Maigret and the Old Lady

by Georges Simenon

  ‘I don’t think your daughter’s very happy.’

  ‘Do you imagine she wants to be?’

  She smiled at her glass, at Maigret.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve spent a lot of time with women. Young Rose, for example, would have been terribly unhappy if she hadn’t been continuously pondering questions – philosophical questions, you understand – which she’d suddenly begin to think about, looking obstinate, barely answering me when I spoke to her, making a great racket when she was doing the washing-up, as if she were being prevented from finding a solution on which the fate of the world depended.’

  ‘Is it true that she no longer visited her parents?’

  ‘She seldom went because each time there was a row.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? She’d arrive there with her all-important questions, giving them advice based on the latest books she’d read, and naturally they said she was a silly fool.’

  ‘She didn’t have any friends?’

  ‘For the same reason. And for the same reason again she didn’t go out with the local boys, who were too coarse and down-to-earth for her liking.’

  ‘So, apart from you, she spoke to virtually no one?’

  ‘She did the shopping, but she can’t have opened her mouth much. I’m sorry! I was forgetting the doctor. On my shelves Rose found a book on medicine which she dipped into from time to time, after which she asked me questions I couldn’t answer:

  ‘“Admit you know I haven’t got long to live?”

  ‘“Are you ill, Rose?”

  ‘She’d think she’d just discovered that she had a cancer, or better still, a rare disease. It would worry her for a few days, and then she’d ask me for an hour off to rush to the doctor’s.

  ‘Perhaps it was also a chance for her to talk about her problems, because Jolly listened to her patiently, without laughing, without ever contradicting her.’

  ‘Did she spend her evenings with you?’

  ‘I never saw her in the sitting room and, besides, I shouldn’t have liked that. Do you find me old-fashioned? As soon as she’d finished her washing-up, she’d go upstairs to her room and, without getting undressed, would lie down on her bed with a book and smoke cigarettes. She certainly didn’t like the taste of tobacco. She didn’t know how to smoke. She’d have to keep closing her eyes, but that was her idea of poetry. Am I cruel? Not as cruel as you think. When I went upstairs, she’d appear, her face flushed, her eyes shining, and she’d wait until I was in bed before giving me my medicine.

  ‘“Don’t forget to air your room before going to bed.” Those were my ritual words, because of the cigarette smoke that seeped under the doors. And she’d reply:

  ‘“No, madame. Good night, madame.”

  ‘Then she’d make as much noise getting undressed as an entire roomful of girls.’

  Madame Leroy was also making a racket in the kitchen, but it was as if she was doing it for the sake of it, to assert her independence. She came to the door with a surly expression, gazing at Maigret blankly as if he weren’t there.

  ‘Shall I put the soup on?’

  ‘Don’t forget the marrow bone.’

  And turning towards Maigret, Valentine continued:

  ‘In short, apart from my son-in-law Julien you’ve met the whole family. They’re not especially impressive, but they’re not especially bad either, are they?’

  He tried, unsuccessfully, to remember the words Arlette had used to describe her mother.

  ‘I shall end up believing, like dear Charles, that it was all simply an inexplicable accident. You can see that I’m still alive and that if someone did decide at some point they wanted to kill me – God knows why – they would appear to have given up. What do you think?’

  He didn’t think at all. He watched her, his eyes a little hazy, the sunlight dancing between them. A vague smile hovered on his lips – Madame Maigret would have said that he was blissful – as he wondered, without detracting from the tragedy of the situation, as though in a game, if it was possible to disconcert such a woman.

  He took his time, letting her talk, occasionally raising his glass of Calvados to his lips, and the fruity aroma of the alcohol became for him the smell of the house, mingled with the cooking aromas, a hint of wax floor polish and ‘cleanliness’.

  She probably didn’t rely on the maids to do the cleaning, and he pictured her in the mornings, a cap on her head, dusting the numerous fragile knick-knacks herself.

  ‘You find me eccentric? Are you going to come to the conclusion, like some people around here, that I’m a mad old woman? You’ll see one of these days! When you get old, you don’t care what people think about you any more, and you do as you please.’

  ‘Have you seen Théo again?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Do you know which hotel he’s staying at?’

  ‘I think I heard him say on Sunday that he had a room at the Hôtel des Anglais.’

  ‘No. He’s at the Hôtel de la Plage.’

  ‘Why do you think he’d have come back to see me?’

  ‘I don’t know. He knew young Rose well.’

  ‘Théo?’

  ‘He went out with her a few times.’

  ‘It can’t have been often, because she hardly ever left the house.’

  ‘Did you stop her?’

  ‘Naturally I didn’t allow her to run around the streets at night.’

  ‘But she did. How many days off did she have?’

  ‘Two Sundays per month. She would leave after doing the washing-up from lunch, and when she went to visit her parents she wouldn’t come back until the Monday morning, on the first bus.’

  ‘So you’d be alone in the house?’

  ‘I’ve already told you that I’m not afraid. Are you saying there was something going on between her and Théo?’

  ‘He says she was content just to talk to him about her problems.’

  And he added a little disloyally:

  ‘… holding his hand or resting her head on his shoulder!’

  She laughed. She laughed so heartily that she became breathless.

  ‘Quick, tell me it’s not true.’

  ‘It’s the absolute truth. It’s even the reason why Charles isn’t very proud of his brother at the moment.’

  ‘Did Théo talk to you about it in front of him?’

  ‘He had to. He realized I knew.’

  ‘And how did you know?’

  ‘First of all because I ran into him yesterday in the company of Rose’s brother.’

  ‘Henri?’

  ‘Yes. They were deep in conversation in a café in town.’

  ‘How do they know one another?’

  ‘I have no idea. He says that Henri was also aware of the relationship and came to see him to ask for an explanation.’

  ‘It’s too funny! If I hadn’t heard it from you … You see, Monsieur Maigret, you have to know Théo to appreciate the flavour of what you’re telling me. He’s the biggest snob on earth. It’s become almost his sole raison d’être. He would happily be bored to death anywhere so long as it was somewhere exclusive, and he’d travel hundreds of kilometres to be seen in the company of someone dazzling.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The idea of him walking hand in hand with young Rose … Listen! There’s one thing about my maid you don’t know, and that probably no one has thought to tell you. It’s a pity her parents took away her things. I’d have shown you her wardrobe, especially her hats. Think of the most outlandish colours, colours that clash with each other. Rose had a very big bosom. Now when she went out, she’d wear clothes that were so tight-fitting she could scarcely breathe. I’d never have allowed her to dress like that here. And on those days, she’d avoid me on her way out and on her return because her make-up was so excessive, so clumsily applied, that she looked like one of those girls that you see on certain street corners in Paris. Théo and her. Heavens!’

  And she laughed again, more nervously. />
  ‘Tell me, where did they go?’

  ‘I only know that they met at the Vaucottes fair and that they sometimes had a drink in a little café in Étretat.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  He seemed half asleep now. A faint smile on his lips, he watched her through his eyelashes.

  ‘As recently as last Wednesday.’

  ‘Did Théo admit it to you?’

  ‘Not willingly, but he admitted it nevertheless.’

  ‘Now I’ve seen everything. I hope at least that he didn’t come and visit her in my house, like my daughter’s lover, by climbing in through the window.’

  ‘He says he didn’t.’

  ‘Théo …’ she repeated, still incredulous.

  Then she got up to refill their glasses.

  ‘I can see Henri, the hard man of the family, coming to demand an explanation! But—’

  Her expression changed from ironic to serious, and then she looked amused.

  ‘That would take the biscuit … It’s two months, isn’t it, that Théo’s been in Étretat … Supposing … No! It’s too outlandish …’

  ‘Do you think he could’ve made her pregnant?’

  ‘No! Forgive me. It did occur to me but … Did it cross your mind too?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘That still wouldn’t explain anything.’

  The gardener appeared on the other side of the glazed door, and waited without moving, certain that they would eventually notice him.

  ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I have to go and give him instructions.’

  Ah! There was the tick-tock of a clock which he hadn’t noticed until now, and he eventually identified the regular noise coming from upstairs: it was the purring of the cat, most likely lying on its mistress’s bed, that could be heard through the thin ceiling of this doll’s house.

  The sun, broken up into tiny squares by the windowpanes, danced on the knick-knacks, creating reflections and outlining the very clear shape of a linden leaf on the varnished tabletop. In the kitchen Madame Leroy was making such a din that it sounded as if she was moving furniture around. The scratching in the garden resumed.

  Maigret had the impression that he hadn’t stopped hearing it, but when he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see Valentine’s face just a metre from his.

  She smiled hastily so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable, and he muttered, his mouth furry:

  ‘I think I dozed off.’

  7. The Almanac Predictions

  When it was time for Maigret to leave, he and the old lady were in such a cheerful mood that it wouldn’t have been surprising to see them clapping each other on the back.

  Once the door had closed, was Valentine still smiling? Or, as after some fits of uncontrollable laughter, had her mood abruptly swung when she found herself alone with the frosty Madame Leroy?

  In any event, it was a worried Maigret who plodded heavily back to town, heading in the direction of Doctor Jolly’s house. At one point Castaing appeared as if out of a wall, but that wall was a tavern, a strategic place where the inspector had been waiting for some time, playing cards.

  ‘I saw the doctor, chief. There was nothing wrong with Rose. She was the picture of health. All the same, she’d go and see him from time to time and he’d prescribe her harmless medicines to keep her happy.’

  ‘Which were …?’

  ‘Hormones. She was the one who asked for them, all she could talk about was her glands.’

  Baffled, Castaing fell into step beside Maigret and asked:

  ‘Are you going back there?’

  ‘Only one question to ask him. You can wait.’

  He treated Castaing, who did not belong to his squad, with familiarity, and it was a sign. A large, square house with ivy-covered walls came into view, surrounded by a garden that resembled a small park.

  ‘That’s his place,’ said Castaing. ‘But he’s in the lodge, on the left, where he sees his patients.’

  The lodge was like a shed. Doubtless there was a Madame Jolly who didn’t like the patients and the pharmaceutical smells and had booted them all out of her home.

  ‘Make sure he sees you when he opens the door. Otherwise you’ll have to wait for hours.’

  The walls were whitewashed. All around, women, children and old men were sitting on benches, waiting. There were at least twelve people.

  A boy with his head swaddled in a big bandage and a woman wrapped in a shawl desperately trying to soothe a baby in her arms. All eyes were on a door at the back of the room from behind which came the murmur of voices, and Maigret was lucky enough to see that door open almost at once: a plump farm woman came out and the doctor looked around the room and spotted him.

  ‘Do come in. Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  He counted the patients, separated the wheat from the chaff in other words, and addressed three or four people, saying:

  ‘I won’t be able to see you today. Come back the day after tomorrow at the same time.’

  He closed the door.

  ‘Let’s go into the house. You’ll have a drink, won’t you?’

  ‘I have just one question to ask you.’

  ‘But I’m delighted to see you and I shan’t allow you to leave so fast.’

  He opened a side door and led Maigret across the garden towards the big, square house.

  ‘It’s a pity that my wife’s gone to Le Havre today. She would have been so thrilled to meet you!’

  The interior was lavish, comfortable but slightly gloomy because of the big trees in the garden.

  ‘The inspector came by earlier and I told him that, far from being ill, young Rose was built to live to be a hundred. I have rarely come across a family as robust as hers. You should have seen her frame.’

  ‘Was she pregnant?’

  ‘What kind of question is that? That’s the last thing I’d have asked myself. She came to see me not long ago, and she didn’t mention anything of the sort. Around three months back I gave her a complete check-up and I could almost swear that at that point she’d never had sexual intercourse. What would you like to drink?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve just come from Valentine’s, where I was obliged to drink more than I’d have liked.’

  ‘How is she? Another one who’s robust and who could manage perfectly well without a doctor. A delightful woman, isn’t she? I knew her before her second marriage, and even before the first. It was me who delivered her baby.’

  ‘Do you consider her to be completely normal?’

  ‘You mean mentally? Because she can sometimes be eccentric? Beware of those people, inspector. They’re usually the ones with their heads screwed on. She knows what she’s doing, all right! She always has. She loves her little life, her little house, her little comforts. Can you blame her? I have no concerns about her, I assure you!’

  ‘What about young Rose?’

  Maigret thought about the patients who were waiting, the woman cradling her baby, the boy with his bandaged head. But the doctor, who seemed in no hurry, had lit a cigar and settled into an armchair ready for a lengthy conversation.

  ‘There are thousands of girls like young Rose in France. You know her background. She probably spent three years at most at her village school. Then she suddenly found herself in another world. People talked to her too much. She read too much. Do you know what she asked me on one of her visits? What I thought of Freud’s theories. She was also worried that her glandular system was deficient, and goodness knows what else.

  ‘I pretended to take her seriously. I let her talk. I prescribed medication that had as much effect on her as water.’

  ‘Was she miserable?’

  ‘Not at all. On the contrary, she was very cheerful when she allowed herself to be. Then she started thinking, as she said, and she’d take herself very seriously. She must have come across Dostoyevsky at Valentine’s, and she read him from cover to cover.’

  ‘Did any of the drugs you prescribed for her contain arsenic?’

&n
bsp; ‘None, you can be assured.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Are you leaving already? I should so like to have you here for a while.’

  ‘I’ll be back, no doubt.’

  ‘If you promise me …’

  He sighed, irked at having to go back to work so soon.

  Castaing was waiting outside.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m going to take a trip to Yport.’

  ‘Shall I drive you there in the Simca?’

  ‘No. I think you might do better to telephone your wife and tell her that you’ll probably be home late, perhaps not at all.’

  ‘She’s used to it. How are you going to get there? There’s no bus at this hour. You can’t walk all the way.’

  ‘I’ll take a taxi.’

  ‘If one of them is free. Because there are only two taxis in Étretat. Look! The office is on the corner of this little street. What would you like me to do in the meantime?’

  ‘You’re going to go in search of Théo Besson.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult. I simply need to do the round of all the bars. And then?’

  ‘Nothing. Watch him.’

  ‘Discreetly?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if he sees you. The main thing is not to let him give you the slip. If he drives out of town, you have your car. Park close to his, which is probably at the hotel. If that happens, try to leave me a note or send a message to my hotel. I don’t think he’ll go far.’

  ‘If you’re going to see the Trochus, I hope you have fun.’

  The sun was beginning to set when Maigret left town in a taxi whose driver kept turning round to talk to him. Maigret always seemed to be dozing, puffing occasionally on his pipe, looking out at the countryside, which was turning a dark, dingy green, with lights coming on in the farms and cows lowing at the gates.

  Yport was no more than a fishing village with a few houses that rented rooms to summer visitors, like all seaside places. The driver had to ask for directions, because he didn’t know the Trochus. He pulled up in front of a single-storey house with nets drying outside.

  ‘Shall I wait for you?’

  ‘Please.’

  A face was just visible at the window and, when Maigret knocked on the brown door, he heard the clatter of cutlery, telling him that the family was eating.