Maigret Takes a Room

by Georges Simenon

  Sighing, Maigret got to his feet and looked dutifully at a bad photograph of an ordinary-looking young woman with a sad smile, as if she guessed that she would die young.

  He was sorry to have come. He was drowning in all this greyness, it made him want to go outside and breathe the invigorating air. When he sat down in his armchair again, his eyelids felt heavy.

  ‘I didn’t see him for almost three months. I didn’t know what his job was. He was on one of his trips to Equatorial Africa. When he came back, he asked me if I fancied going out with him. I didn’t hesitate.’

  She had been thirty-three at the time, and he had been forty-six; obviously they were old enough not to need a chaperone.

  ‘That evening, after dining at the Rôtisserie Périgourdine, he told me about his first wife and asked me if I would agree to marry him. I was alone, without a family, very poor. I said yes. It was only later on that I understood what kind of man he was, and how lucky I had been to meet him. Just think what would have happened if I had fallen ill before meeting him. I’d be in a hospital now, living on public charity.

  ‘It isn’t very cheerful for him, when he comes back, to find a woman in the state I’m in, and yet he has never said a word. On the contrary, he’s the one who comforts me; he presents as jolly a face as possible …’

  Why did Maigret imagine that this man’s cheerfulness must be lugubrious? He felt sorry for both of them, of course. But for one reason or another, their misery didn’t quite touch him.

  The words reached him as if through a veil. The scene he was witnessing in his room emanated the bleak tedium of a family photograph album that some strangers insist on showing you, not sparing you a single aunt or little cousin.

  In fact he was falling asleep, he had to make an effort to keep his eyes open. He had already spent too much time hanging around in this stretch of street, which he suddenly disliked, and he felt a furious desire for the lights and hubbub of the Grand Boulevards.

  ‘Five years ago I fell ill, and he hired the best specialists for me. At first he took six months’ leave to look after me, even though it meant putting off his retirement. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’ (Neither did he!) ‘Perhaps because I’ve seen you at your window several times, and you were looking over here with interest …? Apart from Madame Keller and the visits from my mother-in-law, I’m always alone … So I think …’

  He had nearly dozed off. He must have closed his eyes, because she looked at him sadly.

  ‘I’m boring you, aren’t I?’

  ‘Not at all, madame. I was just closing my eyes because I was thinking too.’

  ‘What were you thinking about?’

  ‘About you … About your life … Were you born in Paris?’

  Perhaps, at last, he was going to be able to ask her a few questions.

  ‘I was born in Le Havre.’

  ‘Would it be indiscreet to ask you your maiden name?’

  ‘Binet … Françoise Binet …’

  And that was enough to set her off again.

  ‘My father was a sailor. It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it? He ended up as a quartermaster. There were nine children. Now there can’t be more than three or four.’

  ‘Don’t you keep in touch with your family?’

  ‘Not for a long time. As soon as the girls were old enough we were placed as domestic servants, and the boys made their own way. My mother and father are dead.’

  ‘So you were a housemaid?’

  ‘At first I was a nanny, at fourteen, in a family who spent their summers in Étretat. That family brought me to Paris, where they lived on Avenue Hoche. They were very rich people. I wanted to become a chambermaid. I went to a tailoring school on the Avenue de Wagram.’

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  He thought all of a sudden that he sensed a hesitation in her voice.

  ‘I had a suitor, and my employers threw me out.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Why did they throw you out?’

  ‘Because I didn’t come home.’

  ‘Did you stay out all night?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t always been a good person. I was young. I wanted to enjoy myself.’

  ‘And did you enjoy yourself?’

  ‘At that age that’s what you think you’re doing.’

  ‘You stopped working?’

  ‘That’s what happened to me. Then I became a waitress in a local restaurant.’

  ‘Does your husband know all this?’

  ‘I told him I wasn’t worthy of him.’

  ‘Did you give him details?’

  ‘He refused to hear them.’

  ‘Did you fall a long way?’ he asked, looking at her carefully.

  ‘Not quite to the bottom, no.’

  ‘Did you have lovers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She added with a little laugh:

  ‘It’s hard to imagine, seeing me now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did they give you money?’

  ‘Sometimes. But if that’s what you’re getting at, I didn’t make a profession of it.’

  ‘Were you still having these affairs when Boursicault met you?’

  ‘No, not for a long time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because I didn’t feel like it any more. In short, it didn’t last for a long time. I don’t think it was in my temperament. It must be my nature to live in my household.’

  ‘When you were working at the gentlemen’s outfitters, where were you living?’

  ‘I had a room on Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, right nearby.’

  ‘Furnished?’

  ‘No. I had bought myself some furniture. I thought I would end my days as an old spinster. I was becoming quite frantic.’

  Why had he suddenly got to his feet and was now pacing the room as he would have paced his office? He seemed to have forgotten that there was a sick woman in her bed and frowned anxiously.

  He looked mechanically around for an ashtray to empty his pipe, couldn’t find one, and she guessed.

  ‘There’s one on the table in the dining room. You just have to open that door …’

  He did so, turned the handle and, sure enough, on the sixteenth-century table, he found a brass ashtray with a big curved pipe resting on it. It was almost as if he had met Boursicault, whom he imagined in slippers and shirtsleeves, smoking that pipe in the flat.

  The bleak voice said behind him, like someone reciting the rosary:

  ‘On board ship, my husband smokes cigarettes, except in his cabin, but here he prefers his pipe and …’

  He turned round abruptly and looked her in the eyes.

  ‘Up until now you have seemed quite frank, Madame Boursicault.’

  She seemed surprised by the attack, waited, and he noticed that one of her hands was clenching the sheet.

  ‘I’m sure that you’ve been telling me the truth.’

  She murmured:

  ‘I have been telling you the truth.’

  ‘I’d like you to go on doing so.’

  He was slightly hesitant about going on the attack, because he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t mistaken, and in that case he would look like an executioner.

  ‘How did he get into the house?’

  He was standing a metre from the bed, and he must have looked enormous to the sick woman, whom he was looking up and down with his empty pipe in his mouth. Suddenly they were enveloped in another kind of silence, as if they had both been holding their breath.

  He was sure that she had turned pale, in so far as she could get any paler than usual. Her nostrils were as pinched as the nostrils of a corpse. She was very thin under the sheet. He wanted to look away, perhaps take his hat and go.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know who he is. I’m talking about the one who comes to see you when your husband is at sea, whom the concierge seems never to have met.’

  ‘I don’t understan
d.’

  ‘Listen to me, Madame Boursicault. I wish you no harm. I’m a policeman, and I’m doing my duty. One of my inspectors was shot down outside your window.’

  ‘Do you think I fired the shot?’

  ‘I’ve never claimed that, and I’m sure that you didn’t. But you see, I’m also sure that you’ve talked to me so much about your husband and one part of your life the better to hide other episodes. Shortly I’m going to give my men the task of going back through the years from the moment when you got married. The police in Le Havre will take up the trail from there. It will probably take a lot of time. There will probably be gaps. But with a bit of patience we’ll reconstruct more or less the whole of your life and find everyone who has been in contact with you.’

  This time he turned his face away completely, because she had closed her eyes, and he saw a tear spill from her eyelids. She wasn’t moving. He said nothing for almost a minute.

  He continued, stuffing his pipe to regain his composure:

  ‘Excuse me if I don’t believe in your migraines. Shortly I will also call the doctor who treats you, and I know in advance what he’s going to tell me.’

  She sighed faintly and still didn’t open her eyes.

  ‘At this stage, one of my English colleagues would be duty-bound to put you on your guard and remind you that anything you say could be used against you. French law doesn’t oblige me to do that, but I don’t want to catch you out. It’s up to you to judge whether or not you have something you want to tell me.’

  Slowly she shook her head. He had expected worse, he had expected her to faint, whether genuinely or not, or to have a fit of nerves or indignation. But it was almost more embarrassing to see her so motionless and prostrate.

  ‘I am convinced, and I won’t hide it from you, that you are receiving visits without anyone’s knowledge and, when your blinds are lowered, sometimes for three days, it’s because there’s someone in your flat. That someone probably knows the habits of the house. Every morning the concierge goes out for more than half an hour to do her shopping. At that moment it’s easy to get into your flat. You aren’t saying anything?’

  ‘I have nothing to say.’

  ‘Are you claiming it isn’t true?’

  Her eyelids parted at last, and a cold gaze settled on the inspector.

  ‘I suppose you have the right to imagine whatever you like.’

  Her voice suddenly had an energy that it had been impossible to suspect a few minutes earlier.

  ‘Was there a man in your room when the shot was fired?’

  She stared at him without answering.

  ‘A woman?’ he pressed.

  Her lips didn’t move.

  ‘You really are ill, and I don’t want to tire you. You know that I’m in the house opposite, at Mademoiselle Clément’s. The telephone is at the head of your bed. If at any time you feel a need to communicate with me, call me.’

  He hesitated, embarrassed.

  ‘I must stress, Madame Boursicault, that in spite of appearances I am not your enemy. It is my duty to seek the truth, and I will discover it. My wish, I want you to understand, is that it should be done with as little trouble as possible.’

  She still didn’t say anything. She was looking at him carefully, as if thinking to herself. He waited for a moment, still hoping that she would speak.

  He had picked up his hat. He still wasn’t heading for the door. One last time he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without saying anything.

  He was sure he wouldn’t get anything out of her. Perhaps she would call him a bit later?

  He didn’t count on it. He said goodbye to her unsmilingly.

  ‘Please excuse me. I will send up Madame Keller.’

  Her lips still tightly pressed together, she watched him leave, and he closed the door behind him and sighed deeply once he was on the landing.

  The concierge was waiting for him in the corridor, and seemed surprised to see him looking so serious. He himself wasn’t aware of his expression.

  ‘Is she not well?’

  ‘It would be better for you to go up. If anything happens, please call me at Mademoiselle Clément’s.’

  He hadn’t had dinner. He went to the Auvergnat’s bistro with the intention of doing so, but stopped at the bar and downed two glasses of wine one after the other. There was a mirror behind the bottles and he was surprised to see such a furrowed face.

  A few minutes later, without taking the time to eat, he was in communication with Torrence.

  ‘Is Lucas not there?’

  ‘He’s just left for Place d’Italie, where some Arabs have been knifing each other.’

  ‘Would you urgently ask the wire-tappers to listen in on the number of Madame Boursicault, Rue Lhomond? Send an inspector too.’

  ‘Vacher is here.’

  ‘Fine. He knows the house already. I’ll probably be at the little restaurant opposite.’

  As he hung up he noticed Mademoiselle Clément’s face behind the spyhole, wearing an unfamiliar expression. He didn’t understand immediately. She didn’t look as if she was playing. She was looking at him if not with fear, then at least with a certain anxiety.

  It was because he himself had suddenly changed. Things had fallen into place, and he had stopped floundering and sniffing around.

  He found her at the door to the sitting room.

  ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘I’m going to eat.’

  ‘What should I do if someone calls you?’

  ‘Come to the bistro and tell me.’

  She didn’t dare ask if there was any news. Perhaps she had heard what he was saying to Torrence? At any rate she knew that it was no longer the time to act the crazy woman.

  ‘Is that you, Torrence?’

  This time he was phoning from the bistro.

  ‘She still hasn’t asked for a line, chief.’

  ‘In that case it’s likely that she won’t. Keep listening in on her anyway. Do you have lots of men available?’

  ‘There are four or five that we can use tonight.’

  Maigret spelled out the name Boursicault, then Binet.

  ‘Take a note. She’s forty-eight, and she was born in Le Havre. Her father was in the navy. She has brothers and sisters. That’s for the flying squad in Le Havre. Tell them to look in the town hall registers and anywhere else they can. They probably won’t find much.’

  ‘And in Paris?’

  ‘Tell them to visit the town halls as well. She lived in the Faubourg-du-Roule. You would do well to cast an eye at the old Vice Squad files from twenty years and even twenty-five years ago.’

  Fat Torrence, on the other end of the line, was writing frantically.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. Go up to Records and check that there’s nothing in the name of Binet. Tomorrow morning, I’d like someone to go to the gentleman’s outfitter on Boulevard Saint-Michel, not far from Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. The owners may have changed fifteen years ago, but it’s possible that we’ll find them again.’

  All of that could just as easily take weeks or a few hours. It was entirely up to chance.

  ‘Last of all, find out about someone called Françoise Binet, at 48, Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. She lived in that house fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Are you staying down there?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll keep Vacher with me. Is he on nights?’

  ‘He went on duty an hour ago.’

  ‘How’s Janvier getting on?’

  ‘They might be sending him home in two or three days. He’s impatient. His wife too. The doctor would rather keep him a bit longer.’

  By the time he came back to the bistro, Inspector Vacher was already there waiting for him, drinking a coffee with a shot of spirits.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have any news?’

  ‘Is it still raining?’

  Vacher pointed to his drenched raincoat, which he had hung on the hook.

  ‘Too bad,
you poor thing. I think I’m going to ask you to spend the night outside …’

  He changed his mind.

  ‘Then again, if you stand at the sitting-room window, it’ll come to the same thing. There’s only one house you need to keep under surveillance.’

  He ate unenthusiastically. He forgot to phone the doctor as he had threatened Madame Boursicault he would. In any case he hadn’t asked her for the name of her doctor. He could have found it out from the concierge.

  That wasn’t why he went to see Madame Keller in her lodge when he had finished his meal. Immediately, as he expected, she looked at him reproachfully.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘What did you say to her? I found her on her bed like a corpse, and she paid me no attention. Her eyes were closed. She was crying. Fat tears rolling down her poor cheeks.’

  ‘Didn’t she speak to you?’

  ‘She just shook her head when I asked her if she needed anything. She didn’t care whether the light was on or not. I closed the window and turned it out.’

  Maigret nearly went upstairs. But to say what?

  He was aware of the responsibility he had assumed.

  ‘Is there any medicine in her room?’

  ‘There are all sorts: bottles, pills, powders. The doctors have tried everything. Do you think she might …?’

  The concierge was getting worried. He kept his cool.

  ‘I don’t think that’s her style,’ he said, ‘but you might be better off staying near her until I send you a nurse.’

  ‘She won’t want that.’

  ‘Tell her it’s on my orders.’

  ‘She’ll be angry with me …’

  He shrugged his shoulders, crossed the street, found Vacher on Mademoiselle Clément’s doorstep and sent him to find a nurse whose services the Police Judiciaire used frequently.

  At ten o’clock in the evening, Rue Lhomond was calm, with only the gentle sound of the rain. There was a light on opposite. The blind wasn’t lowered. From his window, Maigret could see the nurse reading a novel, sitting in the armchair that he had occupied previously. Madame Boursicault seemed to be sleeping.

  Mademoiselle Clément had withdrawn to her room a moment before. Mademoiselle Isabelle hadn’t gone out. The Lotards’ baby wasn’t crying. Fachin was working, and the Safts, in their room, were talking in an undertone.