the old lady was killed.’

  ‘I’ll keep you in the picture. This Marcel you’re talking about, he wouldn’t be known as Big Marcel, would he?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Bit of a gigolo, isn’t he? He’s been down on the Côte d’Azur more than once and every visit, he seems to pick up an older woman to play up to.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be in touch.’

  The telephone rang almost immediately.

  ‘Inspector Maigret?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Angèle Louette. First, I wanted to tell you I’ve sent that good-for-nothing packing …’

  ‘Yes, I know, he’s on his way to Toulon.’

  ‘Believe me, he’s really not my type, and he won’t take me in again like that.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He lives off women and he lounges about half the day in a bed that doesn’t even belong to him. He didn’t want to go, I had to give him money before he would.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Did he brag about it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He calls you “the gendarme”, by the way.’

  ‘I was also going to tell you the funeral will be tomorrow morning. The coffin will be brought round to Quai de la Mégisserie. We won’t have a ceremonial wake, because my aunt didn’t know anyone. The funeral will be at ten.’

  ‘It’s in church?’

  ‘There’ll be a committal in Notre-Dame-des-Blancs-Manteaux. You still haven’t found anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you got my son’s address?’

  ‘Yes, he gave it me.’

  ‘I’d like to be able to get in touch with him. Because he might want to come to his great-aunt’s funeral, in spite of everything.’

  ‘He’s living at the Hôtel des Îles et du Bon Pasteur, Rue Mouffetard.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Maigret was well aware of the impatience of examining magistrates, and a little later he went through the door separating the Police Judiciaire from the Palais de Justice.

  In the corridors lined with magistrates’ offices, there were clients, witnesses, or persons under arrest on almost all the benches, and some of those waiting between two gendarmes were in handcuffs.

  Examining Magistrate Libart was alone with his clerk.

  ‘Well now, inspector, where are we with this case?’

  He sounded almost cheerful as he rubbed his hands together.

  ‘I wanted to let you work in peace. But are you getting anywhere yet?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘No suspect?’

  ‘No really credible suspect, no. And not a single clue, except that the murderer was surprised by the old lady while he was looking for something in her apartment.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Jewels?’

  ‘He’d have got hardly anything for the ones she owned.’

  ‘A madman, then?’

  ‘That’s unlikely. Why would a madman pick on her apartment? And why go there several times before the afternoon when the crime was committed?’

  ‘Someone within the family? Someone in a hurry to inherit?’

  ‘That’s possible, but not very probable. The only heir would be her niece, who is a masseuse and seems to earn her living reasonably well.’

  ‘You seem discouraged.’

  Maigret forced himself to smile.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s a difficult time to get through. The funeral’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘Yes, that’s been my long-term practice and it’s often given me a lead.’

  He returned home for lunch and Madame Maigret, seeing his preoccupied expression, avoided asking him any questions.

  She was almost walking on tiptoe and had made fricandeau of veal with sorrel sauce, one of his favourite dishes.

  When he was back at Quai des Orfèvres, Lapointe knocked at his office door.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Excuse me, chief. What should I be doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Whatever you like … If you’ve got any ideas …’

  ‘I thought I might go back to the bird-seller. He sees people coming in and out of the building. Perhaps if I press him, he’ll remember something.’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  Maigret hated feeling like this, without any inspiration or imagination. The same thoughts kept coming back to him, but they led nowhere.

  First, Madame Antoine was not mad.

  Why then had she been walking up and down outside headquarters before she dared to contact the police? Did she suspect someone?

  She had realized that they would just shrug their shoulders if she complained about seeing her things being moved around.

  And yet it was quite true. Someone had been searching her apartment several times.

  But what were they looking for?

  As he had told the magistrate, it couldn’t have been money. Or jewellery either.

  Yet it had been sufficiently important for the mysterious visitor to murder the old lady when he was surprised in the act.

  Had the intruder finally found what he or she was after? And then been leaving with the booty, just at the moment she returned, earlier than usual?

  What could a very old lady, twice widowed and living modestly, possibly own that would be worth killing her for?

  He scribbled some vague doodles on a piece of paper and suddenly became aware that they looked a bit like the old woman.

  At about five o’clock, he started to feel stifled in his office and set off for Quai de la Mégisserie. With him he had a photograph of Big Marcel, which he had found in the archives of the Vice Squad.

  It was a poor likeness, the features more strongly marked than in reality, but still, it was recognizable. He started with the concierge.

  ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

  She had to go and fetch her glasses from the sideboard.

  ‘I don’t rightly know. His face seems a bit familiar. But there are plenty of people just like him.’

  ‘Take a good look. It would have been quite recently, if at all.’

  ‘It’s the checked suit that strikes me. I think I’ve seen the same kind of suit a week or two back, but I can’t say where.’

  ‘Here, in your lodge?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘In the yard? On the stairs?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. Your inspector was round asking me questions just now. I’m not going to make things up. Did you know that she’s been brought back here?’

  ‘Madame Antoine?’

  ‘Yes, her niece is up there. She’s left the door open and put candles either side of the bed. A few of the tenants have ventured in and said a little prayer. If I could find anyone to take over for me, I’d go to the funeral tomorrow, but I’m on my own here. My husband’s been in a psychiatric ward for three years now.’

  Maigret was back on the pavement, in front of the birdcages. The younge
r Caille recognized him at once.

  ‘Well, now! I’ve just had one of your inspectors here, the young one.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Can you take a good look at this photo?’

  He looked at it, shook his head, examined it again closely, then from a distance.

  ‘Can’t say I recognize him, but it reminds me of something.’

  ‘His suit?’

  ‘No, not particularly. The expression on his face. It’s kind of mocking.’

  ‘Not one of your customers?’

  ‘No, certainly not.’

  ‘Could you ask your father?’

  ‘I will, but he doesn’t see too well.’

  When he came back he shook his head again.

  ‘No, he doesn’t recognize him. But then my father’s nearly always inside and he’s only interested in his birds and his fish. He’s so fond of them he doesn’t really want to sell them.’

  Maigret went back into the building and up to the first floor. The woman living opposite Madame Antoine’s apartment was just coming out, a shopping bag in her hand.

  ‘She’s in there,’ she whispered, pointing to the open door.

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘They’re burying her tomorrow. Seems her first husband had a concession in Montparnasse Cemetery, and she wanted to be buried there alongside him.’

  ‘Who did she say that to?’

  ‘Her niece, I suppose. And the concierge. She said Ivry was too far away, she’d feel lost among all the thousands of graves.’

  ‘I want to show you something. May I come in for a minute?’

  This apartment was neat and tidy, darker than the old lady’s, because a tree outside blocked light from the windows.

  ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

  And he once more brought out the little photo from police archives.

  ‘Should I recognize him?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you.’

  ‘Well, if you’re asking whether I’ve seen him before, then yes I have. Not so long ago. He was smoking a cigarette. I wondered what was missing from the snap – a cigarette.’

  ‘Take your time. Think about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t one of the tradesmen. Nor someone I saw in the courtyard either.’

  He felt she was doing her best.

  ‘I suppose this is important?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To do with Madame Antoine?’