Maigret and the Old Lady

by Georges Simenon

  It was Henri who opened the door, his mouth full. He stared at Maigret in silence without asking him in. Behind him burned a hearth fire which lit up the room and above which hung a big cooking pot. Next to it was a stove, a magnificent, nearly new one, but it was clearly a luxury which was only used on special occasions.

  ‘May I speak to your father?’

  The father could see him too, but hadn’t said a word so far. There were five or six of them sitting around a long table with no cloth, steaming plates in front of them. In the centre was a huge dish of potatoes and cod in a white sauce. The mother turned her back to the door. A fair-haired little boy twisted round to look at the interloper.

  ‘Ask him in, Henri,’ said the father at length.

  And, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, he rose so slowly that the movement appeared almost solemn. He seemed to be saying to his brood: ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m here and nothing can happen to you.’

  Henri did not resume his seat at the table but stayed standing beside an iron bed, beneath a reproduction of Millet’s Angelus.

  ‘I presume you’re the boss of the one who was here before?’

  ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Maigret.’

  ‘And what do you want from us now?’

  He had a magnificent seafarer’s face, much beloved of Sunday painters, and he kept his cap on even inside the house. He was as broad as he was tall, in his blue jumper that made his chest look even bigger.

  ‘I’m trying to find out who killed—’

  ‘My daughter!’ broke in Trochu, intent on pointing out that it was his daughter and no one else who was dead.

  ‘Exactly. I’m sorry for having to disturb you. I wasn’t expecting to find you at supper.’

  ‘What time do you people eat? Later, of course, like everyone else who doesn’t have to get up at four thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Do please carry on with your meal.’

  ‘I’ve finished.’

  The others continued eating in silence with awkward movements, staring at Maigret and taking in every word their father said. Henri had lit a cigarette, perhaps as a gesture of defiance. No one had offered a chair to Maigret, who seemed huge standing in the low-ceilinged room with sausages dangling from the beams.

  There wasn’t just one bed in the room but two, one of them a child’s cot, and an open door revealed a bedroom with three more, but no washstand, which suggested that they all had to wash outside at the well.

  ‘You brought back all your daughter’s belongings?’

  ‘I’m entitled to, aren’t I?’

  ‘That’s not a criticism. It might help me in my investigation to know exactly what they consisted of.’

  Trochu turned to his wife, whose face Maigret finally saw. She looked young to have such a large family, including grown-up children like Rose and Henri. She was thin and dressed in black, with a medallion around her neck.

  They looked at each other in confusion and the children fidgeted on their bench.

  ‘We’ve already shared them out.’

  ‘Are some of the items not here any more?’

  ‘Jeanne, who works in Le Havre, took the dresses and linen that fitted her. She couldn’t take the shoes because they were too small.’

  ‘I’ve got them!’ said a girl of around fourteen, with fat auburn plaits.

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘I’m not so much interested in the clothes but in the small items. Were there any letters?’

  This time the parents turned to look at Henri, who seemed disinclined to reply. Maigret repeated his question.

  ‘No,’ he snapped.

  ‘No diary either, no notes?’

  ‘I only found the almanac.’

  ‘What almanac?’

  He went to fetch it from the bedroom next door. Maigret remembered that, when he was young and lived in the country, he had seen those almanacs, shoddily printed on cheap paper, with naive illustrations. He was surprised they still existed.

  Each day of the month was followed by a prediction. For example:

  17 August. Melancholy.

  18 August. Do not undertake anything. Do not travel.

  19 August. The morning will be cheerful, but beware of the evening.

  He did not smile as he solemnly flicked through the well-thumbed little book. But he found nothing special in September, or at the end of the previous month.

  ‘You didn’t find any other papers?’

  Then the mother too stood up and spoke and Maigret could sense that the entire family was with her, applauding the reply they’d been hoping for.

  ‘Do you really think it’s right for you to come here asking these questions? I’d like to be told once and for all whether it’s my daughter who’s dead, yes or no. And if she is, then it’s not us you should come bothering but those people, the ones you’re making sure to leave in peace.’

  There was a tangible feeling of relief in the air. The fourteen-year-old looked as if she was about to start clapping.

  ‘Because we’re poor,’ she went on, ‘because some people put on airs and graces—’

  ‘I can assure you, madame, that I question rich and poor alike.’

  ‘What about those who act rich when they’re not? What about those who act high and mighty and are from a lower class than us?’

  Maigret didn’t bat an eyelid, hoping that she would continue, and she did, after looking about her to pluck up the courage.

  ‘Do you know who that woman is? Well let me tell you. When my poor mother got married, she married a good boy who had been in love with another woman for a long time, Valentine’s mother that was, and the two of them lived almost next door to one another. Well! The boy’s parents never wanted him to marry her. That’s telling you what sort of girl she was …’

  If Maigret understood correctly, it was Valentine’s mother who was the sort of girl men didn’t wed.

  ‘She got married, you’ll tell me, but she only managed to find a drunkard, a good-for-nothing, and it was from those two that Madame was born!’

  Trochu, the father, had taken a short pipe from his pocket and was filling it in a tobacco pouch made from a pig’s bladder.

  ‘I was against my daughter working for a woman like that, who was possibly worse than her mother. If they’d listened to me—’

  A glance full of reproach at her husband’s back. He must have given Rose permission to enter into Valentine’s service.

  ‘On top of that, she’s a nasty piece of work. Don’t laugh. I know what I’m talking about. She probably took you in with her false airs. But believe you me, she’s a nasty piece of work – she envies everyone, she’s always hated my Rose.’

  ‘Why did your daughter stay with her?’

  ‘I still wonder. Because she didn’t like her either.’

  ‘Did she tell you so?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me anything. She never talked about her employers. In the end, she hardly talked to us at all any more. We weren’t good enough for her, you see. That’s what that woman did. She taught her to despise her parents, and that I’ll never forgive her. Now Rose is dead, and that woman came and put on her airs and graces at her funeral, whereas her rightful place is probably in prison!’

  Her husband gave her a look as if to try to pacify her.

  ‘At any rate, you don’t need to come poking around here!’ she concluded vehemently.

  ‘May I say something?’

  ‘Let him speak,’ said Henri.

  ‘We policemen aren’t magicians. How can we find out who committed a crime if we don’t know why the crime has been committed?’

  He spoke softly, kindly.

  ‘Your daughter was poisoned. By whom? I’ll know the answer probably when I find out why she was poisoned.’

  ‘That woman hated her, I tell you.’

  ‘That might not be reason enough. Murder is a very serious act, remember, where you risk your own skin, and in any case your freedom.’

  ‘Evil peopl
e don’t risk much.’

  ‘I think your son will know what I mean when I say that there were others who were close to Rose.’

  Henri looked uncomfortable.

  ‘And there are perhaps others still, whom we don’t know. That’s why I hoped to examine her belongings. There might have been letters, addresses, even objects that were given to her as presents.’

  At the mention of presents there was a silence and glances were exchanged. They seemed to be questioning one another and finally the mother said, with a last trace of wariness:

  ‘Are you going to show him the ring?’

  She was speaking to her husband, who decided, as if reluctantly, to extract a large, worn wallet from his trouser pocket. It had a number of compartments, one of which closed with a press stud. He took out an object wrapped in tissue paper which he held out to Maigret. It was an antique-style ring, set with a green stone.

  ‘I presume your daughter had other jewellery?’

  ‘There was a little box – full of things she’d bought herself at the fairs in Fécamp. They’ve already been shared out. There are still some here.’

  The girl, without saying anything, ran into the bedroom and came back with a silver bracelet decorated with blue porcelain stones.

  ‘This is my share!’ she said proudly.

  None of it was worth very much – rings, medals, mementos of her first communion.

  ‘Was this ring with the other things?’

  ‘No.’

  The fisherman turned to his wife, who was still slightly undecided.

  ‘I found it in the toe of a shoe, inside a little ball of tissue paper. They were her Sunday shoes, she’d only worn them a couple of times.’

  The glow from the fire didn’t provide enough light to examine the ring, and Maigret was no expert in precious stones, but it was obvious that this jewel was of a different quality from the other items they had mentioned.

  ‘I’ll say it,’ blurted out Trochu at last, his face red. ‘That thing bothered me. Yesterday I went to Fécamp, so I took the opportunity to go and see the jeweller where we bought our wedding rings. I wrote down the word he said on a piece of paper. It was an emerald. He also said it was worth as much as a boat and that if I had found it I should take it to the police.’

  Maigret turned to Henri.

  ‘Is it because of that?’ he asked him.

  Henri nodded.

  The mother asked suspiciously:

  ‘What are you two up to? Have you met before?’

  ‘I think it’s best to tell you. I saw your son in the company of Théo Besson. I was surprised, but now I understand. The fact is that Théo went out with Rose a couple of times.’

  ‘Is that true?’ she asked Henri.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘You knew? And you didn’t say anything?’

  ‘I went and asked him if he was the person who had given my sister a ring and what exactly was going on between them.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked to see the ring. I couldn’t show it to him, because father had it in his pocket. I described it to him. I didn’t know then that it was an emerald, but he immediately said that word.’

  ‘Was it him?’

  ‘No. He swore he’d never given her any presents. He explained that they were just friends and that he enjoyed talking to her because she was clever.’

  ‘Did you believe him? Do you believe anything said by a member of that family?’

  Henri looked at Maigret and went on:

  ‘He’s also trying to find out the truth. He claims that it’s not the police who’ll get to the bottom of it. He even says’ – and his lips trembled a little – ‘that it was Valentine who brought you here and that it’s as if you were in her employ.’

  ‘I am not in anyone’s employ.’

  ‘I’m repeating what he said.’

  ‘Are you certain, Henri, that it wasn’t Théo who gave your sister the ring?’ asked the father, embarrassed.

  ‘He seemed to me to be telling the truth. He also said that he wasn’t rich and that even if he sold his motor car, he wouldn’t be able to afford a ring like that, assuming that the stone is genuine.’

  ‘Where does he think it comes from?’ asked Maigret.

  ‘He doesn’t know either.’

  ‘Did Rose ever go to Paris?’

  ‘She never set foot there in her life.’

  ‘Me neither,’ broke in the mother. ‘And I have no wish to go there. It’s bad enough having to go to Le Havre from time to time.’

  ‘Did she go to Le Havre?’

  ‘She’d sometimes go and visit her sister.’

  ‘To Dieppe too?’

  ‘I don’t think so. What would she go to Dieppe for?’

  ‘The truth is,’ said Madame Trochu, ‘that these last months we knew almost nothing about her. When she came to see us, it was a flying visit, to criticize everything we did, everything we said. If she did open her mouth, she didn’t talk the way we taught her, but used words that we couldn’t understand.’

  ‘Was she fond of Valentine?’

  ‘You mean did she like her? My feeling is that she hated her. I gathered that from a few things she said.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I can’t recall right now, but it struck me at the time.’

  ‘Why did she carry on working for her?’

  ‘That’s what I often used to ask her. She wouldn’t answer.’

  Trochu then made the gesture that Inspector Castaing had told him would come at the last minute.

  ‘We haven’t offered you a drink. Will you have a glass of cider? Since you haven’t eaten, I won’t offer you spirits.’

  He went outside to draw the cider from the barrel in the shed and came back with a full bluish stoneware pitcher. Then he took a cloth out of a drawer to wipe two glasses.

  ‘Would you entrust the ring to me for a couple of days?’

  ‘It’s not ours. I don’t think it ever belonged to my daughter. If you take it away, you must give me a receipt.’

  Maigret wrote one out on the corner of the table, which they cleared to give him room. He drank the cider, which was a little young, but he praised it effusively, because Trochu brewed it himself every autumn.

  ‘Believe me,’ said the mother, showing him to the door. ‘It was definitely Rose the killer was after. And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, it’s because they have good reason to.’

  ‘I hope we’ll soon find out.’

  ‘Do you think it’ll be that fast?’

  ‘Perhaps faster than you think.’

  He had pushed the ring wrapped in tissue paper into his waistcoat pocket. He looked at the folding cot which must have been Rose’s when she was little, the bedroom where she had slept when she was older with her sisters, the fireplace in front of which she would have crouched to make the soup.

  While he wasn’t exactly an enemy, he was an outsider and the family were still wary as they watched him leave. Only Henri walked Maigret to his taxi.

  ‘Would you mind giving me a lift to Étretat?’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘I’ll just go and get my cap and my bag.’

  Maigret heard Henri explaining to his family:

  ‘I’m getting a lift from the inspector. From Étretat I’ll go straight to Fécamp to set sail.’

  He returned with a sailcloth bag which must have contained his fishing equipment. The car pulled away. Maigret looked over his shoulder and saw the family silhouetted in the open doorway.

  ‘Do you think he lied to me?’ asked Henri, lighting a cigarette.

  His clothes gave off a strong smell of brine.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you going to show him the ring?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘When I went to find him the first time, I wanted to beat him up.’

  ‘So I gathered. What I’m wondering is, how did he go about winning you over.’

  Henri began
to think.

  ‘I’m wondering the same thing. He’s not how I imagined him, and I’m convinced he didn’t try to sleep with my sister.’

  ‘Did others try?’

  ‘The Babœuf boy, when she was seventeen, and you can be sure he didn’t get anywhere.’

  ‘Did Rose ever talk of getting married?’

  ‘Who to?’

  He too must have had the feeling that there was no one suitable in the area for his sister.

  ‘Is there something you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you come with me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I want to see him again.’

  ‘To ask him about the ring once more?’

  ‘About that and everything else. I’m not educated like you, but I get the feeling there’s something unnatural.’

  ‘Are you hoping to find him in the little bar where I saw the pair of you?’

  ‘There or elsewhere. But I’d rather you dropped me before.’

  He got out as they entered the town and sauntered off, his bag slung over his shoulder, after a mumbled thank you.

  Maigret dropped into his hotel first, where he found no message waiting for him, and then he pushed open the door of Charlie’s bar, at the casino.

  ‘Have you seen my inspector?’

  ‘He was here before dinner.’

  Charlie looked at the clock, which showed nine, and added:

  ‘That was a while ago.’

  ‘Théo Besson?’

  ‘They came in and left more or less at the same time.’

  He winked to show he had understood.

  ‘Aren’t you having anything?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  It looked as if Henri had made the trip to Étretat for nothing, because Maigret found Castaing watching the Hôtel de la Plage.

  ‘Is he in there?’

  ‘He went up to his room a quarter of an hour ago.’

  Castaing pointed to a light at a second-floor window.

  8. The Light in the Garden

  Two or three times that evening Castaing gave Maigret a sidelong glance, wondering whether he knew where he was going, whether he really was the great detective that young police officers tried to emulate or whether, today at any rate, he wasn’t wasting everyone’s time, or at least allowing himself to be led by events.