‘Why?’
‘Because the lamps were still lit.’
‘As they are now?’
‘No. The ceiling lamp wasn’t lit. Only the lamp on the desk and the standard lamp in that corner.’
‘What did you do, at six o’clock?’
‘I washed myself, first of all.’
‘And then?’
‘I cleaned my kitchen and went to buy croissants.’
‘And the apartment stayed empty during that time?’
‘Like every morning.’
‘And then?’
‘I made some coffee, I had something to eat, and finally I took the tray to the bedroom.’
‘Was the bed unmade?’
‘No.’
‘Was the place untidy?’
‘No.’
‘Last night, when you left him, was the count wearing that black dressing gown?’
‘As he did every evening when he didn’t go out.’
‘Did he go out often?’
‘He liked the cinema.’
‘Did he have friends for dinner?’
‘Hardly ever. From time to time he went to have lunch in town.’
‘Do you know the names of the people he met?’
‘It’s none of my business.’
The doorbell rang. It was the district chief inspector, accompanied by his secretary. He looked at the desk in surprise, then at the old woman, and at last Maigret, whose hand he shook.
‘How come you got here before us? Was she the one who called you?’
‘Not at all. She went to Quai d’Orsay. Do you know the victim?’
‘He’s the former ambassador, isn’t he? I know him by name and by sight. He used to take a walk in the neighbourhood every morning. Who did it?’
‘We don’t know anything yet. I’m waiting for the prosecutor’s office.’
‘The pathologist will be here very shortly.’
No one touched the furniture or the ornaments. There was a curious atmosphere of unease, and it was a relief when the pathologist arrived; he gave a little whistle when he bent over the body.
‘I don’t suppose I can turn him over before the photographers arrive?’
‘Don’t touch him … Do you have an approximate idea of the time of death?’
‘Some time ago … At first sight, I would say about ten hours … It’s strange …’
‘What’s strange?’
‘He seems to have been hit by at least four bullets … One here … Another one there …’
Kneeling, he examined the body more closely.
‘I don’t know what the pathologist will think. For my part, I wouldn’t be surprised if the first bullet killed him outright, and they went on shooting anyway. Bear in mind that this is only a hypothesis …’
In less than five minutes the apartment filled up. First the prosecutor’s office, represented by the deputy, Pasquier, and an examining magistrate, whom Maigret did not know well, and whose name was Urbain de Chézaud.
Dr Paul’s successor, Dr Tudelle, came with them. Immediately after came the invasion of Criminal Records, with their cumbersome equipment.
‘Who found the body?’
‘The housekeeper.’
Maigret pointed at the old woman, who, with no apparent emotion, continued to keep a close eye on what everyone was up to.
‘Have you questioned her?’
‘Not yet. I’ve just exchanged a few words with her.’
‘Does she know anything?’
‘If she does, it won’t be easy to make her speak.’
He told him the story of the foreign minister.
‘Has anything been stolen?’
‘Not at first sight. I’m waiting for Criminal Records to finish their work and tell me.’
‘Family?’
‘A nephew.’
‘Has he been told?’
‘Not yet. I plan to go and inform him myself while my men are working. He lives not far from here, on Rue Jacob.’
Maigret could have called the antiques dealer to ask him to come, but he preferred to meet him in his own setting.
‘If you don’t need me, I’ll go there right now. Janvier, you stay here …’
It was a great relief to see daylight again, the patches of sunlight beneath the trees on Boulevard Saint-Germain. The air was mild, the women dressed in light colours, and a council water-cart was slowly wetting the middle of the carriageway.
He found the shop on Rue Jacob without any difficulty, its windows containing only old weapons, particularly swords. He pushed open the door, making a bell ring, and stood there for two or three minutes before a man emerged from the darkness.
Because his uncle was seventy-seven, Maigret wouldn’t have expected the nephew to be a young man. He was nonetheless surprised that the man standing in front of him looked quite old.
‘Can I help you?’
He had a long, pale face with bristling eyebrows; his head was almost bald and his floating clothes made him look thinner than he was.
‘Are you Monsieur Mazeron?’
‘Alain Mazeron, that’s right.’
The shop was crammed with other weapons: muskets, blunderbusses and, right at the back, two suits of armour.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Maigret, Police Judiciaire.’
The eyebrows met in the middle. Mazeron was trying to understand.
‘You are the nephew of the Count of Sainte-Hilaire, isn’t that right?’
‘He’s my uncle, yes. Why?’
‘When did you last see him?’
He replied without hesitation:
‘The day before yesterday.’
‘Do you have a family?’
‘I’m married with children.’
‘When you saw your uncle the day before yesterday, did he seem to be in his normal state?’
‘Yes. He was even quite cheerful. Why are you asking me that question?’
‘Because he’s dead.’
Maigret saw the same suspicion in the man’s eyes as he had in the old housekeeper.
‘Has there been an accident?’
‘In a sense …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That he was killed last night, in his office, by several bullets fired from a revolver or an automatic pistol.’
The antique dealer’s face filled with disbelief.
‘Do you know if he had any enemies?’
‘No … Certainly not …’
If Mazeron had just said no, Maigret wouldn’t have paid attention. The ‘certainly not’ sounded a little like a corrective and made him prick up his ears.
‘You have no idea who might have an interest in your uncle’s death?’
‘No … No one …’
‘Was he very wealthy?’
‘He had a little money … He lived mostly off his pension …’
‘Did he sometimes come here?’
‘Sometimes …’
‘To have lunch or dinner with the family?’
Mazeron seemed distracted and replied through pursed lips as if thinking about something else.
‘No … More in the morning, when he took his walk …’
‘He came in to chat with you …?’
‘That’s right. He came in, sat down for a moment …’
‘Did you go and see him at his flat?’
‘From time to time …’
‘With your family?’
‘No …’
‘You have children, you told me?’
‘Two! Two daughters …’
‘And you live in this building?’
‘On the first floor … One of my daughters, the elder one, is in England … The second, Marcelle, lives with her mother …’
‘You don’t live with your wife?’
‘Not for some years …’
‘Are you divorced?’
‘No … It’s complicated … Do you think we should go to my uncle’s?’
He went and fetched his hat from the
semi-darkness of the back of the shop, hung a sign on the door saying he would be back soon, locked it and followed Maigret along the pavement.
‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked.
He sounded concerned and worried.
‘I know barely anything.’
‘Has anything been stolen?’
‘I don’t think so. There was no sign of disorder in the flat.’
‘What does Jaquette say?’
‘You mean the housekeeper?’
‘Yes. That’s her name … I don’t know if that’s her real name, but we’ve always called her Jaquette …’
‘Do you like her?’
‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘She doesn’t seem to like you.’
‘She doesn’t like anyone but my uncle. If it had been up to her, no one would ever have stepped inside the flat.’
‘Do you think she would have been capable of killing him?’
Mazeron looked at him in astonishment.
‘Her, kill him?’
It clearly struck him as the most ridiculous idea. And yet after a moment he caught himself considering it.
‘No! It’s not possible …’
‘You hesitated.’
‘Because of her jealousy …’
‘You mean that she loved him?’
‘She hasn’t always been an old woman …’
‘You think there might have been something between them?’
‘It’s quite likely. I wouldn’t dare to swear to it. With a man like my uncle it’s hard to know … Have you seen any photographs of Jaquette when she was young?’
‘I haven’t seen anything yet.’
‘You will … It’s all very complicated. Particularly that it’s all happening right now …’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Alain Mazeron looked at Maigret with a kind of weariness and sighed:
‘Essentially, I see that you don’t know anything.’
‘What should I know?’
‘I wonder … It’s an annoying business … Have you found the letters?’
‘I’m just starting my investigation.’
‘It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?’
Maigret nodded.
‘The day of the funeral …’
‘Whose funeral?’
‘The Prince de V—. You’ll understand when you’ve read the letters …’
Just as they reached Rue Saint-Dominique, the Criminal Records car set off, and Moers waved at Maigret.
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin …
Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinUKbooks
Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/penguinbooks
Pin ‘Penguin Books’ to your Pinterest
Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/penguinbooks
Listen to Penguin at SoundCloud.com/penguin-books
Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk
PENGUIN CLASSICS
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published in French as Maigret aux assises by Presses de la Cité 1960
This translation first published 2018
Copyright © Georges Simenon Limited, 1960
Translation copyright © Ros Schwartz, 2018
GEORGES SIMENON ® Simenon.tm
MAIGRET ® Georges Simenon Limited
All rights reserved
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
Cover photograph (detail) © Harry Gruyaert /Magnum Photos
Front cover design by Alceu Chiesorin Nunes
ISBN: 978-0-141-98592-3
Maigret in Court Page 13
