Maigret and the Man on the Bench

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Do you know if your husband has any enemies?’

  ‘Why would he have any enemies?’

  She left them for a moment to turn down a gas ring, where a pan was about to boil over.

  ‘What time does he normally get home from work?’

  ‘He always takes the same train, the 6.22 from Gare de Lyon. Our daughter takes the following train, because she finishes work a little later. She has an important position and—’

  ‘I am obliged to ask you to accompany us to Paris.’

  ‘Is Louis dead?’

  She gave them a sharp look, as if to warn them not to lie to her.

  ‘Tell me the truth.’

  ‘He was murdered this afternoon.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In an alleyway off Boulevard Saint-Martin.’

  ‘What on earth was he doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What time did it happen?’

  ‘Shortly after four thirty, as far as we can tell.’

  ‘At four thirty he is at Kaplan’s. Have you spoken to them?’

  ‘We haven’t had time. Besides, we didn’t know where he worked.’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘That’s what we are trying to find out.’

  ‘Was he on his own?’

  Maigret was becoming impatient.

  ‘Don’t you think it would be better if you got dressed and came with us?’

  ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘By now he should be at the Forensic Institute.’

  ‘The morgue?’

  What could he say to that?

  ‘How can I let my daughter know?’

  ‘You could leave her a note.’

  She thought about this.

  ‘No. We’ll go to my sister’s and I’ll give her the key. She will come here and wait for Monique. Do you need to see her as well?’

  ‘Ideally, yes.’

  ‘Where should she come?’

  ‘My office, Quai des Orfèvres. That would be the easiest. How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘Can’t you contact her by telephone?’

  ‘Firstly, we don’t have a telephone. Secondly, she will have left work already and be on her way to the station. Wait here.’

  She started to walk up the stairs, which creaked under her steps, not from age but because the wood they were made from was too flimsy. The whole house gave the impression of having been built with cheap materials, which would doubtless give out before they grew old.

  The two men looked at each other as they listened to the comings and goings above their heads. They would have wagered that she was changing into something black, and probably fixing her hair. When she came back down they exchanged another glance: they were right. She was already in mourning dress and smelling of eau de cologne.

  ‘I need to turn out the lights and switch off the gas. Would you wait for me outside?’

  She hesitated in front of the small car, as if she were worried that she wouldn’t fit in. Someone was watching them from the house next door.

  ‘My sister lives two streets away. Your driver should go right, then take the second left.’

  The two houses were so alike it was as if they were twins. The only difference was the colour of the glass in the front-door windows. These ones were an orangey yellow.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  In fact, she was gone a good quarter of an hour. When she returned to the car she was accompanied by a woman who was her spitting image and who was also dressed in black.

  ‘My sister will come with us. I thought we could all squeeze up. My brother-in-law will go to my house to wait for my daughter. It’s his day off. He is a train guard.’

  Maigret sat next to the driver. The two women in the back left only a tiny amount of space for Inspector Santoni. Every now and again they would whisper to each other as if in a confessional.

  When they got to the Forensic Institute near Pont d’Austerlitz, Louis Thouret’s body, according to Maigret’s instructions, was still fully clothed and had been placed temporarily on a marble slab. It was Maigret who uncovered the head while looking at the two women, whom he was seeing together for the first time in broad daylight. A little earlier, in the darkness of the street, he had taken them for twins. Now he noticed that the sister was the younger by three or four years and that her body had retained a certain softness, though not for much longer, no doubt.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  Madame Thouret had her handkerchief in her hand but she wasn’t crying. Her sister held her arm, as if to comfort her.

  ‘Yes, it’s Louis. My poor Louis. When he left me this morning he had no idea—’

  She broke off abruptly:

  ‘No one has closed his eyes?’

  ‘You can do it now, if you wish.’

  She looked at her sister; they seemed to be unsure which of them should take responsibility. In the end the wife did it, with a certain air of solemnity, murmuring:

  ‘Poor Louis.’

  At that point she noticed his feet sticking out from under the sheet and she frowned.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Maigret didn’t understand straight away.

  ‘Who put these shoes on him?’

  ‘He was wearing them when we found him.’

  ‘He can’t have been. Louis never wore yellow shoes. In any case, we’ve been married twenty-six years and he knew that I wouldn’t have allowed it. Have you seen this, Jeanne?’

  Jeanne nodded.

  ‘Perhaps you should make sure that the clothes he is wearing are his own. You are in no doubt about his identity, are you?’

  ‘None at all. But these aren’t his shoes. I’m the one who polishes them every day, so I should know. This morning he was wearing black shoes with double soles, the ones he uses for work.’

  Maigret pulled the sheet off completely.

  ‘Is this his raincoat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His suit?’

  ‘That’s his suit, yes. But that’s not his tie. He would never wear anything so loud. This one is almost red.’

  ‘Did your husband follow a regular routine?’

  ‘Very much so. Ask my sister. In the morning he would catch the bus from the corner of the street to Juvisy station in time for the 8.17 train. He always travelled with Monsieur Beaudoin, our neighbour, who works in the Tax Office. At Gare de Lyon he took the Métro to Saint-Martin.’

  The man from the Forensic Institute signalled to Maigret, who understood and led the two women to a table where the contents of the dead man’s pockets had been laid out.

  ‘I presume that you recognize these objects.’

  There was a silver watch with a chain, a handkerchief without a monogram, an open packet of Gauloises, a lighter, a key and, next to the wallet, two small blue cardboard stubs.

  It was these stubs that caught her eye immediately.

  ‘Cinema tickets,’ she said.

  Maigret examined them and said:

  ‘They’re from a newsreel cinema in Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. If I am reading the figures correctly, they are from today.’

  ‘That’s not possible. Did you hear that, Jeanne?’

  ‘It does seem very odd,’ the sister replied in a measured tone.

  ‘Would you have a look at the contents of the wallet?’

  She did so and frowned again.

  ‘Louis didn’t have this much money this morning.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I check his wallet every morning to make sure that he has enough money. He never carries more than a thousand-franc note and two or three hundreds.’

  ‘Could he have drawn some more?’

  ‘It’s not the end of the month.’

  ‘When he gets home in the evening does he have the same amount in his pocket?’

  ‘Less the price of his Métro ticket and his cigarettes. He has a season ticket for the train.’

 
She wasn’t sure whether she could put the wallet in her handbag.

  ‘I suppose you will need to hold on to this?’

  ‘Until further notice, yes.’

  ‘What I don’t understand is why they changed his shoes and tie. And also why he wasn’t at work at the time it happened.’

  Maigret didn’t pursue this. He got her to sign some official forms.

  ‘Are you going home?’

  ‘When can we have the body?’

  ’Probably in a day or two.’

  ‘Will there be a post-mortem?’

  ‘The examining magistrate might order one. It’s not certain.’

  She looked at her watch.

  ‘We have a train in twenty minutes,’ she said to her sister.

  And to Maigret:

  ‘Would you be able to drop us off at the station?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to wait for Monique?’

  ‘She can make her own way home.’

  They had to make a special trip to Gare de Lyon and watched as the two almost identical figures mounted the stone steps.

  ‘Hard as nails, that one,’ grumbled Santoni. ‘That poor sucker can’t have had much of a fun life.’

  ‘Not with her, at least.’

  ‘What do you think about this business with the shoes? If they were new, we could assume that he’d bought them today.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have dared. You heard what she said.’

  ‘Or the flashy tie.’

  ‘I’m curious to see if the daughter is anything like her mother.’

  They didn’t go straight back to Quai des Orfèvres but stopped off at a brasserie to have dinner. Maigret phoned his wife to tell her he didn’t know what time he would be home.

  The restaurant also smelled of winter, with damp raincoats and hats hanging on every hook and the dark windows misted up.

  When they arrived at the gate of police headquarters, the officer on duty told Maigret:

  ‘There was a young woman asking for you. Said she had an appointment. I sent her up.’

  ‘Has she been waiting long?’

  ‘About twenty minutes.’

  The fog had turned into a fine drizzle, and the perpetually dust-covered steps of the main staircase were mottled with damp footprints. Most of the offices were empty. A crack of light was visible only under a few of the doors.

  ‘Want me to stay with you?’

  Maigret nodded. Since Santoni had been there at the beginning of the inquiry, he might as well carry on.

  A young woman in a distinctive light-blue hat was sitting on one of the chairs in the waiting room. The room was dimly lit. The office clerk was reading an evening paper.

  ‘This one’s for you, chief.’

  ‘I know.’

  And to the young woman:

  ‘Mademoiselle Thouret? Would you follow me into my office?’

  He lit the lamp with the green shade which illuminated the chair across from his, the one he sat her on, and noticed that she had been crying.

  ‘My uncle told me that my father has died.’

  He didn’t say anything at first. Like her mother, she held a handkerchief in her hand, but hers was rolled into a ball, and she was kneading it with her fingers in the way that Maigret liked to knead putty when he was a child.

  ‘I thought Mama was with you.’

  ‘She went back to Juvisy.’

  ‘How is she?’

  What could he say to that?

  ‘Your mother is a very brave woman.’

  Monique was quite pretty. She didn’t look a lot like her mother, though she shared her solid build. It was less obvious on her, as her flesh was younger and softer. She was wearing a well-tailored outfit, which surprised Maigret a little, as she certainly hadn’t made it herself or bought it off the peg.

  ‘What happened?’ she finally asked, and at that moment a small teardrop appeared between her eyelashes.

  ‘Your father was stabbed to death.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon, between four thirty and a quarter to five.’

  ‘How can this have happened?’

  Why did he get the feeling that she wasn’t being entirely sincere? The mother too had offered a sort of resistance, but, given her character, that was only to be expected. Basically, for Madame Thouret, being murdered in an alleyway off Boulevard Saint-Martin was a form of social disgrace. She had organized her life, not only her own but that of her family, and a murder did not fit into her scheme of things. Not to mention that the dead man was wearing yellow shoes and a tie that was almost red!

  Monique, for her part, was more circumspect, wary of answering too many questions and giving too much away.

  ‘Did you know your father well?’

  ‘Well . . . Of course . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course you knew him as well as anyone knows their parents. What I’m getting at is: did you confide in him? Did you discuss your private life and your private thoughts with him?’

  ‘He was a good father.’

  ‘Was he happy?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Did you see him sometimes in Paris?’

  ‘I don’t understand. In the street, do you mean?’

  ‘You both worked in Paris. I know that you didn’t take the same train.’

  ‘We didn’t have the same office hours.’

  ‘Did you ever meet up for lunch?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes.’

  ‘Often?’

  ‘No. Very occasionally.’

  ‘Did you go to his workplace?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘No. We met in a restaurant.’

  ‘Did you phone him?’

  ‘I don’t remember ever doing that.’

  ‘When was the last time you had lunch together?’

  ‘Several months ago. Before the holidays.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘At La Chope Alsacienne, a restaurant on Boulevard Sébastopol.’

  ‘Did your mother know?’

  ‘I suppose I told her. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did your father have a cheery disposition?’

  ‘Fairly cheery, I think.’

  ‘Did he enjoy good health?’

  ‘I never knew him to be ill.’

  ‘Any friends?’

  ‘We mainly socialized with my aunts and uncles.’

  ‘Do you have a lot?’

  ‘Two aunts and two uncles.’

  ‘Do they all live in Juvisy?’

  ‘Yes. Not far from us. It was Uncle Albert, the husband of my Aunt Jeanne, who told me my father had died. My Aunt Céline lives a little further away.’

  ‘Are they both your mother’s sisters?’

  ‘Yes. And Uncle Julien, who is married to Aunt Céline, also works for the railways.’

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend, Mademoiselle Monique?’

  She looked slightly put out.

  ‘I don’t think this is the moment to discuss that. Do I have to see my father?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘From what my uncle said, I thought that I had to identify the body.’

  ‘Your mother and aunt have taken care of that. However, if you wish—’

  ‘No. I guess I will see him back at the house.’

  ‘Just one more thing, Mademoiselle Monique. When you met your father in Paris, was he ever wearing yellow shoes?’

  She didn’t answer straight away. To buy herself more time, she repeated:

  ‘Yellow shoes?’

  ‘Greenish-yellow, if you prefer. What back in my day were known as – if you pardon the expression – goose-poo shoes.’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘And you don’t recall him wearing a red tie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When was the last time you went to the cinema?’

  ‘I went yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘In Paris?’

  ‘In Juvisy.’

  ‘I won’t keep you any longer. I presume you
have a train to catch.’

  ‘In thirty-five minutes.’

  She looked at her wristwatch, got up and paused for a moment.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said finally.

  ‘Good evening, mademoiselle, and thank you.’

  And Maigret escorted her to the door and closed it behind her.

  2. The Spinster with the Large Nose

  Without ever wondering why, Maigret had always had a certain predilection for that part of the Grands Boulevards lying between Place de la République and Rue Montmartre. It was his stamping ground, more or less. It was here, on Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, just a few hundred metres from the alleyway where Louis Thouret had met his end, that he went almost every week to the cinema with his wife. They would walk there, arm in arm, and afterwards go to the brasserie opposite to eat some sauerkraut.

  Further along, towards the Opéra and La Madeleine, the boulevards were more spacious and elegant. Between Porte Saint-Martin and Place de la République the streets grew narrower and darker and were so teeming with human life that it sometimes made your head spin.

  He had left home at 8.30 and had taken just a quarter of an hour, without hurrying on that grey morning, less damp but colder than the day before, to walk to the spot where Rue de Bondy crosses the boulevards, the intersection forming a small square in front of the Théâtre de la Renaissance. It was here, at Kaplan and Zanin’s, according to Madame Thouret, that Louis Thouret had worked his whole life and was still working the day before.

  The number Maigret had been given belonged to a very old, completely dilapidated building. All around the entrance door, which was wide open, were a number of black-and-white signs for a mattress maker, a typing school, a pen wholesaler (third on the left, staircase A), a bailiff and a qualified masseuse. The concierge, whose lodge opened on to the archway, was busy sorting the mail.

  ‘Kaplan and Zanin’s?’ he asked her.

  ‘The company closed down three years ago next month, my good man.’

  ‘Were you already working here?’

  ‘I’ll have been here twenty-six years this December.’

  ‘Did you know Louis Thouret?’

  ‘Why of course I knew Monsieur Louis! What has become of him? It must be four or five months since he last dropped by to say hello.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  She immediately stopped sorting the letters.

  ‘He always enjoyed such good health! What was it? Heart, I’ll bet, just like my husband . . .’