Maigret and the Dead Girl

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Do you recognize this gown?’

  She didn’t take a step to get a closer look at it, but said without hesitation:

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When did you sell it?’

  ‘I didn’t sell it.’

  ‘But it is from this shop?’

  She didn’t invite them to sit down, didn’t seem either upset or worried. ‘What of it?’

  ‘When did you last see it?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It may matter a lot.’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Just after nine.’

  ‘Your shop’s still open at nine in the evening?’

  ‘I never close before ten. Almost every day, women come in to buy something at the last moment.’

  Lognon presumably knew all this, but had assumed a neutral air, as if none of it was any of his business.

  ‘I assume your customers are mostly hostesses and cabaret performers?’

  ‘Among other things. Some get up at eight in the evening and they’re always missing something to put on, stockings, a belt, a brassiere, or else they notice their dress was torn the night before …’

  ‘You said just now that you didn’t sell this gown.’

  She turned to the girl, who was standing in the doorway of the other room.

  ‘Viviane! Get me another cup of coffee.’

  The girl hastened to get her cup with the zeal of a slave.

  ‘Is she your maid?’ Maigret asked, watching her as she left the room.

  ‘No. I’ve taken her under my wing. She also turned up one evening, just like that, and stayed.’

  She didn’t bother to explain. Once again, Lognon, at whom she occasionally glanced, must have known all about it.

  ‘Getting back to last night,’ Maigret said.

  ‘She came—’

  ‘Hold on a moment. Did you know her?’

  ‘I’d seen her once before.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Maybe a month ago.’

  ‘She’d already bought a dress from you?’

  ‘No. She’d hired one.’

  ‘You hire out clothes?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes.’

  ‘Had she given you her name and address?’

  ‘I think so. I must have written it on a piece of paper. If you want me to look for it …’

  ‘Later. The first time, was it an evening gown?’

  ‘Yes. The same one.’

  ‘Had she come late that time, too?’

  ‘No. Just after dinner, about eight. She needed an evening gown and she admitted she couldn’t afford to buy one. She asked me if it was true that I hired them out.’

  ‘Did she seem different from your other customers?’

  ‘They always start out different. After a few months, they all end up the same.’

  ‘Did you find a gown in her size?’

  ‘The blue one you’re holding. It’s a size 40. It’s spent the night on the backs of I don’t know how many local girls.’

  ‘Did she take it away with her?’

  ‘The first time, yes.’

  ‘And she brought it back the following morning?’

  ‘The next day at midday. I was surprised she turned up so early. Usually, they sleep all day.’

  ‘Did she pay for the hire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t see her again until last night?’

  ‘I already told you. It was just after nine when she came in and asked me if I still had the gown. I said I did. Then she told me that this time she couldn’t pay the deposit, but that if I didn’t mind she’d leave me the clothes she was wearing.’

  ‘She changed here?’

  ‘Yes. She also needed shoes and a coat. I found her a velvet cape, which did quite nicely.’

  ‘How did she seem to you?’

  ‘Like someone who’s desperate for an evening gown and a coat.’

  ‘In other words, it mattered a lot to her.’

  ‘It always matters a lot to them.’

  ‘Did you have the impression she was meeting someone?’

  She shrugged and sipped at the coffee Viviane had just brought her.

  ‘Did your girl see her?’

  ‘She was the one who helped her get dressed.’

  ‘Did she say anything particular to you, mademoiselle?’

  Her employer answered for her. ‘Viviane doesn’t listen to what people say to her. She couldn’t care less.’

  The girl did indeed seem to be living in an immaterial world. Her eyes expressed nothing. She moved about without stirring the air and, next to the bulk of Mademoiselle Irène, she really did seem like a slave, or rather a dog.

  ‘I found her some shoes and stockings and a silver handbag. Has something happened to her?’

  ‘Haven’t you read the newspapers?’

  ‘I was still in bed when you knocked at the door. Viviane was busy making my coffee.’

  Maigret handed her the paper, and she looked at the photograph without showing any surprise.

  ‘Is that her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘It’s been a long time since anything surprised me. Is the dress ruined?’

  ‘It got wet in the rain but it isn’t torn.’

  ‘That’s something at least. I suppose you want me to hand over her clothes? Viviane!’

  Viviane had understood. She opened one of the wardrobes, where dresses were hanging. She placed a black woollen dress on the counter, and Maigret immediately searched for a label.

  ‘She made that one herself,’ Mademoiselle Irène said. ‘Bring her coat, Viviane.’

  The coat, also woollen, was of poor quality, beige with a brown check pattern, and came from a department store in Rue La Fayette.

  ‘Cheap, as you can see. The shoes aren’t much better. Or the slip.’

  It was all placed on the counter. Then the slave brought a black leather handbag with a white metal clasp. Apart from a pencil and a pair of worn gloves, it was empty.

  ‘You say you lent her a handbag?’

  ‘Yes. She wanted to use her own. I pointed out that it didn’t go with the dress and I found her a little silver evening bag. She put her lipstick, her powder and her handkerchief in it.’

  ‘No purse?’

  ‘Maybe. I didn’t notice.’

  Lognon still had the air of someone listening in on a conversation he hasn’t been invited to join.

  ‘What time was it when she left here?’

  ‘It took her about a quarter of an hour to get dressed.’

  ‘Was she in a hurry?’

  ‘She seemed to be. She checked the time more than once.’

  ‘On her watch?’

  ‘I didn’t see any watch on her. There’s a clock over the counter.’

  ‘When she left, it was raining. Did she take a taxi?’

  ‘There were no taxis in the street. She set off in the direction of Place Blanche.’

  ‘Did she give you her name and address again?’

  ‘I didn’t ask her.’

  ‘Would you mind trying to find the piece of paper where you noted them down the first time?’

  With a sigh, she went behind the counter and opened a drawer in which there was all sorts of junk: notebooks, invoices, pencils, fabric samples and a whole variety of buttons.

  ‘You know,’ she said as she searched desultorily through the drawer, ‘there’s no point keeping their addresses, because they usually live in rented rooms, and they change them more often than they change their slips. When they don’t have enough to pay their rent, they disappear and … No, this isn’t it! If I remember rightly, it was somewhere local. A street everyone knows. Sorry, I can’t find it. If you really want it, I’ll keep looking and call you …’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Does he work with you?’ she asked, indicating Lognon. ‘He can tell you some stories about me! Bu
t he’ll also tell you I’ve been straight for years. Isn’t that true?’

  Maigret helped himself to brown paper to take the clothes away in.

  ‘Aren’t you going to leave me the blue gown?’

  ‘Not now. You’ll get it back later.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  Just as he was leaving, Maigret thought of another question. ‘When she came last night, did she ask for a gown or the gown she’d already worn once before?’

  ‘The one she’d worn before.’

  ‘Do you think she would have taken another if you hadn’t had it?’

  ‘I don’t know. She asked if I still had that one.’

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  They got back in the car, and the slave closed the door behind them. Lognon was still not saying anything, waiting for questions.

  ‘Has she been in prison?’

  ‘Three or four times.’

  ‘Receiving stolen goods?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘Four or five years ago. She started out as a dancer, then assistant madam in a brothel in the days when they still existed.’

  ‘Has she always had a slave?’

  The driver was waiting to be told where to go.

  ‘Are you going home, Lognon?’

  ‘If you have no urgent orders to give me.’

  ‘Place Constantin-Pecqueur,’ Maigret said.

  ‘I can walk.’

  Damn it, why did he always have to have that humble, resigned air?

  ‘Do you know Viviane?’

  ‘Not that one. They change from time to time.’

  ‘Does she throw them out?’

  ‘No. The girls leave when they want to. She takes them in when they’re broke and have nowhere to sleep.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe because she doesn’t want to leave them on the streets.’

  Lognon seemed to be saying: ‘I know you don’t believe it, that you suspect God knows what ulterior motives. But a woman like that can sometimes feel pity and do something purely out of charity. I’m the same, everyone thinks I’m …’

  Maigret sighed. ‘I really think you should get some rest, Lognon. I’ll probably need you tonight. What do you think of this case?’

  The inspector didn’t reply, merely shrugged his shoulders. What was the point in pretending to believe he had thoughts of his own when everyone, he was convinced of it, took him for an idiot?

  It was a pity. Not only was he intelligent, but he was one of the most conscientious men on the Paris force.

  They stopped on the little square, outside an apartment block.

  ‘Will you call me at the office?’

  ‘No. At home. I’d prefer you to wait at home.’

  Half an hour later, Maigret got to Quai des Orfèvres with his package under his arm and walked into the inspectors’ office.

  ‘Anything for me, Lucas?’

  ‘Nothing, chief.’

  He frowned, surprised and disappointed. It had been hours now since the photograph had appeared in the newspapers.

  ‘No phone calls?’

  ‘Only about some cheese that was stolen from Les Halles.’

  ‘I meant the girl who was killed last night.’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  Dr Paul’s report was on his desk, and he merely glanced at it, noting that it added nothing to what the doctor had told him the previous night.

  ‘Can you send in Lapointe?’

  While waiting, he looked in turn at the clothes he had spread over an armchair and at the photograph of the dead girl.

  ‘Good morning, chief. Do you have something for me?’

  He showed him the photograph, the dress and the underwear. ‘First of all, I want you to take all these things upstairs to Moers and ask him to give them the usual treatment.’

  In other words, Moers would place the clothes in a paper bag and shake them until the dust fell off. He would then examine the dust with a microscope and analyse it. That sometimes yielded results.

  ‘I want him to give the same attention to the handbag, the shoes and the evening gown. Got that?’

  ‘Yes. Do we still not know who she is?’

  ‘We don’t know anything, except that last night she borrowed this blue gown for one night from a shop in Montmartre. When Moers has finished with it, go to the Forensic Institute and take a good look at the body.’

  Young Lapointe, who had only been in the job for two years, grimaced.

  ‘This is important. Then I want you to go to a model agency, it doesn’t matter which. There’s one in Rue Saint-Florentin. You need to find a young woman who’s about the same size and weight as the dead girl. Size 40.’

  For a moment, Lapointe wondered if Maigret was serious or just teasing him.

  ‘What then?’ he asked.

  ‘Make her try on the dresses. If they fit her, bring her here, take her upstairs and ask them to photograph her.’

  Lapointe was starting to understand.

  ‘That’s not all. I want a photograph of the dead girl, too, with make-up and everything, a photograph that makes it look as if she’s alive.’

  In Criminal Records, they had a photographer who was a real specialist in this kind of work.

  ‘Then they need to combine the two photographs, so that we have the dead girl’s head on the model’s body. Be quick about it. I’d like it in time for the last edition of the evening papers.’

  Alone now in his office, Maigret signed a few papers that needed dispatching, filled a pipe, called Lucas and asked him to find the file on Élisabeth Coumar, known as Irène, just in case. He was convinced it wouldn’t lead to anything, that she had told the truth, but so far she was the only person to have identified the girl found dead on Place Vintimille.

  The more time passed, the more surprised he was not to have received any telephone calls.

  If the girl had lived in Paris, there were a number of possibilities. Firstly, that she lived with her parents, in which case they would have rushed to the nearest police station or come straight to Quai des Orfèvres as soon as they saw her photograph in the newspapers.

  If she had her own apartment, she had neighbours, a concierge and probably did her shopping locally.

  Did she live with a girlfriend, as was often the case? That meant one more person to worry about her disappearance and recognize her picture.

  She might also have been staying in a hostel for students or for young women who work – there were several such hostels – which meant even more people who knew her.

  The final possibility was a furnished room in one of the thousands of little hotels in Paris.

  Maigret rang the inspectors’ office.

  ‘Is Torrence there? If he’s not busy, tell him to come and see me.’

  If she lived with her parents, all they could do was wait. The same thing if she had an apartment in a private house, alone or with a friend. But in the other cases, it was possible to speed things up.

  ‘Sit down, Torrence. You see this photograph? Don’t worry, we’ll have a better one later this afternoon. Imagine this girl wearing a black dress and a beige check coat. That’s how people are used to seeing her.’

  Just then, a beam of sunlight slid in through the window and drew a bright line on the desk. Maigret broke off for a moment to greet it, as surprised as someone looking at a bird coming to rest on a window-sill.

  ‘First, go down to the Hotel Agency and ask them to show this photograph around the cheap hotels. Best to start with the ninth and eighteenth arrondissements. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know her name?’

  ‘We don’t know anything. What you can do is draw up a list of hostels for young women and start doing the rounds. It probably won’t yield any results, but I don’t want to rule anything out.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘That’s all. Take a car to make things quicker.’
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  It had suddenly got warmer, and he went and opened the window, fiddled with a few more papers on his desk, looked at the time and decided to go home to bed.

  ‘Wake me up about four,’ he told his wife.

  ‘If it’s necessary.’

  It wasn’t necessary. Basically, it was only a question of waiting. He fell almost immediately into a heavy sleep, and when his wife approached the bed, a cup of coffee in her hand, he looked at her as if surprised to be here, with sunlight filling the room.

  ‘It’s four o’clock. You told me—’

  ‘Yes. Any phone calls?’

  ‘Only the plumber to say …’

  The first editions of the afternoon papers had come out about one o’clock. They all featured the same photograph as the morning ones.

  Even though the dead girl had been slightly disfigured, Mademoiselle Irène had nevertheless recognized her immediately, despite the fact that she had only seen her twice.

  The possibility remained that the girl wasn’t from Paris, wasn’t staying in a hotel, and that on the two occasions she’d come to Rue de Douai she’d only arrived a few hours earlier.

  That wasn’t very likely, though, given that the clothes she wore, apart from the dress she had made herself, had been bought from shops in Rue La Fayette.

  ‘Will you be back for dinner?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘If you have to stay out this evening, take your big overcoat anyway, it’ll be cold after dark.’

  When he entered his office, there was no message on his desk blotter, which upset him. He called Lucas.

  ‘Still nothing? No telephone calls?’

  ‘Still nothing, chief. I brought you the file on Élisabeth Coumar.’

  Standing, he leafed through it without finding anything other than what Lognon had told him.

  ‘Lapointe sent the photographs to the newspapers.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He’s waiting for you.’

  ‘Send him in.’

  The pasted-together photographs were such masterpieces, Maigret got a shock from them. There, suddenly, before his very eyes, was the image of the girl, not as he had seen her in the rain, on Place Vintimille, by the light of torches, nor as he had glimpsed her later on a marble slab at the Forensic Institute, but as she must have looked the previous evening when she had shown up at Mademoiselle Irène’s shop.

  Lapointe seemed equally troubled. ‘What do you think, chief?’ he said hesitantly, adding after a pause, ‘Pretty, isn’t she?’