Maigret and the Old Lady

by Georges Simenon

‘I spotted him again last night.’

  ‘In that case, we’re likely to find him in the bar. Have you talked to him?’

  ‘I haven’t had the opportunity.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  It was clear that something was needling him and this time he bit off the end of his cigar and lit it distractedly.

  Some youths were playing with a big red ball in the surf.

  6. Young Rose and her Problems

  Besson had been right. There was only one person in the bar other than Charlie, who was bustling around getting ready to open up, and that was Théo, playing poker dice on his own, for want of a partner.

  Charles walked in, proud and happy to introduce his older brother, and Théo watched him with vacant eyes, reluctantly clambering down from his stool.

  ‘Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Maigret?’

  Théo could have said ‘only by reputation’, or ‘as everyone does’, anything that would have suggested he knew that Maigret was not just anybody, but he merely inclined his upper body in a very formal manner, without proffering his hand, and mumbled:

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Close up, he looked older because the fine lines on his face looked like cracks. He must spend a long time at the barber’s each morning having complicated treatments, probably a facial massage, because he had the skin of an old dandy.

  ‘You probably know that Inspector Maigret has agreed to take charge of the investigation, at my request and that of Valentine, who made a special trip to Paris?’

  Charles was a little disappointed to see his brother greet him with the polite disdain of a sovereign on a royal visit.

  ‘Are we disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘We’ve just spent an hour in the sun on the beach, and we’re thirsty. Charlie!’

  The owner gave Maigret a friendly wink.

  ‘What are you drinking, Théo?’

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘I hate whisky. What will you have, inspector? I’ll have a picon-grenadine.’

  Why did Maigret have the same? He hadn’t had one for a long time and, for some strange reason, the bitter orange liqueur reminded him of his holidays.

  ‘Have you seen Valentine again, since Sunday?’

  ‘No.’

  Théo had large, pale, well-manicured hands, with red hairs and a chunky signet ring. He was not wearing a single item of clothing that could be found in an ordinary shop. He had clearly created his own signature style. Someone had made an impression on him, probably an English aristocrat, and he had studied his mannerisms, his walk, his way of dressing and even his facial expressions. From time to time he would casually raise his hand to his mouth as if he were about to yawn, but he didn’t.

  ‘Will you be staying much longer in Étretat?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Charles tried hard to make his brother look good, explaining to Maigret:

  ‘He’s a strange fellow. He never knows what he’ll be doing the following day. For no reason, on a whim, coming out of Fouquet’s or Maxim’s, he goes home, packs his bags and takes the plane to Cannes or Chamonix, London or Brussels. Don’t you, Théo?’

  Then Maigret attacked directly:

  ‘May I ask you a question, Monsieur Besson? When did you arrange to see Rose for the last time?’

  Poor Charles stared at the two of them in astonishment, opened his mouth as if to protest, and looked as if he was expecting a vehement denial from his elder brother.

  But Théo did not deny it. He seemed troubled, and stared into the bottom of his glass for a moment before looking up at Maigret.

  ‘Do you want an exact date?’

  ‘As exact as possible.’

  ‘Charles will tell you that I never know what the date is and that I often don’t even know what day of the week it is.’

  ‘Is it more than a week?’

  ‘About a week.’

  ‘Was it a Sunday?’

  ‘No. If I were under oath I would think carefully, but off the top of my head I’d say it was last Wednesday or Thursday.’

  ‘Did you see one another often?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. Two or three times.’

  ‘Did you visit her at your stepmother’s?’

  ‘You must have been told that I wasn’t on speaking terms with my stepmother. When I met the girl, I didn’t know where she worked.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘At the Vaucottes fair.’

  ‘Have you started running after servant girls now?’ teased Charles, to show that this was not a habit of his older brother’s.

  ‘I was watching the sack race. She was next to me and I don’t know who spoke first. In any case, she commented that these village fairs were all the same, and that they were stupid and she’d rather go home. Since I was about to leave myself I offered her a lift in my car out of politeness.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘The same again, Charlie!’

  The owner refilled the three glasses at once, and Maigret didn’t think to object.

  ‘She told me she was an avid reader and she talked about the books she read, the ones she couldn’t understand and which troubled her. Should I consider this as an interrogation, inspector? Mind you, I’d be only too pleased to comply, but given our surroundings …’

  ‘Come, Théo!’ protested Charles. ‘Remember, I’m the one who asked Monsieur Maigret to come.’

  ‘You are the first person I’ve met who appears to know the girl a little, or at least the first to talk about her.’

  ‘What else can I tell you?’

  ‘What you thought of her.’

  ‘A little farm girl who had read too much and who asked odd questions.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About everything, about kindness, selfishness, about the relations between people, about the human mind – all sorts of things.’

  ‘About love?’

  ‘She told me that she didn’t believe in it and that she would never stoop to giving herself to a man.’

  ‘Even in marriage?’

  ‘She thought that marriage was “filthy and nasty”, to use her words.’

  ‘So there was nothing between you?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘No liberties?’

  ‘She’d take my hand when we were walking or lean her head against my shoulder a little when we went for a drive.’

  ‘Did she ever speak to you of hatred?’

  ‘No. Her pet words were selfishness and pride, which she pronounced with a strong Normandy accent. Charlie!’

  ‘In short,’ broke in his brother, ‘you found it amusing to study her character?’

  But Théo didn’t bother to reply.

  ‘Is that all, inspector?’

  ‘Did you already know Henri before Rose’s death?’

  This time Charles displayed genuine consternation. How did Maigret know so much? He hadn’t said a word of any of this to him. Théo’s behaviour began to appear less natural, and especially his prolonged stay in Étretat.

  ‘I only knew him by name, because she had told me about her entire family, whom she disliked of course, saying that they didn’t understand her.’

  ‘Was it after her death that you met Henri Trochu?’

  ‘He stopped me in the street and asked me if I was the man who’d been going out with his sister, and he sounded as if he wanted to pick a fight. I answered him quietly and he calmed down.’

  ‘Have you seen him again?’

  ‘Last night, actually.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we ran into each other.’

  ‘Is he angry at your family?’

  ‘He’s angry with Valentine in particular.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘That’s his business. I presume you can question him the way you are questioning me. Charlie!’

  Maigret had just realized who it was that Théo was trying so hard to emul
ate: it was the Duke of Windsor.

  ‘Two or three more questions, since you have so kindly agreed. Did you ever go and see Rose at La Bicoque?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘And you never waited for her nearby?’

  ‘She used to come here.’

  ‘Did she get drunk in your company?’

  ‘After a glass or two, she’d become very upset.’

  ‘Did she ever express a wish to die?’

  ‘She was scared stiff of death and when we were in the car she’d beg me to slow down.’

  ‘Was she fond of your stepmother? Was she devoted to her?’

  ‘I don’t think that two women who live together all day long can be fond of each other.’

  ‘Do you think they hated each other to death?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘By the way,’ broke in Charles Besson, ‘that reminds me that I must visit Valentine. It wouldn’t be very nice of me to have come to Étretat and not drop in and see how she is. Will you come with me, inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Are you staying here with my brother?’

  ‘I’m staying here for a little while longer.’

  ‘Do you need me today? Tomorrow I’ll be in Dieppe, for the funeral. By the way, Théo, my mother-in-law died.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  Charles left, very red in the face, whether from the aperitifs or because of his brother’s behaviour, it was not clear.

  ‘Idiot!’ muttered Théo. ‘So he dragged you all the way from Paris?’

  He shrugged and reached for the dice, as if to convey that he had no more to say. Maigret took his wallet out of his pocket and turned to Charlie, but Théo simply mumbled:

  ‘Put it on my tab.’

  On coming out of the casino Maigret spotted Castaing’s car and Castaing himself was by the hotel, looking for him.

  ‘Have you got a minute? Shall we have a drink?’

  ‘I’d rather not. I think I’ve just downed three aperitifs in quick succession and I’d prefer not to have another drink straight away.’

  Maigret felt numb. He had suddenly begun to see the case in a rather comic light and even Castaing, with his earnest, busy air, seemed like an amusing character.

  ‘My feeling is that you’d do well to go and sniff around Yport. I’ve been in Normandy for five years and I thought I knew the people well, but I’m out of my depth with that family.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Nothing. Neither yes nor no, neither this nor that. They look at me with suspicion, they don’t invite me to sit down, seem impatient for me to leave. Sometimes they exchange little glances as if to say: “Shall we talk to him?”, “You decide!”, “No, you!”

  ‘Then it’s the mother who lets slip something that may mean nothing or may be deeply significant.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘For example: “Those people close ranks and not one of them will speak.”’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘“They must have had their reasons for stopping my daughter from coming here.”’

  ‘Did she not go home to see them any more?’

  ‘Rarely, I gather. Because with them you can interpret things as you like. It’s as though words don’t have the same meaning as normal. They say something and then immediately retract it. They clearly think that we’re here not to find out the truth but to protect “those people” from trouble.

  ‘They don’t seem to believe that young Rose’s death was a mistake. To hear them talking, she was the one meant to die, not Valentine.

  ‘When the father came in, he did offer me a glass of cider, because I was under his roof, but only after dithering for ages. The son was there, because he’s not leaving to go fishing until tonight, and he didn’t drink with us.’

  ‘Henri, the eldest?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t open his mouth. I think he was trying to signal to them to keep quiet. Perhaps if I ran into the father in a café in Fécamp he’d be more forthcoming with a few drinks inside him. What about you, what have you been doing?’

  ‘I had a chat with the two Besson brothers, Charles first and then Théo.’

  They sat down. There was a bottle of white wine in front of them and Castaing filled the two glasses. Maigret took no notice, and when they left the dining room he was tempted to go and have a nap, with the windows wide open looking out over the sea and the sun streaming in.

  Modesty prevented him. That too was a legacy from his childhood, a sense of duty which he zealously took to extremes, the feeling that he never did enough to earn his living, so much so that when he was on holiday, which didn’t happen every year – take this year, for example – he felt almost guilty.

  ‘What shall I do?’ asked Castaing, surprised to see Maigret drowsy and undecided.

  ‘Whatever you like, son. Delve. I don’t know where. Perhaps you could speak to the doctor again?’

  ‘Doctor Jolly?’

  ‘Yes. And to people! Anyone! Whoever you come across. The surviving Seuret sister is probably talkative and must be bored all on her own.’

  ‘Shall I drop you somewhere?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  He knew that there was a moment like this to get through in every investigation, and that, as if by chance – or was it rather an instinct that drove him? – almost every time he ended up drinking a little too much.

  That was when everything started to ‘buzz inside his head’, as he described to himself.

  In the beginning he knew nothing, only precise facts, as written in the reports. Then he would find himself talking to people he’d never seen, whom he hadn’t known the day before, and he looked at them as if looking at photographs in an album.

  He had to get to know them as quickly as possible, ask questions, believe or disbelieve their answers, avoid forming an opinion too quickly.

  It was the period when people and things were clear but a little distant, still anonymous, impersonal.

  Then, at a particular point, for no apparent reason, everything ‘started to buzz’. The characters became hazier and at the same time more human, more complicated especially, and it was important to pay attention.

  In other words, he began to see them from the inside. Groping, ill at ease, he had the feeling that all that was needed was a little effort for everything to become clear and for the truth to emerge unaided.

  His hands in his pockets, his pipe in his mouth, he ambled slowly up the already familiar dusty road, and a detail struck him, a simple detail that might possibly be important. He was used to Paris, where transport was available on every street corner.

  How far was it from La Bicoque to the centre of Étretat? Around one kilometre. Valentine didn’t have the telephone. She no longer had a car and it was unlikely that she rode a bicycle.

  So for the old lady it was an expedition to make contact with other human beings, and she must spend entire days without seeing anyone. Her closest neighbour was Mademoiselle Seuret, who was nearly ninety, and probably never got up from her armchair.

  Did Valentine do her shopping herself? Or had Rose done that?

  There were fat, purple blackberries in the hedges, but he didn’t stop to pick any, or to break off a twig; sadly he was too old for that. He smiled at the idea. He was also thinking about Charles, about his brother Théo, and promised himself that he would also go and have a glass of cider at the Trochus. Would they offer him one?

  He pushed open the green gate and inhaled the heady fragrance of all the flowers and shrubs in the garden. He could hear a regular scratching noise and, rounding a bend in the path, saw an old man hoeing around the rose bushes. This must be Honoré, the gardener, who came to work for Valentine three days a week and was also employed by Mademoiselle Seuret.

  The man straightened up to look at the intruder and raised a hand to his brow. It wasn’t clear whether it was to greet the visitor or to shield his eyes from the sun.

  He was a pict
ure-book gardener, almost hunchbacked from bending over, with small, inquisitive eyes and the wary look of an animal poking its head out of its burrow.

  He said nothing, followed Maigret with his gaze, and only when he heard the door open did he resume his rhythmic scratching.

  It wasn’t Madame Leroy who got up to come and open the door but Valentine herself, who acted as if she were welcoming someone she had known for a long time.

  ‘I had a visitor today,’ she announced excitedly. ‘Charles came to see me. He sounded disappointed with the way his brother behaved towards you.’

  ‘Did he tell you about our conversation?’

  ‘What conversation? Wait a moment. He talked mainly about old Madame Montet, who’s died, which is going to make a huge difference to his circumstances. He’s rich now, richer than he’s ever been, because that old vixen owned more than sixty houses, not to mention the shares and more than likely a nest egg of gold coins. What will you have?’

  ‘A glass of water, as chilled as possible.’

  ‘On condition that you’ll have a little drink with it. For me. I never drink alone. That would be terrible, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine an old woman knocking back glasses of Calvados? But when I have company, I confess that I’m delighted at the opportunity.’

  Too bad. Why not! He felt good. He was a little hot in that cramped room with the sun’s rays striking his shoulder. Valentine, who had told him to sit in her chair, poured his drink, lively and alert, her eyes shining almost girlishly.

  ‘Did Charles talk to you about anything else?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About his brother.’

  ‘He simply told me that he didn’t understand why Théo showed himself in such a bad light and said that he seemed to be doing it deliberately. He was put out. He’s full of admiration for Théo and he has a very strong sense of family. I’ll wager that he’s not the one who spoke ill of me.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Who did?’

  He had barely been in the house three minutes, and now he was being interrogated, almost without his realizing it.

  ‘It was my daughter, wasn’t it?’

  But she said it with a smile.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of betraying her. She hasn’t tried to conceal it from me. She told me that she had spoken frankly to you.’